Category: Uncategorized

Coaching

I’ve never coached at the Olympic level.  But I’ve had a couple of “national” quality athletes, and lots of “state” athletes, and that gave me an understanding of what goes into making decisions in an athletic season.  Certainly it starts with talent.  At the highest level, everyone is talented; there is nothing that can make up for a lack of that.  Add to that fierce dedication to “the goal”.  Without that dedication, talent is wasted.  Every coach had that the “most talented” who couldn’t didn’t have the fortitude to excel.  It’s a “lead the horse to water” thing.

But when an athlete has the combination of talent and dedication, as the coach, you “get the shot”.  You get the opportunity to use all of your knowledge, skills, and experience to hone that athlete to an elite level.  

The next factor is structural.  Does the athlete have the physical structure to handle the extreme stresses of training that are required?  Where is the “breaking point”, and how far can you go before it’s “too late”?  There’s a reason athletes can go through an entire season, and then, at the crucial moment, pull a muscle.  They have reached the limit, of speed, of stress, and of training – the edge between the success and disaster.  And they go too far.

Luck Factor

And then there’s the luck factor.  As athletes train, it stresses not just muscle and tendon, bone and ligaments.  It stresses their entire bodies, from the brain to the immune system.  There are points where they are most vulnerable to sickness, where the impact of hard training drops their defenses.  While coaching teams, I could tell to the week when some would get sick.  It was around the week of highest intensity.  

It’s one of the tough decisions I’ve made as a coach.  I took a group of athletes to the National High School Championships in New York City.  One had “his shot”, the chance to win.  But that morning of the race, he came down to breakfast looking awful. He was coughing, struggling to breath, and running a fever.  There wasn’t really a choice, but telling him that he wasn’t going to run when he was so close, the number literally already on his jersey:  that was hard.

The Vaccine

So what’s this essay all about?  The Olympics haven’t even started yet, and athletes are falling by the wayside to COVID. How could they not have been vaccinated?  Common sense – well common sense would seem to say they could have easily protected themselves from this threat.

And that’s true, they could have.  But let’s look at the timing.  And because I was a track coach, let’s look at it through the lens of a track athlete, one likely to have spent a lifetime, and particularly the last five years (one more than expected) to make the Olympic Team and compete in the Games.

An Olympian

There are two parts to making it to the Olympics in track and field.  The first is making the “standard”.  That’s a mark or ranking established by the International Track Federation (IAAF) that says you’re good enough to compete in the games.  And the second part is you have to actually “make the team”.  In the United States, that means finish in the top three at the Olympic Trials.  

So as an athlete, you have three goals:

            – run (or jump or throw) well enough to qualify for the Games

            – finish in the top three in the Trials to actually make the national team

            – run (or jump or throw) at the Olympic Games themselves (medal?).

Achieving the standard can occur as much as a year before the games.  But the other two come in quick succession.  The Olympic Trials were in June, track and field starts in Tokyo next week.  Track athletes are on carefully designed training programs, schedules set up to allow for two “maximal performances”, one at the Trials and one at the Games.  That is, unless they are still in college, then there’s one more maximal performance, at the NCAA Championships.

These athletes did everything they could to protect themselves from COVID.  They had little contact with others, wore protective gear, and literally went to practice and went home – that was it.  When they became eligible to get the vaccine, in mid-April, many of them were right at that moment when there training was at the highest intensity – and knew they were most vulnerable to sickness.  

Weigh the Risk

Their “teams”, coaches, trainers, and the athlete; weighed the risk.  If they got sick from the vaccine, there’s lost training time at a critical point.  If training is disrupted then maybe there isn’t the “maximal” performance – no Olympics.  But, of course, if the athlete gets COVID – well that’s much worse.

And if they didn’t get the vaccine in April, then surely not in May – nor June before the trials.  And while maybe right after the trials would be the “shot to get the shot”, that would still disrupt a training cycle designed for Olympic medals.  

Their COVID protections were working – they dodged the virus for over a year.  I’m sure when it was all added up, some athletes took the chance and got the vaccine.  And some, took the chance and didn’t.  

It was one more gamble, one more risk to take in the quest to achieve their goal.

Pocket-Box

The vast majority of Americans, at least aged twelve and older, are plugged into the world in a fashion no earlier generation experienced.  We, almost all of us, have more computing power in our pockets than broke the Enigma code, developed the atomic bomb, sent the Apollo rockets to the moon, or controlled the Space Shuttles.  And that power is linked to the rest of the world, for many of us, literally twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Christmas, Passover, Ramadan and Diwali (yep, I had to Google that).  

All of that connection empowers us in many ways.  When a technical question arises:  “Who is that Senator from Louisiana”, or “What goes into a Low Country Boil,” we no longer rush to the books or the library.  We literally (verbally) ask our pocket-boxes, and instantly it reaches out across space and time to gain the answer.  My Dad in his later years used my Mom as his “external hard drive”.  His own memory was “corrupted” by strokes; there were years that no longer were “accessible”, so she served as his “backup” for names, dates, and events he knew he should have.  

Now, for a lot of us, there’s a pocket-box to serve that role.

Education

Ask a middle or high school teacher what the most distracting thing is in their classroom, and invariably they “call out” the pocket-box.  Every student seems to be “texting with Mom” all the time.  And while Mom isn’t always at the other end of that conversation, it’s true often enough to raise a whole different question.  

The pocket-box is a leash as well as a gateway.  The Ronald Reagan line, “Trust but verify” is the mantra for parents today.  Their child is a close as a text, anytime, day or night.  And if they fail to answer, “Find Phone” will give an exact location to their decimal geo-position.  But that child will still take their phone with them, even to an illicit party. Leaving it at home is less likely than forgetting to put on pants. 

That distracting “box” has changed education.  What in my era was “Get out your slide-rule” (a device for solving mathematical equations that didn’t require batteries) and then became “Get out your calculator (HP-85 or Bowmar “Brain”),”, now is “Get out your phone”.  And that honest teaching phrase, “I don’t know that answer, could someone research that for us?” is now answered in under thirty seconds.  It becomes a race of “pocket-boxes”; digital dexterity tested rather than research prowess.

Adaptation

Teaching has adapted.  Notes on a chalkboard (those don’t exist, someone might be allergic to the dust) are only in the movies, and usually in black and white.  The dry erase boards are gone too, with electronic “Smart Boards” the common tool.  Even “powerpoints” are “way old school”.  Since finding facts and performing functions are absolutely accessible, education has become what we once called “group work”, now termed “collaborative learning”.  Everyone works together, pooling their resources to accomplish whatever task is assigned.   It enforces socialization, in an era where electronic connectivity perversely creates increased personal isolation.  No one needs a computer, it’s in their pocket.

One Score

We all know the Lincolnian phrase, “Four score and seven years ago…”, eighty-seven years.  But it was less than one score, twenty years, from chalkboards to smart boards.  Our society is moving literally at the speed of light. Information good or bad, false or true, religiously uplifting or sexually explicit, is completely accessible and totally unrestrained in everyone’s pocket, from children to old men.  

It’s the era we hardly dreamed of in the 1950’s and 60’s; far beyond Dick Tracy’s wrist radio or the HAL 9000 computer.    But all that accessibility does not guarantee veracity.  A lie can travel just as fast as the truth, perhaps even faster.  In our “post-truth” world, the “facts” are determined more by how many people “agree” that they’re true, rather than the actual accuracy.  It’s the ultimate “democracy”: “the people” decide “truth”, true or not.  And that choice determines who else they “listen” to on their pocket-box.  Their version of “truth” reverberates and is reinforced.  The volume and quantity of repetition is constantly providing “verification”, right or wrong.

Crowd Source

In our world the truth is “crowd sourced”.  And we restrict our “crowd” to the truths we want to hear.  So all of that accessibility, all of the networking, or as the previous generation called it, “world-wide webbing”, puts us right back where we were.  We listen to who we listen to, we ignore the information we don’t want to hear.  What used to be “I don’t know” has now become “I don’t want to know”.  But the result is still the same. 

What happens from here?  Maybe we need to ask Facebook.  I’m sure they will provide the answer.

It will be  whatever answer we want to hear.

Bad Labeling

I have never been formally educated in “Critical Race Theory”.  I have of course, spent some time trying to understand it, and to see through all the “noise” made by those who decry it.  

The “debate” seems to me to be a lot like “Defunding the Police”.  That’s a lousy label for taking a close look at how we spend public funds to protect our society.  Do we really want Police officers to be our “front line” for mental health and addiction?  Do those police officers want to be on that front line?  I think all of us would agree that those cases put good officers in positions that others are better equipped to handle.   Re-evaluating why we use heavily armed and protected officers for that, and to direct traffic, or enforce evictions isn’t a slam on those who protect us from dangerous criminals.  But the word “defunding” is a challenge – bad labeling. 

Academic Lens

Critical Race Theory isn’t a political label.  No one is holding up “CRITICAL RACE THEORY” banners at the Black Lives Matter rally, or anywhere else for that matter.  It is an academic lens for focusing study, a way at looking at our history to determine what happened.  There are forces that drive us:  our behavior, our legislation, and our economics, that are beyond individual efforts and biases.  Critical Race Theory is a way at looking at how that happens.

Here’s an example.  Most of the American Founding Fathers were slave owners, or benefitted from slavery.  Madison, Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton, Hancock, Jay all had economic connections to slavery.  But the “philosophers”, particularly Madison, Jefferson and Hamilton, truly believed that slavery would disappear in the next fifty years.  They did “kick slavery down the road” for the next generation to solve (they banned the slave trade, but not for twenty years).  But they believed it was a solvable problem by that next generation. Madison saw the “Three-Fifths Compromise” as a step towards that – “three-fifths” is better than “zero”.   Then something changed.

Cotton Picking

Cotton was grown in the South.  It was an important cash crop to the Southern Planters, not so much for the Virginians, but in the deeper South of Georgia and South Carolina.  And while we all know about the “Triangle Slave Trade”, the trading ships of the North also took cotton to Europe, where it was sold for other goods and brought back to the America.  So right after the American Revolution, the South and the North were vested in cotton.

But cotton has two characteristics that make it difficult to grow.  First, the cotton plant takes nutrition from the soil.  Unlike other plants, such as soybeans and peanuts, it does not return nutrition.  After a few years of use, the cotton yield of a field drops.  It takes years of other crops for that field to regain its nutrients after cotton.  But all of that didn’t matter before the 1790’s, because cotton was so hard to clean.  

Growing and picking cotton is labor intensive.  But even after the cotton is picked, each individual piece of cotton must be cleaned of cotton seeds.  Someone could pick cotton all day, but it would take that same person all-night to clean what they picked.  So the plant itself was self-limiting, a planter could only grow so much, because only so much could be cleaned.

The slave owning Founding Fathers didn’t see cotton growing as the ultimate reason for slavery.  In fact, Thomas Jefferson found himself unable to free his slaves, not just because of his “need” for their labor, but because they were the collateral for the money he borrowed.  The enslaved people were guarantors of his repayment, and Jefferson was deeply indebted.  Regardless of his personal beliefs, he was unable to act upon them. (I’m not offering that as some absolution of Jefferson – just the fact of his situation).

Remove the Cork

What changed?  An invention by Connecticut gunsmith, Eli Whitney.  He visited a friend’s plantation, and saw the enslaved people working late into the night, pulling the seeds from the cotton.   So he designed a hand-cranked machine, a series of combs, that removed the seeds.  Now instead of hand cleaning a pound of cotton a night, the machine could clean fifty pounds.  (By the way, Whitney wasn’t trying to make “life better” for the enslaved.  He saw that he could make a lot of money by building his “engine”). 

The “cork” was out of the bottle.  Planters could grow as much cotton as they could plant.  But now they needed more workers – enslaved people – to plant, tend, and pick the cotton.  With the seeds no longer the hold up, profit was based on the number of workers available.  And the money was rolling in.

Except that the land would wear out, and so the Planters continually needed new land.  The territories of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana and Arkansas had great land for cotton.  The planters went, and they took their “cotton engines” or “gins”, and of course, their enslaved people to work the land.

They moved into the coastal areas of the Mexican province of Tejas as well.  And when the Mexican Government outlawed slavery – they rebelled and set up their own nation of Texas. (That’s not necessarily what your Eighth Grade American History book said – protecting slavery makes the Alamo a lot less “romantic”).

No Clean Hands

But the North had their stake in cotton as well.  Much of the early manufacturing in the Northern states consisted of textile mills – weaving the Southern cotton into cloth.  The industrial revolution opened the manufacturing flood gates, and the demand for Southern cotton increased astronomically.  The Northern industrialists wanted to buy the cotton, the Southern planters wanted to grow cotton, the new railroad magnates in both North and South were making money by moving that cotton.  

The only group that didn’t benefit from cotton were the enslaved Black people. That “next generation” of American leaders weren’t interested in emancipation.  Their future was vested in cotton profits, and cotton profits depended on enslavement.  And while a growing minority of Americans were in favor of ending slavery, the “money” was definitely on cotton, and thus the continuation of enslaved labor.   It was critical to the cotton industry, and cotton was “King”. 

A Civil War 

So when the new Republican Party, voiced by Abraham Lincoln, demanded that slavery should be restricted to the current slave states, it meant that the current cotton model would fail.  And that’s why the Southern leaders saw the Republicans and Lincoln as the ultimate threat – to enslavement, and as importantly, to cotton.  This was more than the individual racist views of American leaders.  This was a founding industry built on the backs of enslaved peoples.  Those people were Black – and that’s an issue that Critical Race Theory examines.  

After the Civil War, the cotton industry still needed the laborers.  So, instead of enslavement, share-cropping developed which trapped the worker to the land.  The state governments backed that up in law, first with the Black Codes and then Jim Crow, keeping the now-freed laborers in the fields.  If they couldn’t have slavery, then share-cropping was the next best thing.

So the legal and economic reasons to treat Black people different than others continued after emancipation.  How those restrictions have continued into our present is another area that Critical Race Theory examines.

Of course racism was a part of our history. Whenever one race holds another as subordinate, that racist. But that racism also crept into our institutions and laws, and became part of our economic foundation. As it took hundreds of years to take root, it will take time to uproot. To say that isn’t to call “everyone” racist, but it does say we are all obliged to dig in our own gardens.

