Category: Uncategorized

Track Coach

I was a track coach for forty years.  I guess “was” may be the wrong tense, I still “consult”, helping coaches and athletes with my hard-gained “wisdom”.  And I’m now officiating the sport again, so I keep my hand in.  Over that forty years I gained experience in every track and field event contested in high schools, and even some that are not.  It’s easier to list what I don’t know much about:  the weight and hammer throws, and race walking.  I have some understanding of javelin, a lot more about triple jump and steeplechase, and tons on the other “regular” track events we contest.

But the one area of “expertise” that I worked on the most was in the pole vault.  It’s exciting: the athlete races towards a big foam mat, holding a long fiberglass pole.  He places the pole in a metal “box” in the ground, and then launches up over a crossbar:  the higher the better.  When all goes right, the athlete clears the crossbar without knocking it off, and lands in the soft mat.  When it doesn’t bad things can occur.  As a coach, my first job was to make sure those bad things didn’t happen.

Vitaly Petrov

Like any technical event, there are several ways to “skin the cat”.  I am an adherent of the “Petrov Method”, developed in Russia in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s.  They dominated the world for more than two decades, and the physics behind their technique makes the most sense. 

In the 90’s I was a “strict interpreter” of Petrov.  What he did worked, and anything else was, I thought, just wrong.  For the athletes I worked with every day that wasn’t a problem.  They learned everything from me, so they only knew my techniques.  But when I coached other athletes and coaches, I struggled with those that used different methodologies.  In my mind at the time I was doing them a disservice by not changing them to “Petrov”, and anything less wasn’t acceptable.  My technical “purity” sometimes made it difficult to help others.

But later I found two factors that changed my mind, even though I still am convinced that Petrov really had the right answers.  First, every athlete is physically different, and they will find a way that works for their body.  Some are faster, or slower, taller or quicker, patient or in a hurry.  It’s difficult to ignore those differences and fit their “square peg” into “round holes”.  And second, there is proof that other methods work as well, or at least the “modifications” those athletes (and coaches) made on my “Petrov” model were successful.  The World and American men’s record holders are not what I’d call “Petrov” vaulters.  Hard to argue with “the best”.  

Vaulting and Life

So, I expect there are very few readers who want to learn any more about pole vault today (though I’d be happy to teach you!!).  But the point is that technical purity, like ideological purity, does not stand up to the test of use “in the field”.  That sometimes we have to compromise to achieve success, and to work with others who have different views than ourselves.  Technical or ideologic purity sounds great:  but it isn’t how “the sausage is made”.   Sometimes you need to allow some flexibility in order to get something done.

Of course, that all depends on what you want to achieve.  For many in our politics today, ideologic purity is far more important than achievement.  And for some, it’s really not about ideas, but personality.  If you’re for a particular former President, then you are against anything and everything that the current President wants to do.  That’s about success, not ideas.  They don’t want Mr. Biden to have any success, regardless of what’s “good” for America.  Maybe that’s not fair – perhaps they don’t believe that anything Mr. Biden would do for America is “good”.  

Ain’t That America

It reminds me of a problem I had as a coach back in the 1980’s.  Track and Field, and pole vault in particular, is an event that crosses “team” boundaries.  Kids who want to vault learn from others – and a lot of schools don’t have the expertise on staff.  So I would help kids from all over the County and even beyond.  There was talk (mostly behind my back) that I was “hurting” my kids by helping others.  

Our vault “squad” had conversations about that.  I told my kids that they had me twenty-four/seven.  If the few hours I might spend helping someone else who didn’t have a pole vault coach get better meant they lost in competition – that was on us, not on the kid that got better.  We OUGHT to be better – we did it full time.  If we made some competitor a thirteen-footer, then we better go fourteen.  And most of the time, we did go higher.  We made the entire event better – for everyone.

“Ain’t that America”?  Instead of being a zero-sum, we win – you lose game, shouldn’t we be trying to make everyone better?  Whether it’s raising the minimum wage, providing cash to taxpayers to help with COVID losses, or helping small businesses survive the shutdown, their success doesn’t cause our failure.  

“They” don’t have to lose so “we” can win.  We can all do better.

So let’s get started.

A Year

It’s March 11^th, 2021.  It was a year ago that we began to understand that our world was closing.  On March 11^th of 2020, I was preparing for Ohio’s role in the Democratic Primary.  I was going to meetings to get ready to officiate in the 2020 track season.  And I was writing a “Viral News” essay on the coronavirus epidemic.  

We went to vote a few days later at the Board of Elections on March 15^th, then went out to lunch.  We ate in a near-empty restaurant, the St. Patrick’s Day decorations looking lonely, and March Madness Basketball already cancelled.  We talked with our server for a while – what she would do, how long before staff was laid off, was she at risk.   That was our last “in-restaurant” meal we had until last week.

We did manage to have an election – in spite of COVID.  Americans voted by mail, and we voted absentee, and more Americans voted than ever before.  Republicans in multiple states are trying to keep that from happening again – when more Americans vote, the Republicans think they lose.  They were right about the Presidency, but did pretty well on the “down-ticket” races.

We didn’t have a track season last year, though they managed to have fall and winter sports thereafter.  I didn’t officiate track, but more importantly for track and for kids, there’s a “hole” in those programs: a year is lost.  There’s a whole class of kids who haven’t been exposed or interested in track.  And for the seniors, there is no recovering it.

Ends and Beginnings

The world “butcher’s bill” of COVID is over 2.6 million lost.  Here in the United States we have almost twenty percent of those deaths, with 560,000 lost in the past year.   We didn’t do it well:  we allowed simple COVID precautions to turn into political issues.  Maybe half of those deaths could have been avoided – but they weren’t.   But, we have performed a scientific miracle.  Vaccines have developed at record pace – Warp Speed  as former President Trump would say.  Today we have three in the United States:  Pfizer, Moderna, and Johnson and Johnson.  In the rest of the world there’s even more, Astra-Zeneca, he Russian “Sputnik” vaccine, the shadowy China vaccine, and even more to come.  

As folks get the vaccine, they begin to feel a freedom to “live” again.  Vaccines won’t make them “bulletproof” to COVID, but they do almost guarantee that the ultimate nightmare won’t happen:  dying unconscious from lack of oxygen on a ventilator in the hospital.  The vaccine opens up the world again, a world lost a year ago.  Folks can see each other, hug each other, and watch each other smile.  And they can do it without the risk of killing the ones they love.

I got my first shot three weeks ago.  A shadow of worry disappeared.  I got my second shot yesterday afternoon.  I’m planning on being sick today, and if so, it’s worth every bit.  But sick or not – Jenn gets her first shot this afternoon, and with that a much greater shadow will disappear for me.  So we won’t be missing that.

Life Alterations

We are making some big changes in our life.  After we both retired, we purchased a camper that we enjoyed.  We even “snow-birded” for a year in 2018, spending the winter in Florida.  But during our COVID self-exile, two more dogs were added to the pack, now totaling four.  Two dogs in the camper was tight, and we never even got the chance to try three.  But four is not possible, not even to transport much less camp or sleep.  So the camper is going on sale.  If we get back to camping, it’s going to be in a “bus” that all six of us can enjoy.

It’s been a long year.  We, and probably most Americans, have lost folks we know to COVID.  If they weren’t very close, we might not even have felt the loss.  Since we were in “COVID exile”, we didn’t have reason to “feel” their absence.  One of the “bad” parts of re-opening life is the holes that are left behind.  As we re-join life we will see those holes and feel the emptiness:  the missing person, the empty chair.

The World Goes On

As a history teacher, I always wondered how people dealt with national loss.  Whether it was settlers facing diphtheria, or Native Americans smallpox, or earlier groups facing bubonic plague.  How did the weight of tragedy not crush their spirit, and their willingness to move on?  In a small way, I guess we know now.  We know that the weight of suffering, of isolation, and the constant shadow of concern, impacts everyone.  And as that weight is lifted, most feel the lightness.  It makes us want to live life again, despite the loss and the suffering. 

It makes us want the world to go on.  And for many, it makes them want to be a part of it.

This is the next in the “Sunday Story” series.  There’s no political or moral “lesson” here, just stories about one of my favorite places – Gettysburg.

Playing Army

When I was a kid, we played “Army” a lot.  Usually, it was World War II “Army”.  Those were the stories we heard from our parents, all World War II veterans.  We set up ambushes on the sides of the road, waiting for “enemy” cars to come up the street.  One time, a driver stopped and lectured us. He wasn’t concerned about shooting him with our toy rifles, but about the strategic errors in our ambush technique.  He said we were “shooting” into each other, and he gave us a lesson on how to effectively ambush someone on the road.  I suspect he was speaking from real-life experience.

But the best war game was creeping up on the house on the corner of our street.  The old man who lived there didn’t like kids, and would come out with a real shotgun to “drive” us away.  It was, what we’d call today, a “live-fire” exercise, with actual enemy fire overhead.  Looking back I suspect it was rock salt, and probably carefully fired far over our short heads and butts. But it provided realism to our “war games”.  His swearing added even more spice and supplemented our vocabularies as well!

Civil War

Sometimes we’d play Civil War.  I was always the kid with the Confederate cap on.  Somehow, back in the early 1960’s, the Confederate side seemed more “romantic”, and living in Cincinnati just across the river from Kentucky, Confederate apparel was more available.  While that didn’t confuse me back then, later it dawned on me.  Kentucky remained in the Union, and while they had troops fighting for both sides of the War, Kentucky itself was “Blue”.  

As I grew older, we found out about the Underground Railroad history of Cincinnati.  A house just a few blocks away was a station on the Railroad, built high on a hill overlooking the Mill Creek Valley.  The “sign” of protection was the Union shield carved in wood on the portico over the front door.  We explored the woods around the home, looking for secret tunnels leading into the basement (we didn’t find them).  

So the Civil War was always a part of my growing up.  But when I became a history teacher, my “strong-points” were Constitutional history and our modern era.  I could go on about “Mutual Assured Destruction” and the importance of NATO in balancing the Soviet threat.  The Civil War didn’t have fascination for me, until I started teaching it to eighth graders.  

Brothers

For several years I showed my classes The Blue and the Gray, a made for TV mini-series covering much of the Civil War. After seven periods a day, year in and out, I can still remember many of the scenes. One was outside the battlements at Vicksburg, where the Union troops were entrenched surrounding the Confederates. During a cease-fire, a Union soldier climbed up and met with a Confederate in the “No Man’s Land” in between. When asked, a Union sergeant gave a one-word explanation: “brothers”.

That was my discovery of the real pathos of the American Civil War:  the tragedy of a people once united driven to fight each other.  It was not only brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor.  Even the strangers had a common history, a common foundation.  That drove me to study the war more closely, and like many history teachers, I became fascinated.

Then I read Killer Angels by Michael Sharra – and I was hooked.

Road Trip

My first expedition to Gettysburg was a summer “road trip”.  I tried to drive avoiding the interstate highways, taking the “National Road”, US 40 through the small towns of Pennsylvania.  US 40 eventually merges onto I-68 in West Virginia, and I drove that into Maryland.  Then I followed the “real” back roads, not highways but county roads, from Hagerstown northeast towards Gettysburg.  I took the time to stop and read the Historic Markers, and found myself on the path of Lee’s Army as it made its way through the Pennsylvania countryside to its fate at the crossroads.

It was the fitting way to enter Gettysburg.  Why did this idyllic college town below South Mountain in Pennsylvania become the site of the worst battle in American history?  You’ll hear about a shoe factory, or just “dumb luck” of two huge forces stumbling around in the countryside.  But Gettysburg is central – six roads converge on the small town.  Any army travelling through Southeastern Pennsylvania would end up there.  From Hagerstown to Carlisle, Baltimore to Chambersburg, Frederick to Harrisburg; all roads led to Gettysburg.

Gettysburg Traditions

That first trip was spent “taking the tour”. I got a cassette tape and stopped at each point along the battlefield, listening to the story of the conflict.  It’s still the best way to introduce yourself to what happened there, though it’s an “App” now.  I established two traditions on that first trip, repeated each time I visit (except when I took an entire track team).  The first was to lift a pint of ale in the Spring House of the Dobbins House Tavern.  The home was built in 1776. It served as a stop on the underground railroad before the war and as a field hospital during the battle.  You can feel the history in the beams of the building and the unevenness of the flooring, as if veterans of the battle were joining in your toast.  They are still there.

The second tradition is on the last evening on the battlefield, as the sun sets over Seminary Ridge across the broad field of Pickett’s Charge.  I go to the Confederate attack objective, the “Copse of Trees”  in the middle of the Union line on Cemetery Ridge, and watch the sun set over the sad statue of Robert E. Lee, the Confederate commander, a mile away on Seminary Ridge.  As the sun goes down, I think of the setting of his Confederate dreams, though it would be almost two more years of war and death before the end at Appomattox.  

Wool in the Hot Sun

That trip was in hot July.  I waited until the “right time”, mid-afternoon to walk Pickett’s Charge myself, across the mile of open field from Lee’s statue to just below the Copse.  It was hot, and I thought of the wool uniforms that the soldiers on both sides were wearing, and the artillery shells arching overhead.  I climbed over the spilt-rail fencing still on both sides of the Emmitsburg Road, realizing the target that made for rifle fire, then up the gentle incline into the mouths of cannon firing canister shot (think of a shotgun shell the size of a coffee can filled with metal balls).  Whatever you may think of the “Cause” of the Confederacy, there can be no question of the courage of those soldiers who marched up that Ridge, nor that of the men in blue who defended it.

Then I walked back, the mile to where Lee rode out to console and consolidate his decimated forces.  “General Pickett”, Lee said, “Prepare your division for defense.” Pickett replied, “General Lee — I have no division now.”

Alone on Little Round Top

I spent several years returning to Gettysburg, sometimes with family or friends, often on my own. I became a Gettysburg “geek”, no longer “taking the tour” but arriving at the field looking for information about a particular aspect of the battle. What gained my specific fascination was on the second day of the three-day action. Pickett’s dramatic charge on the third day was desperate and unlikely to succeed, but the battles on the second day were very near decisions.

One evening I was alone just beneath Little Round Top, the critical southern segment of the Union line that barely held against relentless Confederate attack.  The last regiment in line, the 20^th Maine under Colonel Joshua Chamberlain was “in the air”.  There were no Union forces to their left, if the Confederates could get past them, they could ravage the interior of the Union forces.  It is heavily wooded; the Confederates were forced to charge up a steep hill against the fortified Union line.  But after six  Rebel charges the 20^th was almost out of ammunition. Chamberlain, well aware of the strategic importance of his position, ordered his men to fix bayonets and charge downhill into the Confederate ranks.  The attack so surprised them, that the Texans were pushed off of Little Round Top, up the hill of Big Round Top, and down the other side.

As I stood almost alone at the stone marker noting the 20^th’s position, a fully uniformed Union Sharpshooter emerged from the woods behind me.  He began talking of the action, of the position he took on the field.  He answered my questions about how the land had changed since the battle, what is now scrub woods was once a road to the mill.  It was eerie:  reenactors are often on the battlefield, but this one seemed almost – real – almost a ghost.  The woods were growing dark, and my soldier said he had to return to his fire.  Then he was gone, and I was alone on Little Round Top.

