Memorials

High atop one of our book shelves is displayed my father-in-law's WWII Val-pak Army suitcase. It can't stand up straight, made of Army green canvas and oxblood leather strapping. But we keep it there because it is authentic. The travel order tags are still tied limply to their metal loops; his name and dog tag numbers are typed there. His helmet is tucked away with some photos of A&M and Army days. In them he resembles a young Frank Sinatra, thin as a reed. His name was Oscar Symms Long.

He told stories of the war, often. He commanded the 756th Tank Battalion, which moved from Algeria, French Morocco to the European Theater. Once the turret of his tank fell on his right hand, just over the fingers. He would have been disabled, his hand crushed, but he was wearing his thick, gold mound of an Aggie ring. The ring saved his hand, as A&M had saved his life--escaping as he did from Depression times into college life as a cadet.

Once his men were in Germany en route to an assignment and they passed a building decorated with a gigantic Nazi flag. He ordered them to climb up and take it down. . . they did so, and he made sure it never flew again. It lies in a family drawer somewhere with other mementos of wartime. . . letters from home. . . passage tickets to places we can't recognize even if we have been to the towns before. The war changed everything in the "civilized" world, forever.

He was decorated for valor; he was humble enough never to raise his profile above the others, as they had all worked as one team. The traumas ran deep--the comradeship closer than blood kin ever can be.

But he always spoke of the war as if it were a thing apart, a life apart, a real-life dream that had vaporized with the gun smoke. His pride ran deeper than trauma or the comradeship or the realities of dreams, and still he was too humble to say so.

We all pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States; we honor the fallen heroes; we save the scraps of tea-colored tags and shreds of their experience. But we can never know the realities of their heartbreak under fire, their courage in the trenches and the cockpits; it will forever be closed to us, and the idea of war--the knowledge that at the most important of times it has saved our freedom, our nation--it's really all we have.

We know that the battles were hard-won. We know that the soldiers saved us. Saved our frame homes on elm-lined streets, the sounds of factory whistles and boys' shouts at baseball practice, still ringing in our heads. Peaceful sounds, even if they call from the distant past.

Realities and dreams intermingle still, even though actual world war has not happened since the 1940s. We owe real debts to real men and women in real wars, so that our dreams can be realized and so that the work of building and keeping the hard realities of democracy can move down the open road.

A sweet line from E.M. Forster's "Howards End," said by Julia Wilcox, the matron of the upper-class family in the mix of characters, sticks in my memories as if I had sat at the table with her.

"I've always had the notion that if we could somehow get the mothers of the world together, then. . . there would be no more war."

As Hemingway said, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Online Liberty for Freedom and Liberty and Freedom. . . and Liberty

Hey kids, a new web site has popped up: Liberty Central, run by the little woman of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas (we remember him, don't we?), Ginni Thomas, short for Virginia, the state that is also tampering with textbooks this season.

The purpose of the site is clear and quite succinct: "to harness the power of citizen voices, inform everyday Americans with knowledge, and activate them to preserve liberty." Sounds so good, except perhaps for the words "harness" and "activate," which recall certain veterinary terms; but I read on:

"Ginni recognized the need for our country to bridge the gap between our nation’s citizens and its Capitol . . . " (I'm thinking she hasn't been tuning in to CNN, MSNBC, and certainly not to FOX.)

The site continues, ". . . and return to a government that adheres to our core Founding Principles – limited government," (as opposed to one small enough to eliminate the FDA, the IRS and the Pentagon?) ". . .personal responsibility, individual liberty, free enterprise, and national security." Okie-dokie.

Sounds innocuous enough, personal responsibility being truly important in a democracy, or else the whole place sort of. . . uh. . . I guess it collapses or something. It's just unbelievably important.

I mean when Clarence Thomas had the sharkiest lawyers in the world to prove he indeed had not "harassed sexually" his employee, we all witnessed the finest displays of a judge's personal responsibility, no matter whose hair was on that Coca-Cola bottle. Oh my that is disgusting. I think Coke lost ground in the markets that week. Well, it's in the court records, I didn't make it up. But the courts showed us how rotten that woman was, ruled him spittin' clean and let him return to his duties of assuring the S.Court kept a tight "harness" over those "Founding Principles."

