Gleaning

Gleaning is the traditional Biblical practice of gathering crops that would otherwise be left in the fields to rot or be plowed under after harvest for the benefit of the poor. Also some growers would allow gleaners to pick what was left after harvest to donate to those who are needy. When I was growing up, gleaning was practiced by most of the people who lived in the village. Coal was stripped mined by large power shovels and when the coal was loaded into the trucks that took the coal to the processing plant, some of it spilled over the side. We kids and parents gathered the lumps of coal and moved them to a pile that we kept until it was enough to fill a wagon, or wheelbarrow. The same method was used at the slag dump, where slag from the plant was taken to the slag dump in side dumping cars. After the cars were unloaded, we searched through the slag and gathered any lumps of coal that were left in the slag and moved it to a safe area for taking home. Generally the company did not object to the practice except when in an attempt to be the first ones, we ran in when the truck was not completely full and there was a danger that we could get hurt from falling coal. We used the coal for home heating and cooking, the kitchen stove was a coal fired stove and burned all year, even during the hot summer months. Often when the small railroad that as used to carry the coal cars from the deep mines to the processing plant slowed at the slight grade behind our house, we pulled lumps of coal from the cars as they went by. The engineers chased us away, but they almost never put the coal back on the cars. When I was in high school several friends and I opened a small mine in an area that had been strip mined. The vein of coal was nice and we spent the summer mining and selling it to a local breaker (a small processing plant). We got Dynamite from the store in town purchased by the miners who were mining near by. Coal mining was hard work, but I even made enough to buy some clothes. When the summer was nearing an end and school about to start, we made plans to skip school on Friday and work in the mine Friday and Saturday to earn some spending money. However the local coal and mining company who owned the land had other plans. When they found out about us they sent some miners and dynamited the mine shut. Perhaps we stretched the definition of gleaning somewhat. But the coal was never mined by the large company that owned the land. The coal that was left behind, pillars to hold up the roof while taking equipment out was not economical to mine. Perhaps it was terminated because the managers were fearful of our lives. Mining coal in veins that were mined years earlier had frequent cave-ins since the pillars were weakened by time. That summer I learned that sometimes even the best plans fail and gleaning was not always a profitable venture.

Morality

The late U S Senator Daniel P. Moynihan remarked in 1993 that we were defining deviancy downward. But all things considered, we are a much freer and less deviant culture than we once were if we define deviancy as abnormal behavior. Contrary to Moynihan, we are not slipping into a moral morass from which we will never recover. One only has to consider how far we have come from stoning women for adultery as is the recommended punishment according to the bible.

In more recent times the blacks in our country were considered less than second class citizens. It was only with the passage of the civil rights act that they were given first class status. Women were not allowed to vote until 1920 when the constitution was finally amended. Women were sterilized in the United States as late as 1979 in the state of Virginia under authority of the United States Supreme court. Men of course were similarly fixed, but not to the same degree. Strange that the thought of sterilizing men was apparently never considered as seriously as for women. Divorce is now routinely allowed with just the consent of the parties. Previously, women especially, suffered in silence in unhealthy relationships because they were not allowed to divorce except by proving to a court there was infidelity or brutality of some kind. Divorce was not a good option for women because job opportunities were routinely denied to them in such professions as medicine, especially surgery, dentistry, law and they were denied mortgages and scorned if they had children out of wedlock. Women spent their lives as spinsters if not married, or divorced, unable to secure work except as school teachers or nurses. Witches were burned at the stake, but never warlocks.

Abortions were hidden, women forced by social convention to leave home and spend months in homes for wayward mothers usually giving up the child for adoption. Though even today, our wonderful Congress still would like to punish women who become pregnant by refusing to allow abortions. Congress and the administration would like to define who can get married, what research can be done with stem cells. Not too long ago the government decided on what we could drink and now they define what drugs we can consume. I needn’t cite other examples, the list goes on, and today in some countries these very same conditions and some even worse exist today, and we decry the fact that they exist, forgetting we supported them once. A great book like the bible which has spun at least three great religions allows us to stone women to death who have committed the sin of adultery. Who but Senator Moynihan and administrations such as we have now, want to go back to the old days? Thank God we have become a more tolerant society. Moynihan was right, we have not only defined deviancy downward but have gotten rid of a lot of it. Sure, there are problems with freedom, but on balance it has been good for us and for our children. They meet each other more openly and are more tolerant to diversity.

Mules

During the nineteen thirties and forties, when I was growing up in Eastern Pennsylvania, mules were used in the anthracite mines. They were kept in the mines in what was the equivalent of a barn, carved out of the coal and stone, except this barn was cold, damp and dark with water constantly dripping. Food for the mules was stored in the mine and re supplied as needed. The mules were used to pull the coal cars from the gangways where the coal was mined to the area where the cars were joined together like a train and pulled up to the surface where they were unloaded into railroad cars and transported to the colliery for processing. The mules provided a great service; coal could not be mined at the volume that was needed for human comfort without the mules except by using men as mules for moving the coal cars.

