A young girl made her way down to the beach after a powerful storm.  There were piles of starfish everywhere. Now the tide was streaming out leaving the starfish marooned on the land. So the girl began gently tossing the starfish into the retreating surf.

Then a man walked up and found her busy at work. Looking along the shore, he asked the little girl, "Don't you see how many starfish are on this beach? Far too many for you to rescue. No one can save them."

The girl stood and tossed another starfish into the sea and said to the man, "Saved that one."

I heard this story on the radio a few days ago. It sang to me, a rich harmony. I was driving at the time. When I got home, I wrote down what I remembered of it.

Then I searched online and made the easy discovery of Loren Eiseley (1907-1977),[1] who wrote “The Star Thrower”[2].

Mr. Eiseley’s narrator observes:

“We had lost our way, I thought, but we had kept, some of us, the memory of the perfect circle of compassion from life to death and back to life again.”

Suddenly my mind spun like a starfish rescued into the waves. The universe was a vast cycle of tidal energy.  A giant vortex of birds arose to whip the heavens. And for a wild moment there was peace.


[1] https://www.eiseley.org/ - Essayist, Philosopher and Literary Naturalist; website contains a teacher’s guide
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Star_Thrower - discussion of Eiseley’s story and adaptations

Dad would be 98-years old today. He died in 1994, however. The heart attack got him just two-months after mom went. How I loved them. For dad, these are a few random memories—out of a million more. For laughs, lessons and so much more—these are thanks that I owe my dad.

It was a happy novelty to find dad in bed on weekends after the war. He was the kind of guy who never had a hair out of place on work days. We could give his hair a tousle when we caught him in bed and tell him he looked funny. “I’m just an old poo-doo man,” he told us, shaking his head with slack cheeks. I rubbed my face against his whiskers, and said “You’re a poo-doo man, dad.”

He was up early during the week and off to catch the bus. Once I caught him brushing his teeth before breakfast and I told him he should brush after eating. He smiled at me and tousled my crewcut. “You are right, Timmy Boy. There is a better way. But the main thing is that they get brushed,” he said.

When he read stories to us, he often read the words backwards. When we corrected him, he exclaimed, “Pah!” And he read properly for a bit until another “Pah” kept us laughing.

Noises were laugh generators, and dad’s “tok” was the most famous. Dad could crack his tongue off the roof of his mouth in a thunderous snap. We all mastered it. So our house was often filled with loud pops—none louder that dad’s. He deafened us.

Dad took us with him on Saturdays to give mom a break. We tagged along planting roses on the Lewis and Clark campus. Or shadowed him to Swan Island where he typed reports at the Naval Reserve Training Center. We ran the halls while he typed. The building was round, reminiscent of a miniature Pentagon. Most commonly, we tagged along to the Phone Company, dad’s real work—on SW 4th and Oak. We loved riding the elevators and spying on the ant-people scurrying along the streets below.

One ride down Belmont, I got under his skin. I had mastered the arm fart and tooted one fart sound after another from the backseat in the ’52 Plymouth. Dad was good at jokes and funny noises, so I was a little surprised when he objected to my fake farts. But dad could put his foot down in just the right way. “Now cut that out,” he bellowed in mock anger, sounding like Phil Silver’s TV character Sargent Bilko. I knew when enough was enough, so I rode across the Morrison Bridge in silence. Dad parked on the east side of Front Ave. (now Naito Parkway) so we had to take the pedestrian tunnel. It crossed under Front Ave. at Morrison. The tiled walls made quite an echo chamber, and dad encouraged me, saying, “This would be a good place for you to make your noise, Timmy Boy.” I was confused, having just been chastised on the drive down. But I wasn’t going to let the green light go to waste. So I reached under my shirt and lost no time to start pumping out armpit farts. “Not that noise!” Dad pointed out the obvious. Suddenly, two-plus-two became four, and I immediately began “tok-king” my way under Front, and dad even let loose a Howitzer “tok” or two of his own.

Remembering dad can’t go far without recalling when he saved my life! It happened on the day of dad’s Phone Company picnic. I was a five-year-old. It was mid-summer and I had a noisemaker in hand, the kind that buzzed out a rasping honking noise when you blew into it. Well, I doubled its efficiency by inhaling through the mouthpiece as well as blowing through it. My pride in creating endless noise with both cycles of my breath came to a startling halt. One deep inhale sucked the metal vibrator right out of the toy and down my throat, where it lodged painfully in my throat’s soft windpipe. Breathing ceased. Panic owned me.

The next thing I knew, dad was there. I have no idea how he appeared so fast. His face was right in front of me. His furrowed brow so deeply engaged. My panic gone. Just that fast, his fingers reached down my gullet, found the disc and tore it free. It hurt to breathe. Such a welcome sore throat. And dad’s face, a picture of relief.

At the picnic, I was certain dad would win the men’s footrace. He was fast. I watched him workout at the Grant High track. But that day at Dodge Park, he got boxed in and finished in the pack. I told him how much I wanted him to win the race. My dad told me, “Don’t worry, Timmy Boy. It’s okay. Under the circumstances I did the best I could.”

That he did.


Photos: Brown family album

To find empathy in your heart, accept the reality of others. Then you see their suffering. Their pain is real. Bào Ninh’s The Sorrow of War allows this.[1]

Kien was 14 when America used false pretenses to deploy its full military might against his tiny country, Vietnam.[2] Kien is the main character. He tells Bào Ninh’s story in this haunting autobiographical fiction.

Kien is from the North. He describes the lessons of a decade in combat—learning as a teen-ager how narrow escapes scar you forever; how scars cannot protect you from the shock of friends blown to pieces; how practiced eyes gain instant recall when friends bleed-out in lonely jungles with only you to dress the wounds—only you to witness the dying—only you, the living remnant in the wake of America’s military might.

Kien’s experiences come rapid-fire. His childhood relationships, how his parents needed him before they died, his love for Phuong—of seeing her raped and killing her rapist. His flashbacks omit nothing in this PowerPoint of war. War. The master of the world. Before, during and after. If there is an after. For Kien’s 27th Battalion there is no after. Only his. Alone.

“Justice may have won, but cruelty, death, and inhuman violence have also won.”

Kien volunteered just before America forged its way officially into the action. He survived America’s bombing campaign, called “Rolling Thunder.” He survived his country’s Tet Offensive. His survival was partial. Much of his life was lost, and the aftermath was catastrophic. He writes to cope. And thus he teaches—without a sermon—a story of aggression on a massive scale and how the scale is unbalanced. The cost too dear. It doesn’t measure up.

Millions of Vietnamese died in that action. 58,000 Americans died in combat. Two high school teammates of mine and several other classmates lost their lives in combat. Gone. Lost for a false cause. The ending was brutal and desperate right up to the final evacuation. There was no celebration. Only sorrow. The sorrow of war.


Image: Bombing in Vietnam (Author: Lt. Col. Cecil J. Poss, USAF, 14 June 1966)[3]


[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sorrow_of_War
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulf_of_Tonkin_incident - “There were no US casualties.”
[3] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bombing_in_Vietnam.jpg Bombing in Vietnam.jpg, in public domain

When I was small, maybe 3 or 4, I was hugging Mirawami from behind. I was sad about something but holding her made everything better. For some reason I bit her and she shrieked remarkably loudly. She spun around and lifted me up by my arms.

"Why did you do that, my son," she asked. This became my first memory of seeing her face in anger.

"I don't know, Mother," I said meekly as my stomach knotted. My throat grew tight to accompany streaming tears.

"What's the matter," Tarmani asked as he rushed into our hut.

Mother placed me down in front of her. She said, "Our son has bitten me.” She looked over her shoulder to see what marks my teeth had left.

Tarmani picked me up in one arm as he strode to her and inspected the damage. In a level voice he said, "Our son has good teeth but weak jaws. He drew no blood."

"I know he has good teeth," Mirawami said a little less angrily, "You needn't advise me about the health of his teeth. I am best qualified to judge." With her face near to mine she asked me again why I had bitten her.

"I am sorry, Mother," I muttered looking down through my tears. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Tarmani said in a strict manner, "I believe that I know why our son tries to devour his mother. He loves you so much that he wants to become you." I was still crying but then when I saw mother and father smiling into each other's eyes, I began feeling better again.

Tarmani put me down but Mirawami picked me right back up—this time gently.

"Tell me Bentari, why did you try to eat your mama?"

I spoke the words that came to my lips. Believing they were true I said, "I was sad, mother, but holding you made me feel better. Then I bit down hard. I thought it would make my teeth feel good, too."

It was silent only for a second when laughter erupted in our hut. Mother put me down and quickly placed an old boot by our door where it still remains. "Whenever your teeth need to feel good again, bite this boot," she said with a sparkling, stern smile.

“There you have it, my son—a better way to become your mother.” Tarmani ignited another round of laughter.


Image: Van Gogh’s 1887 painting, “A Pair of Boots”

As a River, by Sion Dayson.[1]

The story owns the title. Only more. It makes a river of time. Each of us a boatman at a worn and ancient helm. The helm is both a teacher and a tool. The course of life, unkind. A history of wrong. Hold on and steer.

We are in east Bannen, Georgia, 1944-1977, where black folks live. Many work in west Bannen, cleaning, getting dirty. Nothing changes fast. Especially in Bannen. But there comes a time. A thing must give. And there is the water. It gives life. It takes life, too. And when needed, it carries you away.

“It should have been harder for a young black boy to slip undetected from a small Southern town.”

Meet Greer. His mom Elizabeth, in failing health. Meet neighbors Esse and daughter Ceiley—Celestial. Meet Caroline, the Judge and Mrs. Thomas. Clayton Major Michaels. Meet Akua Gloria Appiah—as glorious as they come. And meet the rolling sea—along with Greer.

“A little bit of fear protects you. There are some things you should be afraid of,” Elizabeth said. And Greer was afraid. And there was no way out. So he left.

It is the women who build Greer into Greer. Blessings from unwanted sources are not caustic by necessity. Like books and blood. Like knowledge they illuminate.

“The family is like the forest. If you are outside, it is dense. If you are inside, you see that every tree has its own position.”

Sion Dayson chose the simple name for her first novel. Her living storytelling celebrates the depths of simplicity. One does not need imaginations to feel pain. Or to celebrate.

“No one tests the depth of the river with both feet.”

Read about Greer Michaels and watch. He and his ailing mama build a home out of her sagging house. In measured turns, the house is righted. By our visitation, the burden of each beam made true by God’s own plumb.

“One who can speak never goes missing.”

Find me a better story, a better journey, a better truth than this.


Image: “Bridge at Atoyac”—New York Public Library—Public Domain[2]

[1] https://siondayson.com/
[2] https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/9ea29a70-c0bc-0134-f563-00505686a51c

I have been afraid before.
The clutch has gripped my breath.
The flesh has risen.
Cold has been my heart. At its core.

But now the sky is flat.
Our days fly past in silence.
Birdsong, a tired memory.
Listen. You cannot hear—Life is shut.

Now “Afraid” has a new mask.
“Somebody” is President! Ohmydeargod!
The very wind is a weapon!
Now deadly clouds come out his ass!

Fear not! Wind also blows away!
Sentry posts are “Womanned.”
And “manning up” is
measured by bold women of this day.[1]

During the dark times of a novel coronavirus—called COVID-19, on April 13, 2020, the “somebody” in the White House said this to reporters in the briefing room: “When somebody’s the president of the United States, the authority is total. And that is the way it’s gotta be.”[2]

Our blood boiled. Kaitlan Collins[3] to the rescue. The CNN White House correspondent put the offensive narcissist in his place. She said, “That is not true. Who told you that?”[4] She asked him where he got his information. She asked him to explain himself. Her face was all business. Her posture and expression were powerful. Debra and I took heart! The bone-spurred failed leader did not explain himself which explained everything.

Ms. Kaitlan Collins and we the majority of “somebody’s” fellow citizens—we take solace in the plain truth. We live in a democracy.