So that’s your history lesson for the day.  I hope you don’t feel “violated” – somehow contaminated by this analysis.  It’s just a way to examine our history, and how that history still impacts us today.

Senior Finance

When my parents got in their late eighties, I did what many children do. I started helping out with their bookkeeping.  That was a big deal – Dad spent most of his adult life dealing with “big” finances.  He negotiated multi-million dollar deals on restaurant napkins (one was framed in his office).    But Mom was responsible for the “checkbook” at home, I suppose because for years Dad spent his weeks “on the road” selling television shows.  And it always drove Dad crazy that Mom rounded all transactions up to the nearest dollar.  The checkbook was never “right” for Dad, a University of Cincinnati accounting graduate.

So when some bills started slipping by, I offered to help. Mom and Dad were “snowbirds”, spending about half the year in Florida. There was the main account in Cincinnati, but there was a second account in a Florida bank. And there were two sets of bills, ones for each house, and so things got confusing for everyone. And It didn’t help that it was the early 2000’s, and “online” banking and billing were becoming a thing. For my parents, the “checkbook” controlled all and the fact that I had a spreadsheet accounting a thousand miles away that I updated weekly didn’t make things clearer for them.

Health Costs

What I discovered though, is that my parents were spending a lot of money on prescription drugs.  That was my first experience with Medicare.  It was the thing called the “donut hole”.  Medicare would cover the first $2000 of drug costs, then wouldn’t pick up any cost until $5000 was reached.  And my parents, being in their eighties, had tens of thousands of dollars of drug costs.  

So we struggled along keeping up with Medicare changes, and what was covered and what was not.  Whenever a medical bill came in, it became the medical lottery game.  The first move was not to pay, because the first bill was NEVER the final bill.  There was what Medicare would pay, and then there was what the secondary insurance would pay, and then there was always a “final accounting” when you found out if you “won” and really had to pay anything at all.  To Medicare’s credit, a lot of times you were “a winner”.

And when Mom and Dad reached their last days, there were the “final” bills to take care of.  Mom was struggling with lung issues, and with spinal fractures.  When she needed to go to the hospital, the only way to get her there was by ambulance.  Somewhere along the way, the “wrong” box was checked on a form.  What was an emergency trip was classified as “transport”.  It was a four thousand dollar error, a fifteen minute ride that was billed at $267/minute.  For a year we argued with different medical staffs.  No one would take responsibility for checking the wrong box,  I suppose that would get them in trouble with Medicare. (After Mom’s death, we ultimately settled that bill for $1400).

Down the Rabbit Hole  

So I thought I had a pretty good handle on Medicare and “senior” insurance.  But now I turn sixty-five this fall, and I’ve got to get the “Medicare” issue figured out for ME.  It’s no wonder that Mom and Dad needed help.  

Everyone “assumes” that when you hit sixty-five, you get free government health insurance called Medicare.  But, like most assumptions, it’s just not true.  Medicare is not a “free ride”.  You have to pay into Medicare to get it for “free”.  For most Americans that’s not a big deal:  you paid into Social Security for forty quarters (ten years) and you “earned” Medicare coverage (it’s listed as FICA on your paycheck).  But some jobs, including mine, were exempted from paying into either Medicare or Social Security.  The idea was that as public employees, the public pension systems were enough and “we” wouldn’t need Medicare or Social Security.

I guess I thought that was a “benefit”. What  I didn’t realize it was that “exemption” meant no one paid.  While I am still eligible for Medicare, if I want it now, I have to pay for it. 

Figures and Figures

So for the uninitiated, there are actually four parts to Medicare Insurance: Parts A, B, C, and D.  Part A covers hospitalization costs, and Part B is major medical costs.  Part C is if you want to be in a total health “plan”, and Part D is for drug coverage.  If you work your forty quarters, you are eligible for “free” Part A, the most expensive coverage.  But you still have to purchase the rest.  And if you didn’t pay in for the forty quarters, you have to pay for Part A as well.

To give you numbers:  for me Part A costs $5652/year, and Part B $1776/year.  And since Medicare covers 80% of expenses, a private “supplemental plan” would be (at least) another $1200 a year, which ends up at $8538/year, not including a Part D drug plan.

You don’t have to take Medicare Part A when you hit sixty-five, though if it’s free you should.  But if you choose not to, make sure you’ve got health insurance for the rest of your life.  Because for every year you don’t buy Medicare after you turn sixty-five, you pay an extra ten percent on the cost if you did end up purchasing it.  (I suspect, but don’t know, that if you are in a Pension system that drops health coverage, a real possibility if you are a teacher, Medicare would waive that fee).

Senior-Hood

I’m lucky. As it turns out, I’m eligible to be on my wife’s insurance, even though she’s retired as well. So I can buy Medicare B and still be covered for everything else (I don’t even HAVE to buy Part B, but it will save me money in the long run). But it’s no wonder that senior citizens (more senior than me) struggle to understand what’s right for their financial situation. It’s complicated. Even the folks at Medicare themselves don’t understand all the in’s and out’s. It took several calls to find out I could buy Part B without buying Part A.

Here’s an out of the box new “niche” business, Medicare Advisor (without pushing a separate insurance product). There’s a whole new group turning sixty-five every year, and they all need help.  But that’s for someone else.  I’m not looking for a new job –retirement’s good.  It would’ve been nice, though, if there was someone with “all the answers” to help me through the process.  It is a rude welcome to senior status. 

But, like birthdays, I guess it’s still better than the alternative!

Fair and Accurate

Extra!! Extra!! Read all about it!! The 2020 election was the most secure election ever held in the United States!

Here in Ohio, the Secretary of State (Ohio’s election chief) just released the numbers. Out of almost six million votes cast – thirteen votes were cast by non-eligible voters.  That’s .000223% (needed the big calculator for that one), or 2.23 illegal votes per million cast.  Hardly enough to change an election; in fact, well within the “margin of error” for just counting the votes.

And that accuracy and integrity is mirrored throughout the nation.  It’s a marvel of our democracy.  At the worst moment in our national pandemic, when the most dangerous action was to gather in large crowds indoors, the United States conducted the largest election ever held here.  Over 159 million votes were cast, 28 million more than the previous biggest turnout in 2008.  

And for those of you who think the turnout size itself is “evidence” of election fraud – the US population as a whole increased by over 24 million since 2008.  Yes, a higher percentage of folks voted, but the voter “pool” was bigger as well.

Meet the Moment

We did it with masks and with mail-in ballots.  We did it by allowing folks to vote early, and vote longer.  The election workers of America did everything they could to make voting safe (from COVID).  And we found what should be the “model” for American voting – the “model” that enabled more Americans to vote than ever before.

Talk about a time to “pat yourself on the back”!  We did it, and we found ways to do it safely.  There weren’t viral “super-spreader” events.  And we took a huge step towards achieving the American dream, of EVERY AMERICAN citizen having the opportunity to vote.  Isn’t that what America is supposed to be about?

But in almost every state in the Union, the 2020 election has caused an outcry in the state legislatures, and in many, laws that restrict voting.  Instead of fireworks and parades for our great election success, many states are limiting voter access, and taking election authority away from those officials who pulled off America’s great success.  

Big Lie

If you’ve read my essays in “Our America” very often, you know I’m no fan of the 45th President.  And certainly he provided the impetus for voting restriction with his “Big Lie” strategy of eroding America’s confidence in the voting process.  He “lit the fuse” that led to January 6th Insurrection.  And there is a large segment of Americans who still “secretly” believe his lie.  

But there is a difference between “the fuse” and “the bomb”. It’s taken a concerted effort of many politicians who know better than to serve as “the bomb” blowing up our national election expansion.  And before anyone says it – these are not the “uneducated” masses that the 45th President is so fond of.  These are our “leaders”, some with advanced degrees from the most prestigious universities in our nation.  

Two quick examples:  on Fox News a guest commentator, Pete Hegseth, continues to push the “Big Lie”, including refusing last week to confirm that Joe Biden even won the election.  Hegseth is a Princeton graduate (2003)  with a Harvard advanced degree.  Josh Hawley, Senator from Missouri who still leads the charge to undermine the election: Stanford undergrad (2002), Yale Law School.  So much for a “Liberal” arts education. 

Future Republicans

There is more to the voter suppression movement than the Presidential election of 2020.  It’s all about the Republican Party’s decision to “double-down” on white “victimization” rather than looking to expand to include the interests of minorities.  That’s a demographic nightmare for Republicans.  The United States is moving inexorably (I love that word) towards a “minority-majority” nation.  Whites will be less than 50% by 2045.  So a political strategy that depends on winning white voters only is a “losing” strategy – at least in the long run (and that’s only twenty-four years).  

So here’s the “simple” math.  Republicans depend on white votes to stay in power. Whites make up a shrinking percentage of the population. So, Republicans must do two things.  They must get an increasing percentage of the white vote, and they must keep the non-whites, the votes they have given up, from voting.

The “bomb” was set before the 45th President, and before the pandemic.  But the exigencies of pandemic voting pushed even the Republican election officials in places like Georgia and here in Ohio to expand access to voting, putting them in direct conflict with their own Party.  They did their job first – got people to the polls – but now are “retrenching” to Party goals.

Rig the Vote

And for those election officials in places like Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and Arizona who happen to be Democrats – the Republican state legislatures are changing laws and even state constitutions to remove their powers.  Many Republican legislatures are trying to take over the power to determine whether the vote count is “acceptable” – putting themselves as “super electors” over the popular vote.

It’s an ugly process, and one that is truly Un-American.  The inexorable (there it is again) tide of history and population growth is against them.  Democrats may lose some battles, like those they are gallantly fighting in Texas and Georgia.  But in the longer view, Republicans are betting on a losing strategy.  And the longer view really isn’t that long.

(that happened during my life)

by Babs Dahlman

This is a series of short storied written by my Mom, Babs Dahlman.  She had an English Literature Degree from the University of London, and I have edited her writing only very lightly!!!!

I began thinking several months ago of so many coincidences that have happened in my life and thought I would write them down.  They are not in chronological order, however.

The Cabby

Perhaps I could begin with one that happened maybe forty-five years ago.  I was in New York with Don.  He was attending a convention and I was at one of the museums, and found myself late at getting back to the hotel. I hailed a taxi and said, “The Swiss Hotel”.  The driver looked back at me and said, “I know you”.  I said, “I do not know you”, but he said again, “I know you”.  

I was getting a little agitated but went ahead and asked him how he knew me.  He said, “I was a military policeman during World War II and at the First Peace settlement in Germany which General Montgomery signed at the little Red School House.  I escorted you to a seat there.  General Bradley knew you were in the vicinity and arranged it.  Is this not true?”  Of course, it was true, and I was there.  When he stopped at the Swiss Hotel he jumped out of the cab and would not take the fare.  He said, “It is a real pleasure knowing you Ma’am”.

Finnish Furniture

I was in San Francisco, again on a business trip with Don.  How lucky I was to have all those trips!  It was a dreary morning, and I was looking for something adventurous to do.  I had always wanted to sail on San Francisco Bay, so I made my way down to Fisherman’s Wharf where I knew you could sail with a tourist boat.  However, when I got there the captain said it was a little rough that day and no passengers.  I was very disappointed.

As I turned away, a young man came up and said, “I will charter the whole boat and this lady can come along.”  The captain consented and I was thrilled.  He outfitted us with life vests, and  off we sailed into a fairly rough sea!  We sailed for about four hours.  The young man was from Finland and a delightful companion.  We talked of politics and art and had a great time.  He was on a business trip – in the furniture business.  When we got back to the port, he offered to take me for lunch, but I said “No thanks” and then said “Ships that pass in the night” or some such phrase.  

I was pretty wet and decided to go into a restaurant, clean up and have a late lunch.  I did so and ate a delicious meal.  When my bill came, the waiter said a foreign gentleman came in and left twenty-five dollars for my lunch!  When I got back to the hotel for the cocktail party, everybody asked, “Where have you been?”  I’ve been sailing on San Francisco Bay,” said I.

A year or so later, again in New York, I was hailing a cab when a voice said, “The English lady who sailed with me on San Francisco Bay.”  It was my man from Finland.  We shared a cab, he to the airport, me to the hotel.  He paid the fare!

Across the Back Garden

Two years ago I was sitting on the beach at Vero Beach, where we spend our winters, when I saw a couple strolling along the water’s edge.  She was holding a little bowl and collecting something from the sea.  I was intrigued and asked her what she was collecting.  She answered it was bait for her husband’s fishing trip.  We started talking and she said, “Oh, you are English”.  I said “Yes, it is my birthday and I had a card from the Queen.”  

She threw her arms around me.  I asked her where she lived in England and she told me, but then said she used to live in Wallington, Surrey.  “Well,” said I, “so did I.  Where did you live?”  She said, “Hawthorne Road.”  I lived on the next road, Brambeedown Road.  On comparing numbers ,we shared back gardens.  How extraordinary we should meet four thousand miles away in a different country.  We have become good friends in our golden age.

John Hill

This in my favorite, though I am not sure that Don likes it so much.  When I was nine years old, my sister Eileen was dating a young man named John Hill.  He  was very handsome.  I was in love with him myself and went to Woolworth’s and bought a ring and told everybody one day I was going to marry John Hill.  I even had a photograph made and gave it to him.  Kid stuff, of course.  He was wonderful; didn’t laugh or make fun of me.  Well, he and my sister parted, and she married someone else.

John was well liked by our family and kept in touch and visited us.  He and I had a correspondence through the years.  John came to London in 1943 – the same year I met Don and fell madly in love with him.  Don, I mean.  John, at that time, asked me to marry him.  The answer was no because I loved Don.  He left and later married an Englishwoman and they went to live in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), Africa.  I kept up a casual correspondence with him over the years and we saw him and his wife a couple of times.

We decided for my seventy-fifth birthday to take everyone to England – children, grandchildren, etc.  I wrote to John and Sue and told them we would like to meet them and they would get to see our family.  I gave them some idea of our itinerary, but I did not get a reply.