My father was at one time a mule driver. He said he kept a large nail in his pocket to jab the hind quarters of the mule if it became stubborn or unruly. Accidents were infrequent, but mules were known to kick the driver or to push him against the side of the tunnel.

The work in the mines was divided into three shifts, the first two shifts devoted to mining coal and the third shift used for timbering and general cleanup and repair. The mules rested in the dark barns during the third shift; there were no coal cars to pull.

As time progressed, the mines were electrified and the work the mules did was replaced by motorized cars. The dark tunnels were now lit continuously rather than only by the light from a miners’ carbide lamp. Now the miners wore electric lights on their hard hats. They were powered by a large battery pack strapped to their belts. When my father worked the second shift and we had a car, I often went to the mine portal to drive him home and take the battery pack to the mine office where all the other batteries were charged for the next morning shift.

As the mules were gradually replaced they were brought up to the surface where they were kept in a barn with an enclosed yard. They were then sent somewhere, perhaps to dog meat factories. They were kept in the barn for a time since they were blinded by the sunlight after having been kept in the dark mine for years and needed time to regain their sight.

When a new batch of mules was brought up, we kids would go to the barn and straddling the fence throw stones at the helpless animals who did not know what was going on. We kids did not know what the mules did, except that they worked in the mines. They brayed and kicked and ran into one another trying to get away from the stones. We kids thought it was great fun.

Cannabis

Cannabis is a plant. Not too different from most other plants. It has it good points and its bad points. The father of our country George Washington praised the plant. "Make the most of the Indian hemp seed, and sow it everywhere!" he is reputed to have said.

The most resourceful crop on earth, cannabis yields industrial hemp for canvas, oil, fiber, and paper among other things; a harmless medicine for gravely ill individuals; and a source of recreation for millions of people around the world. Hemp is one of the faster growing biomass known, producing up to 25 tons of dry matter per hectare per year, and one of the earliest domesticated plants known. For a crop, hemp is very environmentally friendly; it requires few pesticides and no herbicides.

The federal government, God bless them, has decreed that cannabis is a danger to society and against the law to grow. The current paradigm is that cannabis is a health risk for the average citizen. The plant’s flower, after drying and rolled into a cigarette form, much like tobacco, can be smoked. The government deems it to cause great harm to the person who inhales the smoke. So it belongs on the list of dangerous substances right up there with cocaine, heroin and opium. Of course we know the cannabis flower as marijuana.

Both the user and seller can be and often are subjected to prosecution and in a great many instances sentenced to jail. In fact the majority of inmates of our prisons are there for marijuana related crimes sometimes as innocent as having possession of the flower.

However the list of poisonous plants is quite lengthy. Even the seeds of the ubiquitous apple are poisonous if consumed in sufficient quantities. Not to mention the caster beans which are very poisonous and can be fatal to children? But only the lowly cannabis is singled out for burning and destruction and not the others. Ordinary tobacco plants are not only allowed but the government via the agricultural department provides help in its cultivation. While it is accepted that tobacco does not act as a sedative and produce a feeling somewhat related to alcohol use as cannabis does habitual smokers would say otherwise.

Perhaps it is simply because like opium its effect is pleasant and enjoyable.

Early governments in the USA were often the product of the religious community and anxious to make laws to prevent the population from engaging in sin which often as not was related to joyful enterprises. The early Calvinists in New England forbid dancing; singing and even celebrating Christmas; only work and bible reading were condoned. Some vestiges of this mentality have stayed with us until even today. When people are having fun make them stop. I remember when I was a child there was a saying that if you laughed too much it was a sign that some bad thing was about to happen to you. How often are police called when the local tavern or watering hole patrons are singing and dancing and the noise, cheerful and loud disturbs the locals?

Not only do we not allow cannabis growth in the USA but we prohibit it other countries as well. I often wonder why we never had a campaign to burn all the grain fields in Scotland during prohibition since the grain could be used for alcohol production. Perhaps because Mr. Kennedy had secured the exclusive rights to import scotch whiskey?

Of course we do burn fields of opium and marijuana in places like Afghanistan, Columbia and other South American countries today. I am forbidden here in Florida to grow cannabis even though I have no intention of smoking it. But I can grow as many caster bean plants as I choose. It’s okay to grow something that may kill you or your pet or your grandchildren; that will teach them a lesson, but nothing that may, if smoked, make you feel wonderful. I’m sure that if a less pleasant way was invented to procreate the early Calvinists would have prohibited sex.

Lipstick

There was and may still be an ad that played on TV several years ago. It was about a sales manager hyping up the sale staff to sell a bad product. Put some lipstick on this pig he admonishes them. It was not actually to be taken literally; it was a way to dress up the product and make it look good. In the specific case it was stocks, but it applies to all products and actions.