To continue with the goals of this wonderful site, "Working alongside like-minded organizations and individuals, Liberty Central assists new citizen-activists in their search for educational resources and for tangible ways to impact our current political environment." Oh. They used "impact" as a verb. Bad form, but I guess we can overlook that, since their goal is clearly to raise even further ground-roots (grass-roots sounds so vulgar, doesn't it?) organizations of private citizens.

And in this time of overwhelming numbers of vital, life-or-death issues, we surely do need another grass--I mean ground-roots organization. It just helps so much to have people involved.

They could join with their neighbors at the border, sit in those lawn chairs that have the handy cup holders made of canvas, armed with Budweiser and various types of weaponry, shoot the breeze, and shoot any illegals that might happen to break through their fierce barrier. I just think that's amazing, for people to give their time like that. Sure, they lose out on episodes of "Lost" and "24," and may have to find another fix for viewing torturous activities after those shows are cancelled, but still. . . . Red blooded Americans, one and all. It's AWESOME, isn't it?

"Ginni," reads her bio, "the ‘proud’ Nebraskan, is a fan of Rush Limbaugh, Mark Levin and Laura Ingraham and other talk radio hosts. She is intrigued by Glenn Beck and listening carefully. She also enjoys motor homing and watching “24″. Oh. Motor homing. I wonder if that is a new activity of Homeland Security, could we find out more about that?

Oh, I learned oodles about what's "really" going on today, so be sure to stop by Liberty Central.com. They share a test that actually tells if you're "more Libertarian," or simply a "Relativist," in case we have no clue what our own ideas mean.

And best of all, their "shop" is chock-full of great American merchandise: Polo shirts for men AND the ladies, coffee mugs, and the "Congressional Handbook, 111th Congress, 2nd Session," for those of us who are too dim to scout out U.S. Congress.gov. Granted, most of us do not take such an active interest in government.

We want to, but things get in the way of combing through every detail of those bills and laws. We're harried, figuring out how to pay mortgages, hospital bills, gasoline bills, or income taxes, and also we're worried about the illegals who are about to gun us down in the streets and take our freedoms away. They might just gain control of our free market!

So thank you, Ginni, for taking time out from your talk-radio listening schedule to include us in the Founding Principles and how they affect our everyday American lives. I'm just glad you posed the site before we lose our online search freedoms! Whew, that was close. And we surely will take in those coordinated links you've provided. Even if they do give us panic attacks. . . what's a little terror for the sake of the nation?

Ex-pats in the Hamlet of Heaven

To a trendy coastal village in Central America, expatriates flock together like grackles. From Canada, London, New Haven and Dallas, they come and they go. But mostly they come. The weather's great, the markets cheap and fresh roses go for $2.00 a dozen. They come in winter to blow off the snow; in summer to beat the heat; they come to be waited on by good "help," for culture, parties, singles groups, charities and clubs. Only occasionally do clouds darken the tropics.

Paradise as some call it, can morph into holy hell before you can say "Chop-chop, Juanita!" when ex-pats have finally had enough of one another. Inbreeding curls at the edges like foie gras left out overnight. . . sticky or ironic, depending on one's take. However the rows are interpreted, keeping the peace cannot be left to the authorities. Subtleties of law enforcement are too vague and must be kept under wraps. Can't have an actual scandal, after all. And if we do, it had better make a good story for bridge. For as one of the elders of the tribe said, "People don't care what one does in the hamlet, as long as they know all about it."

The Original Garden Club has been sliced into two groups now, not unlike the card clubs, the croquet clubs, and the online bulletin boards. For many years The Garden Club has served as a wan substitute for those mourning the fact that here in Heaven, where hundreds of charitable organizations flourish, not a single chapter of the Junior League can be found.

So to compensate for the the sad dearth of a JL--which distinguishes women of substance from the hangers-on--"The" Garden Club was formed. The ladies dressed in "casual dressy" gauzy togs with thick ethnic accessories, and gathered in each other's fabulous homes to share jewelry-acquisition secrets, remedies for cooks who ruin caviar pie, and even once in a while to discuss horticulture: the gardeners' lack of skills.