The End of the Line

Another trip I went with a former student/athlete and friend, Randy. I decided to focus on the north end of the line. The Union was poised in a “fishhook” position, with Culp’s Hill on one end, and Little Round Top at the other. It was three miles long, with the Confederate forces paralleling it with a five-mile line. If the Rebels couldn’t break around the Union forces at Little Round Top to the South, why couldn’t they skirt around Culp’s Hill to the North and split the “fishhook” in two?

There seemed to be nothing to stop a Confederate advance around Culp’s Hill, where the fighting was even uglier than Little Round Top.  So we crossed Rock Creek and began searching the woods for evidence – regimental markers or monuments.  We found nothing but woods and signs saying we were no longer in the Battlefield Park – trespassing on private land.  After wandering for a while, we returned to the Visitors Center and went to the Guide booth to ask them the question.

There is a “vetting” system at Gettysburg.  Ask a basic question, and you’re directed to a battle overview in the Visitor’s Center.  Ask a more specific question, and you may well get hooked up with a Battlefield Guide – perhaps the best way to see Gettysburg if you have the time and money.  They are true experts, full of facts, figures, and stories.  Many are former military themselves, retired, like General Eisenhower, to the ghosts of America’s most famous battle.

But this time the Guide there gave us very specific instructions.  Get in the car, and drive down the Pike until we crossed the Creek.  Then, turn left into the driveway of the first farmhouse, and knock on the door and explain our question to whoever appears.  If we were lucky, maybe we would get an answer.

Hidden Monuments

Randy and I followed directions, and knocked on the farmhouse door.  An older woman answered, and I explained who we were and that the Guide said someone here might answer my question.  She proceeded to give me a quiz on the battle, asking multiple questions about the events of July 1863.  I must have satisfied her, as she told me to wait a moment, and went and got her husband.

The older man came out, and after a little discussion, asked if Randy and I would like to take a walk.  He owned all the land on the east side of Rock Creek, not in the Battlefield Park. It had been in his family since before the Civil War.  So he took us to the “end of the line”, where Union forces were positioned to stop just the maneuver that I wondered about.  Out of the woods appeared stone monuments, not on any tourist map.  They were erected with most of the rest in the 1890’s by the surviving veterans, but since it was on private land, aren’t part of the “regular” Gettysburg experience.

We walked miles. He showed us the old road to the mill (see Little Round Top) and where the mill stood. And he explained: Confederates tried to “flank” around Culp’s Hill, but there weren’t enough of them, and too many Union forces, to get around that end. It wasn’t a “pitched” battle like the more well-known actions, but left out here, in the woods, unseen, was the strategic Union “end of the line”.

Track at Gettysburg

As a track coach, I loved to take my team on trips.  It gave them a chance to “bond” together, become a more dedicated team, and have fun.  Track became more than just workouts and competitions, it became experiences as well.  For years I looked for a way to take a team to Gettysburg.  And we finally found a meet, not at Gettysburg, but close enough at Cumberland Valley High School near Harrisburg.  So we set it up – a “Tour Bus”, accommodations at the Eisenhower Conference Center just south of the battlefield, dinner at General Pickett’s Buffet, and a guided tour of the Battlefield.

The team was like most kids at Gettysburg.  Some were fascinated, others were mildly interested, and a few were flat bored.  But there is a “secret” of kids at Gettysburg – “the Devil’s Den”.  It’s a series of rock outcroppings where actual battle was fought.  But it’s also a natural playground – and when the “kids” are bored it’s a perfect place to let them go “play”.  Of course, they’ll be “breaking the rules”, jumping from rock to rock, but they’ll have fun.  And then you can sneak in the “sniper photograph” – a soldier aiming his rifle through the rocks at Little Round Top, and some stories of battle in the rocks.  Most are “hooked” before you get back on the bus.

We had fun, and were runners-up in the meet the next day.  As usual when we go on tour, we probably lost some points by running around so much the day before – but it was worth it.

My second experience with track at Gettysburg was coaching at a Pole Vault Camp at Gettysburg College.  It was unnerving:  teaching pole vault where I could tell the athletes exactly what happened during the battle, right there on the runway they were using.  We did the Gettysburg “ghost tour”, not so great, but after four days of full-time pole vault, the camp director Rob decided we should give the kids a little taste of the battle.  So we loaded everyone up, and went over to Little Round Top, to see the 20^th Maine and the Devil’s Den.  

And when camp was over and the kids gone:  it was a quick trip to the Spring House, and sunset over Seminary Ridge.  Then the long drive home.

Ghosts in the Mist

On another trip Richie and I went together. He coached track with me for several years, and after he heard that Randy went with me to Gettysburg, he was determined that we should go. We set up an ambitious plan, two days at Gettysburg, a day in Washington, and a day at Antietam (another battlefield nearby). But to make it work, we had to leave Pataskala in the evening, and drive all night to get to the Battlefield.

We arrived about 5:30 am, and parked in the dark on Cemetery Ridge. It’s kind of hard to get the “lay of the land” in the dark, but we walked out onto the ridge anyway. The mists came up from the ground as the sky started to lighten, and soon we were walking in a fog, alone among the monuments. The marble soldiers emerged from the mists, silently keeping guard on the “hallowed ground” where they struggled. We could feel the spirits of those that sacrificed, and those who survived to return and erect monuments to their comrades.

Battlefields are often spiritual places.  At Gettysburg, the ghosts are standing guard.

The Sunday Story Series

Riding the Dog  – 1/24/21

Hiking with Jack – 1/31/21

A Track Story – 2/7/21

Ritual – 2/14/21

Voyageur – 2/19/21

A Dog Story – 2/25/21

A Watkins Legend – 3/7/21

Ghosts at Gettysburg – 3/14/21

Where Have All the Flowers Gone – Peter, Paul and Mary

Reason

As I was writing Monday’s essay on the Democrats in the Senate (Don’t Blame Joe) I had an underlying question.  Why, if 79% of the US population are in favor of another COVID relief package (Pew), would any reasonable politician vote against it?  Even 65% of Republicans are in favor of relief.  So why would the Republicans in the House and Senate allow this to become a partisan issue, with them on the “wrong” side,  when almost everyone is in favor it? 

By the way, the Democrats did just the opposite last year, when it was Donald Trump’s COVID relief packages.  The December 2020 vote in the Senate, 92 for the package, 6 against.  The April 2020 vote – 96 to 0.   

COVID Relief

One answer is that Republicans believe they can somehow brand this Relief Package as a “Radical Democratic Spending Spree”.  If they get that done, they might cut into the 65% of Republicans who favor the “spree”.  But that also seems to be a stretch.  We can argue about how Republican “thought” is dominated by right-wing media.  We can talk about the influence that Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity have on what Republicans believe is true.  (That’s a lot by the way, Carlson is still pushing the “stolen election” baloney, and a whole lot of folks still believe it).

And there are some Republicans (and former Republicans) who legitimately believe that the $1.9 Trillion endangers the economy but putting “too much gas on the fire”.  The worry about inflation, and express concern about the impact of the debt on future generations.  And, as I see it, as long as they voiced the same concerns about the trillion-dollar tax cut, then I respect their view.  As I understand the economics, I think they are mistaken, but I respect it.  

But COVID relief isn’t some “policy” that doesn’t directly impact lives.  It’s money in the pocket, $1400 for many taxpaying Americans, with more for dependent kids.  A family of four earning less than $150,000 a year will get $5600.  That’s real money for almost everybody, whatever Carlson and Hannity say.  And that doesn’t include the support for state and local governments, saving jobs in schools, police departments (more funding not less) and firehouses.  And then there’s the “shot”:  no matter where you stand on COVID – most people are looking forward to FREEDOM – and freedom means the “shot”.  You don’t even have to turn “blue”, or lift your kilt (vague Braveheart reference).  

Issues Aren’t Important

So how does Republican stonewalling make political sense?  How does the stunt pulled by Senator Ron Johnson, making the poor Senate clerks read seven hundred pages of the bill into the record, work in his favor?  How can Senate Republicans in marginal states, like Marco Rubio and Ron Johnson himself, vote against what even 65% of their own supporters want?

It just doesn’t matter.  The voters aren’t voting on the issues, they are voting on the labels.  Think of it this way:  if Marco Rubio voted for the Relief Package, no Democrat is going to switch and vote for him.  And there are plenty of Republican voters who would see his vote as a “sell out”:  abandoning Trumpian support to give-in to the Democrats.  The fact that the package will benefit them isn’t the point.  It is a simple outcome of Trumpism, you’re either for or against.  The issue doesn’t matter.

Republicans Richard Shelby (AL), Roy Blount (MO), Richard Burr (NC), Rob Portman (OH), and Pat Toomey (PA) have already figured it out.  They’re retiring.  Chuck Grassley of Iowa may join them. He’s 87, and while he hasn’t announced yet, it might be his time.  But retirement hasn’t stopped them from “standing” with their Party, it just takes the pressure off of having to please their voters.

Both Sides

And in all honesty, Democrats aren’t very different either.  Look at the “heat” that Joe Manchin is taking for not toeing the Party line.  We are polarized to the point that right and wrong, good and bad, progressing the United States forward isn’t the issue.  It’s simply about partisanship, votes “on the barrel head”.  

Personally, I look at Governor Mike DeWine of Ohio as a classic example.  He is a Republican, and on most issues follows the Republican line.  But he has attempted to govern through the COVID crisis, making many of the unpopular calls to restrict businesses and life to control the virus.  But he’s also realistic.  The Democrats, like me, who praise his work on COVID, still aren’t likely to vote for him in the 2022 Gubernatorial race.  And his own Republicans are likely to put a COVID denier on the ballot in the primary against him, say, Congressman Jim Jordan.  And, looking at the Republican electorate in Ohio, Jordan might well win. 

Post-Issue Era

In the past four years we talked about the “post-truth era”.  Looking at politics today, we are in a “post-issue” era as well.  For all but the “wedge” issues like abortion and gun control and COVID controls, the topic really doesn’t matter.  It’s simply which side wins.

So when we look forward to the rest of the next Congressional two-year term until the 2022 elections, don’t expect reasonable discussion of issues and policies, at least in public.  Every issue will be contested on partisan rather than practical ones.  And the cost/benefit analysis of political reasons is clear.  Both sides voters are demanding absolute adherence to their party, or risk “primarying” from some more “dedicated to the cause” soul. 

There is little benefit in speaking reason, or taking the “middle ground”.  

Outrage

Many of my progressive friends are outraged.

“We won the Presidency, we won the House and WE WON THE SENATE WITH GEORGIA!   So we should get everything we want, from COVID relief to voting reform, immigration change to climate protection, policing reform to a higher minimum wage. We’ve won it all – and you know damn well the Republicans would do it to us: #%$& bipartisanship!!!”

And in my heart I absolutely agree with them. We need to move our agenda forward – it’s what we voted for.  As the saying  goes, elections have consequences – we heard that for four long years.  And we won.

Yep, we did:  but the margins were so slim.  We actually lost seats in the House. The Popular vote for Biden was decent, but the margins in the critical electoral vote states were only slightly greater than the 2016 Trump margins we complained about for four years. 

And then there’s the Senate – tied fifty votes a piece with Vice President Harris casting the decisive choice.  

Narrow Margins

So we won, but really only by the narrowest of margins.  And the critical point, the weak link, is the Senate of the United States.  There are really two problems in the Senate.  

The first is that the Senate has a tradition of the filibuster, unlimited debate.  In the old, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” days, a Senator would take the floor and talk for as long as they wanted.  A Senator dead-set on stopping a vote on a measure, could simply just keep talking, hours onto days.  And if it were a few Senators, they could go on ad-infinitum, stopping all Senate business.  That’s how the civil rights acts were stopped for so many years in the 1950’s and 1960’s.  There was a way to stop debate, but at that time it took two-thirds of the Senators to vote for “cloture” and limit the talk.

The Senate has made it easier, on both sides of the filibuster question.  For the talkers, they no longer have to do the actual talking.  They just have to “threaten” to do it, and the Senate would recognize that they were “talking”, and hold business.  On the other hand, it no longer required the sixty-seven votes to reach “cloture”, now they could do it with sixty.  And there are now exceptions:  Presidential appointees, and votes on budget items already passed by the House of Representatives called budget reconciliation.

So what all this means is that forty-one Senators can stop most pieces of legislation in the Senate.  Unless, of course, the Senate decides to end the filibuster rule, or at least modify it.  To do that it only requires a simple majority – or in this case, fifty votes plus the Vice President. 

We Are Democrats

The second is that the Democrats are Democrats, and that means that the Party represents a broad range of ideology.  It ranges from Bernie Sander’s Democratic Socialism, to Joe Manchin’s “blue dog” conservativism.  And while the “progressive” Democrats are willing to move forward to end the filibuster, and pass their (our) agenda by fifty votes, the more moderate Democrats, including Manchin, but also Krysten Sinema of Arizona, and perhaps even Joe Biden’s “voice” in the Senate, Chris Coons, aren’t so sure.  

And every vote in the Senate counts – one break from the “blue wall” and nothing can get done.  That means that every Democrat (including two “independents” who organize with the Democrats, Sanders and the more moderate Angus King of Maine) has to agree.   President Biden and Majority Leader Schumer have to find the balance between Bernie Sanders and Joe Manchin – either one can make the Democratic majority just a political organizing ploy, not able to legislate.

Don’t Blame Joe

So my progressive friends, don’t blame Joe Manchin.  He’s a Democrat, and he’s standing with the Democratic Party.  But he’s also a “blue dog” conservative from West Virginia, a state that went overwhelmingly for Donald Trump.  As he said Sunday on ABC’s This Week with George Stephanopoulos, he is who he always was, and always will be.  

Don’t blame Joe – do something about it.  It’s not about getting rid of Manchin – that is, as my mother would say, cutting off your nose to spite your face.  In two years, there will be thirty-four seats up for election.  Realistically, Republicans will maintain a hold on fourteen of those.  Democrats will hold ten more.  That means there are ten competitive seats up for grabs.  Four are held by Democrats, six by Republicans. 

The battle for the Senate will be decided in those ten seats.  If Dems win all ten, then they will have a more comfortable fifty-six majority.  They can build a majority – even if one end or the other of the Party disagrees. But if Republicans can defend their seats and win just one of the four Democratic seats, then they regain control. Mitch McConnell becomes Majority Leader again.

Get to Work

In 2018 Democrats made huge strides, taking the House of Representatives and putting Nancy Pelosi back in the Speaker’s chair. In 2020, the expected “Blue Tsunami” turned out to be a trickle. The answer for each: Donald Trump. He wasn’t on the ticket in 2018, and he was in 2020. His presence brought “his” voters to the polls, and they voted down-ticket for other Republicans. He won’t be on the ticket in 2022.

Progress is being made.  Democrats will get some of progressive legislation through, though it’s likely to be “watered down”.  The $15 minimum wage is more likely to by $11, which still beats $7.25.  Go against the conventional wisdom (the President’s Party loses seats in the mid-terms) and bring the energy of anti-Trump 2018 and 2020 to 2022.  And by the way, the House is only Democratic by five seats – better be ready to fight for that as well.

Get to work.

Here’s the next installment in the “Sunday Story” series.  Don’t search for a great political point or moral lesson to learn.  It’s just a story – enjoy!!!