As the weather goes, so it is for societies. A fair wind has no guarantees.

VOTE!


Photo: Elizabeth Tate (1868-1956), suffragist, activist, and mother

[1] http://bentari.com/ - Copyright Tim Brown and Bentari Project. “The Wind and the Woman”
[2] https://www.yahoo.com/huffpost/trump-total-authority-president-011158457.html
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaitlan_Collins
[4] https://www.thenewcivilrightsmovement.com/2020/04/watch-cnn-reporter-tells-trump-that-is-not-true-who-told-you-that-when-he-declares-total-authority/

Hummingbird update!

On 3/29, I posted a photo of "nesting" birds. And I expressed concern for the tiny feathered family—what would become of them? They had built their nest in an ill-rated tree—scheduled for removal.

The dog and I were out stretching legs today when I got worried again. The nest looked abandoned!

Not to worry. Today's photos reveal that yesterday’s "nesters" were not expecting parents, but rather a pair of chicks!

Here they are today—out and about and taking turns with Mother serving them supper. She clicked angrily and was clearly less than pleased with me. She could not know how grateful I was for her presence. I was the intruder holding a leash in one hand and digging through several pockets until my hand emerged juggling a phone to turn on the camera. Jax the pooch stood still like a genius.

I got lucky. Mother fed both her chicks in turns, one in the garden and one in the doomed dogwood. She even posed majestically for patient Jax and me.

Ah, spring. New life. Parenthood.

In the middle of a dangerous hard time, small is large. In fact, enormous.

Across the path from us, hummingbirds nest
in a dogwood before its blooms can block their constant watch.

The tree is listed for removal,
and a grim race is joined by nestled eggs and a calendar.

We watch the race hopefully, that would-be wings may test the sky.
Pier beams under the tree roots are begging for repair.

We watch the race with urgency.
The beams support our home the same as the branch holds up the nest.

Quiet time surrounds us, under constant watch.
Impartial days have no choice, and fly on burdened wings.

Child Finder discerns the dark form of a man allowed to live wrong. “He lived a subterranean life, surprised at how quickly time passed even when you didn’t have much to do besides dream in the vast expanse between murder and hate.”

Naomi, the Child Finder, is joined by her husband Jerome in this matchless story of love and fear. The Butterfly Girl by Rene Denfeld may well be the ultimate vicarious experience of a universe. For, what is your greatest fear? What is your deepest wish? Read this novel and compare them with the street children of Portland, Oregon.

No child sets out to be a rape victim. Yet how many are like Celia, a skinny girl of 12-years who sleeps hunkered in dirt beneath a freeway ramp. Her home is off limits—unless she wants more special time with step-father Teddy. Her mom’s addiction makes her incapable of working, and leaves her dependent on Teddy—the source of opioids and the teller of lies. Celia has one great fear, above all the deadly risks of street life. It is knowing that her little sister is still at home.

Celia has no option. She clings fiercely to street friends. The daily regimen is void of brushing teeth, wearing clean clothes and going to school. Their chores include dodging johns and pimps—scrounging food, begging—giving sway to bullies, avoiding packs of jocks who dole out beatings they record for social media. If that’s not enough—the Willamette is giving up Jane Doe’s—tortured street girls discarded by someone allowed to live wrong.

And yet—Celia’s fear is stalled by one librarian and a million wings of matchless beauty. While Celia lives, you breathe. Rare emotions are bred on every page. Compare them with your life. Your friends’ lives. Your relatives. In today’s world, you are asleep if you don’t see the Celias of our times close by and all around you. The vicarious experience takes root. The world finds us balanced on a fulcrum—wavering between the terrors and taking action. Naomi, the Child Finder, is the option-maker.

Does it end happily? This story of cruelty, after all the murders, the abject horror, the bullying, the perversions—repeating, repeating—all in the fields and forests of my state—all in the streets and rivers and libraries of my neighborhood—Does it end well? Let me tell you this about a story and a life. There is an afterglow, but how brightly it shines depends on two things. The fulcrum and the butterflies.

Rene Denfeld is 3 for 3. Three novels, three home runs. The Butterfly Girl is the second story featuring Naomi. Naomi is a hero, a rock star, a super-sleuth. Now, as she searches for her own long-lost sister, she encounters my favorite—a child sublimely driven to live right. Even though she bears burdens far crueler than any child deserves. Someone at the gym began calling Celia “Li’l Diablo.” And my heart broke for joy.


Image: My copy of a masterpiece. The Butterfly Girl by Rene Denfeld

Cal Claxton needed a vacation and he got a double bonus—a fishing paradise at the Oregon coast and the company of his daughter Claire. But these were expected. Neither expected the hidden bonus. It found them and it was a hog. They were fly-fishing for steelhead on the Millicoma River when Claire hooked the corpse of Howard Coleman—a corpse that drowned from execution, not by accident.

This is another gem in Warren C. Easley’s series The Cal Claxton Oregon Mysteries.[1] This story is different, though. Cal has an assistant—whom he loves—to follow him along the twists and turns leading into harm’s way. And this time, there is already a convicted murderer in prison. He’s Kenny Sanders, barely an adult, but 4-years ago, he was tried as one—and convicted, and sentenced to life.

There you have it. Vacation interrupted. Father and daughter agree with Kenny’s grandma. Kenny is innocent. He has no place in a den of gangs where not joining up will get you dead. But what does the corpse of working man Howard Coleman have to do with the corpse that Kenny allegedly created when he was sixteen? That lost soul was a rich man—a pillar of the Coos Bay community.

That’s how the puzzle began. So the Claxton family decided to spend the rest of their vacation by solving one new murder, to solve the old one. From the start, risk confronted them. They found two too many murdered bodies in paradise—and two more, theirs, are in the queue for next victims. Synchronicity had put them in line.

Cal and his daughter are great-outdoor enthusiasts who are serious in their passion. Claire is an ecologist who is studying the gulf oil spill to quantify and ameliorate the environmental damage. Cal, the avid fisherman, could not be more proud of his daughter’s endeavors. As usual in novels by Warren C. Easley, the setting is crucial, and “place” becomes its own character, a thing of beauty and a place of perfect danger.

Straight out of our reality here in Oregon, the chief political issue in Coos County is the “LNG” debate. That is, shall government green light trains to haul fracked liquefied natural gas to the Coos Bay docks for shipment to China and the rest of the world. Do you think this “fracture factor” relates to the plot? You bet it does. Polluters and Big Money are partners shaking hands. Both hands are rich, both are dirty. This mystery, however, is etched on a roulette of synchronicity, and the motive might be many things. The facts are hidden by four-years. The last clue is camouflaged in plain sight. Strap into the logging rig and hold on.

This is a superb who-dun-it. Mr. Easley transports us to another Oregon paradise—the state’s largest coastal town—a place plenty big enough for a major murder mystery, yet a place not large enough to hide in—neither for the Claxton team to hide from danger, nor big enough for the guilty to escape.

Well done, Mr. Easley.


Cover Image: from the author’s website. Please visit.

[1] https://www.warreneasley.com/

Read More

“Me? Me?” The trill of desperation. A last chance quavering. The most sorrow-filled interrogative in history. Whispered on the edge of death. Out of strength. Robbed of every shred of will to live or even to breathe, Sethe utters the useless pronouns of herself without even realizing she has spoken. The life-long ledger of sorrow—far too cruel a burden for one woman to bear.

Sethe saw the worst of slavery in America. She did not know her own mother until she watched her being lynched. The schoolteacher’s nephews raped her. Then they condemned hunger upon her infant daughter by stealing Sethe’s milk from her bosom. When the nephews were rebuked by the well-intentioned plantation owner, they lashed Sethe with such fervor and glee that the raised scars of her back resembled the gnarled branches of a chokecherry tree. So it went. Far too cruel a burden for one people to bear.

It was impossible to bear. So impossible that the ghost of Sethe’s daughter could not understand who or what or why she was. Her neck was scarred, she did not know how.

“My Word,” my grandma would say, so long ago when I was little. Now, in my 8th-decade treading life’s road on this planet, I have gleaned something truer in many words. Our “beloved” Toni Morrison[1] held open my eyes as I beheld her story, the most aptly titled Beloved.

"Remembering seemed unwise,” she wrote. And, “This is not a story to pass on.”

Once you read the story, it’s easy to agree with her characters’ points of view. They had suffered too greatly for too long. Let the ghosts die and may they rest in peace.

But what will your perspective be? Do you hear the author’s hopes for those of us following life’s path behind her?

My hopes are that we will end the passing on—but, not of the story—rather of the deeds behind the story. My Word. This is about inhumanity—and humans are not forced to pass on cruel behavior. It is voluntary. The word means “not humane.” So the cure is in the word itself. Just be kind. Have mercy. Share. Forsake hatred, not humanity. Not people. Take the author’s lead. Stop passing on our bad sides. Incite sisterhood instead and keep it up.

Be loved.

Images: My paperback copy of Beloved (minus a few chomps from our cat Mimi), and the author’s portrait from the cover of The Bluest Eye.[2]

[1] The great Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winner died August 5, 2019 at 88-years of age.

On that sad but glorious date, I reminded myself that I still needed to read Beloved.

The story is not long but it is immeasurably heavy—and—I was right. I needed to read it.
[2] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Toni_Morrison_(The_Bluest_Eye_author_portrait).jpg

I realize that days like this stir up a great deal of patriotism. Any holiday that honors service men and women must, or it wouldn’t be worth waving flags and closing banks.

Even though I’m a veteran in a family full of them, I believe in elevating peace. I favor peacemakers above those who declare, design and prosecute war.

My 2nd-great-grandfather served and died during the Civil War. His name was Elkanah Brown (1833-1864). He died from illness before the war ended. He served in the Union Army as a member of the Indiana 99th Infantry. When Elkanah died, his only son was seven.

Both my grandfathers served (Marines and Army). Dad and Uncle Bob were Navy. Uncle Wayne, Air Force. I was Navy. The whole list is much longer, stretching from the American War of Independence to my nephew Josh.

In a quiet way, I’m proud of our family’s history of military service.

I’m remembering men and women today who served in the Armed Services. Their military service calls for a great deal of gratitude.

In spite of that and in no-way to diminish it, I state what I hope to be obvious—that solving problems peacefully deserves our highest honor. Isn’t that so? Is it not worth cheers and waving flags when peace is made without bearing arms?

Food for thought from unarmed artists—both of these men wrote about war and peace. Both suffered and were worn down by the pain our violent world delivered:

Stefan Zweig wrote, “. . . more men had perhaps escaped into the war then from it.”

Phil Ochs sang, “It’s always the old to lead us to the war. It’s always the young to fall."

Happy Armistice Day.


Image: Elkanah Brown (photo courtesy of my cousin, Ed T.)

Saddleback Mountain

We leaned on our hiking sticks
the distance was wide to the sea
and quiet, the way a strong mountain
top holds a moment.

Green land rolled shadows
and above, sky so blue you
could see night behind it.

What question could say all that was before us?

A high pine wind lifted our sweat inland
We had not planned to climb the whole way
just one more patch of sun up the trail.

Overhead, a red-tailed hawk flew circles
calling up to the sun and you shaded your
eye with a big hand to follow.

“someone always watching no matter what,”
you said, then let silence answer the way
you did after you said these kinds of things.

Far below, along the stretch of highway
we had traveled, tiny windshields winked
silver up through fat summer maples

and in one of those fast cars a small boy
was on his way to see an ocean for the first
time.
The other way, a log truck barreled a haul
of old trees down to a better place for trees.

You were thinking towards the sea when
I turned. A silhouette of a kind man’s face
caught in afternoon sun.

Now, this picture I keep,
how light comes to humble men.
of Ed standing on a mountain

and who we can be on that highway.


To Big Ed

Love Steve Arndt 7/10/03


Photo: Steve & friends gather for a literary brunch at The Stacks Coffeehouse (6/23/19).