We all went to England, and my niece and nephew gave a wonderful party for me the second day we arrived.  Unfortunately, during the party I fell down some stone steps and splintered my pelvis in three places.  I was in a wheel chair for the rest of the trip.  We rented three houses in various parts of England – Canterbury, Oxford and Cornwall.  The thought of seeing John Hill had gone from my mind.

My daughter Terry was driving from Oxford to Cornwall.  We stopped to pick up my sister-in-law in Exeter Down.  We packed a picnic, which we frequently did.  On our way to Cornwall we stopped to eat our picnic.  It was at a pit stop, and we decided to go on.  Terry said, “Mummy, look for a nice shady place as we drive on.”  I  saw a sign saying to miles to Lake _______.  Should we do that?  We decided yes.

We arrived at the lake and they were all helping out of the car when a strong arm came around me.  I looked up and it was John!  “What are you doing here?” I said.  He said “I wrote you to meet me here at one o’clock.”  It was one o’clock.  We had a great time sharing our picnic.  He met some of our children, and we said goodbye.  He died the following year.

When we got back to Cincinnati and collected our mail, there was the letter from John which said to meet him that day in that place at that time.  What an extraordinary coincidence.

From the War

Soon after I was released from the Officials Secrets Act, I was having a luncheon with an English friend in Clifton, and the conversation got around to World War II.  I told her about my involvement with Special Operations in Europe and detailed some of my missions in France.  Some weeks later she called and invited me to a dinner party she was giving, and mentioned she had also invited someone she would like me to meet.  I accepted the invitation.

It was quite a large affair, and soon after we arrived, she came over with a lady, a French lady who was a professor at the University of Cincinnati.  She was about fifteen or twenty years younger than I, and to my amazement, she threw her arms around me.  I was slightly alarmed.  She said “You are Virginia, aren’t you?”  I was shocked for a moment because my code name in Special Operations was Virginia. 

My friend evidently told her about me and she remembered when she was about five, her parents, who were part of the Underground, would go out to meet a Lysander (the plane that brought the spies into Occupied France) and she said they always talked about the young British spy called Virginia.  They were both caught and shot by the Germans. 

Whoever thought that a little French girl would meet the English spy Virginia in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA.

Siblings

My brother Leslie was thirteen years older than I and there were three siblings between us.  But Leslie and I were always very close to each other.  When I went to finishing school in Liege, Belgium, he and his wife lived in Brussels and I spent most of my weekends with them.  My brother was extremely talented – spoke eleven languages fluently and was also a great athlete.

When the War broke out in 1939, he sent his wife and children back to England but stayed as the British Army was driven back into the sea at Dunkirk.  The British Government asked him to evacuate all the British citizens out of Brussels to Dunkirk, where, hopefully, there would be a boat to take them across the Channel.

Before he did this, he quickly organized an escape route across Europe for British and (eventually) American pilots who were shot down.  He and his fellow countrymen had a perilous journey to the coast and got on the last boat to England.

Meanwhile, I was doing my bit for my country in Special Operations.  I was called one day for a mission and my briefing was at Tempsford where the Lysanders were.  To my complete surprise, my brother Leslie walked in to do the briefing.  I had no idea he was associated with S.O.E., and he had no idea I was involved.  He was more than a little perturbed that he might be sending his favorite little sister to her death, but that was what war was all about.  How strange, and what a coincidence that was.

My brother was given the Order of King Leopold after the War, and also made a Commander of the British Empire by King George VI.  Unfortunately, he was killed in his own aero plane fifteen years after the War.

Sylvia Beach

When I was at the University of London studying History and English and Literature, I was fascinated by reading of a woman who owned a bookshop in Paris and who had published James Joyce’s Ulysses when nobody else would publish it.

Her name was Sylvia Beach and her bookshop was The Shakespeare Bookshop.  She held poetry readings and her companions were famous writers from all over the world who converged on Paris at that time.  That included James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Alice B. Toklas, etc.  I imagined her to be beautiful, sophisticated and elegant.  I longed to meet her and talk to her.

During the War on one of my missions my assignment was Paris, which was then occupied by the Germans.  I was dropped by Lysander in a small place in a field in the middle of nowhere, I thought.  It was about thirty miles outside of Paris.  I was met by a French agent who drove me into Paris in his Citroen and left me at his aunt’s apartment.  She was also a French agent.

The apartment was just below the Sacre Coeur.  I was led to the attic where I was to spend the night.  It was a sweet little room overlooking the roofs of Paris.  As I stood at the window in my cotton panties and cotton bra, I thought how strange to see Paris this way.  I was a British spy, and in the movies the spies were always in black satin nightgowns with a string of pearls and diamond bracelets and a handsome man to go to bed with, and all I had was cold, damp sheets to step into.  Oh, well.

I noticed an envelope on the bedside table and, as I opened it, in code I found the name of my contact;  Sylvia Beach.  I could hardly believe my eyes.  What a way to meet her.

The next morning I got up and made my way to the Shakespeare Bookshop, stopping to say a prayer at the Notre Dame Cathedral.  As I was saying my rosary, a young German officer came and sat beside me.  I thought, “I am going to be caught” and prayed to the Holy Mother in my hour of need.  The German officer turned and smiled at me and took his rosary out. 

I left soon after and made my way to the bookshop.  I have related this story in a previous paper  — sorry to bore you.  I went in – rather musty and dark – and there she stood.  I was disappointed.  She looked old and frumpy and badly dressed.  Then I looked into her blue, blue eyes and knew she had seen the world and had revolutionized the book world by publishing James Joyce’s Ulysses. I introduced myself and told her who I was and how much I had wanted to meet her.  She was very patient and kind.  Finally, we planned the mission and I left. 

I returned to London the next day and went  to my fake office at the Ministry of Health.  Mr. Baker looked at me and said, “Been out with a Yank all night?”  Little did he know that I had been on a mission to an occupied country and my dream had come true.  I had met Sylvia Beach.  Such a coincidence.  (here is the full  Sylvia Beach Story).

Stolen Art

On one of my missions for S.O.E. (Special Operations Executive) in Paris, I again met with Sylvia Beach.  Our assignment was to dynamite a train outside of Paris to delay a troop train with German troops going to the front.  We heard that it was not going to be a troop train, but was going to be full of art on its way to General Goering’s underground museum in Dresden.  This information was given to us on good authority by the Maquis.  We could not contact London, so finally decided to about the operation, save the art and let the train go through.

Some years after the War was over, Don was asked to go to Le Mans, France, to represent Dayton and to honor the Wright Brothers who had their first (European) flight there.  It was a very exciting trip, starting in Paris where the US Ambassador was to have a cocktail party for us.  On the way to the party, we were caught in a traffic jam in the same tunnel where later Princess Diane had that awful accident.  Anyway, by the time we arrived at the party, people were leaving.

The next morning we took the train to Le Mans accompanied by the ambassadorial staff, NBC news and camera men.  We were met by the Prefect (Governor of the Province) and he and his entourage led us through the old city where a reception was given.  Then onto the Le Mans car race track where we were driven at 185 mph around the track.  It was very exciting.  Then there was a fly-by for us – we felt very important.

There was another reception and then Don proceeded to lay wreaths and the various places and made speeches lauding the French and the Wright Brothers.  He did a super job.  I was so proud of him.

Then the Governor took us back to his chateau where we enjoyed the most wonderful lunch.  After lunch the Governor said he had an important announcement to make. He said that the art stolen from Paris by General Goering had been returned – that very day.  My heart turned over!  I was still under the Official Secrets Act so could not say a word, but what a coincidence that I should be there when the art was returned.  How fortunate we aborted the plan to dynamite the tracks and let the train go on and save the art.

History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes – attributed to Mark Twain

What’s UP

There are already over 2000 air travel “incidents” in the United States this year.  What’s an incident?  When a flight is disrupted and sometimes even re-routed because a passenger threatens or “loses it” with flight attendants.  This weekend, a passenger tried to open the door – in flight.  In another “incident”,  an eighteen-year-old on a private plane tried to take over the controls and dive into the ground.  

Both flights landed safely – but what’s going on?

In the meantime crime rates seem to be increasing nationwide. Here in the suburbs, the “Ring Camera Networks” are going nuts.  Three or four times a week, there’s the “bing” of a late night warning – someone breaking into cars or checking garage doors.  In the “big city” we see folks brazenly stealing goods out of stores on camera, with little concern for bystanders.  And on an even more serious note, the gun violence of pre-pandemic days has returned.  Here in Columbus more than 95 are dead from guns, twice the 2020 pandemic level, and nearing the 105 killed for the entire year in pre-pandemic 2019.

Crime is up, violence is up, crazy behavior on airplanes is up, so what’s up?

Doomed to Repeat

We’ve been here before.  It was in the 1920’s, after a World War, and a global pandemic.  The economy survived the post-War, post-Pandemic downturn, and began to boom again.  Unemployment, as high as 11% in 1921, fell below 5% by 1923.  There seemed to be more work than there was workers; sound familiar?

And, like today, there was a sharp division in the nation.  The restrictions of World War I on alcohol, used to preserve grain “for the troops”, added momentum to the growing Temperance Movement (headquartered right here in Ohio, the “Anti-Saloon League”  in Westerville). On January 17th, 1920, the Eighteenth Amendment banned intoxicating alcohols from the United States, criminalizing the “normal” behavior of millions.  

What we learned less about in American History, was the “mask wars” that went on through 1919 in many United States cities.  Like the masker versus anti-masker struggles of our current pandemic, many cities in the US fought the same battle during the Great Flu Pandemic.  Perhaps the ultimate “scoff-laws” of the time, were the “gentlemen” who abided the law by wearing masks, but with holes carefully made so they could continue to smoke their cigars. They could have just worn them around their chins – we saw plenty of that just a few months ago.

Joie de Vivre

So we remember the “Eighth Grade” history of the 1920’s:  the booming industries, the “Speak Easy” saloons, “Flappers”, the soaring stock markets;  The Roaring Twenties.   But what we probably remember best about the 1920’s was the rise of gangsterism.  Sure, there was the black market for alcohol,  millions to be made in crime.  And there was (like today) the increase in the number of high powered weapons, then brought home from the war.  But there also seemed to be a national “recklessness”, about drinking, about social behavior, and about crime as well.  The gangsters became the “heroes”.  

Maybe it was the “joie de vivre”, the excitement of surviving all the turmoil of war and pandemic.  Perhaps it was that release that led some to take even greater risks, criminal risks.  Or maybe it was simply a response to the restrictions, the “good behavior” during the World War and Pandemic.  The binds of national “obligation” were released.

We’ve been here before – political division, social expansion, economic explosion, vast quantities of weapons, weakened legal obligations.  

Rhyming

Of course we remember the apocalyptic end of that story as well.  The wild excesses of the stock market, soaring up 400% during the decade, ended with the crash on Black Tuesday.  That was the first domino to fall, bringing down the entire Nation into the Great Depression of the 1930’s.  Add to that the impact of drought and over-farming causing the Dust Bowl and the relocation of millions of Americans.  

Today the stock market has more than doubled in the past decade.  And climate change is impacting many facets of the nation, from droughts and heat waves in the West, to dramatic storms and floods in the Midwest and East.  The “roadmap” of the Roaring Twenties looks a lot like the one we’re on now – except most folks don’t know what a roadmap is any more:  “Siri, I need directions to the future”.  

Maybe we should be asking Siri, “Have I been here before?”

PS – The original 1920’s had a star pitcher and home run hitter – Babe Ruth of the Red Sox/Yankees. Our 20’s has one too – Otani Shohei of the LA Angels!!!

Charlie Daniels was one of my early introductions to “country” music.  I got to see him “up close” at the 1976 Carter Inaugural Ball – we were on the same side politicly then.  We didn’t end up that way – but his music still resonates.  Still in Saigon

Call to Duty

For my generation the Vietnam War  was the turning point of our youth.  In the early sixties, we were the generation called by President Kennedy – “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country”.  Our generation saw Martin Luther King march.  We watched (in black and white) him stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and tell us his dream – our dream too.  Those leaders spoke to us and called us to service.  And we believed.

I was young, born in the last years of the “Baby Boomers”.  And while I was too young to march for Civil Rights, I could still feel the call to action.  America was moving:  rockets were launching from Cape Canaveral, cars and televisions pulled us all together; we were a nation on the move. And we were defending freedom throughout the world, in Berlin, and in Taiwan, and in Vietnam.

When the President was shot, we were stricken.  The young leader was gone.  But his successor, Johnson, showed even more promise.  He passed the Civil Rights law, and he promised a “Great Society” where our nation would take care of all.  Sure, he did it in the voice that once stood for prejudice and hate, the Texas drawl that was familiar from others in Senate filibusters that stopped progress.  But Johnson WAS progress – and even with the loss of Kennedy we knew there was hope.

Vietnam

So I was shocked when I went to see Johnson in 1967 at the Montgomery County Fairgrounds in Dayton.  Shock, because there was a line of black turtle-necked students in the front row, who stood up and chanted.  They interrupted the President of the United States.  They were protesting the War in Vietnam, a war that I thought was part of our “defense of freedom”.   I didn’t know what those Antioch College students already had figured out.  Vietnam wasn’t about “defending freedom”. It was a war we couldn’t win.

I was eleven at the County Fairgrounds that day.  I was eighteen when the final frantic helicopters left the US Embassy in Saigon.  Our leaving that war was just as ugly as our fighting it, with desperate refugees hanging from helicopter landing skids and equipment shoved into the sea.  To take then-President Ford’s statement out of context – “Our long national nightmare was over”, (he said that while pardoning Nixon, but it definitely fit Vietnam better).  Whatever the reason we entered that war, we sacrificed blood and treasure for years only because no one wanted to “lose the war”.  

That’s a lousy reason to fight a war, because you don’t want to be the “loser”.  And it’s an even worse reason for Americans to die.  

Afghanistan

In the past few weeks the Biden Administration made it official:  the United States military is leaving Afghanistan.  We started there on October 7th, 2001, nearly twenty years ago.  Our attack was for all the “right” reasons.  Al Qaeda attacked the United States on September 11th.  The governing “tribe” of Afghanistan, the Taliban, allowed Al Qaeda to use the country as their headquarters and staging ground.  The US demanded that the Taliban turn over Al Qaeda, but the Taliban refused.  So the United States attacked.