There are lots of things that we used to “get away with” that are no longer “appropriate”.  Admittedly, many of those needed to end.  But there are a few that while not “acceptable” in these modern days, were fun and nostalgic, and make for great stories.  And the statute of limitations has run out.  This one’s for the class of 1979, now proudly turning sixty – Wow – you guys are getting OLD!!!

A Farm School

When I first came to Watkins Memorial High School it was in 1978.   I was a twenty-one-year-old, first year teacher and Watkins (and the whole Pataskala area) was a different kind of place back then.  The community was just on the cusp of changing from agricultural to suburban.  Today’s acres and acres of housing developments were farm fields, and what was then called the High School, is now the “old” Middle School, soon to be leveled. 

Back then, the Future Farmers of America grew a couple of acres of corn behind the school, and one of the big events was “tractor day”.  Many kids still lived on farms, and drove their big green or red tractors to school to parade around the parking lot.   The Principal and his Assistant controlled the building with the business side of a paddle, with few kids suspended or expelled.  They took a beating instead.  And for many of those kids, it wasn’t the paddling that was the worst punishment.  “Just please, don’t tell my parents,” was often the plaintive cry.  “I’ll get twice as much at home”.  

Like many schools of the time, the senior class had a series of “pranks” to mark the end of their high school careers.  One year, they dumped dozens of live chickens into our school courtyard, each with a teacher’s name-tag hung around its neck.  The poultry wandered for a few days, as no one wanted the responsibility of gathering them up.  Another year a Volkswagen Beetle (minus the engine) was dragged over the roof and dropped into the same courtyard.  Luckily, Watkins had a healthy vocational education department back then.  The welding class made it a project to cut the Beetle into pieces and bring it out.  

The Deal

Most of the pranks were pretty harmless, though the Volkswagen did damage the roof on the way over.  And that’s because there was an unspoken agreement between the Senior Class and their government teacher.  As long as the class could “kidnap” that teacher, they really didn’t do much harm to the rest of the school district.

When I took a Government teaching job at Watkins, I really didn’t have any idea that was part of the deal.  I was a student teacher there the year before, but I left before Senior week, doing my own graduation rituals at Denison University when all of that was going on.  So I was a bit surprised when my mentor and fellow teacher, Gary Madden, let me know that a kidnapping was definitely in my future.

I was twenty-two by May, living in a small apartment on the north side of the village of Pataskala.  I had some idea when the seniors would be looking for me – it was traditionally the night before the Senior assembly.  In fact, the “high point” of the assembly would be to bring the “captured” faculty in for display.  But I determined that I could avoid this by simply locking myself inside of my apartment, and watching my 1962 portable black and white TV.  At least, that was the plan.

Knock – No Warrant

Around 7pm there was a “police-like” knocking on the front door of my second-floor apartment.  I glanced through the window, and saw our star shot putter, standing at the door.  Well, at least I saw part of him – he was north of 300 pounds, a state qualifier, and I  really just saw a wall of a man-boy standing blocking all exit from my home.  I wasn’t planning on going out, but if I wanted to, there was no exit.

So I just told him that I wasn’t opening the door – and assumed that was that.  What I hadn’t prepared for was our hurdler forcing open a window and coming out of the bedroom.  Before I could react, he had the front door open, and he, and the shot putter, and a multitude of other seniors were in my very small living room.

Now I was a track guy, but I had wrestled for several years.  So we had a good tussle in the living room.  But, out-muscled and out-manned, they soon pulled out a pair of handcuffs, cuffed me behind my back, and dragged me out of the door and down to the parking lot.  I remember my neighbors enjoying the show as I bounced down the wrought iron stairs – thanks a lot!!  The Seniors threw me into the back of a car, and off we went.  The driver then realized that he needed gas.  So they drove up the street to the Duke Station, and got a fill-up.  

As we were sitting there, a Pataskala Police cruiser pulled in.  I saw my chance, and yelled loudly, “Officer, there’s a felony kidnapping in progress, Help!”  The officer came over to the car, looked at me in the back, and then turned to the boys and said, “You know I’ll need my handcuffs back after you’re done”.  It was only then I realized the whole community was in on the plan.  Any chance of escape was up to me.

Picking Up Gary

Our next stop was at Gary Madden’s house in Summit Station.  The seniors just went up to the front door and demanded that Mr. Madden come outside.  I sat in the back seat as Gary, his wife and kids came to the front stoop.  Gary’s wife was laughing, but his kids weren’t so happy about all these folks who wanted to take their Daddy away.  And Gary wasn’t going easy either, a wrestling match soon broke out in the front yard.

I thought that was my chance.  It was 1979, and the car windows all worked with cranks.  So I cranked down the back window with my teeth, and as everyone focused on Gary in the front yard, I managed to worm my way out of the car. My first mistake – my hands were still cuffed behind me, so when I came out the window there was no where to land except on my face.  But out I went, got to my feet, and began to run into a field across the street.

I heard the shouts, and knew my captors discovered my break-out.  Now, I was a pretty fast runner still, only a couple of years from my college sprinting days.  But we never practiced sprinting through chest-high weeds with our hands behind our backs – it was awkward.  In the end though, it wasn’t that I got caught, at least by the kids. What I hadn’t counted on was barbed wire.  A fence brought me to a very dramatic halt. Then my pursuers unpinned me and dragged me back.

So now it was two of us against the Senior class of ’79.

Barn Wrestling

They only had the one set of handcuffs, and I don’t remember how they bound Gary up.  But we were taken back to one of the kids houses, right across from the school, and dragged into their barn.  By now it was dark, but the barn was lit, and the seniors laced the handcuff through the wheel of a tractor.  Gary was on the outside, I was on the inside.  The Seniors left, I suspect to enjoy some beverages (the legal age in Ohio was eighteen at the time, though I don’t think that really mattered).  And we were alone.

Our first plan was to roll the tractor down the hill to the road.  So we started to move the big Red Massey-Ferguson out of the barn door.  That didn’t last a quarter turn before I realized that, as the “inside man”, I was going under the wheel.  We managed to get it stopped before any crushing occurred.

Our second plan was only marginally more successful.  All our activity with the handcuffs made our wrists raw and bloody.  When the Seniors came back, Gary and I put on our best “whine” about how much they hurt.  The Seniors, truly concerned that we not be permanently injured, let us loose.  They’re mistake.

We both made a break.  I remember struggling with multiple kids before being pinned down.  A Senior wrestler that I sparred with muttered “stop fighting or I’ll break your arm”.  I responded “break it.”  He had more sense than I did at the time, and released me.  Meanwhile Gary had a garbage can lid and a length of chain, keeping the Seniors at bay like some medieval Warrior (instead of the Native American Watkins Warrior).  It was a long night of wrestling, laughing, swearing, and challenging the Seniors – and we didn’t manage to get away.

Senior Assembly

The next morning they dragged us across the street to the school, ready to handcuff us to the gymnastics balance beam in anticipation of the Senior Assembly.  But they turned their back to discuss how to attach us for just a moment – and we were gone.  We did have one advantage:  we knew the school even better than the Seniors, all of the back rooms and hiding places and interconnecting doors.

 We managed to make our way to the shop class, and found the tools to cut the handcuff chain.  The Seniors had some explaining to do to the Pataskala Police – they cried to us later, “Did you have to cut them?”.  And so as the Senior Assembly began, we marched in with the faculty – smelly and dirty from wrestling on a barn floor, but proudly free from captivity.  

Gary became the Assistant Principal the next year – and there were two more years of “Seniors” all by myself before I moved to the Middle School.  But that’s another story.

The Sunday Story Series

Riding the Dog  – 1/24/21

Hiking with Jack – 1/31/21

A Track Story – 2/7/21

Ritual – 2/14/21

Voyageur – 2/19/21

A Dog Story – 2/25/21

A Watkins Legend – 3/7/21

Vaccination

President Biden announced this week that there will be enough vaccinations for every adult in the United States by May.  Medical experts, some for the first time, are speaking with smiles on their faces.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel of COVID, and the light is getting brighter by the minute.  If we can “hang on” until summer, until the vast majority of Americans are vaccinated, the United States may actually reach a level of “herd immunity”.  So many folks will be immune that N-Covid-19 will become a nuisance instead of the pandemic we know that killed over half-a-million Americans.

But it’s March, not summer.  While the end of the tunnel is visible, “we ain’t there yet”.  So when Biden’s announcement was followed by the Governors of Texas and Mississippi declaring their states were “100%” open, with no COVID restrictions, the President called them out.  

“I hope everyone’s realized by now these masks make a difference,” Biden told reporters Wednesday. “The last thing we need is Neanderthal thinking that in the meantime everything’s fine, take off your mask, forget it.  It still matters.”(Insider).

Defending Neanderthals

Senator Marsha Blackburn, Republican from Tennessee, immediately jumped to the defense of Neanderthals.  

“Neanderthals are hunter-gatherers. They’re protectors of their family. They are resilient. They’re resourceful. They tend to their own,” the GOP senator said. “So I think Joe Biden needs to rethink what he is saying.” (Insider)

So to be clear, Neanderthals were (not are) an archaic version of humans.  They “disappeared” between 35,000 and 25,000 years ago – though they may well have been “assimilated” into modern humans.  Neanderthals lived in Europe, using caves for shelter.  Those caves also preserved their art work, and their skeletons for modern study.  When modern society talks about “cave people” – there are generally referring to the Neanderthals.  (Brittanica)

So while it’s wonderful that Senator Blackburn and other Republicans jumped to the defense of the Neanderthals from the “unfair” aspersions cast by the President, there really isn’t anybody around for them to defend.  That is, other than the retired Geico advertising campaign – “even a caveman can do it”.  That was replaced by the Gecko.

Cartoon Characters

But it seems to be the kind of issue the Republicans can get behind.  Defending Neanderthals came right after defending the “manhood” of Mr. Potato Head (see an earlier essay  from this week – Potato Heads).  And right before defending the early works of Dr. Seuss. It seems the beloved author of “The Cat in the Hat”, “Green Eggs and Ham”, and “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” had earlier works that contains racist images.  Doctor Seuss Enterprises, the business that preserves and controls his works, determined that they would no longer publish six books from his early collection.  They released the following statement:  “These books portray people in ways that are hurtful and wrong” (USA Today).

Neanderthals, Potato Heads and the Cat in the Hat all seem to be more important issues to the Republicans than the very real concerns in front of them.  The COVID relief package is before the Senate, but Republicans are lockstep in their opposition to the legislation.  So opposed in fact, that Senator Ron Johnson of Wisconsin used his Senatorial “privilege” to require almost 700 pages of the bill read into the record – delaying Senate debate for over ten hours.  

Serious Debate

It’s certainly the “right” of the GOP to stand in opposition.  When they controlled the Senate, the Democrats often did the same.  But it does seem that their opposition has become “frivolous” instead of substantive.  The issues that seem “important” this week – Neanderthals, Potato Heads and the Cat in the Hat, all are designed to further polarize American politics.  It’s about “firing up the base” – “Democrats are against Dr Seuss!!!! Let’s storm the Capitol to defend the Cat in the Hat and the Grinch!!” (Maybe it’s “too soon” for “storming the Capitol” – but isn’t this kind of craziness how we got there in the first place?)

Serious issues are coming.  The House passed the Police Reform and Voting Reform Acts this week.  The John Lewis Voting Rights Act is right behind.  There are real issues of concern and debate in all of those proposed laws, real points of contention about who “counts” in America.  I hope we can hear serious discussion about those issues – not ten hours of reading from the embattled Senate clerks, and not defense of Neanderthals, potato heads, or cats with hats.

Pre-Dawn

The dogs were up early this morning – about 4:45 am.  I’m not sure why Louisiana decided that 4:45 was a good time.  He’s a “Southern Dog”; he doesn’t even eat breakfast until the sun is high and warm.  He might have heard the neighbor headed to work – but there’s nothing like a big Lou lick on the lips to get you going in the cold, early, pre-dawn!

Once Lou was up, the rest of the pack got rolling as well.  Unlike Lou, it was breakfast time for them, and snacks, and go out a couple of times.  By the time that was all over there was no going back to sleep.  So I read the “papers” (well, I read my phone with “All the News that’s Fit to Print” and “Democracy Dies in the Darkness”).  And today it struck me:  the dichotomy of our “new normal”.

The Old Days

The lead articles are about what we would have called the “old” normal.  It’s about negotiations for the COVID relief bill.  The House, not surprisingly, maxed out the relief package, including the $15 minimum wage (which I support).  The Senate, evenly divided with several Senators straddling the middle ground, is serving the purpose the Founding Fathers intended.  The “heated action” of the House is being “cooled in the saucer” of the Senate.  The $15 minimum wage is off, to be debated another time.  The direct relief, $1400 to each taxpayer, is now restricted to those making less that $80,000/year.  

President Biden is talking to Senators, both his own Democrats and even some Republicans.  More progressive members of the Senate are outraged, and more regressive Senators are making the staff read aloud over six hundred pages of the bill into the record.  As Aaron Burr’s character sang in Hamilton, this is “…the art of the trade, how the sausage is made”. COVID relief will be passed sometime this weekend.  The check is in the mail.  

Competence

And Biden is demonstrating the one thing most Americans hoped for:  competence.  Not only is economic COVID relief coming, but the vaccine is coming as well.  Instead of July or August, now we can look forward to every adult having access to “the shot” by May.  And while Texas, Mississippi, and I’m sure Florida soon, may pay a price of infection and death for jumping the gun, we really might be able to get to a life more like normal this summer.  I’m looking forward to the Fourth of July.

That’s what “old normal” should look like.  It’s a government that doesn’t require us to watch every move and action.  I can listen to Hamilton as I go about my day (or a lot of Steep Canyon Rangers recently), instead of locking into MSNBC to find out what tragedy or atrocity happens next.

The “New” Normal

But then there’s the “new normal”.  Just yesterday:  Elaine Chou was accused of direct conflicts of interest and may have committed crimes by favoring her family businesses.  She’s the former Secretary of Transportation and Mitch McConnell’s wife. But the Trump Justice Department gave her a “pass”, in spite of an Inspector General’s recommendation for charges.  Trump is being sued by Congressman Bennie Thompson (D-Miss) for inciting the Insurrection of January 6^th. And he is under investigation five ways from Sunday in the State of New York.  

The House of Representatives stayed up most of last night to finish the Police Reform and the Voting Rights Act.  Why did they pull an “all-nighter” in the middle of the week?  Because today is March 4^th, the last day for the “fever dream” Insurrectionists to achieve their goal of overthrowing the duly elected government of the United States.  There is enough “intelligence” to raise concerns by Congressional leaders, particularly after January 6^th.  And while the Capitol is as highly fortified as it has been since the Civil War, the House leaders didn’t see a need to serve as “bait” for a possible attack.  They worked the late shift and went on home.

Rabbit Holes

Not to descend too far into the Insurrectionist “rabbit hole”, but March 4^th is the original inauguration date established in the Constitution, and changed in 1933 by the Twentieth Amendment.  Since insurrectionist “lore” claims that the United States hasn’t had a “valid” President since Ulysses S. Grant in 1875, they refuse to acknowledge the January 20^th inauguration.  The fact that Donald Trump would have been an “illegitimate” President under this theory as well doesn’t seem to bother them.  They just know that the 2020 election was “stolen”, and they want it back.  Today may be their last chance.