The thought that somewhere someone actually said such a thing is disconcerting. However I am reminded of the ad each electoral season. People like Newt Gingrich, G. W. Bush, B. Clinton, L. B. J and J. McCain, among others are immediately brought to mind. I have been voting for lo these many years and each time the candidate is shown in a larger-than-life size on the television, in the papers and even on the radio dressed properly and prepped with just the right things to say. It is only after they have either lost the election or been elected and served their terms that we discover they were no more imaginative or smarter than we are. Somehow they are portrayed by the media as super human people and we, the great unwashed believe them. There is something in the human psyche that allows us to accept an image of a person that is beyond reality; maybe it is the lipstick. Who can believe that Jimmy Carter or G. W. Bush or Clinton or G H.W. Bush or Nixon or Regan or Jack Kennedy or even today Obama were the anointed ones. Now that Obama is involved in solving our collective problems, he appears to be less of a superman. G. Ford was never was one of the bigger-than-life persons. They would never trip over their feet in public. He of course never ran for office of the president; he was appointed to fill Nixon’s remaining term; he never had to be polished and sold. Reagan was by far a never failing God figure. He was a consummate actor and never gave up playing the role; he knew all his lines and could say them in the right tone; he was always on camera.

Somewhere behind the scenery there are makeup artists, speech writers, policy wonks, dressing coordinators, etc. who create the image that we see much like the image of actors who on stage play their parts well. We of course vote for the image, the role player and not the flesh and blood real person who emerges when the play is over. The wizard of OZ comes to mind when much to the dismay of Dorothy and her friends the wizard is revealed as just a fake; one of us as the curtain falls away and the mask is gone. The Greeks had it right when they used masks in their plays. The audience did not confuse the role played and the real person behind the mask. Their lipstick was obvious; ours, much to our dismay, is cleverly hidden.

Ronnie

I just love Ronnie. It must be the same way we remember Lincoln: History as narrative; Must fit the current paradigm. Make heroes when we need them. There are so few. We all know Lincoln must have had the slavery issue in mind when he started the Civil War. Otherwise why would he want to get all those hundreds of thousands of soldiers killed and maimed when some good heart to heart talks may have saved the day? Or what is wrong with two or three countries where we now have one big behemoth that is unmanageable? But who wants to manage a minor league team when you are already in the majors? What do New Yorkers have in common with citizens of New Mexico anyway? Slavery was dying around the world but not because it is morally bad but because it is not economically sound. Even corporations in Japan had to finally give up on guaranteed jobs to its workers; not economically sound. Only unions still hold the false belief that jobs are to be saved no matter what the cost.

Ronnie left a trail of disasters, not as bad or as big as Abe’s but still bad. His stewardship of California started it on the road to its current financial woes much as his stewardship of the USA started it on the road to probable bankruptcy or at least financial turmoil. Nowhere did he stop the growth of government; not in California nor on the bigger and better federal stage. A biting of the bullet then and perhaps no endless deficits.

Great events are sometimes started by one small step: a gunshot in Sarajevo and WW1; get used to spending a handful of billions you don’t have and deficits forever. Leaders who followed him, notably Cheney, chanted the mantra that Ronnie showed that deficits do not matter. The state grew; the federal government grew; the military ballooned; the embarrassments of Grenada, the Beirut bombings and Iran Contra are never mentioned in polite company. Only the tax cuts. TV talks from the Oval Office about the tax cuts with the ubiquitous jar of jelly beans on display on the desk. That they were actually tax increases is never mentioned. I felt it. No longer could I buy property and write it off as a business loss on my tax form. No. Now I had to send the money to Ronnie to spend on star wars. He must have liked the stuff of comic books and movies having spent his life playing in B grade movies: earth and space based laser battle stations, magnetic guns firing large slabs of steel as bullets, etc. Every kid under the age of 13 was enthralled with the possibilities. Hiding in a bunker in Utah and remotely firing lasers at approaching enemy missiles. Portent of computer games warfare such as the drones we have now in Afghanistan. Never mind that none of them ever worked because of cost and lack of know how. But with that comic book threat we all believe that Ronnie killed the Great Russian Empire. Never mind that it’s Social and economic systems were deteriorating faster than the steel bullets and it was only a matter of time before it died. Ask Gorbachev who killed it? Ask the Romans or the Brits what killed their empires. Of course when he retired we found out he was well on the road to becoming a victim of Alzheimer’s. Never did remember signing the okay for Iran Contra. What movie was that in? He left quietly and flew to Japan, probably on my nickel, delivered two speeches written by who knows and delivered in just one take, probably a first for his movie acting career; received his fee of $2,000,000 and returned. Nancy must have needed the money. They returned triumphant and wealthy to California, the scene of his early crime. Never to be heard from again. Don’t criminals always return to the scene of their crime? And when he died he received the same accolades as Lincoln and FDR directed by Nancy and the pages of details to be carried out she and Ronnie crafted about a god’s burial. But now with modern transportation we could fly him around the USA. No need for a flag draped Lincoln train ride so all the great unwashed could see him; they could come to Washington and wait in line to see the remains.