Our goal was to destroy Al Qaeda, and capture it’s leadership.  It took years to accomplish that goal, culminating with the killing of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan in May of 2011.  But once we started, the US also determined to drive out the Taliban, and replace them with more moderate Afghans.  And that has kept us engaged in Afghanistan for twenty years.

It’s really not much different than Vietnam.  The US waged war on a foe that was fighting on their home territory, with nowhere else to go.  Short of total destruction of the Taliban, or the Vietnamese Communists, there was no way to win.  It took us fourteen years to realize that in Vietnam; it took almost twenty in Afghanistan.

Value of Sacrifice

There is no easy way to leave a war, to explain what the sacrifice was for.  But in war, when there is no clear way to win, it is better to leave than to demand even more sacrifice – for nothing.

Both Vietnam and Afghanistan left the US with significant damage.  It’s not just the count of dead and wounded, but the warriors damaged by wars that had no clear enemy, boundaries or goals.  For those, their war does not end.  They’re minds are still in Kabul, or Kandahar; or still in Saigon.  

As Lincoln said in his Second Inaugural Address:

“With malice toward none with charity for all with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right let us strive on to finish the work we are in to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan ~ to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

Not My Idea

So it’s Sunday, and lots of times I write a “Sunday Story” about my experiences.  This isn’t one of them.  Today’s story is about a book, a children’s book as a matter of fact.  It’s titled:  Not My Idea – A Book About Whiteness; written by Anastasia Higgenbotham.  Maybe instead of calling this a “Sunday Story”, I should be calling it my “Sunday Book Report”. 

This is an illustrated kid’s book, that took me about ten minutes to read, and it’s being hammered in the crazed right-wing media.  They are screaming – it’s “racist, critical race theory, propaganda” aimed at kids.  I wasn’t sure what to think about that, but I knew I had to read the book to find out. 

Get Uncomfortable

And I get why the right-wing media finds the book more than uncomfortable.  This is a book directed at white children in America.  It starts with the title – what’s “not my idea”?  And the answer to that question from the very first page is that racism and white supremacy is not the child/reader’s idea.  It’s an idea that existed long before that child came into being, and it’s not theirs.  They don’t have to accept it.

It helps to know that the author uses the term “whiteness” to cover all of the racist advantages of being white in our society, versus being a person of color.  Being “white” is not a thing, it is a fact.  But “whiteness” is using that being white to unfairly benefit over people of color.

The book is uncomfortable to read if you’re a white adult.  It calls you out on the concept that you can be “color blind”, and then pretend everything is OK.  Everything is not OK – and pretending just allows for racism to continue.  But it also offers a form of forgiveness.  Racism is “inherent” in our nation, from the beginning.  You weren’t born a racist, but you were born in a nation that rewarded some races and punished others, and still does.  That’s not your fault.  What IS your fault is what you do about it.  That’s where complicity in racism begins.

Absolution

But the white child, the target of this book, is born without blame. They see racist interactions in our society – whether it’s George Floyd under the knee of a policeman, or white insurrectionists allowed into the Capitol but Black Lives Matter protestors tear gassed. And this book explains the racism they cannot help but see – and calls on the adults in the child’s life to do the same.

The message to those adults is that telling white children “You don’t need to worry about this” or “Our family is kind to everyone, we don’t see color,” isn’t the answer to racism.  Because children will see racism: from how their friends of color are treated by society, to what they see in the news.  The author’s message: “Racism isn’t only happening to Black and brown people.  Racism is a white person’s problem – and we are all caught up in it”.

The book goes onto explain how society perpetuates racism, whiteness, and how many white people ignore the problem.  But it also highlights those historic white and Black people who have worked to stop racism, from the Abolitionist Grimke sisters in the 1830’s, up to Colin Kaepernick today.  

And it calls on the children to do something about racism – by recognizing it continues, and that white people still benefit from it. It defines racism as “whiteness”, and tells the child “…you can be white, without signing on to ‘whiteness’”. The first way to do this is to gain knowledge – as the author says “Innocence is overrated”.

This isn’t the first illustrated “children’s” book that comes with a strong political message.  Maus by Art Spiegelman was always in my classroom.  It is a graphic novel about the Holocaust, with the Jews as mice and the Nazis as cats.  Maus was a tool to explain the Holocaust without the raw horror of first person accounts like Night by Elie Wiesel (though that book was always in my classroom as well).    

A Dangerous Book

But in today’s world Not My Idea – A Book About Whiteness would be “dangerous” to have in a classroom.  Dangerous for the teacher, in an era when white adults are demanding the suppression of “change”.  Dangerous because school administrators and school boards are unwilling to take up the fight against racism directly with their parents.  

There is so much controversy already – from testing to taxes. Not My Idea would put the issue of racism square up-front. We are in a world already polarized by vaccinations and anti-vaxxers, Black Lives Matter and Blue Live Matter, Insurrectionists and everyone else – all in the community and all screaming their message. There are so many who are demanding that we can’t discuss “ideas” that go against the grain. Not My Idea would put the teacher, the administrator, and the school on the right side of the fight, but directly in the crosshairs for attack. It’s not hard to see why they wouldn’t have the “stomach” for it.

But if you are a white parent wanting help explaining to your white child how their friends of color face a different world, then Not My Idea would be a great tool.  And if you are a person who still thinks that “everything’s equal now”, maybe you should read it for yourself.  Racism wasn’t your idea, but it’s now your responsibility.

• Not My Idea – A Book About Whiteness – by Anastasia Higginbotham – 2018
• It can be in your hands in a couple of days from Amazon for less than $15.00
• Article about banning this book in Texas – Texas Signal
• The Fox News take on teaching from this book

Politics – 2021

Getting elected used to be about telling voters how they would benefit.  “Two cars in every garage, a chicken in every pot” was Herbert Hoover’s successful 1928 election slogan.  Obama’s slogans of “Yes We Can” and “Change We Can Believe In,” promised voters a better future. In the heat of battle, John McCain said of his opponent Barack Obama in 2008:   “He’s a decent family man, a citizen that I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues, and that’s what this campaign is all about.”

But that’s not our politics in 2021.  We are not about two candidates with “disagreements…on fundamental issues”. Rather, we are about one candidate who is represented as “Good”, and one candidate who obviously is “Evil”. 

It’s not that there wasn’t ugly campaigning before this past decade.  In the election of 1800, the first truly contested Presidential campaign, one Federalist newspaper said about Democratic-Republican Thomas Jefferson:

 “(He)writes aghast the truths of God’s words; who makes not even a profession of Christianity; who is without Sabbaths; without the sanctuary, and without so much as a decent external respect for the faith and worship of Christians.”  

Talk about “Evil”!

But today it’s not just in campaigns.  Or maybe it’s that campaigning never seems to end.  There is no respite from election to election, no time when the legislature can, behind closed doors, work the magic of “sausage making” legislation and get things done for the Nation.  Now it’s all politics, all “Good” and “Evil”, all the time.

Common Ground

How did we get this way?  It used to be that there was a lot of common ground among the political parties.  A “Blue Dog” Democrat was a fiscal conservative, much like the “Moderate” Republican sitting beside him.  Republicans like Richard Nixon created the Environmental Protection Agency and actually used the United States government to impose wage and price controls.  There was a huge “middle ground” that both parties inhabited.  Voting “for the candidate” across party lines was possible without committing ideologic heresy. To win elections you needed to win the middle.

Both political parties always contained the more “extreme” sides.  In the Republican Party there was always a struggle between the more moderate “Coastal Republicans” like Earl Warren* of California and Tom Dewey of New York, and Midwest conservatives, led by Bob Taft of Ohio.  The Coastal Republicans maintained control, nominating Eisenhower to win in 1952 and 1956, and California’s Richard Nixon in 1960.  

*Yep, that’s Earl Warren from the Warren Supreme Court. He was the Republican Governor of California for a decade, including World War II.  He was appointed by Eisenhower, who assumed he’d be a good “Republican Chief Justice”.

When Extremism Lost

Nixon’s loss to Kennedy let the conservative wing finally get a chance in 1964, with arch-conservative Barry Goldwater of Arizona winning the Presidential nomination.  He suffered the worst defeat in Presidential history, losing to moderate Lyndon Johnson.  That silenced the “conservative wing” for the next sixteen years.

The “Liberal wing” of the Democratic Party remained in control from the Roosevelt days.  Adlai Stevenson was nominated in 1952 and 1956, and John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson were from that section of the Party as well.  It wasn’t until the Vietnam War that the Party fractured into the “Old Liberals” and the new “Anti-War” Democrats.  The Old Liberals won the nomination with Hubert Humphrey, but the political division cost the general election.   Nixon narrowly won the Presidency in 1968.

The Anti-War Democrats got their revenge in 1972, choosing South Dakota’s George McGovern to lead the ticket.  He lost to Nixon, in a defeat even worse than Goldwater’s eight years before.

Reaganism

So the extremes of both political parties suffered major defeats, and the moderates of both gained control.  Jimmy Carter represented the true moderates in the Democratic Party, and even though he lost the Presidency in 1980, the moderates remained in control. Bill Clinton is the great example.  He co-opted many moderate Republican ideas to use in his Presidency, making him popular with the “middle voters”.  More Progressive Democrats saw him as “Republican-lite”.

But the conservative wing of the Republican Party found a flag-bearer who could win.  Ronald Reagan won the nomination and the Presidency in 1980, and his eight years in office forced the moderate Republicans (like his Vice President, George HW Bush) to choose.  They could assume Reagan’s conservative stand, or they could be left out of power.

So while Bush was originally more moderate, he moved to the right to “stay with the Party”.  And that has characterized the Republican Party even to today. Every time they had the opportunity to move back to the center, instead they remained loyal to “Reagan conservatism”.  Mitt Romney is the classic example:  a moderate Governor of Massachusetts (he came up with the plan that became the Affordable Care Act), when he moved to become a national candidate, he also had to move hard right to become electable. (Watch what Governor Larry Hogan of Maryland does in the next few years). 

The pressure of Reagan conservatism pushed the Democratic Party to move to the left as well.  On issues like abortion, “Pro-Life” Democrats found themselves pushed out of the “Big Tent” of the Party.  “Blue Dog” Democrats found that they could no longer get elected, and fewer remained empowered.  And so the center of the Democratic Party leaned farther left, as the Republican Party moved hard right.

Obama and the Tea Party (not a children’s book)

But then there were three events that fractured our politics.  The first was the election of Barack Obama as President in 2008.  He wasn’t incredibly “left”, though he was on the “Progressive” side of the Party.  But his election was such an outlier, a Black man as President.  For many, his election summoned the future, an event unexpected until the middle of the 21st century.  And for others, it was simply too much, too soon.

That “too much, too soon” played a role in the development of the Tea Party, a reactionary, right-wing movement from the fringes of the Republican Party.  Republicans saw that movement as a “ticket” back into power, and after the defeat of a not so moderate Romney in 2012, the Party lurched even farther right.  They ousted Michael Steele as Chairman of the Republican Party (Steele happened to be Black), and ignored the finding of the 2012 election “autopsy” that stated that the Party needed to appeal beyond white voters.

The Party instead assumed many of the issues championed by the Tea Partiers, who ultimately became “mainstream” Republicans. 

Damn Computers

And the third event was the refinement of computer-directed gerrymandering, like the Republican “RedMap” plan.  This created legislative districts so dominated by one Party or the other, that the “general election” became just a formality.  The real race was in the party primaries, where the most “dedicated” political voters made the choice.  This caused the more extreme candidates (in both parties) to have a better chance of winning, and made our legislatures, both Federal and State, more polarized. 

Ohio is a classic example of the results of “Red Mapping”.  Jim Jordan’s District, Ohio’s 4th, is the 10th most Republican District in the Nation. The only reason for a Democrat to run is to keep Jordan from donating his money to someone else.   Meanwhile, Nina Turner, a Bernie Sander’s disciple, is running in the 11th District Democratic primary against the more moderate Shontel Brown, endorsed by Hillary Clinton and other establishment Democrats. The winner of that expensive primary will be the newest Congressman from Ohio, as the District is so Democratic, the Republican doesn’t have a chance.

Driven by Demons

When there are two Parties, so divided, elections become less about persuading the middle (like Clinton did) and more about exciting the base.  Rather than two “…decent men or women” running, it’s about demonization.  Republicans are Fascists; Democrats Socialists or Communists.  “Joe Biden should be ex-communicated from the Roman Catholic Church”.   “Mike DeWine is a RINO (Republican in Name Only)”. Voters no longer feel they make a selection based on Jimmy Carter’s ideal – “Why Not the Best”.  Instead they go to the polls determined to vote against someone:  “Hold your nose and vote”.   

Persuasion, changing folks minds, really isn’t “the thing” anymore. Our politicians have discovered that we are more motivated by “the negative” than we are the “positive”.  Neither Party has the monopoly on that:  the negative of Donald Trump drove more people to vote for Joe Biden than ever voted before.  But keep in mind, the negative of Joe Biden drove more to vote for Trump than any candidate for President except one: Joe Biden.  Neither candidate got all those votes because people were FOR them.

Until more Americans get invested in the primary processes, then that negative campaigning advantage will continue to dominate our politics.  As always, it’s up to us.  Neither gerrymandering nor even voter suppression can really stop “We the People” from voting.  And if we all did that, we could vote for what we want, not what we hate.

Education

It probably won’t come as a surprise to most that I am the product of a liberal education at a liberal arts school.  But, as you know, that doesn’t mean I was “indoctrinated” into a “liberal” political philosophy.  I came by that all on my own.  

So if liberal doesn’t mean that kind of “liberal” when talking about education, then what does it mean?  A “liberal arts” education doesn’t stand for one political philosophy or another.  It’s an education that challenges students with all sorts of philosophies and ideas, and demands that they explore all of them, looking for the good and the bad, and reach conclusions about them.  It is designed to get students to question their own fundamental beliefs as well as the ones they are studying.  

The “outcome” of a liberal arts education is a thoughtful person, able to identify the roots of ideas and use a range of knowledge to evaluate new concepts.  Liberal arts education does not aim for a particular political “stand”, but rather for a process of thought.