Add to that the disturbing testimony yesterday of District of Columbia National Guard Commanding General William Walker.  He said that on January 6^th, he had to wait three hours and nineteen minutes to get extra-ordinary permission from the Defense Department to send troops to defend the Capitol.  He had his forces sitting on buses at the DC Armory, ready to go.  But while vandals raged through the building, his troops were cooling their heels. They were waiting for “permission” from the Trump temporary appointees at the Pentagon.  We don’t know what those appointees were waiting for. But it doesn’t seem too crazy to think they may have been hoping to see how “effective” the insurrection was.

And that’s the new normal, the one we got “used to” in the Trump Administration.  Let’s hope we’re just tying up the loose ends of that era, and we can get on with “making sausage” and the business of government.  

But meanwhile, the TV will stay on MSNBC today.

Unfinished Business

I listened to the Senate Judiciary Committee interrogate FBI Director Chris Wray on Tuesday.  They want to know about his agency’s role in preventing and investigating the January 6^th Insurrection.  Director Wray has a “facile” way of dodging the pointed Senate questions, from both sides of the aisle.  He conveniently refuses to define domestic extremists by their position on the political spectrum, right or left.  Instead, he categorizes them as racist (both white and black), anti-government, and specific issue extremists.  “We are equal opportunity law enforcers,” he claims.

He can’t get “pegged”. He doesn’t want to appear to be more worried about “white supremacists” (domestic terrorists) then he is about “Black Lives Matter” (not domestic terrorists).  But his testimony seems clear: he is.  White Supremacists are more violent, and more importantly, they attempted to disrupt the US Government’s transition of power.  

I can’t blame Wray for knowing how to “dodge, dip, duck, dive and dodge”. He became Director after Comey was fired, in the middle of the hurricane (Crossfire Hurricane more appropriately) over Trump.  He used his political agility to keep his job, even in the last months of the Trump Administration, the time of “long knives”.

We may worry about what happened on January 6^th  and what  threats might be in the future. But both sides of the aisle seem determined to continue to litigate Trump.  That is because America reached no resolution for his actions in the 2020 election.  Wish as we might that we could “move on”, here’s our reality. Trumpism is still driving a significant part of the electorate, and more immediately, politicians who need their votes.

Legal Insurrection

The nationwide impact continues.  Anti-democratic actions are happening in many states, now.  And by democratic, I mean actions against our democracy, not against my Democratic Party.  The founding principal of our democracy is our citizen’s right to vote.   When the Founding Fathers wrote the original Constitution, the word “citizen” only applied to twenty-one-year-old white men who owned property. But all of them were “enfranchised”.  

The history of the United States is to increase that franchise.  The property requirement was dropped by the 1820’s, and the race qualification was abolished with the 15^th Amendment.  Senators were made subject to direct election with the 17^th Amendment.  The gender qualification was removed by the 19^th Amendment. The residents of the District of Columbia were partially enfranchised with the 23^rd Amendment.  The 24^th Amendment abolished a tax on voting. And finally, the age was lowered to eighteen by the 26^th Amendment.  

Since the ratification of the Constitution, we have increased the “right” and the “power” of the vote.  And for almost every advance in voting rights, there has been a subsequent attempt trying to claw that advance back. But the real driving force behind denying the right to vote, is the desire to keep people of color from participating.  The creation of the Ku Klux Klan was first, a direct consequence of the passage of the 15^th Amendment. In took a century for the full legal enforcement of that amendment.  

And today it’s happening again.

The Quiet Part Out Loud

The right to vote is only as good as someone’s ability to vote.  That ability depends on accessibility.  In the past every “trick” from literacy tests to guessing the number of jelly beans in a jar was used to prevent registration.  And while those more obvious “tricks” are gone, some state legislatures are TODAY engaging in a new form of denying accessibility.   

In Georgia, the state legislature is “rolling back” access to absentee ballots.  They are restricting early voting days, and discussing further legal documentation to “qualify” to vote.  This is all in spite of the protestations of those same Georgia elections officials that the 2020 election was without fraud or deception.  

The same thing is happening in the Pennsylvania legislature.  The Arizona state legislature is not only looking to restrict ballot access. They are also considering the notion that the Legislature should have the right to overturn the vote of the people when it comes to Presidential electoral votes.  Let’s put that in plain English.  If they don’t like who the people choose for President, they want to choose someone else.

Michael Carvin, a lawyer for Arizona’s Republican Party said the “unspoken part” out loud in the United States Supreme Court yesterday, as he argued the “legality” of the state requiring every voter to vote in only in their own precinct.  When Justice Barrett asked what interest his  Party had in restricting where a voter could vote, he answered with the following.

“Because it puts us at a competitive disadvantage relative to Democrats. Politics is a zero-sum game. And every extra vote they get through unlawful interpretation of Section 2 hurts us, it’s the difference between winning an election 50-49 and losing an election 51 to 50.”(NBC).

If They Can’t Win 

Georgia, Pennsylvania, Arizona:  all of these states have a single commonality.  Each was a pivotal state in the 2020 election and the electoral college loss of Donald Trump.  And in each of these states, people of color came out in high percentages to vote for President Biden.  Contrary to Trump’s continuing delusion of election fraud, all evidence shows that these outcomes were accurate.  But the outcomes weren’t what the Republican state legislatures wanted. So, if they can’t control the vote, they’ll control who comes to cast their ballot.

In Arizona they’ll move and consolidate precincts making it more likely that it will take more time to vote, and be more difficult to get there.  In Georgia, they’ll discuss ending Sunday voting, so that Black Churches, who have traditionally voted after Sunday service, can’t go. They all will restrict mail-in balloting.  It all boils down to one thing:  keeping people of color from voting, because they overwhelmingly supported a Democrat instead of their Republican.

And even here in “perfect” Ohio, the state legislature will continue to gerrymander the Congressional Districts, to make sure the “right” person can “pick” their voters and win.

Because if they can’t win – they change the rules.

Mr. Potato Head

The newest right-wing talking point is about the Hasbro toy – Mr. Potato Head.  Growing up we knew “Mr. Potato Head” as a series of plastic items you could stick on a baking potato, personalizing it.  There was the original “Mr. Potato Head”, complete with eyes, nose, mustache, mouth and hat. And then came “Mrs. Potato Head”, with a purse, lipstick and a bright smile.  They both also came with legs, so that your simple potato could become an anthropomorphic toy. 

Later on, Hasbro even provided a plastic potato, so that potato heads could be “standardized” in size and shape.  And they added potato head children and even pets, so entire potato head family groups were created. 

But now the supposed “liberal-radicals” (as opposed to the liberal-moderates, I guess) have allegedly “forced” Hasbro to “de-gender-ize” their toy.  Mr. Potato Head lost his “mister”, and he’s losing his “he” too.  It’s just a “potato head”. While playing with it, you can assign or not assign whatever gender you feel is appropriate.

Now it’s not like Mr. Potato Head has lost his “tuber” or his “yams”.  He never had them, he was, in fact, either a real or a fake potato.  The Hasbro Company is simply allowing children playing with their “Potato Toy” to make their own conclusions, or no conclusions at all, about gender.  It’s their toy, and their decision.  Moustache placed over lip-stick smile – no problem.  And there was no Court order given, and no Antifa associated crowd standing at the company gates in Providence, Rhode Island protesting the “hat and moustache”.  Hasbro made a marketing decision.  They hope to sell more of their imagination inducing product.

A Dial, Not a Switch

But for a right-wing crowd still reeling from their complicity in the Insurrection, Mr. Potato Head is a perfect opportunity to change the subject.  And while I don’t expect to see too many marches to protect Mr. Potato Head’s “manhood”, he/it is being used as a “straw-man/potato” argument for a subject that is much closer and dearer to the right-wing heart.  

A lot of the literature I get from the right end of the political spectrum proclaims that us “liberal-radicals” are taking away their religious freedom.  By “taking away”, what they are saying is that they are threatened by a world were gender identity isn’t “black and white”, or more specifically “boy and girl”.  We all, even us “liberal-radicals” grew up with that specific knowledge.  We knew what girls had and what boys had, and we knew why – it was science, either XX or XY.  There was nothing clearer.  And even if the science wasn’t absolutely clear back then, surely our sixth-grade health teacher wasn’t going to talk about it!

But we now know that, like a lot of things we learned in sixth grade, this isn’t quite right.  We know that the XX/XY thing is really much deeper and more complex.  And we also know that hormonal influences in the womb and during the early years influence gender-identity as well as just having “tubers” and “yams”.  Like most things in life, gender-identity is infinitely complicated; not a two-choice switch, but a dial, a spectrum of possible outcomes. 

Religion and Gender 

But that makes folks uncomfortable.  And some of their discomfort is “enforced” by their religious beliefs – “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”; and especially not “Armani and Eastyn”.   That’s where the “religious freedom” argument comes in:  “You liberals can’t FORCE me to accept complex gender identities.  If you try to – you are violating my religious right (sic)”.

There are lots of areas in our society where religious rights come up against individual rights.  The tension between those two competing interests in the Bill of Rights are at the heart of some of our biggest political issues:  from abortion to LGBTQIA equality, to gun rights.  We as a nation are committed to allowing individuals to express their differences – it’s in the First Amendment, right after the Religion part.  And we allow individuals the privacy of their own lives and bodies – that’s in the Fourth and Fifth Amendments.  And most importantly, our Constitution guarantees that Government won’t take a side in religion – the wording couldn’t be clearer:  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion”.

Athletics

Which brings us to their next right-wing talking point:  trans-gendered athletes.  “We can let those ‘boys’ compete against girls, it’s not fair”.  But, just like the potatoes and the XX/XY thing, the question is so much more complex than that.  Yes, there are inequities in how transgender athletes are allowed to compete.  But frankly, most of the inequity is against the transgendered athlete, not their competitors.  And while we can all site examples (NCAA Division III track and field) where it seems unfair, let’s look at the bigger picture.  The argument is that somehow these “men” are taking advantage of women’s athletics to gain “prestige”.  But the reality is closer to this:  the problems those transgendered athletes create by competing, are so much smaller than the problems they face by expressing their inward gender.

In short, they face so much rejection in society by being “out”, that it is beyond belief that they are willing to accept all of that – for a medal.  The easy excuse to attack them is to say that they have hormonal advantages that the other women competitors don’t have. But that’s not really so easily answered. Just as gender is not a “binary” choice, neither is hormonal levels or physical development. We don’t know where a trans-gendered athlete falls “on the scale”. Neither do we know where the so-called “normal” competitors fall. It’s just not a black and white issue.

Rights

We can say that the Constitution gives us the “right” to believe what we want. What the Constitution does not do, is give us the “right” to force others to believe what we do. The Constitution forces us to accept diversity- it’s written in “black letter law”.

So while we can say “I don’t agree” or “I don’t believe”, neither of those can translate to “you can’t be”  or “you can’t do” without infringing on other’s Constitutional rights.  No right is “pre-eminent”, they are all balanced. 

I can put a mustache on a potato, and I can put a lip-sticked smile underneath it, or give it a purse, or a hat – or not.  It’s my choice, not someone else’s.

Old Left-Hander

For decades, it was the sign-off for every Cincinnati Reds radio broadcast.  Joe Nauxhall was the youngest to every play major league baseball when he joined the player-short World War II Reds roster in 1944.  He was fifteen.  When the War was over it was back to Hamilton High School and then the minors, but in 1952 he returned to the big leagues, and played, mostly for the Reds, until 1966.  The next year he began his second career as a radio commentator on Red’s radio, a stretch that lasted until 2004. 

On long trips, my Dad would listen to Red’s games.  As we drove through the pines of Michigan, or across the New York Thruway, or down through Kentucky, it was always a taste of our hometown, Cincinnati.  And since the Reds were broadcast on WLW Radio, a clear channel AM station using the maximum wattage allowed, you could hear the games almost everywhere.  We could sit on a beach in Canada and catch the scratchy end to August games.

And when it was over, we’d know.  Joe would signoff, always with his signature phrase:  

“This is the old left-hander, rounding third and headed for home”.

Butcher’s Bill

We have reached a terrible milestone in our national experience:  twelve months of a world pandemic.  There are few alive who have experienced a world like this, the very few who are as old as my Dad would have been this July, 103.  And they were babies, born in 1918 during the “Spanish” flu epidemic, that took 675,000 American lives in twenty-six months.   We are sadly ahead of their pace: today’s butcher’s bill over 520,000 gone to COVID. 

But unlike the post-World War I world, our science is serving us well.  All my grandparents’ generation could do was wear masks, avoid crowds, socially distance and increase ventilation.  And, just like today, they had their “anti-maskers” (there were entire anti-mask societies) and scoff-laws.  Some wore their masks with holes cut in the front to accommodate their cigars.

Recently in the United States those same common-sense preventions again became political pawns.  Wearing a mask and obeying state regulations somehow got wrapped up in the polarization of our politics, a mark of our affiliation rather than a social duty to protect each other.  How many additional lives that cost is unknowable, but the scale is likely in the hundreds of thousands.  By allowing politics to overrule science, our nation has paid an extraordinary price.  With four percent of the world population, we have twenty percent of the world’s deaths.

Science

But the great difference between now and the year of Dad (and Mom’s) birth, is science.  From the beginning we knew what caused our disease.  And we put the great engines of our scientific industries to task:  find treatments and find vaccines.  Today, the third vaccine, this one produced by Johnson and Johnson, will receive clearance for public use in the United States.  It, along with the Pfizer and Moderna products, will be rushed into arms.  

Four million doses of the one-shot J&J vaccine will immediately be apportioned as soon as the final approvals are made.  Sixty-six million doses have already been administered to Americans, with more than thirteen percent of the population vaccinated.  The goal: 100 million doses by April.  President Biden predicts that the shot(s) will be available to everyone in the nation by August.  Other vaccines are waiting in the wings, just concluding their scientific trials.

We already are seeing the benefit of immunization. Nursing home residents, the most likely to die from COVID, were among the very first targets of vaccination in the US.  Death rates there have fallen seventy percent since the shots began.   The concept of “herd immunity”, that so many folks are immunized that viral transmission is slowed to a near halt, is foreseeable.  

We are rounding third, and headed for home.

Dancing in the Base Path

Ohio has hit what we call “false spring”.  After weeks of snow coverage, sub-freezing temperatures and clouds, the ice is melting.  When I was coaching high school track this was the time of year where I’d have to yell “KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON” to my high school boys.  After months of twenty-degree weather, the forty-five-degree sunshine would feel like summer, and they’d rip off their sweats and even shirts in the workout.  What would feel like Arctic blasts come May felt like Florida beaches in February.

With vaccines and possible “herd immunity” in sight, it’s easy to feel like those bare-chested runners.  It feels like spring, almost summer.  It’s time to drop all the protections of coats and sweats, of social distancing, masks and restrictions.  Let’s go play!!  We should get together!! Let’s celebrate the end of our long pandemic winter!!

But we aren’t there – yet.  America is so close to solving our national scientific equation, but we have not crossed the plate.  We have rounded third, and we are headed for home, but the score doesn’t count – yet.  We are dancing in the base path.

Home

And as we dance, it’s still possible we might get thrown out.  