Nancy, who could not live without Ronnie, still survives. We all finally get accustomed to losing Gods.

THINGS I SHOULDN’T THINK OF: Essays and Other Ruminations

THINGS I SHOULDN’T THINK OF

Essays
And
Other Ruminations
(short stories and poems)




By
John E. Fedako

Confessions

Confession is good for the soul. Freudian psychology is replete with instances of patients recovering when they confront or at least relive deeds that they considered disturbing. Through confession, the church emphasizes that same dogma.
The Catholic Church accepts children into the church at an early age, usually seven years old or so. They call the ritual first holy communion. All children are instructed in the church laws and the teachings of the church. As a final ceremony, the children go to confession and then have communion. It is an awe inspiring event. Girls wear white dresses and veils as though they were brides, boys wear white suits.

For my first holy communion, my pants and jacket were used suits that had been passed around the neighborhood; the pants and the jacket were a little yellow from years of wear.

After the ceremony, we all were herded down to the basement of the Irish church and treated to a breakfast. Communion must be taken on an empty stomach. The breakfast consisted of cereal with spoonfuls of sugar scattered over the cereal and then milk poured over the mixture. It was inedible for a Polish youngster like me who would have preferred pickles and boloney. The nuns were concerned when I did not eat the cereal, but the cut up banana, a luxury item for me, was good and I ate that, assuring the nuns that I was not ill. I’m sure they were more afraid that I might throw up.

Confession was strange. I made a list of some sins from the ones the nuns talked about at Catechism school being careful to add a mortal sin in with a mix of some venial sins. The confessional is awesome. People line up waiting for their turn, rosary beads held in their hands, lips moving but no words spoken, footsteps on the hard floor and an occasion nervous cough the only sounds. You enter the confessional and kneel down waiting until the priest opens the panel between you and him. He is just barely discernible behind the screen. You confess your sins and are given your penance and it’s over, except for the penance, usually a list of prayers to recite, done in one of the pews. ‘Hail Mary’s’ and ‘Our Fathers’ were recited by the thousands quietly on Saturday afternoons with the light coming through the stained glass windows and the quiet broken by the occasional rattle of rosary beads. The church was somehow pleasant and calming, cool even in the hot summer.

One of my friends who is a Russian Orthodox says when he goes to confession, you kneel down in front of the priest and he covers your head with his robe and you tell him your sins. I told him I liked it better when the priest did not see you. Of course it was only later in life that I discovered that the priest has a full view of the confessor.

Frankie went to church most Sundays, his family was very religious. I did not go often; in fact I went very seldom. My mother never went to church; my father preferred to go to the Polish church several miles away and only seldom and reluctantly to the Irish Church. I asked Frankie about confession. Frankie said that he just says the same confession each week or whenever he goes. He said it simplifies things. I did not like his method.

Confession loses its power when it is routine. Like praying, it should be done in a contemplative mode and not by rote. And as Freud discovered it does well when it is done in honesty.

Moments in Time

It must have been nineteen thirty nine or nineteen forty
Just behind Gretz's house
Behind their fence and the old oak tree
How I heard of such an offer
And where I ever got the ten cents
I'll never know, memory fails me now
But somehow I got the money and sent for it
‘Allow two weeks for delivery’ the ad said
I remember the wait as a million years
The postmaster just shook his head each day
When I asked if the package was there
And then one glorious day it arrived
I unpacked it carefully
Just behind Gretz's house
Behind their fence and the old oak tree
The one with the great rotted hole in the bottom
I unwrapped it ever so gently and lifted it out
There it was in all its glory
It was all the ad said it would be
And it fit just right after some adjustments
And nothing, nothing since that day
Behind Gretz's house
Behind their fence and the old oak tree
On that warm summer afternoon,
Has anything been as grand and glorious
As that secret decoder ring
God! How I miss that ring

Churches

I am always fascinated by the sheer number of churches. Not the number of physical buildings, but the number of denominations. In the protestant community alone there are Methodists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists, Congregationalists, Quakers, United Church of Christ, etc, all considering themselves Protestants. The Catholics are not as numerous but they have: Dominicans, Jesuits, Franciscans, Monks, Nuns of various persuasions and the Eastern rite, etc. all considered Catholics. In addition there are the Jewish sects, reformed, conservative, etc. And of course there are the Muslims.

All these groups use the same book to preach from. All base their beliefs on the word as written in the Bible. They are the people of the book.