Sometimes an exciting new subject would tumble into the agenda: a marvelous "find" -- a new fabulously gifted gardener. ("He's known as Gaston, and he just arrived from Provence, so snap him up quickly, Darling!") Gaston could not tell a perennial from a lady bug, but he could at least read. He'd subscribed to "Better Homes" in French before he landed.

The Garden Club hummed with tasks: having the help gather seeds at the perfect moment of propagation season, learning how to grow herbs from those little strips one can bring back from the states, just water and leave them to the gardener (provided the gardener had aced the pricey workshops offered by "Gaston de Provence").

Herb luncheons were held, gala balls thrown and after a time the leaders wised up and let underlings with fewer than 3 years' service shoulder the work. These worker bees then had to order Lupe to arrange the color-coded centerpieces, find suitable speakers for meetings and research topics such as "On Weeding." ("Now Ladies, do tell them to WEED...they do not like to WEED, you know.")

Beleaguered newbies also undertook distributing invitations via handymen, who hand-delivered envelopes on foot, all around town. A great deal of pressure surrounded these tasks, but for a time the Club remained "tranquila." (It's "trankeee-la," Brenda Darling, like tequila--not "trankilla," like Wasilla. DO learn to pronounce the language, Dear--one doesn't have to speak it of course, but correct pronunciation does look better.)

Projects in town smoothed out most squabbles, but inevitably something unpleasant would come up. So-in-so's husband would have committed another faux pas concerning the maid's daughter, or you-know-who would have done you-know-what AGAIN. Sigh. People started competing for "best recipe calling for basil", or "best bud vase arrangement" or "Julio's cell number." Fierce competition soon wrinkled the well-fertilized landscape.

Jockeying for officers demanded higher and higher qualifications--if you hadn't planned the renovation of Versailles, or been a docent in Honolulu's Botanical Gardens, then forget it. . . unless you might just have lost two or three-mil in the last crash.

One flagging member became so distraught over her lack of losses, the unlikelihood of becoming president, that she had her maid drop a few tabs of acid into the punch, hoping to cozy up the hamlet even more.

"It's organic," she said, "after all, isn't it organic, Lupe?"

Lupe frowned into the punch, mixing in mangos and champagne and a fabulous time was had by all--and way too wild for Junior Leaguers from any town. Gingerly, "Acid Alice" as she was subsequently known, was urged to prune herself, so she moved to Barbados--alone--her husband left her over the punch extravaganza. . . his golf club membership was suddenly rejected, so we can all imagine what he went through.

The Originals were enraged over the unpleasantness--while the others felt it was only a bit more raucous than usual, just a tab of acid, and "Tequila Night on the Town" is only a step below that, after all. But the Originals pressed the issue, and a schism skizzed.

A second garden club formed: a more arduous and Birkenstocky club who meet actually to discuss the types of soil in which one plants trees, which insecticide is "green" and other boring stuff, although there're usually plenty of margaritas with fresh limes. So roll the ex-pat clubs, some of whom simply cannot bear to lose, others simply stoned out of their skulls. Too much time on their hands covers most of the problems. Splinter groups crop up--less prestigious but cooler cliques, whose cachet is of a more Greenpeace nature with a hipper-than-thou attitude.

For if we had no somethinger-than-thou, no measuring stick for one-upsmanship, there would be no little clubs at all. Wouldn't that be sad? No rules or slogans to memorize; no parties, dances, songs, insignia jackets, cliques within cliques. Ah gee. . . such memories. Come to think of it, I adored Junior High. Didn't you?

The Forest and the Trees

Beyond the trees, those saplings and teetering pines so easily visible to even the mind's eye, the forest spreads away, far and fast as ink on blotting paper, wide and deep as all the seas combined.

The trees seem simple and straightforward, like so many school children lined up for recess. Striding past them into the woods, moving deeply inward, we have access to the whole world... the oceans invite us in, then the skies, and the universe accepts us as its own. (Excuse me while I go take a tablet.)