The virus doesn’t think, it just acts.  It doesn’t know that herd immunity, eighty percent or more vaccinated is on the horizon.  The virus does what it does, replicate, infect, replicate some more.  It doesn’t know that defeat is imminent.  And it will continue to do what it does, until we actually have all those shots in arms.  We can still have another spike, another jump in the death rate, another lengthy butcher’s bill.  It isn’t necessary, but it’s possible.  It’s up to us.

We have rounded third, and we are headed for home.  We need to keep our heads down, and get across the plate.

Here’s the next in the “Sunday Story” series.  There’s no political point here, it’s just a story about folks who find lost dogs.

Lost Dogs

If you’ve read many of these “Our America” essays, you know dogs emerge as a reoccurring theme. We’ve currently got four rescues here at the house, and Jennifer (my wife) is deeply involved in an all-volunteer group called Lost Pet Recovery (LPR). They’re folks who spend most of their time trying to get lost dogs back to their families, and wandering dogs to safety. It sounds simple – just catch the dog. But there’s so much more that goes into it.

So the first thing you need to know about finding lost dogs, is it is NOT the same as finding lost children.  Even though we think of our dogs as our children, they will not respond the same way as our kids lost in the woods might.  When a child is lost in the woods, we gather all of our friends, we find someone to look from “the sky” with a drone, we scour the countryside calling out for them.  We assume (rightly so) that the child wants to be found.  It’s kind of a “village goes after Frankenstein thing”, think torches and crowds, but only in a good way.

Flight Mode

But after a dog has been “out” for a couple of days, they are in flight mode.  They are running, running from anything that generates fear.  And everything, and particularly everybody generates fear – often times even “Mom and Dad” and brothers and sisters.  One of the coolest parts of rescuing dogs is the moment when the dog “remembers” who “Mom or Dad”  is.  We’ve all seen the reunion videos of dogs welcoming their returning soldier home from a long tour.  And that part is really cool, and it does happen even for the “rescued” dog.  But it doesn’t usually happen when they are “out” running.

Once a dog is out, there might be a short time when calling for them will help.  But a dog also knows they might be “in trouble” for running – so even then it can’t be “Fido get back here!”  It’s got to be calm, quiet, “…hey Fido buddy, I’ve got a cheeseburger for you – smell it?”  But when you gather all your human friends and send them out into the field to find your lost canine, it’s more than likely that you are driving him or her even farther away, especially if they’ve been “out” more than a day or so.  They are scared, and all of those strange people yelling their name is going to make then even more scared.  So they’ll run, and they can outrun you.

That’s when you need my friends:  the folks at Lost Pet Recovery.

Berne 

The area around Alum Creek Drive and Livingston Avenue is not considered the “best” part of Columbus, Ohio.  It’s mostly industrial, and from time to time in the night you might hear “shots fired”.  The area makes the evening news for shootings and robberies more than for the real efforts of the Southside Civic Association.  But the owner of one of the companies in the area noticed that a Bernese Mountain Dog had taken up “residence” in the small industrial park sandwiched between Alum Creek Drive and I-70 headed downtown. 

He, through a friend of a friend, let LPR know.  And Jenn was on the job.

Jenn went down and “learned the Berne”.  She talked to the folks in the industrial park, and followed the dog tracks in the snow.  And she found out the Berne was bedding down in a storage shed on one of the properties.  In fact, Berne had a friend, Bob, the owner of one of the businesses.  He was not just feeding Berne, he was grilling beef and chicken for her.  She had a “bed”, straw blankets and such, in the back of the shed.  She came and went as she pleased, and though she wouldn’t allow contact, she definitely had “ her place” down on Alum Creek Drive.

This was in January, middle of winter here in Ohio.  But Bernese Mountain Dogs originated in Berne, Switzerland (my first mistake – I always thought they were Burmese from Burma, kind of a Himalayan thing – wrong) and the cold is what they were bred for.  And while Berne had a “place” it still was a cold, tough world out there, and everyone wanted Berne to be safe.  In fact, Bob wanted to make Berne his own.  The two even got to the point the Berne would take food from his hand.  But when he’d reach out, she’d bolt.

But she kept coming back.

Trappers

The first move was to put a camera and a “trap” in the shed.  The camera is a deer-cam, triggered by motion and transmits to Jenn’s phone.  It’s got night vision as well, so whenever anything moved in the shed, Jenn was notified.  And the trap – well it’s six feet long by two and a half feet tall by two feet wide, with a spring door that closes if Berne steps on the trip plate.  Jenn and Bob placed food leading into the trap, and of course, the “mother-load” of food at the back past the trip plate.  Any self-respecting and hungry dog would walk right in and get the food – and get trapped.

But Berne was trap-wise.  She knew to get all the food leading in, and to reach just far enough into the trap to take the scraps in the front.  But no matter what was in the back, she wouldn’t go.

This went on for a week or more, with Berne almost literally waving at the camera as she went by.  Jenn hung out down in the parking lots of the buildings off of Alum Creek Drive, and began to get a sense of the dog’s pattern.  She didn’t go far, and she didn’t cross the busy roads.  There was a small wood, a little cemetery, and the big storage lots.  She circled through her territory checking everything a few times a day.  At nighttime usually she headed for the storage shed, ignored the trap, and bedded down in the back.

Bob had to leave town for a week – so Jenn set up an alternate site to feed Berne.  And it was another week of trying different foods (from McDoubles to KFC Bowls and Chicken Strips) but Berne still waved at the camera, sniffed around the trap, and ate the teaser pieces along the edge.  She even barked at the peanut-butter covered bone lashed to the back.  She’d eat everything around, but she wasn’t going in.

Sleeping in a Truck

Meanwhile, my wife was sleeping in a truck in an empty parking lot off Alum Creek Drive, night after night.  LPR volunteers support each other. As one “trapper” gets sleep in the truck, others, spread all over the state, are watching the cameras for her.  When Berne approached, they’d text or call.  Jenn was far enough away from the trap that the sound of the phone wouldn’t disturb the dog, but would wake her up.  But instead of catching Berne, it was mostly to release the feral cats that lived in the area.  And those cats weren’t happy about the catch part – nor particularly grateful for release either.

There are several trappers in LPR, and they often collaborate on how best to catch their dog.  Maybe grilled (instead of KFC fried) food would work.  Jenn and I took our portable gas grill out to the parking lot, set up a little table, and made Sunday evening dinner.  We had our usual ribeye steak and green beans.  But we cooked another steak (not the ribeye) and some sausage for Berne.  We filled the small woods with the odor of steak and sausage, then placed her portion in the back of the trap.

We packed up and pulled off to eat our dinner in the truck, waiting for Berne to show.  It didn’t take long, we just finished our dinner when she came out of the woods and around the trap to the back.  You could sense her frustration – steak and sausage, right there in front of her.  And she voiced it, barking at the trap, sniffing around, but still refused to go in.

Panel Trap

So after a second week, Jenn, Don “the boss” of LPR, and Kim from Cincinnati got together to change the equation.  The trap wasn’t going to work.  But there is a different kind of trap, a “panel” trap.  It’s actually several sections of 6×6 pieces of fencing, lashed together to make a room.  In the front there’s a door, with a really long rope on it.  It’s a simple concept:  put the bait in the back, wait for the dog to go in, then pull the rope so the door slams shut.

But there’s no automatic part of this panel trap.  It’s up to Jenn, parked about three hundred feet away, in the dark and cold of the now-February winter snow, to pull the rope and slam the door.  And the only way she knows to pull the rope, is a grainy night-shot picture on an IPhone screen.  And there’s always a delay, of a few seconds – so while the picture might show the dog in the back, that’s very recent history, not necessarily the present.

They left the door open for a couple of days, to see if Berne would get in the habit of going in. And she did. It was President’s Day weekend, the weather forecast was looking bad – but it was time to “save” Berne. Jenn was hiding in the truck on Monday evening. She knew Berne usually came around 7 pm, so she turned the truck off at 6:30. It was a damn cold night, but she didn’t want anything to spook Berne away. Kim came up from Cincinnati to surprise Jenn, and was in a different part of the complex, watching Berne heading towards the trap.

Berne appeared and wandered into the trap.  Kim could see it, but Jenn was waiting for the camera picture.  Then Jenn got the text message from Kim:  “GO-GO-GO”.  She pulled the rope, the door slammed shut.  Berne was safe.

Polly

Jenn and Kim went to the trap, calling softly to Berne.  She huddled in the corner, scared, but Kim went in and almost immediately Berne was leaning on her.  Jenn joined them, and began to calm Berne down.   Bob was going to take care of Berne, and quickly drove up to the trap.   Don came too, and they put a “slip-lead” on Berne, and got her in Bob’s truck.  They then scanned Berne for a chip, and found that she had one.  Berne went home with Bob – pictures from that evening showed a relaxed Berne sleeping at the foot of Bob’s bed.

The chip reads out a number, which links to the “chip” company. Although the chip wasn’t registered, the company was still able to trace it back to the owner. (Hint: register your dog’s chip and keep it current. It saves a lot of time locating the owner and getting your dog home). They had an owner for Berne, and Jenn called.

Berne was lost from her home near Mansfield, almost sixty miles away, back in April.  She’d been “out” ten months, and her real name was Polly.  She was a “pure-bred” Bernese Mountain Dog; originally purchased for breeding.  But the owners had left the breeding business.  They felt that the internet had made it too dangerous for the dogs, they couldn’t “vet” the owners personally the way they wanted to.  So they had Polly and her sister, and they were living on several acres when Polly slipped away.

Bob and Berne, now Polly, were bonding, so it was hard to give her back. But it turned out that the folks near Mansfield loved her too, and Jenn now talks with them on a regular basis. Polly is back at home, happy and healthy with her sister, recovering from her adventure in the “big city”. And Jenn and LPR are on the lookout for a “rescue” for Bob.

There’s always another dog.  In the five days around when Jenn trapped Berne, LPR recovered seven other dogs across Ohio. Almost every night, there’s a LPR volunteer sleeping in a pickup truck, or staring at a computer screen, waiting on a dog to get safe. The work goes on.

Want to know more about LPR?  Click here for the Facebook Page.

Testimony

The United States Senate took testimony yesterday on how January 6^th, the day of the Insurrection, could have happened.   How was the Capitol so unprepared for what many who view social media saw as foreseeable and predictable?  Testifying were the three on the front line who take direct blame for the “fall” of the Capitol:  the former Chief of the Capitol police, the former Sergeant of Arms of the Senate, and the former Sergeant of Arms of the House.  All three resigned from their posts soon after the insurrection.

Also testifying was the Acting Chief of the Washington Metro police.  He was the “outside” man who tried to pick up the pieces when the Capitol called for help.

They thought they were ready.  They had all the intelligence, all the information.  The Capitol weathered the Million MAGA march, and they were “prepared”.  Prepared for a “First Amendment” event, as they call it, with the possibility of violence.  What they now admit they weren’t prepared for, weren’t able to even contemplate, was a full assault on the Capitol building.  They were ready for people chanting on the Mall, and screaming at the doors.  But they never even drilled their forces for incursion into the building.  It was beyond their wildest dreams.

Good Men

The witnesses are good men:  decades on the Capitol Police force or in the Secret Service.  They had all of the connections, friends in command at the National Guard, and intelligence sources they depended on.  They have spent literal lifetimes building their careers and reputations.  The former Sergeant of Arms have been on the Presidential Protection detail.  It wasn’t knowledge that failed them, and it wasn’t some vague orders from either Nancy Pelosi (the National Guard would look bad) or even Donald Trump (let them in).  It was a failure of imagination.

It’s hard to blame them.  America is a nation of protests.  The Capitol building has been the target so many times:  of demonstrations and complaints, of crowds chanting and sometimes getting out of control.  In 1932 the “Bonus Army”, more than 40,000 World War I veterans demanding a promised bonus from Congress, camped on the Mall in front of the Capitol for three months.  It took the US Army, led by General Douglas MacArthur, to drive their former comrades off and raze their camp. Two were killed and fifty-five injured, in what MacArthur called a rebellion. But they were simply trying to get Congress to pay their veterans bonus in 1932, at the depth of the Great Depression,  instead of the original 1945.  

But though they were an “army” that wanted something from Congress, they didn’t attack the Capitol.  They wanted action, not destruction.

Tradition of Protest

There have literally been thousands of marches on the Capitol.  And there has been “civil disobedience” actions, where folks refuse to leave, or sit in the halls of the Congressional offices and chant.  We’ve seen them led out of the buildings with “plastic handcuffs”, even some in wheelchairs.  More recently Reverend Raphael Warnock, now Senator Warnock of Georgia, was arrested in protest.

And that’s what the Capitol Police were prepared for:  angry and vocal Trump supporters, demanding that the Congress rescind the results of the 2020 election.  That’s also why the House and the Senate continued in session for so long on that fateful day, seeming oblivious  to the violence at their doors. But from the outside view, it seemed obvious that things were wholly different than any protest before.  The Members were used to hearing the chanting, the yelling, and the “pressure” of the crowds outside.  Congress prides itself on completing their business, regardless of the what else is going on.

But this time the protestors were coming in  — for them.

For anyone on social media, the possibility of more than just a “first amendment” or “civil disobedience” event was more than clear.  Violence was always part of their movement, at the Trump Rallies, at the demonstrations, and in the “lore” of QAnon and the other right-wing conspiracies.  And, as many said at the time, they believed that they were acting “for America”.  They were convinced that the election was corrupt, that “their” candidate was the true winner, and that they were trying to “save” the Nation.  Once they took the first step – accepting the “Big Lie” about the election – everything else was foreseeable, perhaps even inevitable.

But not for the leaders of the Capitol protection services.  

Questions

There are still many questions to answer.  Why did the National Guard take so long to deploy?  How did our Intelligence services “miss” what was obvious to so many “regular” citizens?  And the biggest question of all, how did our Nation come to the point where one political leader was willing to defy two-hundred and thirty-four years of Constitutional precedent, and try to remain in office after losing an election?

After 9-11 we found that the intelligence of the plot to fly planes into buildings was right in front of us.  The failure was in the communication among the intelligence agencies to put it together.  And more importantly, there wasn’t the imagination to see flying fully loaded passenger planes into buildings as a real threat, even though it was the central plot of a popular Tom Clancy book (Executive Orders) just five years before.  

The three should have resigned, they failed in their duty to protect on January 6^th.  But their failure wasn’t so much in action.  It was a failure of imagination.  A militant attack on the Capitol wasn’t in their wildest dreams.

Paul and Leah, my grandchildren, are always asking me to tell them stories about the old days, or about the war.  So back to the old days and the war.  Not me, this time though.  

In the first years of World War II, a young writer and myself were asked to write a series of pamphlets for the US Air Forces to help them understand the British civilians they were forced to live with.  I did this, and the last paper we wrote was a sort of culmination of all that had gone before and a kind of thank you to the US Air Force – mainly the Eighth.  I don’t have the pamphlet, but I am going to reconstruct and perhaps, revamp it.  It’s about two countries trying to understand each other under great difficulties, learning to live together, be happy, grieve together, and celebrate sometimes.  I will be addressing this epistle to the American Air Force.