The bible is a long narrative beginning with the creation myth of the world and consisting of many books. All of the books are recorded sayings of ancient people. Not a word is current history. The Christians begin about the last third of the life of the world, which according to the bible is six thousand years old. The Muslims began about fourteen hundred years ago, while Judaism began at the beginning, six thousand years ago. The sheer number of denominations of religion to base their beliefs on the word as recorded in the bible is astounding. No one who wrote the New Testament was alive when the events took place. We, in modern day America have a difficult time agreeing on the events that occurred in the Clinton presidency and we have videos, spoken words, letters, commentators who are still alive when the events took place. The inconsistencies of the bible are many. The various groups merely accept the parts they deem more correct and adhere to them. The variety of religious interpretation lies in the vagueness and contradictions of the bible which owes a lot to the fact that it was recorded from spoken words. It is always difficult to write down precisely what someone meant. I think the problem is that humans, being what they are, are always ready to create uniqueness. Us versus them. The religious sects have used selections of the bible as bricks and mortar to create a religion that they and only they think is correct, except for the resurrection which all Christian religions accept. Religion is a human creation. The bible is a collection of sometimes very good advice written by, we suspect, respected members of the village, but as for stoning women, just maybe they got it wrong.

Butterflies

Like all kids we were fascinated by lightning bugs. We caught them at dusk and in the dark summer evenings in the small village where I lived. They loved elderberry bushes and we searched around the bushes for them. We held them in our hand and waited until they glowed and quickly, while they were lit, squashed them on our shirts trying to spell our name in fluorescence. Kids do strange things.

Butterflies were also around, but they were special. We only caught them on occasion being careful not to touch their wings or remove the powdery material from the wings. For some reason we were certain that touching the wings would remove the powder and prevent them from ever flying again.

I lived in a coal mining village, not too different from other coal mining villages in Kentucky or West Virginia. Most of our parents were immigrants from Eastern Europe or the older offspring of the immigrants. We were all poor; some poorer than others, but all poor. The school we attended was the pet project of the man that owned the houses where we lived and he paid for the teachers and books and all school supplies.

The company store was the lifeline for us. It held the post office, the shoe store, the clothing store, the hardware store and all owned by the same man. Even though the mines that he had operated were now depleted and no one worked for him, he still owned some of the buildings and the processing plant for the coal mined from other mines. He was very wealthy and lived in a wonderful house in an area that we were only allowed to visit on special occasions, such as Christmas.

Most of us spoke another language at home, but at school only English was allowed.
I always remember Poor Anne S. who could only speak Russian and was sent home from first grade until she learned enough English to be allowed to return.

And for several winters we all received cod liver oil doses at school, provided by the man that owned the houses. We all lined up and the teacher used an eye dropper to deposit foul tasting cod liver oil on our tongue and made sure we swallowed before letting us go.

Work in the mines was hard and dirty. Often it was dangerous and cave-ins were not unusual. Men died in the mines or were disabled. My fathers’ hands had patches of dark blue from the small coal particles that had permanently remained under the skin from accidents.

We went to high school at a neighboring township; we only had a grade school.

Coal gradually was replaced with oil for home heating in the cities that served as the market for coal. Work at the mines was gradually disappearing, so when I graduated high school the Korean War was starting and I enlisted in the Air Force and left the village. After I was discharged, I used the GI bill which provided me with the necessary funds to go to college. I never returned, except for a brief stay while attending college and visits.

Butterflies undergo a metamorphism in the cocoon stage. I’m sure most zoologists can describe the mechanism of how it all works. I find it one of the most fascinating works of nature.

Most of us who grew up in the village must have had our wings touched and the powder removed. Some of us however did not and we escaped, flying to other worlds.

Vows

As I recall from my early days’ of studying Catechism, required by the church before confirmation, the vows of poverty are one of the fundamental vows of the Catholic clergy. Priests take these vows before ordination, and nuns also live a life of poverty. The definition of poverty is different according to who writes the definition. When I was growing up we were poor; poverty would probably also be an accepted description.

After high school, I joined the Air Force for four years during the Korean conflict. Because of the largess of the government the World War II GI bill was reinstated and I went on to college.

Money was scarce and I attended the local center of the University and lived at home. My brother loaned me his car when it was my week to drive the car pool and after two years, I moved to the main campus.

I was from a large family and one of my sisters had a child when I was attending college. She asked me to be the God Father for the child, which I readily agreed to.
Baptisms are one of the sacraments of the church and performed by a priest as one of his duties. On the appointed day, a pleasant Saturday, we all went to church along with several other families who were also baptizing a child. The priest arrived only after all of the families had gathered. It is permissible for the priest to be discreetly late.

During the baptism, I took a vow that I would aid in bringing up the child in the ways of the Church should it be needed. As the God Father, I was the designated person to go to the church office to get the baptism certificate.