I often puzzled at the old saw: “He can’t see the forest for the trees.” Then I grew up, wandered into the forest and saw for myself. In plain sight, there are so MANY trees in the forest, that unless we fly over in a helicopter, we simply cannot see them all. If we could stand there and see them, our vision would need stretching beyond wild imagining, like eyeballs on a cartoon character (boioioioinnnng!)...so just that line of front runners comes into view.

Odd really, like tuning in the Republican National Convention and trying to see at once, all those hundreds of white, vaguely angry and irritated faces, when the camera only shows that front row of the ones in the cowboy hats. Very disconcerting. Plus they all look alike. So, there you are. Where is a helicopter when we need one?

Yet the whole forest beckons, if we pay attention to it. Just look at all the millions of trees pulped into daily newspapers. That’s a lot of trees, so if we pay them just cursory homage, reading the journals, well, it’s as confusing as Pentecostal Halloween.

We’re commanded in different directions. One week we’re supposed to drink lots of coffee. Next week it’s boysenberry juice or Acai from the forests of Brazil. Then we’re supposed to remove welfare from the poor. Next it’s giving boatloads o' cash to the banks which are hurting so badly, they actually own most of the Third World. Then it’s cut taxes for schools and early childhood education. Next it’s bailing out big oil companies who’ve abused us with their really icky and Byzantine accidents but refuse to pay for the damages. I call that downright rude.

Yet we read on, thumbing past the "Living" section to get to the quotes and sports. See who's getting traded and how much they're going to make next year, chasing a ball around a field. I’m thinking those trees really sacrifice a lot for our daily edification. The least we could do is to try to see the whole lot of them.

There they stand, tall, fragrant, old as the universe; and here we are, blind, just barely seeing that little trail of saplings at the end of the suburbs. It seems only fair to try to see that forest-whole, since trees endure heavy decorations and strung lights at Christmas time, only to be chucked out on New Year's Day, like yesterday’s newspaper.

Postmodern Meds

Late-night, I lie with a copy of "To the Lighthouse" bobbing on my bosom so I won't be bored during the commercials of "House," when a gorgeous drill team of bathing beauties grabs my attention. Yes, real bathing beauties complete with bright yellow skull-hugging latex swim caps and old-timey one-piece suits. The music is what I would call "peppy." Like an old movie of the streets of New York, everyone alive on coked-up soft drinks.

Remember swim caps? They pulled out most of your hair when removing them from soaking-wet tendrils? Yeah, they worked great and we thought they looked lame, but our moms made us wear them anyway. On these models, who have likely thrown up every bite for years now, the swim caps look tidy and curiously militaristic as they gingerly kick their legs in a large pool.

Suddenly and in perfect rhythm, so to speak, one by one the girls arise and kick off their old-fashioned swim togs, transforming (poof!) into Postmodern women. Women in the KNOW. Women with POWER. Women with fewer clothes and long razor-jagged hair.

The narrator croons, entranced, describing a new medication that prevents pregnancy AND gives girls only 4 periods a year. Kicky and cute, the wonder pill's called JAZZ!
Imagine, if Mother Nature, that sweet old gal, arrived to boot-kick our abdomens repeatedly for a solid week, only four (yes 4) times a YEAR. It's a miracle. Soon ALL these beauts have aligned themselves with the Postmodern country club, jazzing it up in a marble hot tub, glowing in California sunshine...ahhhh. Just four annual plagues...we're gorgeous and happy and free!

Then as the models cavort with towels and cover-ups, flipping around gracefully for the cameras, a smooth-talking narrator rattles off certain "side effects." Her silken voice hypnotic, she seems to say these bothersome "effects" should merely be discussed with the Dr. Fabulous of your choice, and all will be well.

"Heart attack, stroke, deep-vein thrombosis," she rapidly whispers the symptoms like chocolate-covered bullets, "or blockage of the main artery to the lung..." (oops--don't we need that artery?) "...other blood clots, gall bladder disease and sudden death may occur in some patients, but just see your doctor if you experience any of these...." By the end of the commercial all I'm thinking about is the sudden death part. But the swimsuit models sizzle, whooping it up in style. I lie confused.