This is the quiet ploughland of old England, one of the most peaceful areas on earth, which was used to win the greatest war in human history.  From the midst of these wheatlands and meadows, from the centuries old cottages with straw thatch and oak beams, the huge bomber fleets were airborne which pulped the heart of Hitler’s Reich.  In these Eastern counties, the Pilgrim Fathers gathered and sailed away to build a new world.  To these Eastern counties, their 20^thcentury Pilgrim Sons returned to free the old world from tyranny.

Few people in East Anglia have been to the United States, but the United States have been to us.  We saw them come in our hour of desperate need – young men in the tens of thousands, nonchalant, gay, confident and courageous.  As an Englishwoman, one of a race which is said to be cold and proud, I would like to tell you very humbly something of which all of us who have been privileged to meet the men of the Eighth Air Force feel and shall ever feel in our hearts about Americans.

The American story began for us long before the first Flying Fortress or Liberators, the Lightnings or the Thunderbolts swept through the English skies.  It began one spring afternoon in 1940, when clearly and steadily throughout two days and two nights, we heard in East Anglia the sound of distant explosions.  There were dumps being blown up by remnants of the British Army before it was driven into the sea at Dunkirk.

We expected the Nazis to attempt an invasion within a few weeks.  Men, women and children, all of us, meant to fight.  Yet we had nothing to fight with.  In our area of eleven miles long and four miles deep, we had seven rifles and one hundred twenty rounds of ammunition.

Every evening after work, men and women met together and concocted homemade bombs out of tar, gas and cotton wool.  The idea was to light it with a match and then throw the contrivance underneath an advancing tank in the hope it would catch fire.  We sweated away digging trenches and hiding places in the undergrowth beside all the roads leading from the coast, so the Nazis would not see us before we hurled our homemade bombs at them.  Rather simple thinking, wasn’t it?

We arranged secret meeting places.  We hid food.  We planned to set fire to haystacks and burn everything of use to the enemy in the line of his advance.  All night long, we kept watch on church towers, at crossroads, etc. in case the Nazis began to drop on us from the skies by parachute.

One evening, all the able-bodied men were called to the village hall.  On the floor were large wooden boxes.  From these, each one of them was handed a rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition.  For the first time since Dunkirk, we felt we had something to hit back with if they came.  Our hearts sang a new song.

These rifles were the first weapons to reach the Eastern Counties from the USA.  Lend Lease may have been a subject of political controversy in the USA, but in England it was as if a friend had suddenly put a weapon in our hands at a time when our backs were to the wall and we had nothing but faith left to us.

All night long the Nazi planes droned overhead on their way to London.  For many months, they were almost unopposed.  We slept on the ground floor and in the cupboard under the stairs.

The German aircraft gave forth an eerie two-noted sound.  If a glimmer of light showed, they dropped their bombs.  The huge fires they started in London threw a rosy light on the Eastern Horizon. 

We, in Bochain, built and equipped the bases for the Eighth Air Force as part of our share of Lend Lease in reverse.  Many of them were placed on the finest farming land in Bochain.  Parts of the East of England grow heavier crops per acre than any other land in the world.  The Air Ministry had to pick the most level land for the air field, but the level land is the best farming land, the easiest to cultivate.  Farmers who families had owned and farmed the same land for many generations found themselves dispossessed.  Bulldozers came, smashing down the hedges and ditches.  Trees were hauled out by the roots.  Mountains of sand were carried and dumped in the middle of growing crops.  Train loads of rubble from the blitzed areas of London were used to lay the foundation.

Tens of thousands of British workers toiled through the wet and cold winter weather, working long hours of overtime, seven days a week, mixing the concrete, laying the runways and building huts and hangers.  Soon acres of concrete lay where the acres of corn had stretched before.

At dusk, the Englishmen drove around the deserted perimeter tracks in a car with sporting guns pointing out of the windows and shot at the partridges as they came home to rest.  The first American arrivals stared in amazement as looking like a load of gangsters, the sportsmen rolled by in the gloaming.  Come what may, the Englishman has to have his sport!

Soon the first big bombers from the States, the Liberators and Fortresses, began to arrive.  Then came the fighters.  Village communities, numbering only a few hundred people, found themselves with several thousand Americans on their doorsteps, in their shops and parks, and very soon in their homes.  In many parts of the Eastern Counties, the American population outnumbered the British.

It was not easy at first.  The Americans found us cold, glum and angular, with our severe ways and quiet superior glances.  And the children – what pests they were with their eternal requests for “gum, chum”.  But you, the Americans, were so good to them, they loved you and called you their American uncles.  You were their heroes too.  There were many problems of adjustment, but most were met with a grain of humor and an ounce of tact.

Soon after the Americans arrived, a Piper Cub, which always seemed to be having engine trouble and landing every day for temporary repairs, became a well-known feature in the lives of the villagers.  The mystery was solved when it was discovered that the pilot always took the occasion of his breakdown to buy as many shell-eggs as the farmer on whose land he descended would sell him.  It was an enterprising scheme to replenish the commissars of one the Eighth Air Force.

How to do the laundry for these thousands of men from across the seas suddenly planted in the middle of us?  From the American angle, I guess it must have seemed that all the villagers charged high prices and did not do the job too well at all. But, from the British point of view, the problem was two-fold – soapy and socially.  Our soap ration was barely adequate to keep our own hands clean.  And, socially, it was not considered “quite the thing” by the ladies to do wash.  However, in village after village, the word was passed, “I’ll do it if Mrs. King will.  What’s good enough for Mrs. Crane is good enough for me”.  Soon, every home had a share in keeping shirts, socks and hankies of the Eighth Air Force clean, mended and ironed.

Every community plotted and planned to make the American guests feel at home.  In one village, there is an old building dating back from the 15^th century.  The ground floor has bars on its windows.  It was used by the old feudal lords as a prison.  The village ladies fixed this place, painted it themselves, furnished it, decorated it and turned it into a Welcome Club for the Eighth Air Force.  Every night volunteers served refreshments and held dances, debates and card parties. Few Americans airmen who spent their evenings at this Welcome Club making friends with the village people could guess they were being entertained in an old jail which, no doubt, had been used to imprison many of those who were unlucky not to book a passage on the Mayflower and got left behind. 

What did the Eighth Air Force think of the Eastern Counties?  Not too badly, we hope.  At any rate, thousands of them married English girls in these years of endurance and victory.  

Bochain’s Home Guard, over two million strong, was at first armed with pikes and cudgels, but finally with some of the best weapons of warfare.  They drilled in the evenings and weekends, and stood ready for four years to fight the enemy if he landed on these shores.  The British Home Guard was originally enlisted to defend their own towns and villages, each man to stand, fight, and die if need be, amid the streets and houses that he knew and loved.  When the American bases began to spring up like monster mushrooms all over the Eastern Counties, the question arose of who should defend them against possible enemy airborne attack.  In most places, the Military High Command delegated this duty to the Home Guard, by then a highly skilled and heavily armed body of trained men.

The Eastern Counties have a sense of eternal values about them.  They are the great invasion belt of British history.  Across the counties have swept the Danes, Dutch, Normans, Romans, and many more, and have left their traces of habit and language behind them.  As the plough broke the soil between the vast air bases, alive and throbbing with the amazing machinery of the modern age, it turned up ancient pottery, Roman coins, weapons of flint and iron, fossils, skulls and bones.

When the Germans dropped their bombs around East Anglia, it was often found that the old buildings stood the shock better than modern constructions of brick and stone.  Maybe the old buildings of the Eastern Counties have a bit of give to them.  They swayed in the bomb blast and stuck together, while more modern buildings stayed rigid and disintegrated.  These old buildings have endured for centuries.  

Their bones are of oak, mostly old ships-tankers which sailed the seas in the days of John Cabot and Henry VII.  The seamen used to exchange them with the farmers near the coast in return for supplies.  The flesh of the buildings between the oak bones is wattle and daub.  Wattle is just bunches of hedge sticks bound together with withies.  Daub was fashioned from clay, water and cow’s dung to make it stick firm.  It was mixed in holes in the ground and those forefathers of ours used their bare feet for the mixing.  It was from homes like these, which still stand around the air bases, that the men and women set forth to board the Mayflower all those years ago, over two hundred.

In those far off days, almost all the farmers in the Eastern Counties used to hold a HORKEY.  This was a celebration in the barn each year when the farmers and villagers sat down together to break bread, sing hymns and songs, dance, and thank God for the harvest.  So, after the Pilgrim Fathers made their landfall in the West, and in 1621 had gathered their first harvest in safely, with memories of the barns and villages in England, they held a HORKEY.

That was the start of Thanksgiving, and while in America the festival of family and earth has been maintained and enriched, in England it has died out.  This good old custom was revived in honor of the Eighth Air Force.  At harvest time, in a four-hundred-year-old barn, over one hundred and fifty guests sat down together.  American airmen and the people from the village sat beneath the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes and celebrated.  Outside, the bombers rolled on like thunder in formation.  Inside, beneath the oak beams and rafters, decorated with sheaves of wheat, golden-globed marigolds and hedge blossoms; sat free men, united in a common crusade against evil, able to enjoy the simple faith which turns to God when the harvest is home.

At Christmas time many of the Americans put on shows for the children – parties and shows which the children will never forget.  The young guests were transported to the bases in the hundreds.  There was a huge tree, decorations, games, a present for each child, any amount of candy, and above all, huge quantities of ice cream. 

When the jeeps and trucks came back to the villages in the darkness, the children stumbled out of them with their eyes shining like stars and their cheeks red as holly berries with excitement.  “Look what our American Uncles gave us,” they said.  Remember that many of these children, growing up in the war years, had never known a Christmas like that before.  They will think of American Uncles for the rest of their lives whenever the  candlelight falls softly on the dark green branches of the Christmas tree and parties and presents in the air.

The American airmen joined in the Christmas caroling with the with the villagers.  It was heartwarming.

Well, the time came to say goodbye.  The men of the Eighth Air Force shared so many things with us in those last tremendous years which ended on V. E. Day.

When a man has passed through the valley of the shadow of death with a friend at his side, he never feels quite the same towards that friend as he did before and he cleaves to him forever.  Our nation passed through the valley of death, and you came in your youth, strength and daring.  In the majesty of your industrial might and power, your crossed 2,000 miles of ocean of you own free will to take that journey with us.  How can we, the English, ever forget you?

Every man in the US Eighth Air Force has been an ambassador for his nation, and the job they have done in the building of new affection and understanding between our two democracies will live forever.

One Year

It was only last September that we suffered the 200,000 deaths mark from COVID.  It only took seven months to reach 200,000.  We are now a full twelve months into the pandemic, and this week, 500,000, half-a-million Americans, have died from the disease.  

Last September the loss was seemingly ignored.  As we honored the 19^th Anniversary of 9-11, the loss of 2,977 Americans, we slipped by the milestone of 200,000.  This week, we are doing much the same, letting the horror of one year’s loss to COVID slip by.

Last night President Biden held a brief ceremony at the White House honoring our loss.  Five hundred candles, each candle representing a thousand lost, were arranged on the steps to the White House portico.  That location is best remembered for Donald Trump’s triumphant return from the Bethesda Hospital and his own struggle with COVID.  The candle light ceremony was at least some acknowledgement of the personal loss that most Americans feel.

In September, I proposed we honor the 200,000 with a moment of silence along with the 9-11 ceremonies.  We didn’t. Here’s what I said then.

Historic Loss

Deaths matter.  Over 100,000 American soldiers have died in battle since the end of World War II.  Over 100,000 American soldiers died in World War I.  In only two wars in United States history have more than 100,000 been killed:  the Civil War and World War II.  

We honor all of those deaths every year on Memorial Day.  We respect those that we have lost, and we expect that our leaders will be more than careful about putting our current soldiers in harms way.  They are our children, our parents, our brothers and sisters and our friends.  Their lives are important.

Sometime in the next couple of weeks, the death toll from the COVID-19 pandemic will reach 200,000 American lives.  More Americans have died from COVID than died in every battle and war in the past seventy-five years since World War II.  More than Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq and all the rest combined.  They died in only eight months.  And, if it were a world contest, then the United States is “the big loser” in deaths.  We’re approaching 190,000 this week.  Brazil is in second with 121,000, and India in third with 65,000.  Even though no one believes that China and Russia’s numbers are accurate, this is NOT a statistics where having “the most” is a good thing.  

Politics and Life

Unfortunately for America, COVID-19, like much else in American life, is cloaked in politics.  The US response to COVID is the crucial issue of the 2020 Presidential election.  If you’re for Donald Trump, then China “gave” us the virus, and we responded as well as we could.  Now we should just get back to living our “regular” lives, be sad for the losses, and learn to deal with the virus and wait for “herd immunity” or a vaccine.

If you’re for Joe Biden, then the virus might well have been controlled from the outset.  The US might have responded in a way to restrict the infection rate.  Perhaps many of those two hundred thousand would be alive, and the US would be on the way to recovery like many of the European countries are today.  Biden would have us re-group, gain control of the disease, and then move forward.

The Calculus

Frankly both sides are vested in what happens to COVID.  The President is doing everything he can to convince America it’s all “OK”.  He’s reducing testing (so we don’t see increases)  and claiming a miracle cure (that the FDA had to walk back in the next couple of days). And this week the CDC released a report saying that people who are already weakened die from COVID (duh). 

 (On that report, it’s important to remember that people who get COVID often die from something else – pneumonia primarily – and that is listed as a “cause of death” along with COVID.  But without COVID there wouldn’t have been pneumonia, and the patient would be alive).

I don’t believe that the Biden side wants more deaths to continue to prove Trump’s incompetence.  They are calling for a more logical approach, a proven scientific method of controlling an epidemic virus.   Yes, it works into their political calculus as well. Aren’t they lucky?

Mourning the Dead

And while COVID is a critical issue, it isn’t the only one.  We as a nation are focused on whether Black lives are valued, and how to keep order in our streets.  Our divisions are so real that there are literal fights occurring between protestors and pickup truck drivers in Portland (full disclosure, I own a pickup truck too).  So, I hope both sides are worried about the state of our nation, so rancorous and divided. 

On September 11^th, there’s going to be the usual moments.  We will all be preparing for 9-11 remembrances, minutes of silence at times that planes struck, solemn bells rung at Ground Zero, flowers laid at the Monument in Shanksville, Pennsylvania and the Memorial at the Pentagon.  We will mourn the loss of the firemen, and the policemen, and the regular people working in the Towers and the Pentagon, or flying on the planes.  2,997 died that day, and we will rightfully observe the loss.

As Abraham Lincoln said about such ceremonies, “it is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this”.   But while we are preparing for the nineteenth anniversary of 9-11, we should be mindful of the current milestone we will be reaching.  Somewhere around that date, the two hundred thousandth person will die from COVID-19 in the United States.

#Honor200000

Whether you are a Republican or Democrat, a Trumper, Never-Trumper, Biden fan or something else, we should all pause to recognize the loss WE as a nation, have had in our own lives in the past eight months.  We will pause at 8:46 and 9:03.  And we should pause again at 9:37 and 10:03.  Those deserved moments are the times when planes crashed into the buildings or courageous passengers flew one into the ground.  

But perhaps at noon on September 11^th, we should pause one more time, for those we’ve lost in this ongoing American tragedy.  It’s not about politics.  It’s to recognize our ongoing sacrifice, and our continuing grief.