Denison

I went to a liberal arts college, Denison University in Granville, Ohio.  Denison required me to study beyond my “major,” American Political Studies.  I took courses in English and psychology, mathematics and fine arts, and Spanish (oh boy); as well as history, geography, anthropology and sociology. Oh, and there were several courses about government and politics.  

I was challenged on a variety of levels – and pushed to think not just about different ideas, but about different ways at looking at the same subject.  It wasn’t just “knowledge”, it was a process of thinking about that knowledge that I developed.

Teachers

A good example of challenging students was my two favorite history professors.  Professor Dennis was a traditional “conservative” (he later worked in the Reagan administration).  But sitting around a  table discussing the philosophies of the Founding Fathers in developing the Constitution, he wasn’t particularly interested in pushing his ideology.  Instead, he forced his students to challenge their own preconceived ideas, regardless of their own political stands.

Professor Kirby was an unabashed “liberal” in the political sense. He served as a key advisor to me as I navigated my “individualized major” of history, political science and education.  And he also guided my through an understanding of the development of modern politics – taking on a “poli-sci” student for a directed history study in 20th century Democratic politics.  Like Dennis, he wasn’t as interested in shaping me to a certain political philosophy.  He too challenged me to develop a “process” of thinking about how history shapes our current thought.

And those two professors were also good friends, willing to work together as much because of their philosophical differences than in spite of them.  They were like good “coaches”, preparing their students in a process of thinking.

A “liberal” education doesn’t “hide” ideas from students.  It lays those ideas “on the table” for discussion, dissection, and evaluation.  Ideas like Critical Race Theory would have been the exact kind of challenge that Drs. Dennis and Kirby would have put to their students.  Ideas then, and now, are not to be feared. 

Stifling Thought

There are two “movements” today that threaten educational development.  The first is the argument that education should be solely vocational – to “get a job”.  If all an education does is prepare a student for a particular job category, it fails.  It fails to teach a student how to think and process new ideas, and it fails to recognize perhaps the most important fact of our current lives:  change.  Jobs of the 20th century are disappearing, whether it was the manufacturing job on an assembly line, or the skilled trade jobs.  Try to find an appliance repair-person today, or a shoe repair shop.  

In today’s world, the job you have today may well not be the job you have a year from now.  Training for a single career doesn’t fit our changing world.  Training for change, for flexibility of thought and process, is a more useful course for the future.

The second movement is to “prevent” ideas.  Critical Race Theory, the idea that racism is embedded in our institutions and laws and not just in “personalities”, is one of those ideas that should be examined.  Instead, several states are literally writing laws to ban teaching about the idea.  Banning ideas is neither a “liberal education” nor an American tradition.  If our nation cannot stand the scrutiny of ideas like critical race theory, regardless of whether they are right or wrong or somewhere in between, then the problem isn’t the idea.  

It’s us.

Email

I get lots of email.  Most of it is Democratic fund raising efforts for various candidates throughout the nation.  Then there’s the “the thing” – I’m turning sixty-five (Holy S**T) in September.  I had no idea how many different ways you can “buy” Medicare coverage, from the Auto Club to my house insurance provider, but now they’ve all sent me “offers I can’t refuse”.  Somehow, I once had the idea that Medicare would save me money on health insurance.  Now I understand – in my case it will cost me an additional $1800 a year (though my existing insurance will cover more of my costs – so if I have a “bad” year, I’ll be ahead).  It’s better than paying more for private insurance without it – I think.

But I managed to get in on some “Right-wing” mailing lists as well.  Those emails don’t come to Martin, usually it’s Jane or Dale (yeah – I don’t know why), but it’s full throated craziness.  There’s the emails from Jim Jordan and even “the turtle” McConnell.  And there’s the new ones from something called “GOPUSA”. For a while thought it was some Chinese site – GOPU-SA, but then I re-read the title and got it.  I’m not a regular reader, but I occasionally dip in to see what “the other side” is saying.

Thirteen Long Minutes

Which is really the long way around to say that I found this “right-wing-nut” guy named Bobby Eberle (didn’t he race in NASCAR in the late sixties?).  He has a You-Tube broadcast, aptly named “The Thirteen Minute News Hour”.  I listened to him for the first time today while tending to the barbecue ribs I was smoking.  His Fifth of July broadcast was about “how the radical left is ‘Un-proud’ to be American”.  The basis of his claim?  Interviews with young women, many of them of color, asking how proud they were to be American.  And ALL the ones he showed said they weren’t “proud to be American”.  So there is the proof – I guess.

His point was that it is the fault of the “leftist teachers and media” that these Americans aren’t proud of America.  He blamed “critical race theory”.  And he said that the Fourth of July is supposed to be a day of national unity – and if you’re not “united” in the “Proud to be an American” stand – well then there’s something wrong with you.

From the Beginning

The phrase “Proud to be an American” evokes memories of the weeks after 9-11, perhaps the last time when Americans were united in the face of crisis.  It’s the  beginning of the refrain from the Lee Greenwood song, “God Bless the USA”.  It was the right song at the right moment, but ultimately it was co-opted by the political right, and finally by the Trump Campaign.  So if you are “Un-Proud” to be an American – then you back the terrorists of 9-11?  That’s the illogic progression.

Bobby Eberle can’t get past his own belief in the infallibility of America.  Any questioning of the orthodoxy and “mythology” of 1950’s 8th Grade American History class is tantamount to treason.  The thing that folks like Bobby don’t get is that even the Founder Fathers, Authors of the Constitution, recognized not only their own flaws, but the flaws of the nation they were creating.  They put it right up front in the preamble of the Constitution, right after We the People:  …in order to form a more perfect Union…”  It wasn’t perfect from the start, and it’s not perfect now.

More Perfect

And it’s not hard to see how many Americans today aren’t so “proud” of America.  They see an America where George Floyd was murdered on video, and hundreds of thousands of Americans were sacrificed to COVID for politics.  Their America includes a nation that ignores climate change, puts Black men in jail, and allows institutions to trap folks in debt.   They see all of the imperfections in our “perfect” Union, and recognize there’s a lot to not be proud of. 

In the language of addiction there is a term:  enabling.  It means to accept and even encourage behaviors that makes the addiction worse.  False pride that denies flaws enables those flaws to continue or even get worse, like addiction.  And that means more and more folks get “left out” of another Americanism – the American Dream.  

Mr. Eberle confuses pride with loyalty.  You can be loyal to a nation, willing to work to improve that nation, trying to make it “More Perfect”, without pride.  Pride is in accomplishment, the results.  And many Americans feel that our nation has not lived up to its promise, and that our current outcomes don’t include them.  

That doesn’t mean they aren’t “loyal” to the United States.  But it does mean they don’t claim a false pride in a nation that fails to include them in its promise.  

Fourth of July

The Fourth of July – the day the United States celebrates its independence from the British.  Sure there’s all the technicalities – the Continental Congress passed the Declaration on July 2nd, a majority of states didn’t approve until July 9th, and the final state didn’t sign on until August.  But we have established the Fourth of July as THE day to celebrate.  Even in those first years we Americans celebrated with fireworks – and today we continue that tradition.

When I think of the Fourth, I go back to Cincinnati, when my parents took all of us kids to the fireworks in St. Bernard, Ohio.  Why St. Bernard, a little municipality squeezed in between Proctor and Gamble’s soap factory (“Ivory Dale”) and Vine Street?  Maybe it was Dad’s tradition – it was just down the road from Mitchell Avenue where he grew up.  Anyway, I still remember sitting on a hill watching my first fireworks and worrying about how loud the “booms” were.

No worries now; I am a fireworks guy.  I still stand with my head tilted back – mouth slightly open to catch any wayward mosquitoes — staring in awe.  It wasn’t on the Fourth, but that position got me in trouble at the 1973 Boy Scout National Jamboree.  They must have misjudged how close the crowded kids were to the launch site.  Ashes were raining down on us, and I got a real “taste” for the fireworks.  On the other hand, the booms were never again so close and loud – I liked it!

So here are three stories of the Fourth – mostly about fireworks and locations, but also about celebrating America.

Olympian Fourth 

In the 1980’s I spent several summers learning as much as I could about track and field.  I went to “camps” for athletes, and hung out with the coaches to absorb as much as I could.   One of those camps was at Indiana University in Bloomington.  I got the chance to “hang out” with Sam Bell, one of the top coaches of that era, and his world class  staff. Marshall Goss was a leading national pole vault coach, a high school teacher who coached at the college, and Phil Henson had a PhD in physiology which he applied to his world class jumpers. 

We were there over the Fourth of July, and on that evening, we took the “kids” and staff to see the local Bloomington fireworks.  I sat with the staff.  On one side was Sunder Nix, Olympic Gold Medalist in the 4×400 relay.  On the other side was Dave Volz, a world class pole vaulter who would eventually compete in the 1992 Olympic Games.  They were enjoying the fireworks just like everyone else – and yet they earned the uniform to represent the United States in world competitions.  It brought home to me the reality that great athletes are “regular” folks, enjoying the fireworks and the conversation.  

And it was an honor to realize I was learning from them, and from their coaches.  They were among the best in the world, and they were sharing all that experience and knowledge with a young high school coach from Pataskala. 

Road Trip Fourth

Earlier this year, I wrote about the “road trip” I took with three other coaches. We were in our twenties and decided to rent a van, and set off across the country.  Our route took us all the way to the Oregon coast, down to Mexico, and then back across the nation.  We arrived in Colorado around the Fourth of July, and decided to spend the holiday in Aspen.  

To get to Aspen from our hotel we had to cross over Independence Pass at 12,000 feet in altitude.  So we celebrated the morning of the Fourth with a snowball fight, then headed down to the festivities in Aspen.  They had the big field on the edge of town all prepped for a celebration, and the fireworks set up on the slopes above.  We established our “camp”, then one of the other coaches and I wandered off to explore the town.  One bar led to another, and by the time we got back to our “camp”, the combination of alcohol and altitude made navigation a little rough.

As dark fell, I remember amazing fireworks on the mountain, followed by even more amazing stars.  What I’m not so sure of, is the trip back over Independence Pass to our hotel.  But I wasn’t driving, and we negotiated the winding road safely.

Quiet Fourth

My parents lived an amazing life.  They had sixty-eight years together, madly in love.  They changed how American television worked, raised a family, and travelled the world.  It was only in the last few years that life got sadder.  Mom’s lungs began to fail, and she was tethered to increasing levels of oxygen machines.  Dad started to lose his memory.  So for the first ninety years they were great – for the last few years, not so much.

I don’t quite remember what crisis took me down to Cincinnati that Fourth of July weekend.  Mom was still at home, and Dad was doing his best to take care of her.  It’s really not fair:  the oxygen tanks require tiny washers fitted into the connections.  The hearing aids use the smallest batteries imaginable.  All when eyes are failing, and arthritis binds hands and fingers – no wonder Dad got frustrated.  Mom depended on him, and he was trying his best. 

So I was down at their house quite a lot. I wanted to see both of them, and give them a break from the pressure of taking care of themselves.  After a couple days though, it was time to head home. I left in the evening of the Fourth after dinner, heading back home to Pataskala, an early morning track practice scheduled for the Fifth.  But it was the Fourth of July, and I was a little sad to miss fireworks for the first time – ever.

Small Town Fourth

But I didn’t miss the fireworks at all.  It was a quiet drive up I-71 from Cincinnati – there isn’t a whole lot of traffic on the night of the Fourth.  The top was off the Jeep, and the warm summer air felt good.  And then I got my Fourth of July surprise.

Every small town in Ohio has its own fireworks on the Fourth.  They aren’t the “RED, WHITE, AND BOOM” grandiose celebration of downtown Columbus.  But they are fifteen or twenty minutes long, with a buildup to the “grand finale”. And since the towns aren’t too far apart, they stagger the starting time –  from sometime just after nine until ten.

So I cruised up I-71 in the open Jeep, watching multiple fireworks shows in multiple towns.  There were three finales, and they all seemed to be just for me. Small town America put on a great show.  But my last “finale” wasn’t quite as pleasant.  The kids near the State Route 56 exit were putting on their own show, firing bottle rockets at the passing cars on the Interstate.  That has a whole different meaning in an open Jeep!

The Dream Fourth

That experience led to my “dream” Fourth of July.  I want to rent a small plane (with a pilot, of course). Jenn and I will takeoff just as the sun sets on the evening of the Fourth.  Then we’ll fly out over rural Ohio, watching the fireworks shows from overhead, different towns at different times – and high enough to stay out of the line of fire.  It’s got to be a spectacular view.

That’s my dream – but this year it’s a “regular” Fourth.  The fireworks here in Pataskala are on Saturday night (the Third), and with five dogs in the house, we’re going to stay close to home.  But we’ll get to see some of them – and, in this time of such deep divisions, remember once again the celebration of Independence that unites us.  

Happy Fourth!!!!

America’s Dad

Bill Cosby is the fallen icon of comedy and fatherhood who turned out to be a drug inducing rapist. He was released from prison on Wednesday.  It was a shock release – shock to those who thought that Cosby, with a long hidden history of drugging and attacking women, had finally been brought to justice.  And I bet it was a shock to Cosby as well – though he and his counsel played off the decision as if they truly believed justice had prevailed.

There doesn’t seem to be much question that a man that many, including myself, admired for decades, was privately abhorrent.  The evidence is too strong, the number of women willing to accuse him too long, and the stories all too similar to be somehow “made-up”.  It’s clear to the world he did what they say he did.  He used his good name and influence to lure younger women to his home, and then he drugged and attacked them. 

 America’s “Dad” is a pervert.  It certainly is a sign of our times.  But when you get through the disgust and betrayal, there is one more fact that may go unnoticed.  Bill Cosby’s lawyers were right.

The Fifth 

The Fifth Amendment is familiar to everyone.  You have the right to refuse to testify against yourself.  You cannot be forced to risk criminal punishment by answering question “against your interest”.  We all know the Miranda drill:  “you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in a Court of Law”. 

The exception is well known after years of Trump subordinates and the Mueller Investigation.  If you have “immunity” from prosecution then those words can’t be used to convict you, and you can be compelled to testify.  We hear about this process daily.  The Trump Organization Chief Financial Officer Allen Weisselberg seemed to be on the verge of an immunity deal, in exchange for incriminating testimony against the Trumps.  He finally turned that “deal” down, and now faces criminal charges himself.  