A second commercial followed without missing a beat's worth of air time: a thin woman in a droopy bathrobe stares out the window at her kids playing on a swing set. Neither the woman nor her offspring enjoy the day, one of the little girls peering back longingly at Mommy. Until she pops a capsule called Wellbeing! After that, she's soon cartwheeling with the kids, whose smiles twinkle for the camera.

Narrator's side effect list drones merrily on: "As with some antidepressants, patient may experience sleeplessness, excess sleeping, weight loss, weight gain, depression, anxiety, memory loss, constipation, diahrrea and suicidal thoughts or actions."

Oh. Um...excuse me? Did she say "suicidal thoughts or actions?" I believe that she did. Now if I'm not mistaken, suicidal "thoughts" may lead to "actions," but what would those be? The action alone, say. Would you buy the gun and ammo, but not quite get around to blasting away? Would you pile up the sleeping pills on your bedside table, only to ignore them, 'til weeks later, you sweep 'em into your discreet waste basket? Hang that noose in the laundry room but leave the chair in the kitchen?

But on TV, they can croon so sweetly, such terms as "suicidal thoughts or actions," with no definitions whatsoever. That, I don't like. I turned to Helpguide.org to read the definitions. Here's their take: "Thoughts and actions are two different things—your suicidal thoughts do not have to become a reality."

Oh that's huge. Big help. Big. So if you think about suicide, you're safe as long as you don't allow it to "become a reality," and if your suicidal actions fail (the rope breaks, say), then you're also safe as the Savings and Loan. Hm. I feel OK with that, don't you? Besides, side effects are only for a small percentage of patients, like maybe a few million. Right? Something like that.

Meanwhile let's take comfort that we're all going to croak. As a long-term believer in better living through chemistry, I say let's don those yellow bikinis and swim with the girls in the Postmodern Jazz pool, take the pills that lead to somersaulting around the yard with the kids, and laissez les bon temps roulez. Four periods a year. Wow. Wouldn't you just DIE for that?

Brain Usage for Dummies

A new book's just come out: IDIOT AMERICA : HOW STUPIDITY BECAME A VIRTUE IN THE LAND OF THE FREE, by Charles P. Pierce. This theory may be the best explanation for today's constant foibles in the great U.S. of A. than any tome since "Dude, Where's my Country," that classic of the W. Bush years by one of my favorite compatriots, Michael Moore.

IDIOT AMERICA explores the trends of dumbing down--bottom-feeding information to the masses (who in turn bottom-feed on the propagated pablum) for generations, with early works such as TV situation comedy "Mr. Ed," the show with the talking horse. Ed spoke in a really goofy voice, not only to himself, but also with his owner, Wilbur. Ed only talked to Wilbur because "he's the only person worth talking to." This device provided the viewers with wild hilarity when Wilbur was caught by kooky neighbors as he conversed with this lowly beast in the stables. It was quite the funny show. And kids watched it faithfully each week, which made them better students.

The idea being, if kids observed Ed the horse talking to its owner, then when the children were asked questions in class, they would not feel so inferior when it came time to answer Teacher's dreaded questions. . . questions such as "Is a horse a mammal, a mineral, or a vegetable?" On subsequent pop quizzes, the kiddies only had to check multiple-choice A, B, or C--A being "mammal." The little ones could identify this word with talking, as their own first word was likely "Ma-ma." Mama--mammal--it's pretty close. TV added so much to the classroom. I just loved "Mr. Ed." He always chewed his hay while talking and some of it would spray around the stable. Cute as could be.

I highly recommend this book for all who grapple with why America has become the place for complete idiots who seem like normal people--but they're not. They drive these huge military vehicles, hang silk-floral wreaths on their ranch houses and vote Republican because it's the thing to do. IDIOT AMERICA has the answers to these and other perplexing questions: like why is Sarah Palin still on TV? Normally I would review IDIOT AMERICA in further detail, but I haven't read it. Lifetime's re-running some great episodes of "Desperate Housewives."