When Joanna Rose Was Little,

cold blew where she lived.
Covered the distance
rattling dead corn
droned down tin chimney pipes,

thinned through window panes
and shivered lamp shapes on
the walls of her room.

She rested a red tablet on her lap,
wide lined and pulpy fat, “quiet,”
she told the empty page.

A freight pulled at the edge of town,
rumbled close, shook her bed, then moaned
away between snow hills of bare oak.

The page obeying, the only sound
was how a feeling waits,

then, the finch flew into her chest and pecked a rib bone,
and left handed she began, letter by letter, word by word
a trail of pencil willows leaned back,

“my life comes from different,” she wrote,

“like how a sound waits.”

And a night dog yelped the wind.


Steve Arndt, 3/5/03

Photo: Steve reads at The Stacks Coffeehouse (6/23/19), a good place to be if you love coffee, books and neighbors.[1]

[1] https://www.thestackscoffeehouse.com/ - follow events and other temptations

sparks too small to light the sky
flicker up
into those galaxies
that know us

the beach is cold but unselfish
with the night
the beach recalls us
and our dogs

crescent moon billows westward
tugging hearts
and wounded tides
washing us

tide and moon withdraw
in shining streams
carving eskers in a strand between
the surf and home

we memorize each fire
of our years
where it is safe and where
galaxies endure

What I will miss most are the bird
songs
They are wordless yet wiser than I
will ever be
They belong here long beyond when
you and I are dust and yet—
Ideals are gone so hastily, how easy
to pay a man to drive a dozer,
to make rows through forest miles,
straight lines
where they don’t belong, scarring
paradise by
the sawing, the cutting, and then
the lighting
and the burning, the blazing, the
torching destruction that doesn’t
belong—
What I will miss most is the song
of a bird
Gone down the path that doesn’t
belong—when
men were flogged into claiming a
Paycheck
instead of a future of smiles and
song

The day was a busy one. Family circumstances had me on the move. Arriving home, the last thing I needed was to find an Amazon truck parked in my space. I parked in front of the van, pinning it in and turned my car off to wait for the driver. Here he comes.

“You can’t park here,” I explained. “We pay for these spots, they’re private,” I pointed to the red-curb “no-parking” area next to us. “Park there when you deliver here, just leave your flashers on,” I said, quoting our parking policy for deliveries. The driver was irritated with me and my instructions. Despite my efforts to be calm and helpful, I made him mad.

“I’m only here one-minute, okay—one-minute,” he said.

“Yes, I understand. But you need to park by the red curbs where it says ‘no parking.’ Just keep your flashers going. That’s the rule here.”

“I only park one-minute!”

“You can park several minutes,” I said, “But not in someone’s spot. Over there,” I pointed again. His English wasn’t bad, but it was not his first language. That and our frustration were botching hopes for a fast truce.

I moved my car so he could vacate my spot, but instead of moving into the red zone right in front of him, he drove 50-feet up the row and pulled into another resident’s parking space. I decided to try cracking the language barrier one more time. “You can’t park here either,” I said, still trying to be calm.

“Only One-minute,” he said again.

“Right there,” I said pointing directly to the red curb behind us. “You can park right there if your flashers are on. Do you understand? It’s easier for you.”

Well, I failed. The driver just got madder, threw his packages back in the van and left the parking lot. Emotions churned. Amazon employees, I know, are paid low wages for hard work in poor conditions. Bathroom breaks are timed, for Pete’s sake. And this driver only wanted to get his boxes delivered. For whatever reason, I failed to help him see that if he followed our rules, parking would be easier, and residents wouldn’t bother him! Was this my fault? Probably at least 50%, yes. Was I frowning unintentionally? Was my tone of voice angry instead of helpful? My day was challenging, but maybe the driver’s day was even tougher. And then I came along.

All I could do was hurry home and resume my family’s work. With the pressure on, I turned the corner to my front door and came to a hard stop. An Amazon package was lying there on our welcome mat waiting for me to pick it up.


Photo: The train station tower rises above our parking lot. The clock is mostly true.

Remember when we were little? Remember the strong-willed protestations, “You can’t make me!” and “It’s a free country!” We relied on early lessons about this place of ours, America. Even in our childish games, we passed on a tradition of personal freedom.

Through time the childhood lesson underwent a role reversal. Now it is divisive and it’s not confined to children’s games. Now grown-ups act like children. We’re free! We’re good. They’re foreign! They’re bad. Flags are waved and our patriotism is called to task. Where do you stand? Who do you like? Wealth is lionized even when ill-gotten. And the “Past” is hearkened as though it were comprised of Halcyon days. The struggles? They are forgotten—the wars—the dust bowls, famines, the fight for Civil Rights and lingering years of the Great Depression.

Our Constitution, though, was not forgotten in all those times. It centered us in place. It buoyed our society on the age-old shoulders of statesmen who by-gum came together to craft the basis of our nation. They built the important first laws for their own times, for the new Free Country was in dire need Yet they also planned for the future—that unknown territory they could never see, the future they could never comprehend, the one that in two scant centuries became our present day.

Which do you think would have tested their credulity the most? Cars? Skyscrapers? World Wars? Space travel? Or an assault on the First Amendment?[1] The one that says: “Congress shall make no law… abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press….” The law that they placed first, ahead of all the others.

Today there is talk from our top officials that treats leakers and whistle-blowers as though they are nasty individuals out to demolish America and everything good and great about our country. This is shaky ground. People who shine light on wrongdoing are brave folks. They are watchdogs. They are journalists and their sources. They are loyal to high ideals, and they deserve honors not prison sentences. Our founders knew this. Why else would they craft the First Amendment to safeguard the press?

Yet here we are today, in a tumultuous state—a state in which we persist. We persist now—and we will stand on and on—sharing the watch with those who seek Freedom and Justice. We will not lose our freedom. The cause is fairness—fair treatment for all—and a self-ruling government that is fair for everyone. Memories are strong. Passed down, they live on. They persist.


Photo: Chelsea Manning (used here without permission of the author Mattia Luigi Nappi or the subject)[2]

[1] https://www.democracynow.org/shows/2019/5/24?autostart=true – full show (5/24/19)-------The original content of this program is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Please attribute legal copies of this work to democracynow.org. Some of the work(s) that this program incorporates, however, may be separately licensed. For further information or additional permissions, contact democracynow.org.
[2] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chelsea_Manning.jpg – no alterations; used IAW Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 international license https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

A father’s gift to his motherless son was to visit the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. The boy could select a single book to protect. The choice could have killed the little man. It certainly cursed him. For he chose The Shadow of the Wind[1] and after reading it in one night, hard times got worse. Someone was destroying every word ever written by the author, and the author had vanished.

“I felt myself surrounded by millions of abandoned pages in an ocean of darkness, while the world that throbbed outside the library seemed to be losing its memory, day after day, unknowingly, feeling all the wiser the more it forgot.” (Daniel Sempere, as a boy)

The hunt for this missing writer and his books consumed all the years of Daniel’s youth. People burned in the heat of pursuit. Some burned in body, some in spirit. They burned in darkness and the burning brought more darkness. They danced in a fearful embrace. A dirge marked the aftermath of war. Slow chords strained through cavernous ravines of the city, Barcelona. From the bay, up alleys to dark mansions and through cathedral halls, and in the brothels, the bookstores and asylums. The notes of conflict rang out long and low beneath clouds that were the bad result of war—Civil War. Its ending punctuation was dictatorship in the particular style of fascism. The clouds would not leave. But they could be made to rain.

This is a book within a book. Also a story within infinite books. It is a raging tale—impossible to contain within a library or a bookstore or a cemetery. A generation cannot contain it, let alone pairs and triangles of lovers or feuding, traumatized children that grow up in a fight to the death.

If you don’t read this book, you will not escape it. The author is a magician with mythical powers, an artist transfused by the blood of the masters—he is Freudian and Machiavellian, saintly and mean. His characters are you and me—at our best and at our worst.

More words from the voice of the brave book finder, Daniel Sempere, now older:

“Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it’s an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.”

I recommend you to read with your heart and mind The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón.


Image: A library book now living in the Barcelona of my heart and mind—for Peace. (Cover design and illustration by Tal Gorestsky)

[1] https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1232.The_Shadow_of_the_Wind

Around the corner up ahead
what hidden views await?
Today the rain played its part
and the sun approved
the wind stood still
and smiles grew.

Like curtains parting
the corner drew aside, where
a narrow bed of soil appeared,
where chance and a helping hand
determined a bulb should sprout
surrounded by vines
bending with a purpose all their own
to frame the bright small beauty
a radiant tulip
ablaze before
our smiling eyes.

Jane Goodall was on Fareed Zakaria’s CNN program “GPS.” The video[1] and the transcript[2] are available online. Here is Jane’s explanation when Mr. Zakaria questions her about the little stuffed toy that she carries with her where ever she goes:

GOODALL: I call him Mr. H. He was given to me 28 years ago by a man named Gary Horn. Gary was blinded at age 21, in the U.S. Marines. He decided to become a magician. Everybody said, "Gary, how can you be a magician if you're blind?" He said, "Well, I can try." He does shows for kids. They don't know he's blind. At the end he'll say, "Something might go wrong in your life. You never know. But if it does, don't give up. There's always a way forward." He does scuba diving; he does skydiving. He's taught himself to paint, blind—never painted before.

Anyway, he thought he was giving me a stuffed chimpanzee for my birthday, and I made him hold the tail. "Chimps don't have tails, Gary," I told him. And he said, "Never mind. Take him everywhere you go, and you’ll know my spirit's with you."

So [Mr. H.] is my symbol for the indomitable human spirit, the people that you hear about, the people I meet who tackle what seems impossible and won't give up. And, you know, there are icons, Nelson Mandela, who emerged from 17 years of hard, physical labor and had the amazing ability to forgive, so that he and de Klerk [worked together] to end the evil regime of apartheid [in South Africa].

All around us, there are people tackling personal problems, or environmental disasters, big [problems] or small ones, and either succeeding or inspiring other people to join them in the battle. And I think the most important thing, every single one of us—everyone in this audience, every single person who's listening—we all have that indomitable spirit, but we don't always recognize it and we don't always feed it. We don't always grow it. We don't always let it out into the world to do good, to inspire, to take action. [End of excerpt]

Jane Goodall works to save chimpanzees and to preserve our tropical forests, She lives up to Mr. H’s expectations. “There’s always a way forward,” she knows. And we’ll find it.


Image: Photo of my computer screen taken as I viewed Jane on CNN’s GPS (1/27/19)

[1] https://www.msn.com/en-us/video/sports/jane-goodalls-gps-interview-in-full/vi-BBSNBD3 (1/27/19)
[2] http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/1901/27/fzgps.01.html (full show, may be in “rush” format)

Jane Goodall was on Fareed Zakaria’s CNN program “GPS.” The video[1] and the transcript[2] are available online.
The gentle woman opens by recounting her life’s dream since childhood. “And so I was 10 years old when I had a dream. I will grow up, go to Africa, live with wild animals and write books about them. And everybody laughed at me.”

Dr. Jane Goodall perseveres like nobody’s business. She sets the pace. She sets the tone. Many are we who seek a dose—in some amount—of what she offers.

In the 74-years since she was a starry-eyed girl of 10, she has followed that dream. She has expanded it. Now in her 80s, she gives children hope to save our Earth. Here are a few memorable quotes from Dr. Goodall’s visit with Mr. Zakaria:

“But my mother—my amazing mother—said, ‘If you really want something, you're going to have to work extremely hard, take advantage of all opportunity, but don't give up.’ And I've taken that message to young people, particularly in deprived communities. And I wish Mom was alive to know how many people have come up to me and said, ‘Jane, thank you. You've taught me that, because you did it, I can do it, too.’”

“When you study animals, you simply must have patience. And I was, I guess, born with patience. I was born loving animals.”