My sister mentioned that as a gesture of kindness, a small donation to the priest would be appropriate. Priests are allowed to accept a monetary gift for performing the baptism. She suggested a dollar or two would be appropriate. I waited in line along with the other God Fathers, two one dollar bills held firmly in my hand. When it was my turn I mentioned the name and the priest dutifully signed the papers and putting them into an envelope, handed it to me with the admonition that the usual donation was five dollars. Five dollars was at that time a fairly large sum of money for me. I fumbled around and finally retrieved a five dollar bill and put it on the desk. The priest did not even say thank you or look up at me. ‘Next’ was all he said. Afterward, I casually asked the other God Fathers and they all had given at least five dollars. That was a long time ago and I did not have to help in the upbringing of my god child, except for an occasional birthday gift. My vow was never tested. I still regret my decision of going along with the crowd. At such a wonderful occasion, a vow of poverty, like all vows, should have been honored.

Seventh Grade

I often wonder what would have happened if the fight I had with Billy O’Brien would have been allowed to finish. Some older guys stopped the fight before it was over. But that was a long time ago. Seventh grade has come and gone and that’s all I really remember about seventh grade. Time went on; Billy and I became good friends during high school. Neither he nor I ever mentioned the aborted fight, except in a joking way. And after high school I enlisted in the Air Force and Billy stayed around. I never saw him again except at a twenty fifth class reunion. I had gone to college and was living away and came back for the reunion. It was not a memorable event, we had a very small class and we were separated by distance. The locals still stayed in touch with each other, while I and others who had left were a group unto ourselves. Billy was there and we chatted, drinking a beer or two, and we sparred in a friendly manner, each of us claiming to win.

Some events cast a long spell. I still remember the day in June 1951 the day before I landed in the Philippines. The ship I was on also transported Dependents and my duty was to deliver the ship’s newspaper to the dependent’s quarters. That day the paper had an article about the next days docking in Manila cautioning that anyone who was of Japanese’s descent to remain on board. The hatred of the Japanese was still rampant in the Island. Hatred dies slowly.

An acquaintance of mine fought in the Vietnam War and still contends that we would have won if the Administration allowed the Military to fight the war in the way they wanted to. We argue about it, stopping just short of saying things to each other that we would probably regret. Now of course we are deciding who is to be our next president and one of the candidates is also a Vietnam veteran. Like my acquaintance, he still wants to fight the war and win. He is also determined that we do not forgo the opportunity to win in Iraq. We all have our Seventh grades.

Red light

The bible forbids prostitution. The bible forbids most things. There are more don’ts than dos in the bible. The Calvinists for instance never smiled or sang or danced; it was not allowed and celebrating Christmas was banned. Somewhere in the bible, frivolity must be forbidden and somewhere in the bible there is a prohibition against the oldest trade. Yet prostitution exists in every culture and has existed in all times.

The state of Nevada legalized prostitution many years ago. As far as I know there has never been a problem associated with the business. I have seen pictures of the girls who work there and they all seem like nice young girls, not the kind of women whose photographs appear in the local paper whenever there is a raid on the red light district.

I don’t know if the pictures are purposely doctored to make the women look awful, but they generally look like they are down on their luck and not very attractive.
Numerous studies have been done to discredit legalization of the oldest profession.
You might wonder if the studies are purposely distorted by the people who control the girls and make all the money using women who are for various reasons down and out.

On a recent trip to Europe, we went to Amsterdam and as all tourists do, walked around the red light district. There in perfect display, in window after window on the first and upper floors are a variety of women, most are scantily clad, most young and pretty, but there is the occasional plump mature female. All tastes must be catered to. The tourist book mentions that the predominant country of origin of the customers is, surprisingly, England. Who would ever think the straight and fussy British would come all the way to Amsterdam for a day of fun and yet condemn the practice at home? The patrons of the Nevada girls are probably from out of state, visitors to Las Vegas or Reno perhaps, who likewise disapprove of prostitution at home. Not in my backyard is a strong sentiment.

The town near where I grew up had a brothel. When I was in high school a group of us went there and rang the door bell, but no one answered. We rang and rang and even shouted, but then realizing that disturbing the peace might attract the police we bade a hasty retreat. It was not legal of course but everyone knew the address and on occasion, there was what the police called a ‘raid’. The papers were replete with the story of how the police had cleaned up the town. But the brothel was in business soon after at the same address. For such a business it is too difficult to advertise a new location.

European cultures are generally more tolerant of the oldest profession. The British and we Americans, since we derived a lot of culture from the British, are determined to stamp out such behavior. But humans, being what they are, Amsterdam and the Bunny Ranch in Nevada are destined to enjoy a long life.

Doing Good

I enjoy reading the writings of Henry D. Thoreau, the New England writer who lived alone in a cabin in the woods along Walden Pond. He built the cabin himself for only several dollars choosing to use discarded material he got from the town dump or as gifts from the town’s folk.

When I was gainfully employed, the wife of one of my employees was pregnant with multiple births. They were both of an age when childbearing should probably not be considered and in addition he had a child from a previous marriage. But times being what they were and still are, she took fertility pills to increase the odds of pregnancy. Trouble soon appeared. Under doctors’ orders, she was confined to her bed for several months and under constant medication, to prevent a miscarriage. Still the babies were born too early. All had some degree of problems. Because of modern medicine, they survived but were kept at the hospital for several months before being sent home. The mother was fine.