Counting

Last week there were two big scandals in politics.  The first was about New York Governor Andrew Cuomo and the early COVID crisis.  As the pandemic raged through senior citizen homes, it seems that the state manipulated the death statistics to “look better”.  The original statistic was 8,000 deaths in the nursing homes. But we now know that 7,000 more who died were transported to hospitals and were considered hospital deaths rather than the “nursing home” deaths.  

It seems like a “counting game”, manipulating statistics to control the narrative. But it’s the State of New York, where the Democratic Party is willing to eat its own.  Democratic politics in New York are bad. For a time the Republicans controlled the legislature, because one group of Democrats hated another group so much, they aligned with the Republicans.  It’s other Democrats that are using the numbers to attack Cuomo.

Frozen

And the other scandal?  As the state of Texas froze, people were trapped in their unheated homes. Some even died of hypothermia or loss of power to drive lifesaving equipment.  Others were forced to find water by breaking the ice on swimming pools to boil, as the water infrastructure froze.  As the pipes burst, the system-wide water pressure dropped and failed. 

That scandal has two parts.  The state of Texas is an “ independent” operator when it comes to utilities.  They cut themselves out of the national power grid, so that their market was “free” from Federal government regulation.  Since the big power needs for Texas is in August air-conditioning season, some power generators actually go off-line for the winter.  Others failed to “winterize” their generating facilities, so that when this year’s Arctic weather reached to the Gulf of Mexico coast, they were forced to shut down. 

So Texas can’t “borrow” energy from other states.

Texas energy was cheap, and they got what they paid for in the past two weeks.  And to add insult to energy, many Texans took advantage of the cheap energy with variable rate energy plans.  As energy was generally plentiful, the prices were low.  But since the energy is scarce right now, their variable rates are skyrocketing.  Some are getting monthly electric bills in the tens of thousands – really.  That for the electricity that left them frozen.

Out of Dodge

And of course, there was the humorous side of the Texas disaster. Senator Ted Cruz hopped a plane to Cancun to dodge the weather.   Watching him fly down there, trying to ignore IPhone cameras along the way, then head back home the next day was almost as much fun as listening to his tortured explanations of what he was doing.

But before we go on with discussion of the issues, isn’t this normal?  We’re not talking about “the other guy” who used to be in the White House, about what craziness he said, or did, or failed to do.  We are talking about “normal” crises, and “normal” politics, and the normal antics of America’s politicians.  What a relief.

What’s Important

Both of these issues have real consequences for real people.  If the people of New York were more fully aware of the early nursing home statistics, perhaps they would have demanded different choices from their government.  Though, to be honest, as I remember at the time as the first major outbreak of COVID rocked the nation, we were all very aware of the toll taking place in nursing homes.  Would 15,000 instead of 8,000 made a difference?  I don’t know.

Cuomo does have an awkward political moment.  One excuse his Administration used was that in the rush to deal with the COVID crisis, they didn’t realize the statistical “error”.  But later, when the pace slowed, it wasn’t corrected.  And in the meantime, the Governor had time to write a book,  American Crisis: Leadership Lessons from the COVID-19 Pandemic. It ended up on the New York Times bestseller list.  That certainly raises questions about his priorities.

And both of these crises have political consequences.  The Governor and the Senator’s missteps are some of the first moves of the Presidential campaign of 2024 . Are you ready?   The New York Governor built an image of competency as he gave his “chats” during the spring of COVID, but the negative ad will show him busy writing his book as seniors died.

And of course, the image of Ted Cruz dodging cameras at the airport to head for the beach as Texans froze in their beds, will make a great ad for some opponent.  We may forget all that in the meantime, but the grainy black and white videos will remind us of their priorities when their states were in crisis.

Normal politics:  welcome home!

This is another in the “Sunday Story” Series. There’s nothing “political” here – no great moral outcome or outrage. Just a story of watching the Nightly News and vacation memories.

Fran

I watched the Nightly News this week.  There were lots of stories:  ice storms in Texas, snowstorms in Washington State, COVID numbers, and the Biden plan.  And, like most evening newscasts, NBC’s Lester Holt tried to end on a “high note”.  His story was of the snowstorm in Seattle, and the ninety-year-old woman who refused to miss her COVID vaccination appointment.  

We were sitting at the kitchen table, discussing the news as it came across.  So it was only with “half an ear” that I heard the beginnings of the story:  all transportation was down, the ninety-year-old couldn’t find a ride to the vaccination site – so she bundled up and walked, six miles (uphill, both ways) to get her COVID shot.

Then they put her picture on the screen.  I turned to Jenn (my wife) and said – “I know her!!!”  It’s Fran Goldman, a face from my distant youth.  Seeing her led my down all sorts of “rabbit holes” of memories.  So join me – down this “rabbit hole” of family vacations.

Oh Canada!

There is an island on the Canadian side of the US border called St. Joseph’s Island.  It’s just above the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the island farthest east in the St. Mary’s Channel that goes from Lake Superior to Lake Huron, right across from Drummond Island in the United States.

Somehow in the 1920’s, that Island became popular among the Cincinnati Jewish set for  summer vacation homes.  One of the original owners were the Fries (pronounced Freeze) who owned Fries and Fries Fragrances and Flavors company in Cincinnati.  If you lived or travelled in Cincinnati in the 1960’s and 70’s you might remember their plant, on I-75 Southbound just as you passed the Paddock Road exit and the Jim Beam Distillery.  Your car would fill with exotic smells of vanilla or other pleasant odors.  That was Fries and Fries.

Hilton Beach

Another was the Ransohoff family, who built a vacation cabin farther down the shore.  And in between was the Steiner cabin, owned by the founders of the Kenner Toy Company.  At the time, there was a train that went from Cincinnati to Sault Ste Marie, Michigan, where they could take a ferry across the channel over to Sault Ste Marie, Canada (better known as “The Soo”).  Another train took them to the small community of Bruce Mines, where they could catch a ferry across to the island, and finally to the town of Hilton Beach, just down the road from their vacation homes.

Other cabins grew along the shoreline, until by the 1950’s there was a whole little community.  From east to west – Fries, Feder, Steiner, Edelestein, Goldman, Ransohoff.  Their families spent most of the summer up there, with the husbands coming up on vacation for a few days at the beginning, and a few weeks at the end.

My father, Don Dahlman, grew up in the apartment below the Ransohoff clan.  By the 1950’s the “Ransohoff Compound” included several cabins built around the original, with each of the three sons, Dad’s contemporaries, building their own. So the Dahlman’s visited  Hilton Beach throughout the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s , and though we never had our own place there, we spent a couple of weeks each summer renting one of the cabins on the beach from before I was born until I was in my twenties.  For my entire first two decades of life – going on vacation was going to Hilton.

Growing Up On the Lake

It was a boy’s paradise.  There was the “lake,” (not the “big lake”, Huron, around the bend at Big Point, but a wide gap in the St. Mary’s River) where we boated, skied, and picnicked on various small rock islands.  Those islands had mysterious names like Whiskey Rock and Blueberry Island, and the one with the “slippery sluice”, a moss-covered crevice in the rocks we could slide all the way to the lake.  There were lots of woods to explore between the cabins, with the creeks running down to the lake all smelling of mint.  

And there were all the people you grew up with, two weeks a year, year after year after year.  Some you were even related to in a distant, third or fifth cousin kind of way. 

Morning Bath

My father’s ritual was that we would all get up in the morning, and “bathe” in the lake.  It wasn’t too early – 9 am or so – but this was water fresh from Lake Superior.  We never saw ice on it, but it sure felt that way in those mornings when we huddled on the beach, and had “the great debate”.  Mom would “wash herself in”, using the Ivory Soap that wouldn’t sink to the bottom.  It was a slow painstaking (and painful) process, and only when she was fully lathered and had no other choice would she take the breathtaking dip all the way in.  

Dad, on the other hand, was a “now or never” kind of bather.  He would immediately take “the plunge”, come back up with “seal” whoops then call for someone to toss him the soap.  We kids (my two sisters and I, and whatever friends we might have brought with us) would have to decide.  I was like Dad, dive in and get it over with.  If you’ve ever participated in the “ice bucket challenge” you’ve got the idea.  We wore swim suits, though there were others on their isolated beaches who didn’t bother.

So every morning the “Dahlman clan” would head down to the beach, and add a little Ivory Soap (a Cincinnati product made just down the road from the Fries and Fries Plant) to the Great Lakes.  Some mornings it would take just a few minutes (too cold) and some days we might stay a bit longer.  But afterwards it was always get dressed and head for the “cabin”.  

Almost England

Blue jeans and sweat shirts or Canadian flannels were always the morning dress code.  And Canadian bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, and seemingly everything else was always on the menu.  Mom was British, and Canada seemed a lot closer to “Mother England” than the United States in those days.  She could always find her English marmalade, and special salad creams.  And of course for us kids, there were the “exotic” English candies and cookies.  My teeth were toughened by the strongest of caramels, Mackintosh’s toffee bars, where the first bite found any weakness in enamel. 

But the family tradition was to find Peek Frean’s Bourbon Biscuits.  You couldn’t get them in the States (and you can’t get them anywhere now – I’ve tried). But they were a double chocolate cookie, two chocolate wafers with a chocolate filling.  And they tasted even better because you could only find them in Canada, and for us, at the Hilton Beach General Store.

There were a couple of other “delectables” only available in Canada.  When I was young, it was crinkle French fries at “Lornie’s Restaurant” – the only thing I would put vinegar on.  And the only thing to wash those fries down was Grape Crush, a drink that hadn’t made its way across the border back then.  Today, if I can find just the right fries – and cook them to just the right consistency (crisp and crunch) and sip a Grape Crush, I can travel back fifty-five years in a flash.

Preservers and Beer

Dad would rent a boat for the weeks we were there, and as a young child, I remember bedding down underneath the bow, snuggled into the slightly moldy life preservers.  I can still go to sleep to that memory:  the burr of the motor, the bump of the waves, the smell of the preservers and gasoline and maybe a Canadian beer that Dad was sipping along the way.  

Speaking of beer, when I got older that became part of our routine.  By then were driving to Canada from Cincinnati, crossing the pine forests of Michigan as we felt the air change from Detroit industrial to the cool dryness of the Great Lakes.  We crossed the Mackinac Bridge. That was one of my first driving experiences.  Dad had acrophobia, fear of heights, that really kicked in on the seven mile stretch high over the water.  Mom didn’t drive, and when we were kids Dad would stop at the bridge entrance and get a “driver” to take us across.  But when I hit fifteen, I’m not sure I even had a license yet, I could drive a straight line from the Lower to the Upper Peninsula.  I got to drive the international bridge into Canada as well.

And as soon as we cleared customs, our next stop was the beer store.  We usually bought Doran’s, but there were the more traditional Canadian beers, Molson’s and LaBatt’s as well, and of course Canadian Whiskey.  At the time, the drinking age in Canada was eighteen, so when I was of age, we got several cases of beer to get us through two weeks. It wasn’t just for us, but for all the guests that would wander in from the path between the cabins, especially to sit by the fireplace in the evenings.

Rainy Day

And what to do on a rainy day on vacation?  It was time to “explore” the island (even though we had explored it plenty of times before).  The first stop was to go to Richard’s Landing, the other “major town” (population – 400).  There you would find the tourist shop called “Courtney’s”.  Harry Courtney was the owner, an American ex-pat, with all sorts of lurid rumors as to why he was in Canada.  At Courtney’s you could buy First American products, moccasins and clothes, as well as “famous” Hudson Bay Company blankets, and Viyella shirts. Those special-blend cotton-wool shirts came in varying Scottish plaids.

Mom, of course, knew the Scottish Clan history of each plaid, from Stewart to Black Watch.  But the plaids were adopted by families on the beach, so that the Black Watch plaid was always “Ransohoff” plaid in my mind.  And Viyella shirts always have a special place in my heart – I’m wearing my Stewart plaid (can’t remember which beach family adopted that) as I write today.  They’re good for Canadian summers, and twenty-degree winters here in Ohio as well.  But Mom went to Courtney’s for another reason.  Mrs. Courtney was British, and the two would always go down their shared memory lane of London and the English countryside.

Around the Island

Harry was one of Dad’s boat rental sources, so some years we had to pick up a boat and take if back half-way ‘round the island to Hilton Beach.  But Harry’s boats were notorious for breaking down, and when I was older, I found myself alone in the middle of the channel adrift, hoping I could catch a tow somewhere.  This was all an age well before cell phones, in fact, they didn’t have phones in the cabins either.  If you needed to make a call, there was a payphone outside the General Store.  Eventually a fellow boater towed me to the dock at Hilton Beach – and I walked back to our rented cabin.

After the journey to Richard’s Landing, there were two more destinations on the Island.  The first was to visit another Cincinnati family, the Pritz’s over on Mosquito Bay.  They were friends from Cincinnati too, but had a more “rustic” place away from everyone else.  And after seeing them, it was off to the end of the island, and a visit to old Fort St. Joseph.

There you found the artifacts left over from the battle for the Great Lakes during the War of 1812, and learned the history of the Voyageurs, the traders who took great canoes throughout the Canadian wilderness.  They had blankets and metal goods – pots and pans and axes – and I’m sure whiskey as well to trade with the First Americans.  And in return, they got beaver pelts, to satisfy Europe’s massive need for fashionable beaver hats.  We watched the same movie every year – about their trials and their songs, and their recipe to deter the attacking mosquitos – skunk oil and bear grease.  After our visit, we drove home lustily singing “the Voyageur Song” – in French. Who knows what we were really saying.   (What you could only see at old Ft. St Joe then is now on YouTube – The Voyageurs – warning – the song will get stuck in your head!!).

Fran 

The Goldman’s’ lived in the middle – alongside the softball field, across from first base.  They were friends of Mom and Dad in Cincinnati as well, and I’m told distant cousins.

So no wonder she wasn’t concerned with the cold and snow in Seattle. She swam in the cold, cold Huron waters for all of her life.  And I’m sure as she marched to her vaccination date, trudging through the snow and ice, she was humming a song, of skunk oil and bear grease, whiskey and whitewater.  She saw the movie even more than we did – there were always a few rainy days, and she was there for most of the summer.  

She was a Hilton Beach Voyageur!!

Boy Scouts

The summer I was thirteen, I was a Boy Scout “machine”.  I was in a hurry; a hurry to get my Eagle Scout Award.  There were five us all working in Troop 229 in Kettering, Ohio. We all had the goal of getting Eagle by Christmas – and getting the Award all at the same time.  

Looking back, we were all in a rush, perhaps too much so.  When you’re moving that fast through the Scouting program, you’re definitely going to miss some things along the way.  At my “Board of Review”, when adults I didn’t know examined my qualifications for Scouting’s highest youth Award, the first words out of one of the evaluators, was, “You’re too young for Eagle”.  I must have been a budding politician then, as I still managed to convince him, and the others, into voting for my application.   

Moving through the ranks of Scouting – Tenderfoot, Second Class, First Class, Star, Life and Eagle, is mostly a matter of passing qualifications.  For the last three those qualifications come in the form of Merit Badges. At the time it took twenty-one to earn the Eagle Award.  They tested everything from Camping, Canoeing and Swimming, to First Aid and Emergency Preparedness, to Citizenship in the Community, Nation and World .