“So I sat down near him [David Graybeard, her chimpanzee friend] and there was a bright red oil palm nut, which chimps love, so I held it out to him on my palm. And he turned his face away. So I put my hand closer. And he turned. He looked directly in my eyes. He reached out. He took the nut and dropped it—must have been something wrong, I don't know—but then he very gently squeezed my fingers. And that's how chimpanzees reassure each other. So in that moment we communicated with each other perfectly in a gestural communication system that must have predated human words. And I think that was the moment when I thought, ‘This is what I have to do; I just have to carry on.’"

And so she has. And so she is. Shall we? Shall we join our past and future by reaching out to reassure each other? We care, we say, with a gentle squeeze. We can.


Image: Jane Goodall by Erik (HASH) Hersman, licensed under the Creative Commons[3]

[1] https://www.msn.com/en-us/video/sports/jane-goodalls-gps-interview-in-full/vi-BBSNBD3 (1/27/19)
[2] http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/1901/27/fzgps.01.html (full show, may be in “rush” format)
[3] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jane_Goodall_at_TEDGlobal_2007-cropped.jpg

Norm and I went to high school together in Portland, Oregon in the 1960s. Like most boys of those days, our fathers were combat veterans of WWII. And when Norm and I and all our friends finished school, we still had warfare to contend with. In one way or another, human militarism interrupted our lives.

If not for Facebook, I may not have reconnected with Norm. But we did. That circumstance, in one way or another, led my old and new friend to read Bentari.

This is his recent message to me:

“Hi Tim, I wanted you to know I finished Bentari this morning after being up with it until 2 a.m. last night.  What a wonderful adventure you created.  Much of the time I felt like I was there in the forest with Bentari.  It was easy to imagine him swinging fearlessly from vine to vine.  I think my favorite parts were the description of the family interactions and their love for each other and respect for the place they lived. I enjoyed every word and you have another fan.  So excellent Tim, good for you!”

My message back overflowed with gratitude.

Bentari’s message, you see, is the same as Norm’s.

As we begin a New Year, just steer toward the brightest star.

Our bearings guide us, full-speed ahead, toward strengthening our family interactions, our love for each other and respect for the places that we live.

Peace on Earth.


Photo from Norm’s family collection, with his wife Margie

Ruben told me that he wanted me to have a poem of his. He handed me a folded page of tablet paper that I still possess. I read the poem aloud for grandpa and Ruben and said it was beautiful. The call is strong on Christmas Eve. So I share Ruben’s wish to a world in need—as much today as in 1983 when he put the page into my hand!

Too Far to Bethlehem

It’s just too far to Bethlehem —
From Grenada, Syria, Lebanon,
From Moscow, Teheran, Washington,
From Cuba, Korea, Nicaragua,
From Angola, Libya, Philippines,
East Zone, West Zone, In-Betweens.

My mind can’t grasp the distances.
My heart won’t bridge the gaps.
My eyes don’t span the spaces.
My hopes, in fear, collapse.

The martial feet will never tread
long miles to reach the starlit city.
This road is barred to all who walk
Without regret, remorse or pity.

Dear Child of Peace, leave Bethlehem-town,
Across the earth’s dark desolation
Your journey take, through desert waste,
To halt the foolish, warring nations.

Make haste, ‘tis late! Your Presence now
Can stay destructive madness.
Bring hope, and love, and peace once more;
Restore the joy of Christmas. (R.H. Huenemann)

Whether you celebrate a Holiday or the solstice or anything at all; whether you are of one creed, culture or another, if you are rich or poor, healthy or ill — May Peace be with you, may it spring outward from you. May Happiness enfold you, now and in the coming days!

Image: “The Rev. Dr. Ruben H. Huenemann” Oil On Canvas, Barbara Peet[1]


[1] https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/theintersectionatunited/artwork/the-rev-dr-ruben-h-huenemann

Words of William Stafford[1] written on —

16 August 1955
“I belong to a small fanatical sect. We believe that current ways of carrying on world affairs are malignant. We believe that armies, and the kind of international dealings based on armed might, will be self-perpetuating to a certain point — and that that point may bring annihilation. Armies are a result of obsolete ways — just as gibbets are, and as thumb-screws are, and leper windows.

     “It might be that military appropriations should be increased. We need an easy, enlightened, well-paid, courteously treated army — one so good that it will cooperate in its own decline.”


Image: EVERY WAR HAS TWO LOSERS: WILLIAM STAFFORD ON PEACE AND WAR, edited and introduced by Kim Stafford[2]

[1] https://www.williamstafford.org/about/ and https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-e-stafford
[2] http://kim-stafford.com/

Bentari is a ghost story, among other things. It opens with a murder. The victim’s survivors carry on with a mighty power billowing their sails—the power of ghostly memories on the wind.

Ghosts are important in our lives. We gather on a dark night during this Season. We drink cocoa, watch Christmas ships sailing by—and we tell ghost stories. Stories flicker like goblins hiding in the night. I have one this year about Oregon’s first public hanging in 1859—the fate of Danforth Balch. There is another about brave Appalachian women—the horseback librarians who added value to many impoverished lives. Harsh circumstances be damned. And there is this, about my “Ghost of Paradise.”[1]

Where are you now ghost of my heart? The hero of my youth, the challenger, the fleet brave bearer of everything!
I hear you

Ghosting through towering castles in the blue beyond.
You glide with Mercury at your heels and
no boundaries succeed where you hold sway!
I hear you

Where have they taken you, the champion?
Though I am covered in cold loneliness, your warmth is present.
When fear and anger haunt my vision, your smile arrives,
your hand rests upon my head.
I hear you

Your speed was meant to be. Hard sadness, your companion was left in dust.
You answer duty with deft humor and
you invoke involuntary smiles.
Take one gift, Sir, in return, and if you please, Sir—a smile the way you like it,
as broad as the shining sea, compulsory and free!
I hear you
I hear you

And I see you in youth's gentle bloom, so lean and promising,
before the wars could scar, before the world of work carried you away,
so full of power and gusto!

I believe in Paradise because of you—abiding in the memory of my heart
where I hear you loud and clear

Photos: Clair Brown (1923-1994) circa 1943, on his way to complete officer training; and the Christmas ship watch

[1] © 2018 North Star to Heaven/Bentari Project

She pulled me out of the pond

In bright flowered skirts
she trimmed our nails and
taught us the magic of popping corn

Imagination as panacea

Progressive when Republican
devoted to Dr. Spock,
Civil Rights, fair housing
and all the many Ministries
Committees and Urban Causeways
Marching for Peace at the Pentagon!
Not Republican

telling me, “It could be worse.”
Making sure it wasn’t


Photo: Mom held onto Art and me, then sent this picture to Dad overseas.

Listen to a song of hope, “We Are the Boat”[1] by following the link below. The lyrics are here.

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea, I sail in you, you sail in me

The stream sings it to the river, the river sings it to the sea
The sea sings it to the boat that carries you and me

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea, I sail in you, you sail in me

The boat we are sailing in was built by many hands
And the sea we are sailing on, it touches every land

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea, I sail in you, you sail in me

So with our hopes we set the sails
And we face the winds once more
And with our hearts we chart the waters never sailed before

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea, I sail in you, you sail in me

This song brings me hope. It reminds me that “Us” does include “Them.” It must. If it doesn’t, we remain blind and at war. Not a winning combination, unless you are trying to be lost.

Let’s be the boats instead sailing uncharted waters toward peace.


Images: “Your Tired Your Poor Your Huddled Masses”[2] (in other words—us);
and the Us-Them image by Jeff Macnelly[3]

[1] https://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?fr=yfp-t&p=we+are+the+boat#id=3&vid=a0e219f4b6419944e8b89f05adef7f22&action=click
[2] Found at: http://home.earthlink.net/~old-etcher/YourTiredYourPoorYourHuddledMasses.htm (used without permission and with apologies to the unknown artist; no credits were attributed at this website)
[3] https://www.oldladyandpurpledragon.com/us-them/ and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeff_MacNelly

that old feeling

the empty well taunts the coin
clock arms fan comfort through souls
until they petrify
and day blinks into sunken night
steam builds up
the furnace freezes
cars take a hike and
somebody crossing the street outside
turns into a god-damned
werewolf


the recurring technique
terrifies the bloated tongue into
tragic comedy
knees lock tight
gritting teeth bloody cheeks
fragile hands and hammer-toes
walk slowly away until they run
then sprint then fly then
migrate

in the old wooden wheelchair our
haggard frenzy slinks out of the vault
into the nesting den where
activity absorbs light
and ignores the howling bones
not keeping hounds at bay
they kiss you wet and dry

tools hang as always in right places
by proper hooks
inside endless ammo bins
where luster fades from mirrors
whether in neglect or in
abundant use

Images: Wishing well,[1] and me reflecting[2]

[1] Wishing Well, Ramona’s Marriage Place, San Diego, Calif.; public domain: https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47d9-3fc4-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99
[2] “that old feeling” © 2018 by Tim Brown, Bentari Project

Why did Thoreau, Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. study Percy Shelley’s poetry? Because non-violence and peaceful resolution shower avid readers of Shelley’s verse. His place in history, in a life too short, nestled deep within a coincidental nexus of the Age of Reason and the Romantic Era. Here is one stanza from Canto Seventh[1] of “The Revolt of Islam.” 

“All is not lost! there is some recompense
For hope whose fountain can be thus profound,
Even thronèd Evil's splendid impotence,
Girt by its hell of power, the secret sound
Of hymns to truth and freedom — the dread bound
Of life and death past fearlessly and well,
Dungeons wherein the high resolve is found,
Racks which degraded woman's greatness tell,
And what may else be good and irresistible.”

Reading this stopped me and sent thoughts careening!

Who among us, in our cocoon of “now,” does not wonder at least a little bit, “What may else be good and irresistible?”

An important question two-centuries ago, two-minutes ago—and to the day we exhaust the answers having stemmed the tempests of our making and installed that better day.

Enter here the names of women! All the women who brought you here to this day. Now tell them. Now give them their due. Now own your egos, you men, like me, whose backs and biceps and loins are meager shadows of the strength that they bequeath to you, their sons. Tell them now on this new day. Tell them this and smile. For this is true:

No more racks to degrade your greatness, only hymns of truth and freedom. Your lives are lived fearlessly and well. We turn to you and gladly bear the guilt of evil we enthroned, for today you lead us where all else is good and irresistible.


Image: “P.B. Shelley”[2] -- Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): He is considered to be among the best English poets, and his philosophy of non-violence made him influential among future writers and leaders.

[1] http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?textsid=36175 – The Revolt of Islam; a Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By Percy Bysshe Shelly. (1818)
[2] The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Print Collection, The New York Public Library. "[P.B. Shelley.]" New York Public Library Digital Collections. Accessed September 22, 2018. http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/b16926af-3f44-6b2f-e040-e00a1806531a

“The Revolt of Islam” is a poem that Percy Shelley wrote 200-years ago. The story is told in 12 Cantos. Dozens of Spenserian stanzas build each Canto. It’s a lot of verse—glorious to read for the patient romantic.

The tale describes two lovers who inspire a revolt to expel a corrupt tyrant.

The poet explains in his preface, “It is an experiment on the temper of the public mind, as to how far a thirst for a happier condition of moral and political society survives, among the enlightened and refined, the tempests which have shaken the age in which we live.”[1]

During just 4-decades preceding the creation of Shelley’s “Revolt,” his world, our world, was bent and shaken beneath Man-made tempests again, again and again.

In that 40-year span (1775-1815), America was birthed by the fire of two revolutionary wars. The French Revolution delivered a glimpse of that high peak of hope before the shroud of wretchedness settled heavily with the insatiable guillotine that followed. Napoleon ascended twice to temporary victories—paid for by the masses with permanent death. Then Napoleon died in 1821, just one-year prior the early demise of Percy Bysshe Shelley.