Immunity

Cosby was never offered immunity.  But the Pennsylvania Supreme Court said he was put in the same position by the then District Prosecutor Bruce Castor.  That name may be vaguely familiar. Castor was the lead defense attorney in the second Donald Trump impeachment trial.  You might remember him for seeming “eccentric”, so much so that Senators who supported Trump caucused immediately after his opening statement to try to “clean” things up.

Castor made a public declaration that he would NOT prosecute Cosby.  In fact, he put out an official media release to make sure everyone, including Cosby and his lawyers, would know.  By making that decision, he fully intended to remove Cosby’s Fifth Amendment protection for a civil proceeding.  Cosby would no longer have “the right to remain silent”.  Under pain of perjury he would be required to answer questions in the civil trial, where he was being sued for the same kind of actions.

Cosby did answer questions in civil court, answers that did in fact incriminate him in the future criminal action.  He was charged by a later prosecutor who didn’t feel bound by Castor’s decision. Cosby’s own testimony in the civil case WAS used as evidence in the criminal case where he was convicted and sentenced to ten years in jail.

Court of Public Opinion

No one believes Bill Cosby is innocent.  But if Cosby’s conviction was allowed to stand, then any time Prosecutors couldn’t get a possible criminal to answer questions, they could simply refuse to prosecute – then change their minds after some civil case when the suspect was required to testify without the Fifth Amendment shield.

It’s hard to imagine anyone who has so squandered the public trust as Bill Cosby.  We’ve been let down before:  Jared the Subway spokesman, PeeWee Herman the children’s show host, the Today Show’s Matt Lauer.  But none of them set themselves up as such a cultural icon as Cosby.  From the sweaters to giving advice to young Black men, Cosby won his spot in America’s consciousness.  And now we know what he was doing to women, at least sixty that have come forward, during his comedic career.  No one is pushing to get Cosby back on TV, or on the stage.  

He will slink away in shame. Folks will speak with outrage about what the Courts did.  But the real failure in this case was not Cosby’s lawyers, nor the prosecutors who followed Castor.  And it’s really not Castor’s fault either.  To give him the benefit of the doubt, he was trying to clear the way for a successful civil action when he didn’t see a winnable criminal case.  

Cosby characterizes this as “justice for all Black men”.  But that doesn’t in any way alter what he did.  The world won’t see him as a victim.  And certainly the sixty women lost once again.  The only winner:  the Fifth Amendment and procedural justice. 

This is another in the series of stories written by my Mom, Babs Dahlman. This was originally written for “UnQuotes”, a group of Cincinnati Women who got together to share papers and research from the 1960’s through the 2000’s. This is Mom’s writings, and I have only very gently edited it (Marty Dahlman).

Whilst in England last August, I heard a most intriguing story of a recent search for the Holy Grail.  It so intrigues me, that since I have spent many hours reading and studying about the Holy Grail.  I will eventually come back to the fascinating story that I heard, but first, perhaps, I should try and define the Holy Grail.

The Holy Grail is represented invariably as the Vessel in which Christ celebrated the Last Supper.  It is, therefore, a Passover or Sacramental Vessel, and according to the Legend, its next use was to receive the blood from the wounds of Christ when his body was taken down from the Cross.  The Vessel then supposedly was carried westward in safe guardianship to Britain and there remained under successive Keepers.

In the days of King Arthur, Arthur assumed the responsibility of carrying on the Legend, with which object he brought about the Legend of the Round Table and the flower of Arthurian chivalry.  Percival, Lancelot, Galahad and many others set out to find the Sacred Vessel.  Sir Galahad was the noblest and the most virtuous knight in the Legend of King Arthur’s Round Table.  

There was one seat at the Round Table which was reserved for the knight so pure that he would someday find the Holy Grail.  The seat was called Seat Perilous.  One day, Sir Galahad’s name appeared on the seat, and from that time on he occupied that seat.  He saw a vision of the Grail.  The Grail appeared suspended in the air and covered with a cloth.  Stirred by the vision, he went on a search for the Holy Grail and legend has it that he eventually found it.  Sir Lancelot also searched for it, but being morally imperfect, did not find it.

From a very early age, I have always been fascinated by the tales of King Arthur and his Knights, and whenever I go to England, I always make a pilgrimage to a town called Glastonbury where, supposedly, Arthur and Guinevere are buried.  There is something about Glastonbury!

Stand before the place of the High Altar of the Benedictine Abbey Ruins, beneath which are the reputed graves of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and you feel the romantic stories of the Round Table must be true.  Pause on the site of St. Mary’s Chapel and you stand where history claims the first Christian Church was built in England, a wattle and daub shed, maybe, but none-the-less the ground is holy.  Enter the vast and once ornate Abbot’s kitchen, with its enormous chimneys and ornamental roof lantern and it is not difficult to imagine the medieval brothers busy at their chores.

Not too far from the Abbey is a garden called the Garden of the Chalice Well.  The garden is terraced on rising ground and the trees and flowering shrubs cluster around the Chalice Well Head.  The Well is fed by a spring which rises from the Chalice Hill.  Legend cites this hill as the place where Joseph of Arimathea buried the Cup used at the Last Supper, which he had carried with him to Britain.  Sailing up the Bristol Channel, his small boat grounded on the slopes of the hill and he thrust his staff, giving birth to the Flowering Thorn.  Water flows from the spring at a rate of 1,000 gallons an hour, at a constant temperature of 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and has never been known to fail.  This is no ordinary water, however, for from the 14th Century until today, healings are claimed to have been due to its influence and it is still used for baptisms.

Down half a dozen steps from the pathway through the garden is a paved courtyard.  Here, the water falls over the stone into a channel reddened by its passage, and thence into a shallow bath.  While scientists attribute the colour of the water to its chalybeate qualities, being rich in iron, religious mystics will see herein a symbol of the Chalice presence. Hence, its alternative name of the Blood Spring.

Three hills can be seen from the garden – Chalice Hill, Tor Hill and Weary All Hill.  The garden lies in the lee of the Tor, on which stands the ruined tower built on the site of an ancient chapel to St. Michael.  The garden itself is laid out over the place where it is believed Joseph had his hermitage of twelve huts.

Legend preserves the story of Joseph and the sacred Chalice, and romance recalls the age old quest for the Holy Grail.  The Sacred Thorn, originally chopped off by a Cromwellian soldier, continues to bloom each winter from a cutting planted in the Abbey Grounds.  In fact, every Christmas a spray is cut from the Holy Thorn and placed on the royal breakfast tray for the Queen and the Queen Mother on Christmas morning.  The only indigenous shrub which resembles the thorn bush grown in Syria, but many slips have been taken from the Glastonbury Thorn and cultivated in English gardens.

History is in this place.  Legend flourishes here.  Its romance has covered many a page.  All being in antiquity and much is beyond mortal proof.  But, there is something about Glastonbury.

And so, I come to the modern day search for the Holy Grail.  Whilst in England this summer, I met an old friend and he told me of his quest to find the Holy Grail.  Unlike King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, his quest was not fruitless.  For, after many miles and much research, he bicycled down a twisting valley to an Edwardian house in an English village, where in a glass topped case lies the remains of an ancient olive-wood cup that many thousands of people firmly believe is the Chalice of the Last Supper, and therefore, Christianity’s most sacred relic.  Could it possibly be genuine?  It is easy to be sceptical, but the cup has a curious history, and before you judge its authenticity, it is well to go back to the legend entwined in Tennyson’s lines in the “Idylls of the King”:

The Cup the Cup itself from which our Lord

Drank at the Last Supper with his own.

This from the blessed land of Aramat

After the day of darkness, when the dead

Went wandering over Moriah – the good saint

Arimatheaen Joseph, journeying, brought to

Glastonbury.

Where the winter thorn

Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord

And there awhile it bode, and if a man

Could see or touch it, he was healed at once

By faith of all his ills.

Probably the older of England’s oral traditions – a story passed by word of mouth through generations – is that the Cup used by Christ at the Last Supper on the eve of his crucifixion was brought to this country by Joseph of Arimathea, a wealthy Jew, a friend of Jesus, who helped to bury Jesus in the rock-hewn tomb.  Joseph was engaged in the tin trade which flourished between Palestine and Cornwall in the A.D.  

As I have already said, legend says that he sailed up the Bristol Channel until his small boat bumped to a stop on rising ground among the meres of Somerset, at a place now called Glastonbury, but which was once an island known as Avalon.  He buried the cup there under a spring, and a wattle and daub place of worship was built on the site, which became the first Christian Church of Britain.  

When Joseph died, he pledged his son, Josephus, to guard the secret hiding place of the Holy Grail, as the sacred chalice came to be called.  This he must have done, if the story is to be given any credence at all, for five centuries later, the stalwart figure of Arthur strode into the legend and his court of chivalrous knights were sworn to defend the Holy Grail, though none but Sir Galahad ever claimed to have seen it.

King Arthur was mortally wounded after a battle in the year 542, and was buried with his Queen Guinevere at Avalon.  In 1190, after the monks had established a monastery on the site of the original wooden church, a stone slab was unearthed at Glastonbury with a Latin inscription stating, “Here lies buried the famed King Arthur in the isle of Avalon.”  Later, workmen unearthed an early Celtic coffin – a hallowed out oak tree trunk – containing the bones of a man of giant stature with the remains of a woman at his feet.

Controversy continues to rage at this finding, over the belief that Joseph of Arimathea was also buried there.  But a reliable document in the English College at Rome, written by William Good who was born in Glastonbury in 1527, states that the monks never knew for certain the place of this Joseph’s burying.  They said the body was hidden most carefully and that when it should be found the whole world would wend their way thither on account of the miracles worked there.  Another thing William Good said was that he remembered seeing a stone cross, with a bronze plate on which was carved an inscription relating that Joseph of Arimathea came to Britain forty years after Christ’s Passion with eleven or twelve companions, and that he was allowed by Ariviragus the King to dwell at Glastonbury which was then Avalon in a simple and solitary life.  

So there is some documentary evidence to support the oral tradition, but he made no mention of a wooden chalice.  Nothing further is known of the Holy Grail itself until the year 1539 when Glastonbury Abbey became a victim of Henry the VIII’s anti-monastic power.  The glorious building was despoiled at the brutal hands of the King’s men.  Afraid for the safety of the ancient relic, Abbot Richard Whiting entrusted the sacred Cup into the hands of his Prior and six monks who were told to flee into the mountains of Wales and deliver it into the care of the Cistercian monks at Strata Florida, a medieval abbey situated in Cardiganshire.

As the monks sped northwards and westwards with the Cup, Henry’s soldiers were dragging poor Abbot Whiting on a hurdle to the top of Glastonbury Tor where he was publicly hanged for allowing his brethren to escape with the treasured relic.

On their way to Wales, the brothers rested for a time, according to tradition, at a tiny hamlet called Ozleworth, set among the Cotswold Hills above Wootton under Edge in the Gloucestershire country.  There they placed the wooden cup in a niche in the Church of St. Nicholas, a medieval chapel forming part of Ozleworth Park, now owned by Lieutenant Colonel W. H. Ferguson.

This was verified by a former rector of the church, the Reverend George Worthing, who said that when the Abbey at Glastonbury was threatened, the monks were sent out to hide the treasures, including a wooden chalice which was probably kept in a niche in the tower.  

Although the legend speaks of no other place, it seems likely that the monks would have crossed the River Severn by way of Gloucester, where the Benedictines had an Abbey before Henry’s troops confiscated it. 

Once over the river, the monks pressed deeper into the Black Mountains until they arrived at Strata Florida, fifteen miles from Aberystwyth on the coast of the Irish Sea.  The monks were given sanctuary and were able to hide their treasure for a few years, but Henry’s men were still searching for them, and in due course they approached the Cistercian monastery.  

The monks, ever faithful to their promise to protect the Holy Grail with their lives, were forced to flee again.  They scattered into the countryside and found refuge with an old Welsh landed family, the Powells, Lord of the Manor of Nanteos, a small village in the Paith Valley, three miles from Aberystwyth.  The monks remained there in hiding and safety until the end of their days.

As the last of them lay dying, he handed the Cup to the head of the family, exacting a deathbed promise that the Powells would be faithful custodians of the Holy Grail until such time as the Church shall claim her own.

And so, the Cup remained safely in their hands throughout the years.  After the present Nanteos Mansion was built in 1739, the Cup was occasionally shown to distinguished visitors, such as the poet, A. C. Swinburne, and the famous composer Richard Wagner, who during his stay at Nanteos, is believed to have had the inspiration for his opera, “Parsifal”, published in 1882, a year before he died.  The opera tells the story of Sir Parsifal, a holy knight of the Round Table who helped to save the Holy Grail.

In the 400 years the Cup was at Nanteos, it has been a source of wonder to the country folk around, and talks of miraculous cures abound.  Some have been documented in notes left by the villagers which still are with the cup today.

Most of the cures were dated in mid-Victorian times, but others quite recently, but so few people know of the Cup’s existence and of its whereabouts – a secret all who are pledged to keep.

A family tree in the hall of the Nanteos mansion traces the Powells from the 13th century to the year 1951, when the last of the line died at age 89. 

There was litigation among distant relatives over the inheritance of Nanteos and while this action was being contested in the courts, the olive-wood Cup was removed secretly to the vaults of the bank until Mr. Powell’s cousin, Eliz Mirylees, inherited the estate.  The Cup was once again in the care of the Powell family who guard it today.  In 1967 they sold Nanteos Mansion to the Bliss family and moved, taking the Cup with them – somewhere in England.

It is there after a long search that my friend traced it.  Major James Mirylees, a devout churchman, had died and his wife was too ill to appear when my friend called at the family home.  One of the three daughters, Clementine, kindly admitted him to see the relic.

It is stored in a small wooden case the size of a shoe box with a sliding glass lid.  Approximately five inches in diameter and three inches deep, about the size of a grapefruit bowl, but little more than half of the original Cup remains.  Over the centuries, cure seekers or over-zealous pilgrims have nibbled away at the rim as they drank water from the Cup.