Service Project

But Eagle was special – and it required a special service project, something of value to the community.  And the service project wasn’t just about doing work.  The real test of the project was in the organization.  Finding a good cause, getting help, materials, and planning out the project were just as important as the completion itself.  My project wasn’t some of the incredible constructions I hear about today. Nor was it some highly developed social media effort (social media consisted of phone calls back in 1970).  It was fairly simple:  there was a group home for adults with mental handicaps, and it needed to be cleaned up and painted.  

So I got my four friends on the “Eagle Trail”, organized all of the equipment and paint, and we spent a weekend making the home look a lot more “homey”.  It was an experience:  ladders and wasp nests, chipping and second coats – but we got it done.  And at the end of the first day I took my buddies out to dinner at the “new” hamburger place, McDonalds.  

Big Mac Meals

All five of us were starving.  It was Big Mac’s and Fries, chocolate shakes and probably some extras as well.  I was a little surprised at the price, more than I expected, and I think I had to hit up my Dad for a couple of extra bucks.  The total bill was FIVE dollars.

Five dollars – seemed like a lot of money in those days.  Five dollars could fill five teenagers’ stomachs after a hard, hot day of working on the Home.  Just five dollars – in 1970 that would buy twenty gallons of gasoline, more than four gallons of milk, and twenty POUNDS of bread.  

What will FIVE dollars get you at McDonalds today?  A “number one” value meal:  Big Mac, Fries, and a drink, costs $7.60.  That’s for one.  So to feed those five “starving” teens today, it’s closer to $40.00 (Menu and Price).

Value of a Dollar

What’s changed?  So probably not the Big Mac, or the Fries, or the Cokes from the fountain (though the fountain may be “electronic” and require advanced computer training to pour).  What changed is the value of the money used to pay for those items, the “value” of the dollar.

And the value of a dollar is based on the “supply” of dollars versus the “demand”.  Not to be too simplistic, but the “demand” for money is pretty consistent – everybody wants it, everybody needs it, and everybody will spend it (in one form or another). 

 So the “demand” side isn’t such a big deal – even in the pandemic Americans have managed to spend money.  Look at the success of Amazon, or try to buy furniture, or find someone to do home remodeling.  We have been stuck at home, and if we have money, then our homes are often looking a lot better.

National Debt and Inflation

The United States government often spends more money than it raises in taxes, fees, and other income.  That “deficit” spending is “funded” by the government borrowing the money.  That “borrowing” includes selling bonds, simple promises to “pay Tuesday for the money today”.  Back in 1970, the US Government owed $370 billion, mostly driven by Cold and Vietnam War spending.  

At the end of the Trump Administration, the US Government owes about $27 trillion.  That’s seventy-three times higher than when I was thirteen.  But the relative value of the “dollar” in terms of Big Macs, is only one-seventh (it takes seven times more dollars to buy it).  And while the debt has almost doubled in the past decade, the Big Mac Value meal increased by less than a dollar.  So we can conclude – at least on the “Big Mac” scale – that while rising costs are linked to the National debt – there isn’t a dollar-to-dollar relationship.

Biden’s Proposals

It the US Government decided to “pay-off” ALL student debt, it would cost $1.7 trillion.  Assuming that it’s not paid for by additional taxes, it would increase the National Debt but six percent.  By the way, that’s almost exactly how much the Trump Administration “gave back” in their big tax cut in 2017.  Joe Biden’s COVID relief package costs $1.9 trillion, just a bit over a seven percent debt increase.  

So when we hear Republicans and some moderate Democrats all of a sudden worried about the impact of spending on the National Debt and inflation, remember that they didn’t seem too worried about that in the Trump Administration, when the National Debt went up 26%, from $20 trillion to $26 trillion (The Balance).  Hard to imagine that it’s NOW, that a couple of more trillion will make “all the difference” and drive us to dramatic inflation.

But their anguished worries make good sounds bites – especially when the programs are benefitting the lower income Americans instead of the top one percent windfall of the Trump tax cut.

Eagle Ceremony

In November of 1970, five Boy Scouts were awarded the Eagle Rank at Southdale Elementary School in Kettering.  Dad managed WLW-D in Dayton, so we got television news coverage and everything (there’s even an old reel of 16mm film around).  And just because five Scouts earned the rank at once, it didn’t “inflate” the Eagle Ranks, nor did it “devalue” the influence of the award.  It’s been on my resume every since.  And the tarnished Eagle medal still is in the top drawer of my dresser.

Memes

You can read it on any Facebook meme – or you can see it on right wing media.  Gas prices are up, power has failed in Texas.  And it’s all Joe Biden’s fault.  The “terror” of the “Green New Deal” is already being blamed.  We won’t be able to afford to drive our cars, and people are freezing in their houses in the Arctic vortex winter.  Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez must be laughing hysterically.  After all, doesn’t she control what the Biden Administration does?

I call BS.  Let’s talk about what’s really happening.

“Gas Buddy” is a great website.  It can show you where the cheapest gas prices are in your area.  And it also tracks historic gas prices nationally, and locally.  So you can make “apples to apples” comparisons of what’s really going on.  Today, if you drive down to Kroger’s, regular gas costs $2.45/gallon (without the loyalty discounts).  That’s up $.46 since election day.  One argument goes that just the “thought” of a Biden Administration has driven the price up.

But let’s look at the history.  Now, February 2021, the price is $2.45.  A year ago, before anyone knew that Joe Biden was going to be President, the price was– $2.44.  Two years ago, in February 2019, the price was – $2.38.  Three years ago it was a little better – $2.25.  

What’s the point?  That gas prices in February have trended higher for the past few years.  There’s lots of reasons for that:  gas production switches over to “summer” blend gas, more oil is refined as fuel oil for heating rather than gasoline, the Saudi’s have raised prices.  None of that has anything to do with the “Green New Deal”, Ocasio-Cortez, or Joe Biden.

Frozen Wind-Turbines

So for those right-wing doomsayers who cry that Biden will make gas prices $4.00 a gallon:  that might happen someday, but it ain’t happening yet.  We all know the story of the “Boy who cried wolf”, and they’re doing a lot of crying now.  The Biden Administration will try to make the United States more energy efficient, and climate friendly.  But it hasn’t happened yet.

But what about Texas the home to gas, oil, “Texas Tea”, and wildcat drilling?  The arctic vortex has drifted all the way down to Dallas, with several inches of snow and ice, sub-twenty-degree temperatures, and three million people without power.  And, according to the Facebook memes and the Governor, it’s all because Texans have switched to “wind power” and the wind turbines have frozen.

No one has ever claimed that Texas was in the fore-front of the environmental movement.  But the “Great Plains” do lend themselves to frequent winds, and the wind power industry is taking advantage.  A full SEVEN percent of Texas power is provided by wind turbines.  So how did those FROZEN wind turbines shut down the Texas power grid?

Ninety-Three Percent

They didn’t.  Texas has a separate energy grid, with the vast majority of power generation based on natural gas, oil, coal and nuclear.  But the problem is this:  the power generators in Texas “bet” that the once a decade cold snap wouldn’t be too bad.  So they didn’t protect the energy generating sources, particularly natural gas.  When this cold snap hit, the natural gas pumps literally froze up, and couldn’t pump the natural gas out of the ground to be burned for electricity.  Even some of the nuclear plants have shut down, their cooling pumps frozen by the sub-freezing temperatures.  And yes, the wind-turbines are frozen too.

But those same turbines aren’t frozen here in Ohio where the current temperature is three degrees, Fahrenheit.  They have been winterized, as well as the natural gas electric plants and even the two nuclear plants.  

What You Pay For

Think of Texas like that “special” car you only drive in the summer.  No reason for snow tires, and no reason to check the anti-freeze.  No need to protect it, because you don’t ever bring it out, stored in the warm garage for the cold, cold winter.  So when all of a sudden you decide to take it out in February, would you be surprised that the tires don’t grip and the radiator freezes up?  

The Texas power industry “bet” on the weather, and they lost.  And now the regulators in Texas, like the Governor, are taking the “heat” (or getting the “cold shoulder”) from the millions of Texans left out in the cold without power.  So it’s easier to blame Biden, or Ocasio-Cortez, than to take responsibility for their own failures.

Texas wanted cheap energy.  And it was cheap for a reason, and not just because it was sitting in the ground for the drilling. They got what they paid for.  Bet they wished they’d put a few more dollars in now.

Resistance

This “blog”, originally called “Trump World”, began just over four years ago.  It started at the  suggestion of my niece Leslie. We were talking about what to do about the new Trump Administration and how we could make our voices heard against the outrages we saw.  Leslie suggested I “write a blog”, something that seemed both interesting and alien to me.  Our family always discussed politics and world events, with even the youngest (that was me for a long time) not only expected to have a say, but listened to and respected.  Our discussions around the dinner table were legendary among my parents’ friends, but it all started with just us, just the family.

But conversations are two-way streets.  Essays are putting thoughts on paper. It’s difficult to know if what you’re thinking and writing and what people are reading is “the same”.  So I wasn’t sure if essays were the answer.  (By the way, I’ve discovered the same kind of problem with public “presentations” in our new COVID world.  “Zoom” lectures aren’t anywhere close to classroom presentations.  There’s no “feedback”, even rolled or closed eyes, to let you know how you’re doing.  Nothing like lecturing a blank computer screen to test your concentration.  Human contact, verbal or non-verbal, is vital).

A Blog

So Leslie thought I could replicate some of those “dinner discussions” in a “blog”. And as a retired guy, I had the time and the inclination to try it.  By the way, I’m not that fond of the word “blog”, I always feel like “blogging” is a stream of consciousness kind of thing:  “Dahlman’s Blog – MacBook Pro,  Star Date 74594.4 …”   I see myself as more of an essayist.  I need a structure, a beginning, middle and end that relate to each other.  As my college writing Professor, Tony Stoneburner, taught:  an essay either needs a skeleton or it needs a shell, but it needs something that pulls it all together.  I’ve always been a “shell” guy.  The essay may go a long way away in the middle, but returns to the beginning at the end – at least that’s the goal.

I bought a website (dahlman.online) and paid the fees (WordPress) and set out to try to explain the years of Donald Trump.  

It was going to be a once-a-week thing, for a few folks that we knew.  And if it had stayed that way, here four years later, there would be about two hundred fifty essays spanning the era.  But, just like our family dinner table discussions that would last for hours, the essays got “out of hand”. 

The more I wrote, the more I seemed to want to say.  The essays became a near-daily exercise, staring at the blank white page (screen) of my MacBook.  It even got to the point where several essays were written on my IPhone.  Essays were written in cars, classrooms, hospital rooms, and when I took a full-time online teaching job, in the very dark early hours before school started.  

So Many

So why all of this “process” talk about the essays?  Because this essay is the one thousandth on “Trump World”, now “Our America”.  And more than just the “few folks” are reading them.  There are still those “few folks” who get essays by e-mail.  Then there are the “Facebook” “participants” – where all the discussion and sometimes acrimonious debate, goes on.  That’s around a thousand people a month.  Then there are the over two thousand people who “subscribe” to the website itself –  “Our America”.  So the “project” has progressed.

The thousand essays contain around a million words, or in book form, two thousand pages.  That’s seven-hundred, twenty-five pages longer than War and Peace.  It’s a body of work, about the events of our time.  Sure the word “Trump” is probably the most used, but topics went from the horror of mass shootings and child separation, to the joy of watching a solar eclipse, to travelling around the country.  Some of the best essays were written on picnic tables as the sun rose over our camper.   

History and Dogs

Other recurring themes:  track teams, Boy Scouts, teaching kids, lots of history, and dogs, all the dogs.  We lost one of the best, Dash, our Yellow Lab early on.   But Buddy, our shepherd-mix miracle cancer survivor is still going strong.  And we’ve added a new Yellow Lab, Atticus, and an Australian Shepherd mix, Keelie, both, like Dash and Buddy, rescues. And just recently we’ve acquired Louisiana, the long-legged gentle rescue from Baton Rouge.  He was supposed to be a “foster” as he recovered from two broken legs and a broken hip – but he and Keelie are fast friends.  So we might end up having “four dog nights” instead of “three”.

And I’ve taken the opportunity to share some “stories”:  about my parents, my life, and our world.  That’s a lot like my classroom (or long rides in the back of the bus), where there would always be some “story” to highlight the lesson or the meet.  Sometimes it was history, and sometimes personal.  But there is a reason “story” is part of the word “history”, and I took full advantage of my opportunity to tell them.

Top Ten

There’s a list of the essays, and how many read them – here’s the top ten.

Small Town Problems – 918

Mom’s War – 560

Out My Window – Part 4 – 507

Don Dahlman – 168

Memories of Notre Dame – 147

Shanksville – 145

Lester Kahrig – 144

Flags and Shoes – 130

OK, Boomer – 124

Going to War – The Draft – 114.

What’s interesting about the list?  Direct essays about the Trump Administration aren’t in the top ten.  Instead they’re stories about people (Mom’s War, Don Dahlman, Lester Kahrig), history (Memories of Notre Dame, Shanksville, Going to War) and my small town, Pataskala (Small Town Problems, Out My Window – Part 4).  That leaves two more political essays – Flags and Shoes and OK, Boomer.

A Liberal in Trump Country

While any adult close to me knew my political values, as a school teacher in the same community for forty years I kept my “politics” out of the classroom.  So it came as a shock to some that “Mr. Dahlman” teacher, was a “fire-breathing liberal”.  For some of my former students that came as a welcome affirmation, but many felt I betrayed their values.  They seemed to be in search for some prior “sins” of indoctrination – but if that was so, I did a lousy job.  Forty years teaching in the school, and our community is still overwhelmingly “Trump Country”.  

So I’ve lost some “friends” along the way, some that don’t matter, and some that I really respected, outside of the realm of politics.  The one thing that Donald Trump symbolized to our country, is the loss of political civility.  He wasn’t the cause; we were already well down the road of “disagree with me and I hate you”, but he took us to a whole new level of vitriol.  I’ve learned things about folks I know – well – that I’d rather not known.  But that’s been our world, stoked on by Trumpism, and now magnified by the isolation of COVID.

Still Friends

And on the other hand I’ve found some “friends” as well.  Some have shared the verbal “combat” of our discussions online, and some have more gently commented in the “blog” itself.  And for some – it’s been even more subtle.  We live in “Trump Country”, but we put our politics on the front lawn.  It not only was an exercise in politics, it was a statement of our freedom of speech.  When our Biden signs were stolen, they just were replaced by bigger ones.  Happily, there were many in our community who spoke out against the theft, most of them with “Trump” signs in their front yards.

But the real mark of fellowship was the person who lived on a nearby street who stopped by after Biden was declared the winner.  Her neighbors were so volatile that she dared not put a Biden sign in her yard.  But she wanted to thank us, and handed us a bottle of champagne – bought to celebrate Hillary’s coming victory four years ago.  COVID world wouldn’t allow her to come in and share a drink (we asked), but she wanted to toast Biden’s win, at least vicariously.

Our America

Four years ago we were struggling to describe “Trump World”.  Now we aren’t sure we can get rid of it, even if we get rid of the “man” himself.  There will be a plenty more to discuss, and plenty of opportunity to argue.  Hopefully we can all recognize that, in our changing America, most of us want things to get better.  After all, it’s “Our America” now.