From the grave, the poet influenced a vast cadre of writers and leaders throughout the recent two-centuries that have delivered our today. It is an impressive list. Lord Byron, Dante, Leo Tolstoy, Yeats, Bertrand Russell and Upton Sinclair are among the many Shelley admirers who learned and expounded on his work. These are famous names—yet they are all names of men. Remember, though—Shelley’s wife was among his supporters. Though not as radical as her husband, she also studied “the tempests which have shaken the age in which we live.” Her name is Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (nee Godwin). She wrote Frankenstein.[2] It was published 200-years ago in 1818.

The Brontë sisters would be Mary’s younger contemporaries—and Mary Anne Evans whose pen name was George Eliot—and Aurore in France who called herself George Sand. Then, after what seemed like a late eternity, there were suffragettes.

Now 2-centuries later, tempests assail us, but our ideas now are raw and strong like our sisters, our wives and like our mothers. Listen—softly, powerfully and finish this.


Image: Mary Shelley (1797–1851)—essayist, novelist and travel writer; she also edited and promoted her husband’s work. Miniature by Reginald Eastman.[3]

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Revolt_of_Islam
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Shelley
[3] https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/b16926af-3f2f-6b2f-e040-e00a1806531a

From Chapter XV of Honey in the Horn by H. L. Davis:

“He dwelt on the fact almost proudly, as a man during a spell of cold weather does on the announcement that it is the coldest in eighty years. The line of fires down the valley, the strange wagons pulling in and being directed to their places in the line, the knowledge that this was no longer merely a head-of-the-creek community on the move through restlessness, but an entire people, a whole division of society, gathering to tackle a new country rather than live as peons in an old one, gave him a feeling of dignity and strength that, though miles beyond his own reach, was his because he belonged to these people. This was one of the great things that happened as often as the men who financed the country financed it too much and then, instead of admitting it, undertook to squeeze their money back out of the men who worked it. Whenever that happened, which it did about every ten years, the settlers picked up and cleared out somewhere else to open new land and make themselves a new country in which, maybe, they could become the ones who did the squeezing instead of the ones who got squeezed. It was not altogether a virtuously-purposed movement, but it was a great one. It was happening now, and Clay felt glad he was in it.”

I began reading this novel at Casey Bush’s suggestion. I had asked him to recommend writers whose voice or dialect conveyed a setting’s time and place. Casey immediately responded with this title and a bit about the author and his storyline.

The book does not disappoint. Casey nailed my inquiry and then some. For Honey in the Horn, published in 1935, became the only novel by a native Oregonian to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize. I burn through the pages—page after page of homespun lore—telling more about the place Oregon than about any plot. The story sweeps across awareness. The southern mountains, the Coast Range, the coast and the high desert.

But the plot is here, bleeding out slowly but in right time. And like as with the spell of ancient land newly conquered, and like the power of old blood and new—the Indians, the pioneers, the settlers, the lovers—those newly exploited, those yet to be, and those practicing the craft—the story grips and rends. Read warily with love. For ancestors are biding here.

Every few pages, I halt my reading to study the truth still beating in the heart of Honey in the Horn.


Images: The title page of my library book—and my friend Casey Bush in Newport, Oregon reading selections from his Student of the Hippocampus (The Last Word Press, 2017)

Debra took some photos of a mallard pair who frequented the garden space by our patio wall. We saw them later along the river.

We love birds and all the animal life around us here by the river. Living on the edge of enormous construction and humming commerce, we still have wildlife following ancient ways, struggling gracefully, surviving—mating.

This is our second springtime here. Ducklings and goslings provide wonder and comedy. Right out of their eggshells, they waddle and march and swim—following parental guidance. Precocial, a word I learned recently, applies to ducks and geese, not to robins.[1]

I managed a photo of a goose in flight. It looks like a pretty good shot—up close—coursing by at speed!

Well, it was a pair, really, and I only caught the one in frame.


[1] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/precocial

Steve’s footsteps and mine began intersecting in 2009. We were frequently members of the same audience enjoying poetry accompanied by jazz. Coincidence played a role, sure. But it was our similarities that funneled us into the same crowd, and now it binds us in proximal orbits, circling the sun in timely seasons. Strangers no more, these orbits are called like minds. They are friendship.

We met for coffee again. Joy and sorrow swirled like steam and aroma from our cups.

Steve wears a cast, temporarily, and stoically—and he is clearly pained in quantum doses by our country’s politics—far greater than a mere surgery or the time it takes to heal. He shuts out newsfeeds, papers and TVs. A good idea, not missing a thing, I concur.

My pain is at bay, but I share the nexus of a few leaks where recent comfort has escaped my loosening grip—migraines, my hip, computer woes. And so on. What else do old men do? Compare wounds and curse high tech!

Pah!

We praise each other. And offer help. And tell stories—heroic stories with champions who are teachers, coaches, partners who carry loads, and kids. We carry on. Whether limping or fretting, if you can’t see a bounce in our get-along, you’re blind. Welcome to the club!

Steve, ever the William Stafford fan, pulled up this poem. It shines through darkness, exactly like the poet did in World War II.

Why I Am Happy[1]

Now has come, an easy time. I let it
roll. There is a lake somewhere
so blue and far nobody owns it.
A wind comes by and a willow listens
gracefully.
I hear all this, every summer. I laugh
and cry for every turn of the world,
its terribly cold, innocent spin.
That lake stays blue and free; it goes
on and on.
And I know where it is.

—William Stafford

Thanks for sharing a cup, Steve, and for a sweet poem to fuel my seek-mobile.[2]

[1] http://www.oregonlive.com/books/index.ssf/2013/01/poetry_why_i_am_happy_by_willi.html
[2] http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1154 – Read Steve’s untitled poem

We marched today and there was a difference. Change was in the air. That was it. It hit me with a sublime calmness. Held high above the signs, our flag made me feel innately proud.

Today, the crowd, the cause and the unity was represented well by the Stars and Stripes. Our local youth gave urgent speeches. We saw a future well in hand, while marchers by the tens of thousands rained down rewarding cheers.

I’m glad that I’m alive to see this day! My eyes aren’t prone to over-watering. But today was a welcome test of that condition.

The “generation that will be great” leads us to a safer future. Finally, security from gun play. The Wild West is laid to rest, no longer twisting in the wind like the stilted history it was. What grand charter will they design next? Now that they need not tackle gun men, the universe belongs to them.

Politicians pay attention. Babes in arms no more. They’ve grown. You’ve forced them into the lead, and now they’re quite disarming.

Good reasons for more marches! But do not whisper about a march or a protest here! Not unless you are ready for the care-filled masses to crush the downtown pavement. This city turns out.

Signs and chants, families and communities, marching stomping smiling mobs of partisans for peace and safety. Portland, Oregon will bring it.

A chant for our schools was like a drum-beat, “Funds not guns! Funds not guns!”

A flag of old colors seemed new. The wind has changed.

I met Algernon Thaddeus Triton in 1959.

He was 25—a bit past his prime but nonetheless fully fit and eager to host me in his expansive hall. His mansion rose high atop the escarpment where it seemingly overlooked the whole world.

You will never find a more eager host or one who is more engaging and curious.

It was widely known that Algernon preferred to be called “Thad.” Invariably, he would address his company as “mon ami,” and his lingering gaze left no doubt as to his sincerity.

After a delectable meal, he browsed the wine rack while prompting me to share my habits with him and to tell him of my dreams.

How at ease he was. Selecting a Tokaji Aszu 6 Puttonyos, vintage 1949, he opened the slender bottle with aplomb and motioned for me to sample the bouquet.

I accepted the offer letting my nose linger above the bottle as the scent wafted forth. Our eyes met and my smile spoke approval.

Thad poured two ounces for me to taste.

“Aszu-Eszencia extraordinaire. Nonpareil,” was my tongue’s response.

He poured our crystal vessels half-full.

With his slow yet purposeful manner, Thad gently raised his glass and I tipped mine towards him. His countenance became frank just then. His expression distant. In his eyes, a deep well of hope.

“The freshest bloom,” he said, “Is not always the prettiest. And yet—it holds the most promise.”

While reading Bentari, Jim sent me this message:

“Praise goodness, I’m really enjoying your book.
I really am. I just thought I’d let you know.”




And a few days later, he added these kind words:

“Tim, I finished your book. I just loved it.
It’s just great. I couldn’t ask for better reading.
Enjoyed every page. I enjoyed every second.
You’re a great writer and I thank you for your gift.”


I sent this back with haste:

“That’s one awesome message, Jim!
Thank you so much!
I’m VERY happy you enjoyed my yarn.”


Photo: Jim, a man of Portland (from his family collection)

Dad was born 95-years ago today in a house in NE Portland.

His family was of the working class and they moved around a lot. They lived in the Rose City neighborhood, where Dad started school. He missed most of his 1st grade year after coming down with the whooping cough, so he was pushed back a half-year. This would prove providential for me.

Then they moved to Kerns, and later to Buckman where they lived with Dad’s grandfather in a house on 9th and Davis. It was crowded with relatives. Many of them worked at the nearby Palace Laundry Company. It was hard work with long hours.

In any case and for unknown reasons, Dad grew up having no kind words for his parents. So he never mentioned them at all. By the time they moved to Arleta in 1939, his parents were divorced. That move set the stage for Dad to attend Franklin High School. Since he was put back a half-year in the 1st grade, he eventually found himself in a junior English class where he met his future and life-long bride, and things started looking up.

Little things pile up in our lives that lead us down roads not imagined, not planned or plotted, not mapped with intentions or by any particular romance—only chance.

When a Kamikaze dropped his torpedo aimed for Dad’s ship in 1945, it was aimed amidships and its path was true. My Dad had died and I was never born save for the flat-bottomed landing ship, where a crew watched a deadly fish disappear beneath their hull and emerge on the other side, its target missed.

So Dad lived on. And I was born. And not a day goes by without my thanks for the providences great and small that provided me with a special man for a father.

He cut my hair when I was a boy. And while he worked, he told me stories in funny voices, and sang me ditties and recited little poems. One of them went like this.

In a very far land not very far off,
A blue jay died of the whooping cough!
He whooped so hard with the whooping cough
That he whooped his head and his tail right off!

He’s gone these 24-years, now, he and Mom.

But in my heart and in our family, they’ll never be forgot. And none of us suffers from any memory of them we share. And all of us have only the kindest words and plenty of them to say in remembrance of Jo and Clair—the Captain and his Polaris.


Image: Dad's father and grandfather in 1912 working for the laundry

In her latest book, Wife, Just Let Go: Zen, Alzheimer’s, and Love,[1] Diana Saltoon[2] shares a difficult path. Each step did not land on a flat stone. Far from it. But each step was taken slowly and thoughtfully with hopes of holding on. There was a great deal of love to keep, you see, but the Alzheimer’s diagnosis for her husband Robert Briggs[3] evoked the cruel theft of everything.

This book of theirs is a well-balanced dual memoir. Diana gave the promise to Robert after their new reality had settled. For Robert was a writer and he did not wish to stop. Diana vowed that she would see his last work in print, and she excelled in her promise-keeping.

Her stories of the path invite us. The woven poetry and travels, perspectives and meditations, the facing of music and the dancing to it—each step and every stumble of the journey welcomes us. We find our own way as we discover theirs. The book is beautifully crafted. Each chapter is an inclusive phase. Each story opens a veil. We follow steps. They lead us into the misty garden of clinging vines and fleeting life. Poetry and observations grow along the way.

“As my wife Diana reminds me, ‘Age has little to do with aging. It is the quality of energy experienced moment by moment.’” Robert, 2012, New York

This book is a lyrical signpost, a guide to going where no one wants to tread. Yet! Oh, for love—the dread path appears, as it does for many—and suddenly you realize that your first steps have already stretched along the path—behind you! It is clear, the steps cannot be taken back. Then, and from that moment on, this book will comfort you.