That is why the present owner has so far refused to allow a further fragment to be removed for carbon dating tests which could prove once and for all whether it is 2000 years old.  For some, proof in not necessary.

Only one expert on Palestinian archeology has ever see the Nanteos Cup.  That was the late Sir Charles Marston in 1938.  He would not dismiss the possibility that it was indeed the Holy Grail, but he refused to pronounce on it with any degree of surety for or against.  Since then, the cup has melted further and further into the misty backgrounds of the countryside.  First in Wales, and now in England, as the Mirylees family has tried to find peace from the constant stream of people who, until a few years ago, had bombarded them with heart rending pleas for water from the Cup.

The family was planning to move again to cover their tracks from Nanteos.  Yet, they have never denied anyone the right to see the cup, once the searcher discovered its whereabouts.

The Cup itself is no grand chalice, rimmed with gold and rubies, but a simple wooden drinking vessel.  As such, it seems wholly credible that it could be the kind of plain bowl that Christ would have used for his Last Supper on earth, rather than the grand silver goblet  depicted by artists centuries ago.

No one will know for certain if it really is the Holy Grail, but the many letters testifying to its healing powers make it an object of reverence as well as deep mystery.  

Facts have placed it back as far as Glastonbury – only Faith can take it beyond.

The Holy Grail inspired some of the finest poetry of the Middle Ages.  European poets established the basic parts of the Holy Grail story between about 1180 and 1240.  These poets may have adapted the legend from the tale told much earlier by pagan Celtic people.  The Celtic story described a magic cup that provided food and drink for anyone who used it.

Chretian de Troyes, a French poet, wrote an unfinished poem about the Grail that later writers completed.  Chretian’s became the best known of the Grail stories. His Percival, called “Tale of the Grail” is the earliest known version of the legend.

Wolfram van Eschenbach of Germany wrote an important account of the legend based on at least part of Chretian de Troyes.  His rhymed “Parzival” is considered a masterpiece of medieval literature.

Sir Thomas Mallory wrote “Le Morte D’Arthur”.  He describes the life of King Arthur of Britain and the Knights of the Round Table.  I also includes an account of the Knight’s quest for the Holy Grail.

The American poet, James Russell Lowell, wrote the best known modern story of Launfal, “The Vision of Sir Launfal”.  In this tale, Launfal dreams of searching for the Holy Grail.  Launfal does not find the Grail, but he learns its meaning when he helps a starving leper.  The leper teachers him that the Grail symbolizes charity and mercy.

Or course, the best known of Arthurian tales is by Alfred Tennyson.  His “Idylls of the King”, among which is the Holy Grail, is one on the most popular known.

Duty

I coached middle school wrestling in the 1980’s. It was part of my job to remind my squirrelly young charges that when the National Anthem was playing, they needed to be quiet, stand, and pay attention. They were thirteen and fourteen and would likely have just kept wrestling or talking if I didn’t intervene. Even as a high school coach, I would growl to my “more adult” athletes to respect the anthem – and the flag.

I stand for the National Anthem. I think about all of those friends and former students who risk their lives to protect what our Nation.  And I think of the “kids” I coached who are standing watches in the night of Afghanistan and Korea, or in Iraq, or Lebanon in the past.   I remember the friends now gone, who sank into rice patties in Vietnam, or froze in Korea, or parachuted into Occupied Europe.

More Perfecting

But I was really a twelve year old kid myself when I recognized that the National Anthem and the US Flag represented so much more than gallant actions and sacrifice in history.  In 1968, two of my track heroes, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, used their Olympic medal ceremony to present the grievances of American Black people to the world.  For that they were thrown off the US Team and removed from the Games.  But they also demonstrated what the US Flag stands for:  a promise of a better future and a symbol for what is wrong but could be right.

It took a while for me to absorb those conflicting actions: that you could respect the flag and still use it as the basis for protest. That there was even a difference between raising a fist (or kneeling, or turning your back) or burning or trampling the flag. And that in spite of those differences, all of those actions, even the disrespectful ones, represent something unexpected.

They represent the BEST of America – that we stand not just for patriotism, but for idealism.  That we are a nation striving, as the Constitution says, to become “more perfect”.   That our ideals are strong enough to allow for criticism and protest and even disrespect, even in public, even as we strive to reach that perfection.   We stand (or kneel, or trample) for freedom of speech, for your right to say what you believe.

USATF

In the past few years, Americans have grown to expect protests around the Flag.  In fact, many sports organizations have tried to find ways to keep their athletes from being put “in the middle”.   The NFL and the NBA have created ways to allow their athletes to use the “bully pulpit” of their athletic standing to voice political and social views, without confronting “the Flag” issue.  

United States of America Track and Field (USATF) is the governing body for Track and Field in the US.  USATF sets up the process and runs the competition for the National Championships. They select the United States Olympic Team.  It was their meet, their organization, and their officials at the University of Oregon’s Hayward Field – “Tracktown – USA”; picking the team over the past two weeks.

It might come as a surprise to the casual observer that the Awards presentation at the USATF Olympic Trials does not include a Flag Ceremony.  Like the Olympic Games, USATF recognizes the three top finishers in each event.  They all qualify to be on the Olympic Team (assuming they have achieved the Olympic event qualifying standard), and are also recognized as the top three in the Nation.  

But a Flag Ceremony would be redundant.  All of the athletes involved in the USATF Olympic Trials are American – to raise the US Flag each time would be repetitive.  Unlike the actual Olympic Games, where nations are unofficially competing against each other, in the Trials, it is individuals competing to win a place on the Team.

Rule 39

The Hammer Throw is a field event. Using a heavy steel ball attached by cable to a handle, the athlete spins in a ring and tries to throw it as far as possible.  Gwen Berry is a hammer thrower and has been one of the top in the nation for a decade.  She represented the United States in several world competitions, and has made the finals each time, including the 2016 Olympic Games.  She won the 2019 Pan American Games – and used the medal ceremony to protest US systemic racism by raising a fist at the end of the US National Anthem. 

The US Olympic Committee and the USATF acknowledged her “right…to peaceful expressions of protest in support of racial and social justice for all human beings”. But the International Olympic Committee (IOC) placed her on a twelve-month probation for the action. Gwen placed third at the Olympic Trials last week. She stepped up to the podium for recognition of making the 2020 (21) Olympic Team. As she was being recognized, the National Anthem began.

Meet management played the National Anthem at the beginning of each evening session – usually at 5:20.  They claim it was a coincidence that the hammer awards ceremony was interrupted by the music. Perhaps the meet announcer was not aware of what the awards announcer was doing.  A coincidence:  that the one athlete already “highlighted” for protesting during the Anthem was on the stand.  A coincidence:  that the one athlete already sanctioned by the IOC was put “in the middle”.  

On one of my “go-to” television show “NCIS”, lead Special Agent Gibbs has a series of life “rules” he constantly refers to.  Gibbs’ Rule 39 states: “There is no such thing as a coincidence”.

Priority

Gwen Berry was caught off-guard.  She hopes to medal in the Tokyo Games.  And if she does, she definitely will protest in the medal ceremony.  As she says:

“My purpose and my mission is bigger than sports. I’m here to represent those … who died due to systemic racism. That’s the important part. That’s why I’m going. That’s why I’m here today.” (ESPN)

But she wasn’t prepared for Hayward Field.  She turned from the flag towards the crowd, and ultimately placed a black t-shirt with the words “activist athlete” over her head.  She thinks she was setup by the USATF.  It certainly seems that way.

You may not agree that National Anthem protests are appropriate.  You may think that there might be “better” ways to make the point.  But it’s the United States – and we don’t have the “right” to tell others how to protest.  And even more importantly, we can tell the world that protest, criticism, even condemnation from within is not only “OK”; it’s a sign of a healthy democracy.

We certainly need some positive signs of that these days.

In the Day

When I was a kid back in the 1950’s, most homes in Cincinnati weren’t air conditioned.  We were lucky; our house in Clifton  (just north of the University) had a giant attic fan that would pull air throughout the house.  In the summer we always had that fan going, the windows open, and other smaller fans as well.  But Cincinnati is a “river city”.  Like sister cities Louisville and St. Louis, the river valley holds the heat and humidity.  Eighty degrees feels oppressive because of the high humidity.  And the “dog days” of ninety-plus degrees August were miserable.

There was always the “fallback” position – the Esquire Theater.  A few blocks away in the Clifton business district on Ludlow Avenue, there was the old movie theater with that marvel of modern living, air conditioning.  When the August heat got too much to bear, Mom would walk us up Clifton Avenue to Ludlow and we would go watch the matinee at the theater.  I can’t say I really remember the movies, though there were always cartoon features at the beginning or end.  It was the age of Disney – Mickey and Minnie, Goofy and Donald. 

And on those really hot days the movie was followed by Graeter’s ice cream, only a couple of doors down the way.  For me – a chocolate mint soda (made from mint ice cream with chocolate syrup, not chocolate with mint syrup) would fully cool me down.  Then it was the hike back up Clifton to home.  

Sure that’s the old, “In my day we walked to school in three feet of snow, uphill, both ways” kind of story.  But it’s true.

Heat Wave

Today there’s no need for the Esquire to Graeter’s expedition just to get cooled down.  I’m sure you can still find a house in Cincinnati, or here in Pataskala, without air conditioning – but there are very few.  Regardless of the outside air temperature (it’s already 83° at 10am today) it’s a cool 65° here in the house.  Sure we like it cool – but the dogs are the thing.  They, and especially our eldest dog Buddy, don’t tolerate heat.  Even at 65° we are still chasing Buddy out of the bathtub – the coolest place he can find.

But there are other parts of the nation where air conditioning is still considered a luxury.  More than twenty years ago, I took a group of track athletes to the Northwest for a series of meets.  We ran the National meet in Seattle during a critical heatwave.  The temperature was pushing 90°, and Seattle was miserable.  The track officials debated changing the schedule to avoid the heat, running earlier and later.  The TV and radio were full of messages to take care in the heat, drink plenty of fluids, or get out in the water all around the Seattle area.  

To us “mid-westerners” 90° wasn’t a big deal.  It was a lot less humid than the same temperature we’d been practicing in back home.  But, with many homes unairconditioned and folks unaccustomed, it was a crisis.

Global Warning

So what the Hell are they doing about 110°?  

Seattle, Portland, all of the “cool Northwest” places are caught in a massive heatwave.  If you need to gain a grasp of global warming, here you go.  It’s not just that it’s hotter than it’s ever been before (it is).  It’s that weather anomalies, from storms to droughts, heatwaves to blizzards, are becoming so much more common.  The “world” doesn’t change overnight – but the world is changing, and the evidence is right before our eyes.  Here’s something to consider.  Lytton, British Columbia, Canada  is located north of the entire continental United States.  Monday, they set a national heat record – hottest ever in the recorded history of Canada.  It hit 47.9° in Lytton on Monday.  Oh – wait – that’s Celsius.  47.9° Celsius is 118° Fahrenheit – in Canada.  You can cook that Canadian bacon right there on the sidewalk – fast!

Our Lying Eyes

Sure it topped 100° in Lytton once before – in 1941.  And those who deny global warming will cling to that sweaty fact – “It’s just a freak heatwave, like back in ’41”.  But if you are keeping track of what’s happening in the world, those “freaks” are getting more and more consistent.  In fact, “freak weather” is now the norm.  Ask the drought plagued folks of California, or the constantly flooded folks in Houston, Texas.  And while we’re on Texas, what about the freeze that “broke” the Texas energy grid last winter.  Just another “freak”, right?

In our political divided nation, it’s always difficult to get something done.  We couldn’t even agree on how to combat a world pandemic.  But this looming crisis in our world is growing critical.  The time to “dodge” permanent climate change is growing short.  And, like a lot of other “facts” today, the evidence is right before our eyes.  

We just have to believe them.

Frankenstein

Most of us haven’t seen the original black and white  Frankenstein movie.  But we know the story of the mad scientist who stiched together body parts, then found a way to “shock” them into life.  “He’s Alive, He’s Alive!” is the famous line – followed by “…now I know how God feels,” foreshadowing the catastrophic outcome of his experiment.    

But we (our society) does this process all the time.  It doesn’t happen in the dungeon of some dark castle on the hill. Instead, it’s in Secretaries of State offices in state capitals all over this land.  It’s the process of bringing a new entity to legal “existence”, creating a new legal “life” where there wasn’t one before.

It almost sounds like magic:  “Abracadabra”, and something exists with legal rights and responsibilities.  We even have a magical sounding term for it:  incorporation.  That derives from the Latin term corpus meaning “body”.  From that root we have the terms: corpse (a dead body), corps (lots of live bodies), corporate (bodies organized in some fashion) and corporeal (dealing with the body, not the spirit).  So to “incorporate” something is actually to “create a body” – “It’s Alive, Alive!” 

But there’s no magical conjuring going on in the basement of the Secretary of State’s office at 22 North 4th St in Columbus. Nor is there a “mad scientist” waiting for lightning to power a “creation machine”.  Fill out the necessary legal papers, and submit $99 ($150 if you’re in a hurry) and you can create a corporation, an actual entity in the eyes of the law:  It’s Alive, Alive!”

Incorporation

Corporations have been around since the 16th century.  And they add strong value to the economy.  They allow real individuals to combine their wealth and “risk it” on some commercial enterprise.  By combining, the real individuals protect their personal wealth, only risking whatever they invested in the “corporation”.  So if the enterprise, the corporation, were to fail (die), the most the investors would lose would be all that they invested.  

This is different than a partnership or a solely owned business, where the owner(s) are wholly liable for all of the businesses’ debts, all the way to their own personal fortunes.  Partnerships and solely owed businesses aren’t entities in the same way that corporations are.  

In fact, corporations can “take the fall” if they go bankrupt, rather than take all the investors down with them.  Partnerships and solely owned businesses cannot. No legal “being” is created to “take the fall” for the partners or owners.  That’s why one form of incorporation is called an LLC, Limited Liability Corporation.