The company had insurance of course and so they had no financial risks. I never knew the total amount of the bills, but they must have been nearing a half million.
After the babies were home and they had accepted the fact that one of them would have lifelong problems, I talked to the father about his family. He was happy that things were going as well as they were. He was somewhat annoyed that the county did not have a visiting nurse to come and help out families with multiple births. The children were quite a handful.

My mother had eleven of us spaced about one and a half years apart. She had no washing machine, no throw away diapers, no baby food and no family doctor to rely on. She was the sole care taker: washing, cleaning, feeding, dressing and otherwise caring for us. When there were five or so, the county provided a visiting nurse to come and offer advice and help with the children medically. Probably the doctor who delivered us talked to the county nurse and suggested it. Up to that time, all the children were of course born at home.

My mother was a strong willed person. She did not need help and was not happy to have the nurse come. However the nurse, wanting to help or just under county rules, continued to come offering advice and maybe some criticism on how to care for children, intruding, I am sure my mother thought, in how she was raising us children.
Finally, one fine day my mother waited by the front door and when the nurse appeared, she was summarily chased by an angry mother, broom in hand, shouting Polish expressions, until she was safely in her car. She drove away, never to reappear at my mothers’ house.

Henry liked to say that if he knew that someone was coming to his house with the intent of doing him good, he would run.

My mother chose to stay and fight. Henry, I am sure, would have been proud.

Hair

When I enlisted in the Air Force, my first haircut took about two minutes, no fuss no asking how I wanted it cut. The barber did not even say hello, just a bored ‘next’ when he was done. We all got the same haircut. When we were kids, whenever we got a haircut, everyone asked us if we had our ears lowered.

My sisters, we were Catholic, never went to church without a hat, except for evening choir practice; but for Sunday mass, hats were required. It was a no, no for women to enter the church without a hat. Men of course are required to remove their hats upon entering a church, or a mosque; for a temple a yarmulke is accepted. For men its hat in your hand when you enter the Lord’s house; a sign of humility.

But for some reason God does not like to see women’s hair.

Women and men react differently in regard to hair. Men have their hair cut when it gets too long, except if they are musicians or famous scientists, then they are allowed to let it grow long. Long haired musicians are considered great musicians and so we have the term long haired music.

On a serious note, women always shield their hair from God. It is interesting to note that Nuns, Islamic women and Eastern European women always cover their hair. My mother always wore a babushka when she went outside. Women of some Jewish sects wear wigs whenever and only when they go outside. God, who is all powerful, is foiled by a hat, scarf or wig, but indoors the roof suffices. In those sects the females will not wear a wig made in India for fear the wig may have been made from hair from females who are prostitutes. God would be furious if he knew he was being thwarted by a prostitutes’ hair. Maybe that explains why women spend so much time on their hair. Whenever we need a prohibition it is always directed at the women.

When I go to a barber, I like the fastest barber and the cheapest. Of course today even men are spending more time on their hair, what with dyeing and curling and of all things styling. But, women still spend an inordinately longer amount of time with their hair: frequent washing, curling, dyeing, drying, discussing with their friends who is the best hairdresser and their current hair style, which salon is the best, etc.

Why did such a custom originate? What is it about hair that is so different from other parts of the human anatomy? Skin is not treated the same.

I try not to find answers to these questions. God, I am sure, must like it this way.

Air Raid

I was just a young boy growing up in Eastern Pennsylvania during the Second World War. We often had air raid alerts. Several of our neighbors were air raid wardens. My best friend’s father was the designated leader. He wore a soldiers’ helmet and carried a flashlight and went from house to house and if he could see any light coming through the windows, he knocked on the door and warned you that your blinds were not pulled or some other light was on. No one was allowed to smoke outside since a lit cigarette could be seen for miles. Some of us, as all young kids would do, went outside during the drill, and searched the skies for the airplanes we supposed were definitely headed our way. On occasions, we actually thought we saw planes. Our necks were sore from searching the skies. After what seemed like a long time, the air raid leader sounded an all clear horn. Window blinds went up, lights were turned on and people came outside and talked and smoked and were glad that it was just an alert. The parents discussed the air raid and supposed that the planes were shot down out at sea or somewhere east of us. The excitement of the drill, never knowing if it was for real, was magnificent to us kids.

But to my knowledge, there was never an actual attack. The US government scheduled these drills for the duration of the war ending them when Germany surrendered.

All the adults, mostly immigrants from Eastern Europe, were glad that the drills were done, most of whom having gone through the First World War were glad they were only drills. They thanked FDR for his concern and careful planning.