You become intimate with two creative souls. Finding them on the path, you suffer the unexpected turn. You understand that their shared fate belongs to us, too. Whether it is Alzheimer’s that becomes your shepherd or another shroud of age, the path becomes less inviting with the blessed curse of passing time. For those of us who are touched by the thievery of Alzheimer’s, Diana Saltoon’s record of Robert’s last written words will help in enormous ways. Consider the path, where it leads, and that day when you are called to accomplish the impossible and “Just Let Go.”

Between courage and being crushed there lies great strength. In Diana’s and Robert’s case, a commitment of togetherness proved indomitable. Yet strength is not power. It cannot outmuscle sorrow, but it does abide despite tears, it enables hands and hearts to enfold forever—and it serves in perfect measure when the time of breathing ends. Presence is changed. Awareness is embraced. Time together is cherished and released to waft eternally with the dawn and with the dusk. That is everything.

As promised and with Robert’s words and hers, Diana Saltoon delivers this.

“They clap all over the world when you dance with me.” Robert, 2014

Image: Cover by Christine Toth, Portland, Oregon


[1] https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2/137-1850626-1741137?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=wife%2C+just+let+go
[2] http://www.readhowyouwant.com/catalog/author-detail.aspx?author-id=2275
[3] http://ruinedtime.com/

river and rainbow
surround flowing traffic on
a busy freeway

while trees connect and soil waits
birds forage and sing and nest






Image: Willamette River flowing north between the Marquam Bridge and the Hawthorne

they fly to me—
as high as planes
that ferry you about
as mighty engines
roar the miles away
your destinations
shine like mysteries
glowing miracles
and multiplying
feats of wonder

they fly to me—
on heart beats and
memories
laughing
hugging you
playing tag and
tossing you and catching you
throwing baseballs to you
and reading and reading
watching you grow
learning who you are
who you will be and
knowing who you were
you are my son
and i am proud
of you


Image: at the space needle—on a cloudy day you can see forever

The kind of strength that cannot be broken and never dies. It possesses you on every page of Rene Denfeld’s new classic The Child Finder.[1] It is epic. It is simple. The kind of truth that hurts, that buries you. Until you are free. If you are free.

It happens in the Skookum Forest of Oregon. Skookum, the ancient word for Danger—a word I learned in college and wrote about. But not like this. Not like glacial cycles so massive, so ponderous, so deadly and so perfect for spawning hell and concealing endless torture. Not like unavoidable secrets that are bottomless ravines, traps that line the mountain peaks where so much that you fear is hidden. Amorphous unknown answers loom. Like, why is Naomi so afraid of “Big”?

There is Naomi, the child finder and her training. Maybe it was unconventional. But she learned to win in conventional ways, like dogged determination and being tougher than the avalanche. The avalanche was her life. It both buried and pushed her on. It became the source of all strength, mother’s love. Even though she wasn’t one, she knew. The backstory of how she knew jars you. Repeatedly. She had a lot of help to learn it, and that is a large part of what makes this book vital and required.

Naomi also learned a great deal on her own. The world and its dark side made her the heir to dreams big enough to knock a bus over. She became a boxer. I watched her tattoo the old instructor and bag up all his tricks. Win! Do it without remorse. Win. That which sounds like the world’s worst case of unsportsmanlike conduct is at once a whisper and a rabbit punch. When your opponents are monsters, there’s no shaking hands. This book tells the right story. This book tells it like it needs to be told. No holds barred.

This story is told to us by Skookum writer—Rene Denfeld, who knows. She knows and she cares and she shows it in open and public ways. Rene is out there on Facebook, beautifully. And she leads strongly softly and lovingly in her home and all around the Portland writing community—and around the world. Follow her.

More than the excellent plot, beyond the living characters and beyond the focused voice that speaks so well, it is the theme. It is the subject, the topic of this story that draws us into dark places that hide light like steel-jawed traps, like buried seeds, erupting unexpectedly. This subject matter is all-important. Read it, feel it, brawl with it, resolve the conflict within it. Yes. Do this, and we can plant true peace. But first, we need to talk about it. It can happen. Rene and her Naomi learn and share. We are bound to be protectors.

Photo: Rene’s portrait from her website is used here with my thanks for her permission.

“Bio” from her book cover: “Rene Denfeld is an internationally bestselling author, journalist, and licensed investigator specializing in death penalty work. She has written for the New York Times Magazine, the Oregonian, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. She is also the author of the award-winning novel The Enchanted[2] as well as three works of non-fiction.”

[1] http://renedenfeld.com/author/biography/
[2] http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1134

This entry concludes a series of reflections about peace, togetherness, unity and joy. No better person than Pete Seeger to stoke the embers in our hearts—and no better song for him to sing than “Down by the Riverside.”

I love when Pete got the crowd singing. He had the knack for timing between the verses and shouting out the words for everyone to sing along. He strummed the banjo and sang his thrilling harmonies on high (or low). In this version, he teaches the crowd to harmonize, too. He also teaches us about this song’s roots that lie in the traditions of African-American Spirituals. Those songs brightened many a bleak, hard life. Let this song carry us, still marching, toward a safe future for every parent and every child.

Enjoy some lyrics[1] here & listen on YouTube[2] with Pete, the sing-along king:

I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield,
Down by the riverside
Down by the riverside
Down by the riverside
I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield,
Down by the riverside
Study war no more

I ain't gonna study war no more
Ain't gonna study war no more
Ain't gonna study war no more
I ain't gonna study war no more
Ain't gonna study war no more
Ain't gonna study war no more

I'm gonna lay down that atom bomb
Down by the riverside
Down by the riverside
Down by the riverside
I'm gonna lay down that atom bomb,
Down by the riverside
Study war no more


Photo: Pete Seeger, American folk singer (1955), Fred Palumbo[3]

[1] http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858926729/ (Abbreviated above due to space.)
[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYe-bLaqhhY “Any tenors here? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” (Pete)
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Pete_Seeger_NYWTS.jpg (no known restrictions on use of this photo)

Heather Heyer died after she made a conscious choice to stand against injustice. “Friends described her as a passionate advocate for the disenfranchised who was often moved to tears by the world’s injustices.”[1]

Here in Portland, Oregon, neighbors rallied for her and for the brave folks of Charlottesville.[2] We met as mourners and as celebrants—three-thousand miles removed from the latest hate crime. Every one of us harbored our own pain. Yet we stood. We gathered. We wanted to erase the hate. We would smother it with love. We were there. We will return.

Our forgiveness and patience were tested. For many of us, they attempted to retreat! But the story of Heather Heyer inspired us. We reeled in our kindness. The innocent champion forfeited her life when a hateful man crushed her with his murder car. How can we idle the night away when we know?

Heather’s future and all the kind deeds she would have done—gone, stolen by an American terrorist. Reports say that he admired Hitler and Nazi Germany. His crowd supports white nationalism and fictional supremacy. They have no nation. They are supreme over nothing. Carrying torches and guns, crashing into people and claiming superiority over others are not behaviors that pave the higher road. No.

Heather’s smile, her sparkling eyes and her happy glow are now immortal. Her poor mother found the strength to go on TV where she recalled her daughter’s conviction, “It doesn’t do any good to be strong and independent if you can’t stand up when it’s needed.”

We honor Heather Heyer, our latest hero. She has claimed her place on the long roll.

We hold her life dearly. Her future lives within us!

We remember. We stand up when it’s needed.


Photo by Benjamin Brink for “The Oregonian/OregonLive”

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/13/us/heather-heyer-charlottesville-victim.html
[2] http://www.oregonlive.com/portland/index.ssf/2017/08/residents_rally_against_hate_o.html#incart_river_index

Take a journey with me. Come and take a voyage out to sea. We’ll weigh the anchor and set our sails. The course is on the chart. Our heading points across time. Hurry! We’ll follow a long, lost traveler—the master story-teller and minstrel of his day, Phil Ochs. “Pleasures of the Harbor” was his fourth full-length album, released on Halloween in 1967—the day after my 18th birthday—and a week prior to my enlistment in the Navy. I knew him then, and now we’re on our way.

In the 60’s Phil Ochs was popular, especially back east.  But even though Phil sang at all the festivals and was friends with Bob Dylan, his offerings were not regularly put on the air. They were a bit too topical, too edgy and too critical of the status quo for station big wigs to authorize their air-time. One song, “Outside of a Small Circle of Friends,” even included a verse about marijuana! The nerve of that guy!

The album’s title song “Pleasures of the Harbor”[1] may have been censored, too. It’s real. It doesn’t hold back. It is the story of a lonely sailor’s return to port, and therefore it sings of certain pleasures that were missed at sea. Phil painted his portrayal in poetic detail. Yes, there was communication in the Biblical sense—and with ladies whose social status was less than polite. All right. The sailors drank in bars and mingled with prostitutes. How on Earth could DJs be expected to play that record in the 60s! Draft cards and bras were burning, but there was no way a song could mention working women. That came in the 70s.

Why do I add this colorful ballad to my website? It deals with sex and so-called vices, drinking, smoking and the like. None of these life aspects are on the pages of my blog or my book. Heavens, no! My story is about murder, war and theft—massive crimes that overwhelm a simple people—including Bentari, a boy so young.

Here’s the connection. What is more pertinent than the simple contact that all living creatures need? If not for mere survival, we need it to succeed. Love and warmth—as basic to our needs as air and water! The lyrical ballad “Pleasures of the Harbor” shows us men and women surviving. Bentari is a survivor, too. Sources may differ—and methods. But the need is the same. Humans make do. With a bit of luck and a little help, they make it.

I’m left now, with the feeling that Phil Ochs wrote songs for the same reason that I tell stories. To find a better way. To make things better for others. If only to build a smile.

Photo: Phil Ochs with family and felines

See our entries (below) about “Outside of a Small Circle of Friends” and “Crucifixion”

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPJwSjByXGo – Phil on guitar, sings live in Montreal, 1966 --
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnD_ZdALLdY -- Phil sings with orchestra; for lyrics, see:
http://www.songlyrics.com/phil-ochs/pleasures-of-the-harbor-lyrics/

“Outside of a Small Circle of Friends”[1] by Phil Ochs was released in 1967 on the “Pleasures of the Harbor” album. Ever the activist, Phil Ochs satirized those puzzling cases when onlookers stand idly by as a victim is being hurt before their eyes.

The singer song-writer was inspired by the 1964 death of Kitty Genovese in Queens, New York.[2] The story went that dozens of by-standers, including many who knew Kitty, witnessed her being raped and stabbed to death. They were too shocked or too fearful to intervene. Dozens watched, only two called the police. Though woefully and inexplicably delayed, one call was mishandled by the cops, the other was too late to save Kitty’s life. She tended a bar. She worked double shifts and was saving to open her own restaurant. She was on her way home—in the small hours of the night.

Some say this incident led to the creation of the national “911” system. Some said it was the beginning of the end of decency. Some said the whole story was sensationalized by the print news media to sell copies and that the police were complicit. They said that the tragic episode gave New York an undeserved black eye for being the home of cowards.

Phil Ochs wrote a song. His lyrics describe a handful of situations where decent folks, we’d like to think, would lend a hasty hand. But they don’t. He opens with a woman under dire attack, like Kitty was. Then he reveals sexual exploitation, then shows pile-up victims in need of rescue while drivers pass on by, and then swings to the endless straits of poor children starving in ghettoes, and a justice system gone haywire. But in his song, no one helps. In each example, people watch without caring. They see without feeling. Or they make excuses, content to watch, not willing to dive on any grenades.

Observers in the song say, “I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody outside of a small circle of friends.” None of them are in that circle. The refrain goes on. It is sung to a ragtime ditty—ironically light-hearted for the song’s dark theme of indifference.

Phil Ochs wrote “Outside of a Small Circle of Friends” 50-years ago. What situations might he include if he wrote this song today? Aren’t many of us living isolated lives, disconnected from suffering neighbors? Isn’t there a better way? If we (the neighbors, the watchers, the by-standers)—if we don’t pitch in, who will?