You are now thinking:  what sin did I commit to end up in this “Intro to Commercial Law” class on the “Our America” online law school?  But understanding the legal standing of corporations is important this week. That’s because Cyrus Vance, the District Attorney of Manhattan, New York, is about to bring criminal charges against the Trumps.  And these first ones aren’t probably against Chief Financial Officer Allen Weisselberg, or Eric, Don Jr and Ivanka, or even old Number 45 himself.  These charges are against the “Trump Organization – Incorporated”.  The organization, a legal “body” is going to be charged with crimes.

Enron and Andersen

“Corporations” can’t go to prison.  So the ultimate penalty for a corporation’s crime, is to take the lifeblood of that paper incorporation – money.  Corporate fines can be such that the corporation ceases to exist – ask the Arthur Andersen Company, one of the “Big Five” accounting firms in the United States until 2002.   Arthur Andersen Company hid evidence as part of the Enron scandal.  The Corporation was found guilty and sentenced to the maximum $500,000 in fines and five years’ probation.

You remember Enron, right?  Enron was a natural gas and electricity “broker”, that made energy trades into financial instruments (derivatives) to trade on Wall Street.  They hid incredible losses from their investors ultimately amounting to $74 billion. They also lost their employees the entire pension investment.  Enron itself declared bankruptcy – the “corporation” died.

That, along with a series of other crimes committed and multiple millions of dollars in fines, put Arthur Andersen out of business as well.  If you were an officer of that corporation you might lose your business. But it’s probably better than getting charged with crimes yourself. Ask Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling, the chief officers of Enron.  Both served several years in Federal prison.   The Arthur Andersen Company dissolved, but part of it was “reincarnated” as Accenture.  It is incorporated and headquartered in far away Ireland.

First Step

A Manhattan criminal trial against the Trump Organization could require the dissolution of the corporation itself.  Oh, did I forget to add that when a corporation is indicted for crimes, all the folks that loaned money to the corporation want their money back – now? We know that the Trump Organization is famously indebted to multiple banks. And, as the Enron case proved, just because the corporation is charged, doesn’t mean that the individuals that ran the corporation can’t be held personally liable for crimes. 

The corporate charges might just be the first step in criminal actions.

Mom

I’ve written a lot about my Mom, Babs Dahlman.  She’s been gone almost ten years: Friday would have been her 103rd birthday.  I’ve told some of her childhood stories of England, and about her exploits as an agent for Special Operations Executive in World War II.  She wrote many of those stories herself, and I am still working at getting them online for folks to enjoy (The Dahlman Papers).  It’s a body of work, and still more to come.

My Mom’s life was lived in phases.  There was her childhood, growing up in post-World War I England, still an Empire.  That ended with the beginning of World War II.  Then there was the crucible of her generation, “their war”.  Mom lost many of her closest friends in the early part of the War, including her fiancé.  She chose to fight back and joined the Special Operation Executive, an impromptu clandestine service in the British government.  

Most of her comrades from the SOE didn’t survive the war, but Mom did, and fell in love with “an American” as the bombs fell on London. They both had “adventures” in the last year of the war as the Nazi Reich collapsed. And when it was finally over, Mom committed to going to the United States with her new husband, Don, and to a town in the Midwest called Cincinnati. Dad arranged passage for Mom on a returning Liberty Ship, the Francis D Culkin. It was in January of 1946 that Phyllis Mary Teresa O’Connor Dahlman, “Babs” to all who really knew her, stepped off the boat and into several feet of snow in Portland, Maine.

Partners

Before it was “fashionable”, my parents had an “equal” relationship.  They were a team, whether it was in their first business venture, or raising three kids.  Dad from the very beginning wanted to have his own business.  So soon after they arrived in Cincinnati, they started a small one with a big title: The United States Bottling Company.  

They had a building by the Ohio River in Kentucky, and the two of them were literally “the head cooks and bottle washers”.  Mom would mix batches of their soft drinks, pouring bags of sugar into vats and stirring in the flavorings.  Dad would help, but mostly he did what he always did best:  sell.  Dad went from store to store, convincing them to purchase the drinks for sale, delivering it to them, then picking up the used bottles – to wash and refill.  In 1950 when my grandfather from England came to visit for several months, he walked from their small apartment in Cincinnati through downtown and over the bridge to help with the manufacturing.

At the same time they had two children, my sisters Terry and Pat.  So they were raising the kids, wrestling sacks of sugar, and driving all over Cincinnati marketing their product.  But they also found ways to have a great time together, dancing to the Big Bands and partying with both Dad’s old friends from before the war and making new ones as well.  

The 1952 Ohio River flood wasn’t the worst, but it was bad enough to drown the United States Bottling Company.  They sold what little was left to a company from Atlanta, Coca-Cola, then searched for another industry to make their mark.

Television

Dad went into the new broadcast medium replacing radio called television.  He started as a “local” salesman, selling commercials for the new station owned by Crosley in Cincinnati, WLW-T.  When he wanted to close a deal, he brought in what he called “his best asset”.  It might be at dinner in a local restaurant, or around the table at their apartment or later the home on Glenmary Avenue just down the road from the Cincinnati Zoo.  But when Dad wanted to “impress” the buyer – he introduced him to Mom.

Mom didn’t learn to cook in England.  But when she came to the United States, folks always wanted to see what “English cooking” was all about.  So Mom had help, The Settlement Cook Book,  and with that, her charm, Dad’s wit, and a fully stocked bar, many sales were made.  Business and family were always one and the same, and often the now three children (I showed up in 1956) were a part of the sales pitch.

I was going through some of Dad’s papers recently and found a 1974 note from a business associate.  The letter discussed their business agreement, then thanked Dad for including him in a family dinner with his “liberal children”.  I guess things haven’t changed much.

When Dad grew frustrated with his career at Crosley, Mom backed his move to a different career track in television, selling programming. Dad worked for the Fred Ziv Corporation, producer of many early television shows. You have to be a certain age, maybe even older than me, to remember Highway Patrol or The Cisco Kid or Sea Hunt. Ziv had those shows and others; they were some of the top series of the late 1950’s and early 60’s. Dad was travelled all over the country to sell them to individual stations.

Mom’s Corps

He went on the road on Monday, and often wasn’t back home until Friday night.  Mom was home with us kids.  It was a lonely life for both of them, with Dad calling from hotels in such exotic places as Dubuque, Iowa or South Bend, Indiana.  But Mom had help from the fast friends she made in Cincinnati, her “corps” of women who were always around.  Maggie lived just up the road from us, Libby and Helen were not too far away.  

Mom didn’t drive.  It’s hard looking back to understand how she could jump out of burning airplanes and secretly bring bombs and radios into occupied Europe, but couldn’t drive a car.  I never got the story completely straight, something about 1942 and a bad car accident with friends hurt.  Dad would always try to “teach her”, especially when we were on vacation in rural Canada.  And Mom would try, but really didn’t have her heart in the effort.

So she knew all the cab drivers in Cincinnati, even into the early 2000’s. And if a cab or the bus wasn’t going to work, Maggie would volunteer. We kids sang a “car” song about Maggie – set to “You Can’t Get to Heaven”. As an adult now it tells me a lot about what was going on back then.

 “OH you can’t get to heaven, in Maggie’s car, ‘cause the gosh darn thing, stops at every bar!!!”

Family Business

Dad moved us all to a Detroit suburb for a year.  I remember it as being one of the best.  We went to parks or lakes every weekend and spent a lot of time together just having fun.  I built a NASA spaceship from refrigerator boxes in the backyard, and got my hair cut like my hero, John Glenn. I didn’t know he was going bald.  Much later, I learned it was the toughest financial year Mom and Dad had.  But as a kid, I never knew it.

Then it was back to Cincinnati and WLW – this time Dad was in Dayton.  A couple of years later we moved there, then after six years back to Cincinnati.  It was the “family business”, we went wherever Dad needed us to go.  And everywhere we went, Mom and Dad found new friends.  There was always a group of people around the table for Friday or Saturday dinner.

Friends

And that was Mom, always drawing people together. There were the “official groups”. When we lived in Dayton, it was the Dayton Opera Guild. In Cincinnati, there was “Unquotes”, where members presented papers to each other over a variety of subjects. Sometimes it was a professional subject or their most recent trip. Mom wrote a paper on the Knights of the Templar and the search for the Holy Grail. It required research, and on a trip “home” to England Mom investigated castle ruins trying to ferret out where the goblet went.

Mom was a founder of the “International Group” made up of men and women who came from overseas to work for the big industries in town, particularly Proctor and Gamble. There were too many countries represented to remember, but as a sampling: Tamara from Russia and her husband Carlos from Argentina, Peter from Texas (kind of a foreign country) married to Luce from Belgium, Paul and Elisabeth from the Netherlands, Marguerite from India and her husband Robert. And there was Dick and Lois, both American, but who worked decades overseas for Proctor and Gamble.

The Table

They became more than just “associates” in the clubs.   They were friends, often gathered around the handmade wooden table that graced all of Mom’s dining rooms (now in my niece’s dining room).  The conversations covered every conceivable topic, from politics to travel.  Sometimes it got a little tense.  One night an engineer for General Electric was describing an exotic airplane.  The chardonnay was flowing, and we learned all about what would be called the Stealth Fighter – years before the government acknowledged its existence.  I was waiting for the FBI to break down the doors.

Mom and Dad told stories as well.  Most of their friends were too young to have fought in World War II; it was their parents’ war.  When Mom was released from the Official Secrets Act in 1970, we began to hear her “spy” stories.  And both she and Dad would talk about their international adventures, whether they were flying in hot air balloons in LeMans, France; toasting with akvavit in Sweden; or accidently videoing lots of Chinese feet on the Great Wall.  

Life in Love

Mom and Dad were a team in Dad’s work – from being part of a “crowd scene” in a 1950’s production at WLW-T, hosting celebrities at midnight in Dayton, or “checking out” one of Dad’s potential salesmen.  If he couldn’t make it through a Dahlman family dinner, he probably wasn’t up to the task of selling the Phil Donahue Show nationwide.  

When I asked Mom if she felt she missed something by not having a “career” of her own, her answer was pretty simple. She proved herself in the war. She and Dad were a partnership – and together they made a family, a successful business career and a life. And for sixty-eight years they loved each passionately, literally until death did they part. She didn’t miss a thing.

Mom died almost ten years ago.  Dad left us five years after that.  I’m not a religious man, but I’m sure they’ve found a way to be together again.  There’s a big dinner party on a Friday night – and a group is still sitting around a table, hours past the main course and even dessert, pouring another glass of wine and telling the stories of their lives.  Mom and Dad have some of the best.

Surprise Attack

Bullies like to wait and attack their unsuspecting victims by surprise.  Not only does it make their personal violence more threatening, but it makes it impossible for the victim to prepare a defense, or sometimes even cry out for help.  A bully lurks around the hidden corner in the boys restroom, or behind the shelves in the locker room.  

And a bully looks to others for “applause”.   The bully is “taking care” of a self-designated “problem”; making sure that the victim is punished for some imaginary infraction.  Bullies don’t attack in the light of day, but they do want to perform in front of an audience.  Some will approve, others will disapprove but in silence.  Both reactions empowers the bully to do more.

There is no more classic bullying behavior than to “pick” on those that are different.  The bully finds out the one who has little other support.  In school it was the kid who didn’t fit in.  Maybe it was race, ethnicity or religion, or maybe it was family or associations.  But more often it was some form of gender identity.  The boy who seemed effeminate or physically immature, the girl who is too “manly”.  Bullies are often afraid of what they do not understand.  How could someone else be “different”? There must be something “wrong” with them.  The bully gains their self-value by attacking others for their differences.

State Legislature

The bully attacked in the Ohio State Legislature yesterday.  A simple bill to correct an injustice in how collegiate athletes could earn money was on the floor.  It changed Ohio law to allow what many other states, and the US Supreme Court, already mandate.  An athlete in college could make money from their own name, image and likeness (NIL), something that under current law would make the athlete a “professional” and no longer eligible for college athletics.  

That was it – unanimously passed by the Ohio Senate and sent for confirmation to the Ohio House of Representatives.  The Athletic Directors of the Ohio State, Cincinnati and Dayton all approved.  More importantly, Ohio State Football Coach Ryan Day was the “closer”.  He said Ohio State would be at a recruiting disadvantage without the change.  What legislator wants to be “the fall guy” for  OSU losing to Michigan? 

Then the bully struck.  Jena Powell, the Representative from Arcanum, a small town in the farm fields near the Indiana border north of Dayton, launched a surprise attack.  She attached an amendment to the NIL bill, saying that transgendered athletes are banned from participating in women’s high school and college sports.  They would be required to participate on male teams.

Fake News

This is major issue – if you’re sole source of news media is Fox News or OAN or Joe Rogan.  As a “real” problem for “real” athletics, it barely exists at all.  But Representative Powell used the NIL Bill to be the bully and launch a surprise attack on some of the most vulnerable members of our society – the adolescents who are trying to live their true gender identity against “the norm”.  

They aren’t much risk to “win” events, or take scholarships away from “real girls”.   Search the nation:  two cases in Connecticut, one in Texas, one in North Dakota – out of the millions of high school and collegiate athletes out there – four cases where transgendered girls had athletic success.  In the past six years, there have been eleven transgendered girls competing in Ohio high school competition.  No one knew, and there wasn’t an issue. But Representative Powell and her Republican confederates were going to “solve” that problem for the state.  

Fear

I’ve written about transgendered athletes before.  They are “different” than the norm, and easy to use to create fear.   In fact, in March I wrote a whole essay about the use of Fear, fear of the unknown and the different, fear of a changing world to “fire-up” a political base.  It’s about creating a “straw-man” issue, generating an undeserved fear of an unlikely consequence, and using it to leverage votes.  It’s the act of a bully.

But let’s be clear about a couple of things.  There is no hidden “reserve” of boys waiting to compete as girls to win medals.  What we know now that we didn’t several years ago, is that there are multiple reasons why a person may be anatomically one sex, but mentally another.  They deserve a chance for a normal and fulfilling life.  They don’t deserve to be attacked for political gain and to be bullied by the Representative from Arcanum or other authorities.  

Late last night, Ohio Senate Republicans attached the NIL legislation to another bill, nullifying the amended House bill.  Good for them for standing up to the bullies.  Sad for Ohio that we too had to fall into the trap of using fear for political gain.