It was only much later, when I grew up and was able to reflect on the logistics that I discovered that the drills were pure propaganda. There was not an airplane in the world that could have flown from Germany or Japan, dropped its load of bombs in Pennsylvania and returned home. The planes that were used to bomb Europe, flying from England, were barely able to traverse that round trip. It was just a rouse to scare the American people into supporting the war.

It sometimes reminds me of our current Homeland Security Department that continues to issue alerts with not a shred of verifiable evidence that harm is headed our way. They were just like the air raid alerts, another ruse to scare us and be thankful that the administration was doing their job.

Contrary to Peter, Paul and Mary the times are not a changing.

Music

To quote Sir William Congreve (18 Century ): ‘music hath charm to soothe the savage breast.’ Or as the bible commands: make a joyous noise unto the lord. Take your pick. Music comes in a wide range of types: rock, country, pop, symphonic, opera, etc.

Of course from a physics point of view music is just noise, not different on an oscilloscope from a blast of pure random noise. Just listen to music from China or India or Japan or Peru or many other countries to get a taste of different forms of music. Music is generated by a wide range of instruments: piano, guitar, violin, flute and trumpet to name just a few and of course the human voice. Each type requires a great deal of practice and training to achieve great skill.

Some music is used for its snob appeal. Country music as an example is not considered to be on the same level as the symphony. Opera is of course the tops in vocal music. The opera singers train all their lives and we pay homage to the great tenors and sopranos accepting their huge egos. They live as Hollywood stars do: the Paparazzi following them relentlessly. Still they are technically not too different from the popular singers. The notable opera star Fredrica Von Stade remarked in a television interview that her singing was not any more difficult or required more training than popular singers; it was just a different form. Try that on opera buffs.

Of course country music is more visceral, more homespun, and easier to listen to and sing while taking a shower. The emotions expressed are sometimes a little silly, but so is the stuff of operas. The country musicians are perhaps not as technical as the symphonic artists, but the overall effect is pleasant. No country fiddler plays a Stradivarius. Pop music is somewhat the same, easy listening, and memorable. Some couples have a favorite song that they remember from their courting days and they call it their song.

Maybe music has both the charm to soothe the savage breast and to cause all of us once in a while to hum or sing a pleasant tune whether it is country, pop or an operatic aria, but its just noise if it doesn’t make our hearts beat a little faster.

Danny Boy

I am always intrigued by the Irish each March when ‘Saint Patty’s Day’ is celebrated. All countries have their own music or some distinguishing art form. The Irish of course, have their songs, their brogue and their playwrights. The English their literature-who can deny Shakespeare, the French their art, the Italians their Operas and sculpture, the Austrians their waltzes, the Poles their polkas, the Germans their Wagnerian music, and so the list goes on.

But of all the ethnic songs, I think the songs of Ireland are the saddest. Perhaps it’s because of the potato famine and the subsequent great migration to America, perhaps because of the oppression by the British, perhaps the rugged country. But certainly theirs is a culture of contrast. The Irish of course like to tip a few as they say, dance a jig or just confound you with their brogue, perhaps in an attempt to ease the burden of sadness.

In the anthracite region of Eastern Pennsylvania where I grew up, Irish immigrants worked in the coal mines along side the Poles, Germans, Italians, and other Eastern Europeans. In the evenings and especially during weekends, the neighborhood bars were filled with loud laughter, occasional brawls and always songs. It was often said that more coal was mined in the taverns at night than in the mines during the day. In addition to tipping a few, the Irish loved to sing. Singing would erupt spontaneously in the bars, usually late at night, near closing time. Songs like ‘I’ll take you home again Kathleen’, ‘Danny Boy’, ‘When Irish eyes are smiling’ and ‘Galway Bay’ could be heard almost nightly. All the ethnic groups joined in and the songs became great barroom favorites, except for Danny Boy. It was the saddest of all.

Calling someone a Danny Boy was considered a derogatory term. It referred to Irishmen who had forgotten their promise to some lovely colleen who stayed on the old sod, and waited for them to return, or send tickets to bring them to America. The men left, no jobs were available, and sailed for America where after a time they married Polish or Eastern European girls. They were not treated well by the Irish who had married their colleens or by the Poles or Eastern Europeans.

We lived for a time near one such family. When he tipped too many and was not able to report for work, the men said he was just a Danny Boy. Somehow people found out that he had promised to return to the old sod, but instead married a Ukrainian girl. A nice lady who often gave us treats. He was a frequent visitor to our house and told tales of how he was in training to become a doctor before he came to America. But he was shunned by the Irish contingent and could never fit into the Eastern European culture. The language barrier alone was difficult enough. After his wife died, and the children left, never to return, he tipped a few more than he should have and his life slipped away in drunkenness.

The Irish potato famine caused a great migration and many colleens grew old and died waiting on the old sod for their Danny Boys who never returned. They are the sad ones remembered in the song. But like my neighbor, there were perhaps an equal number of forgotten Danny Boys, never remembered in song, who also suffered in silence or tipped one too many.