We need a bigger circle. Lend a hand and watch it grow.

Photo: Phil Ochs outside the offices of National Student Association in Washington[3]

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ta_iKeH4tsg Lyrics and song by Phil Ochs
[2] https://www.biography.com/people/kitty-genovese-120415
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:20111015_174748_phil-ochs.jpg Author Chip.berlet (1975); used here without permission per creative commons licensing

The harbor beckons. Distant lights bring hope. Can we believe our eyes? Yes, the flickering grows across the water. A welcome sight, the wharf. Make those hawsers tight. Solid ground rolls under-foot at first, a merry change from choppy seas and pitching decks. The sky is gentler when ashore—more forgiving. Sailors don’t drown on land—only in the lonely sea.

Our journey along the course that Phil Ochs sailed must end. Appropriately, “Crucifixion,”[1] is the final offering on his album “Pleasures of the Harbor.”

This song is long. It should be. It’s comprised of heady stuff, like salty winds that billow sails, steering men away, filling lungs and heads with possibilities and danger. This song aligns two unnatural deaths—that of a man on a cross and that of JFK.

The lilting harbor song welcomed us to shore, back from the siren arms of the sea to that all important human contact, to connections, to the love we need—from our swaddling cries—until the need becomes a craving when we prepare to die.

“Outside of a Small Circle of Friends” uncovers us—the song of our failings, our callous self-interest, our fear and our self-preservation. We know we have the power to act—to save some of those who live in peril from beasts or beastly circumstances.

Now, we hear this haunting allegory, “Crucifixion.” It is the hardest lesson of them all. This tale tells of pushing heroes too far. We don’t ignore their plight. We kill them for it. Then we savor their demise. We hold them up. We swear upon their memories that we will be transformed. It does not last. Another bull is forced into the ring. Another slaughter. And while we weep, we salivate.

And so, we set sail again. The harbor sinks below a friendly enemy—our horizon. We steer our ship to new adventures, opportunities and fortunes. We know the harbor waits. We know that pleasures keep.

But do we know enough to end our fall? Or do we wait, complicit tyrants, yearning for new blood to spill?

About “Crucifixion,” some call this song a dirge. I call it a march.

En Avant! Forward! March to that better day, the day that only comes when we build it—like carpenters of life!

Image: Crucifixion (Marion Junkin)[2]


[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIwbeEGXj5E Phil Ochs singing “Crucifixion”—and lyrics:
http://www.metrolyrics.com/crucifixion-lyrics-phil-ochs.html
[2] https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/5e66b3e8-8128-d471-e040-e00a180654d7 in public domain

From “Joyce R.” <As our 50th HS reunion approached, we connected on Facebook>
To Tim@Bentari.com

Hi Tim, I had seen references to Bentari on Facebook, but I did not connect it till just this last week when I saw that you were the author! So I ordered your book immediately. I love good writing, and my first thought when I started reading was:  Clear and pure.  I just love the first paragraph and so many phrases in chapter one, such as: "The calm settles like coincidence....," "The hushed forest on a sultry morning had beguiled...," "...the silence and the smells and the beauty of that calm moment filled his soul.... [He was] a part of the puzzling creation—a piece with a perfect fit." I was hooked long before the shots rang out.

Later the narrator Max Farleigh introduced himself, and he said, "My arm stayed in Norway along with my peace of mind." I felt like I knew him and understood what he went through in the war. Every sentence is so full and descriptive. It is all so good! And as with all good books, you forget who the author is because you are lost in the story!

It's a very exciting book, Tim! And the amount of detail is fascinating. You did the homework, a lot of research, obviously. The themes are dark: the invasion, the war, plundering, greed and the Belgian colonial occupation. Yet somehow you have made it all bearable by your focus on a little boy and his people, especially on his family. The ones who count. They pull him through. And the little guy doesn’t let them down when they need him. Fantastic. His memory whispered the way. His path was guided by his dream. His vision became a rock.

Your ending! What a finish! I have to say, reading your story was a pleasure. I hated for it to end. You have told me there is more coming. All I have to say is, “Thank, God.” And I will be following your blog. (Love your tribute to Deb in the book’s Acknowledgments!)

* * * * * * * * Thank You, Joyce! Your support is motivating! * * * * * * * *

Chapter 1 of Bentari is available for free in three entries posted on Oct. 5, 2013. Please enjoy the complete chapter (“The Calm”) by scrolling down or by following the links in the notes below.[1]

Or—Buy Bentari and Fly! Bentari is also available at Amazon.com and on Kindle. E-mails are most welcome at: Tim@Bentari.com.

Photo: With two important Bentari believers—my wife Debra who was my first and favorite reader (on my left), and our most recent reader and rave reviewer Joyce. We all attended Washington High School in Portland.


[1] Ch. 1, in three blog entries at: http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=947 (part I)- http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=946 – (part II) http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=945 – (part III, end Ch. 1)

From “JR” <Recently connected on Facebook, she and I were high school classmates>

To Tim@Bentari.com

Tim.

In the last few days I have read all the blogs at Bentari Project for the past year-and-a-half; and looking forward to more!  I ordered the book ASAP through CreateSpace.

Bentari Blog:  Exceptional!  I have (so far) about 8 pages of notes... things to explore and learn more about... and books that are a must read!  I loved the discovery of Mbara being the name of the original African population and how you "unknowingly but knowingly" chose that for the tribe in your book.  And the ancestral line of Badollet.

There are so many nuggets in your blog:  Patrice Lumumba's murder, Fred Hampton's murder, Kyu Sakamoto, Jane Goodall, Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim, Robert Burns,  volcanic role in the book and Mt. Tabor, the virtues of turquoise, Klondike gold mania, and on and on.

I love the poetry in your blog.  Quietly waiting.  And Solstice Visions from North Star to Heaven.  Ahhh…

I'm just getting started... and highly recommend this blog to everyone who loves good writing... and a desire to make a difference.  Thank you for your 'Things You Can Do' list for all of us... locally, globally, environmentally, and ethically.

You are an unbelievably good writer. So thoughtful. Your love of words. Compassionate action. The love for and honoring of your family. Honoring historical figures that have made a difference. Contemporaries who are making a difference now. So many book suggestions! Your call to action. A lot to think about.

Thank you for sharing this with the world.

* * * * * * * * THANK YOU, “JR”! * * * * * * * *

Thank you for your kind and generous words. They are so welcome!

This is so complimentary and a nice list of many of our favorite entries. It’s also a super booster for me to keep up this hobby of mine! I hope you like the story in Bentari just as well. Please let me know. Thank you!

Buy Bentari now – and contact me by e-mail: Tim@Bentari.com – I look forward to hearing from you!

Image: Bentari cover art with thanks to artist and friend Amine Errahli in Casablanca!

Well, to me there is no such thing as a “good” war. Outcomes can be arguably better or worse from war to war. The act of waging war, however, is barbaric, inhumane and insane. Consider these two points: 1) Wars exhibit our collective human failure to solve our problems in peaceful and constructive ways. 2) As Phil Ochs put it, “It’s always the old to lead us to the war. It’s always the young to fall."

This is patently wrong. The young are too young. They haven’t learned yet that they are being played. They whoop and holler, “We got our war!” Proudly they don the uniform. Determined to defend or to avenge, they pick up the banners and the guns. They march. They engage. They kill. They die. Some come home whole. Some are maimed. Most are no longer the same. Yet the old will line them up again so soon for another go. “We got our war!” They whoop. They holler.

Dear Old Dad fought in two awful bloody wars, yet he had the good sense to teach big brother Art and me to “Keep your hands to yourself!” I was 11 and Art was 13 by the time we caught on and never fought each other any more. You might say we beat sense into our own heads. But I’ll never forget Dad scolding us as he pulled us apart. How could I? He said it a million times.

Then as a teacher, I learned the art of collaborative problem solving. “PS’ing,” some students at Aunt Margaret’s school used to call it. It’s simple. 1) Identify the problem. 2) Propose solutions. 3) Choose the best one to settle matters peacefully. 4) Implement. 5) Check and adjust. Aren’t these lovely steps? Aren’t they simple?

How dare our “old” ones, our politicians and presidents model intransigence, bellicosity and war-mongering to our youth! Problem solving should carry the day. Instead, our precious young ones are being groomed for whooping and hollering. By example, they are being conditioned to march proudly off to fight, to kill and to be changed forever in that worst of all ways—while under fire and firing back.

Here are a few lines of “I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore” [1] by Phil Ochs[2]:

Oh I marched to the battle of New Orleans
At the end of the early British wars
The young land started growing
The young blood started flowing
But I ain't marchin' anymore

It's always the old to lead us to the war
It's always the young to fall
Now look at all we've won with the saber and the gun
Tell me is it worth it all

Happy Independence (from war) Day! To Everyone!

Images: Phil Ochs’ family and felines[3], and Mom’s section of the Peace Ribbon

[1] http://www.metrolyrics.com/i-aint-marching-anymore-lyrics-phil-ochs.html
[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gv1KEF8Uw2k – Phil Ochs sings; dedication to the good people at NATO
[3] https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e2-b253-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

“A bird made a nest in the flowers and laid 4 eggs, at my client’s house. I felt honored to get to see it. As I worked this evening, I reflected on the dedication and work put in to build the nest and lay the eggs... And the effort that will be needed to raise the young.

“I get so caught up in my daily routine that I often forget how fragile life really is. I repeat the same motions, emotions and dreams, almost daily, with the random variations that eventually equate to progress and growth. Most of my time is spent 'nesting,' taking care of my home and my offspring. In a lot of ways, I have let my nest define who I am and what I do; without it, who am I really?

“I don't know how to explain it... But I love my home and my kids... and life as we know it is oh so fragile.

“Be grateful for what you have.”

A meditation holding gentle strength, Rebecca—like a bird's nest. Thank you for letting me share your reflection.

Photo and Facebook post, by our lovely niece Rebecca

DAWN IN THE HEART OF AFRICA[1]
a poem by Patrice Lumumba

For a thousand years, you, African, suffered like beast,
Your ashes strewn to the wind that roams the desert.
Your tyrants built the lustrous, magic temples
To preserve your soul, reserve your suffering.
Barbaric right of fist and the white right to a whip,
You had the right to die, you also could weep.
On your totem they carved endless hunger, endless bonds,
And even in the cover of the woods a ghastly cruel death
Was watching, snaky, crawling to you
Like branches from the holes and heads of trees
Embraced your body and your ailing soul.
Then they put a treacherous big viper on your chest:
On your neck they laid the yoke of fire-water,
They took your sweet wife for glitter of cheap pearls,
Your incredible riches that nobody could measure.

From your hut, the tom-toms sounded into dark of night
Carrying cruel laments up mighty black rivers
About abused girls, streams of tears and blood,
About ships that sailed to countries where the little man
Wallows in an ant hill and the dollar is king,
To that damned land which they called a motherland.
There your child, your wife were ground, day and night
In a frightful, merciless mill, crushing them in dreadful pain.
You are a man like others. They preach you to believe
That good white God will reconcile all men at last.
By fire you grieved and sang the moaning songs
Of a homeless beggar that sinks at strangers' doors.
And when a craze possessed you
And your blood boiled through the night
You danced, you moaned, obsessed by father's passion.
Like fury of a storm to lyrics of a manly tune
From a thousand years of misery a strength burst out of you
In metallic voice of jazz, in uncovered outcry
That thunders through the continent like gigantic surf.
The whole world surprised, wakes up in panic
To the violent rhythm of blood, to the violent rhythm of jazz,
The white man turning pallid over this new song
That carries torch of purple through the dark of night.
The dawn is here, my brother! Dawn! Look in our faces,
A new morning breaks in our old Africa.
Ours alone will now be the land, the water, mighty rivers
Poor African surrendered for a thousand years.
Hard torches of the sun will shine for us again
They'll dry the tears in eyes and spittle on your face.
The moment when you break the chains, the heavy fetters,
The evil cruel times will go never to come again.
A free and gallant Congo will rise from black soil,
A free and gallant Congo-black blossom from black seed!


Images: Patrice Lumumba (1925-1961)[2] and “The American Slave,” author James Stetson Metcalfe (1858-1927)[3]

About Patrice Lumumba, see our Bentari Project Blog entry of May 30, 2016[4]

[1] http://people.sci.pfu.edu.ru/asemenov/LUMUMBA/DAWN_01.HTM
[2] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Anefo_910-9740_De_Congolese2.jpg
[3] https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47df-9d3a-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99
[4] http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1137

MEMORIAL DAY AT THE LITTLE BIGHORN

At the edge of the Great Plains, beneath a Western Big Sky
just off I-90 halfway between Billings and Gillette
through a tollbooth up above the Crow casino
rest stop without picnic tables, gift shop run by boy scouts
public address system announces the next lecture in fifteen minutes
solemn menfolk  holding the hands of their wives and children
not just bearded burly white guys but also a few Lakota sporting gray pony tails
every truck and van in the parking lot with bumper stickers supporting the troops

Behind the visitor’s center on a covered patio overlooking Last Stand Hill
an overly enthusiastic ranger dressed in green camo relives the massacre
“How could such a well-armed cavalry be overrun by heathen savages?
Only military cemetery in the world with tombstones placed to mark where each Soldier fell.”
Rounded marble monuments lie scattered down the treeless hillside
dry coulee once awash with red blood
today covered by yellow grass filled with buzzing locust
signs caution tourists “beware of snakes”
“stay on paved pathways” to prevent further erosion
“use of metal detectors prohibited” in search of battlefield artifacts

Sioux in the audience asks:  “And so where are the dead warriors?”
Our guide points to the far side of the road a stone circle six feet deep
topped by an iron sculpture depicting Warriors on horseback
inscribed with a list of names and a culturally sensitive 21st Century narrative
etched into marble about the clash of nations
Europeans thirsting for gold and Manifest Destiny
nomads striving for an existence not burdened by the ownership of land

“Just imagine Custer’s surprise,” our host continues gesturing to the river below
“When he came upon a city of teepees under the cottonwoods
Cheyenne and the Oglala, Sans Arc and the Brulé, Blackfeet and the Uncpapa;
this was not just Custer’s Last Stand but also that of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull
just imagine if there were burial sites for those First Peoples who died in revenge
from Big Hole to Buffalo Gap, from Stronghold to Wounded Knee
a genocide that could not be contained by this entire valley.”

Back in the parking lot I noticed yet another more substantial graveyard
occupying an irrigated green lawn set below a line of pines
filled with white granite squares in neat columns and rows
evenly spaced so that a mower could be driven between
National Cemetery designed for an additional legion of patriotic souls
children of Montana who served their country overseas
in Germany and Japan
in Korea and Vietnam
in Iraq and Afghanistan
driven into frenzied murder by rallying cries
echoing the memories of the Alamo and Custer
the Maine and Lusitania
Pearl Harbor and the World Trade Center

And it was then that I imagined
just beyond  those unmarked burials of Native Americans
suggested by the uniformed storyteller
yet another invisible martyr’s boneyard
extending all the way to the Continental Divide
filled with victims of wars fought throughout Asia and Europe
a necropolis so vast and endless
that everyone on this Earth
are all either dead victims or living witnesses
pushing up dandelions or placing flowered wreaths
without time enough to wait
until the next sun rises
without lifespans to spare
until a blue moon falls out of the sky
without the patience to pause
until pale faces and red skin are the same color
as this life is too short and precious
and there are more important things to celebrate
than the crusades of brave Warriors and noble Soldiers.

— Casey Bush[1]

Images: Little Bighorn Cemetery overview by Durwood Brandon,[2] Iron sculpture by Native artist Colleen Cutschall honoring the Native Americans,[3] Pastoral Scene[4]

[1] http://www.oregonpoeticvoices.org/poet/341/ additional resources: http://oregonpoeticvoices.org/series_list/
[2] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Little_Bighorn_cemetery_overview.jpg public domain per  jeremykemp
[3] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Little-bighorn-memorial-sculpture-2.jpg Indian Memorial at the Little Bighorn Battlefield. "GNU Free Documentation License"
[4] http://chimac.net/2011/03/28/beautiful-pastoral-scene/ Stuff Worth Knowing About (Used without permission)

I was almost eleven in the summer of 1960. Brother Art was 13. We rode the Domeliner east from Portland to The Dalles. The tracks ran beside the newly completed Interstate I-80. From the dome on top of the train car, we saw the Columbia rolling toward the sea. The new freeway’s river of cars was a modern torrent at 70 mph. But the natural beauty stood still. Lava plugs held onto our eyes like sentinels along the coursing river—Rooster Rock on Oregon’s side—Beacon Rock, a fortress on Washington’s far bank. Deep granite canyons undulate down both shores.

Blue-red stone sinews mark the ancient routes from Missoula—where once upon an eon, this canyon fought to hold the oceanic floods. The planet shrugged. Pointing to the sun, it bathed ice fields in the glow—a climate that warms us to this day. In the dome, a trickle of sweat tested my temple for a path south. A fat old-man smoked a cigar.

Slow dancing spray and foam pirouette from on high—Bridal Veil, Horsetail, Oneonta and the mammoth of the Gorge—Multnomah Falls—that plummets hypnotically from beyond 600-feet. Mist and shade conspire across the seasons, spreading moss layers over muscled walls. Bracken ferns, salal and salmon berries proliferate along the trails. A canopy of big-leaf maple, alder, and western hemlock trees provide cool shade. Creeks and rills wend their ways down from the Cascades where giant Douglas Firs colonize the high country—down to the Gorge, to the clifftops, to the parapets that open and release the remnants of the ancient floods—blossoming, flowing tributaries to the Mighty Columbia!

We ride through the rugged tunnel, the rough-cut gorge where the river pushes west beneath the cerulean infinity above. The endless sky is promising. In 1851 our ancestors inhaled these spirits while rafting from The Dalles to Portland on their final leg of the wagon train toward us.

Uncle Wayne and Aunt Jean met us at the station. We spent a week with them. We feasted on Wayne’s popcorn while watching pro wrestling on TV. Without butter and salt, I still don’t know how it tasted so delicious, but it did. I loved listening to Aunt Jean’s favorite records, but I told her I liked The Kingston Trio better. Art preferred The Limelighters and “Doc” Lou Gottlieb’s acerbic wit. Still, Jimmie Rodgers singing “Kisses Sweeter than Wine” miraculously hit perfect chords for a boy under the spell of his first girlfriend’s magnetic attraction. While Uncle Wayne went to work, we got to swim at a neighbor’s backyard pool. Aunt Jean sang my praises whenever I named the insects and birds around us. “Mom buys us all those animal books,” I explained. And while climbing hills, Art and I sort of wanted to catch sight of a rattle snake, but we never did.

Jean and Wayne took us to see The Dalles Dam, then only 3-years old. The dam’s concrete fish ladder inundated Celilo Falls where the Wy-am Indians had fished for 10,000-years. A friend of Mom’s, Martha Ferguson McKeown, spoke up for her friends, the Wy-am people, and government responded by paying the tribe for flooding away their livelihood.

Being with my Dad’s sister and Uncle Wayne was special. Those were the years before cousins Louise and Sam arrived, so we had the full benefit of Uncle Wayne’s humor and Aunt Jean’s attention. What with stories about hydro-electric dams, Indian history and how Mom’s friend Martha played a role, and with popcorn and wrestling on TV, and with swimming and songs about kissing—it was quite a week. But it wasn’t over!

(See below, “We’re the push-buttons.”)

Images: Vista House[1] by Kelvin Kay (talk – contribs) released into the public domain (by the author); Oneonta Falls by Rebecca

[1] https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e2/Vistahouse.jpg -

On a hot Friday night in August of 1960, we got a special treat when Uncle Wayne took us to a drive-in movie in The Dalles. The movie was “Pork Chop Hill,”[1] a thriller about the Korean War. Gregory Peck played Lt. Joe Clemons, whose war experiences were the basis for the film. It is about the “hell” of war—a fire-fight that puts lives on a fragile line. And, this time, the inferno deals men into the deadly game of “over-the-top.” In this particular battle, the stakes turned out to be a worthless dot on a map.

An actual friend of Joe Clemons, George Shibata,[2] plays the role of Lt. Tsugio “Suki” Ohashi. Clemons and Ohashi are officers in the trenches. The decision falls to them. How do you lead battle-stressed soldiers against long odds? They are pinned down. They’re low on ammo, nearly out of food and water—and radio contact with headquarters is tragically sporadic. All they hear from their commanders are the orders, “Hold that hill!” Ironically, the command below misunderstood Joe’s broken radio signal to mean that they had won the hill—not that they were badly shot up and barely holding on. Commanders sent up the press to publicize how well the fight was going. But it wasn’t. It was a disaster. They were being torn to pieces. And along came reporters with photographers to chronicle their victory. Over, under and all around this worst-case reality, the burden of knowledge was clear to Joe and Suki—there was absolutely no tactical advantage for holding that hill. The special treat of this drive-in experience was dire tension, and buttered popcorn did no good to soothe it.

Place yourself in the trench with Joe and Suki. They know that the hill is worthless. They know they cannot hold it. They know they have to try. Here are a few lines from the film:

“We’re getting no place. Every one of these trenches is a separate dog fight. As long as the Reds hold the crest, they’re in charge. We have to take that high ground. And we have to do it in one jump.”

“The old ‘over the top’ stuff? With who?”

“The 3rd Platoon—the others are too exhausted.”

“Bayonets—right out of the stone-age. Where’s all this ‘push-button warfare’ we’ve been hearing about?”

“We’re the push-buttons.”

“Well—Lt. Waldorf’s a little too green to lead a bayonet charge. And anyway, it is my old platoon. Y’know, my ancestors were pretty good at this ‘Bonzai’ business.”

“Whaddaya know. A real live volunteer.”

“I never volunteer. Let’s just say, I accept your kind offer.”

They pick up their gear and head out of the bunker. Suki glances back wistfully, looking for something that cannot be found in a trench in the mountains of Korea.

Going to a drive-in movie with Uncle Wayne turned out to be more profound than I expected. The war story stuck with me. It dealt with a quagmire. It dealt with costs paid in young lives. And merely 7-years before my drive-in experience, my young father was perilously close to that very “dot on a map.” He was in the thick of it, delivering troops from his LST onto a beach in Korea. And just 7-years after I saw “Pork Chop Hill,” I was in the Navy during Viet Nam. Even before I enlisted, two of my wrestling teammates had paid the mortal price in Viet Nam. So many soldiers lost their lives during this—our next and bigger quagmire. As it turned out, the only take-away from that epic sadness was the recognition of their unquestionable valor, and even that was tainted. The country they were sent to fight in held no more tactical advantage than did that “dot on a map” that commanders once called “Pork Chop Hill.”

Here’s another exchange between soldiers in the bunker called the “Korean Hilton”:

“I just flat don’t get it. Back at the rear, they think this fight’s won. Is this hill worth it?”

“I wondered when you’d ask me that. Worth what? Hasn’t much military value. Doubt if any American would give you a dollar for it. Probably no Chinese would give you two-bits. Values change somehow—sometime. Maybe when the first man died. How do we know ‘why?’ I don’t know how to say it.”

Well, here’s an idea. Let’s prevent the first man or woman from dying. The best way to honor the fallen is to ensure that not one more soldier joins the ranks of the Honored Dead.

It is Memorial Day.

Remember the fallen. Remember the refugees. Remember survivors, the wounded, the sick, the jobless and the homeless. Remember them and their sacrifices and get busy to ease their pain.


Images: In “Pork Chop Hill” Gregory Peck is Lt. Joe Clemons and George Shibata plays the role of Lt. Tsugio “Suki” Ohashi.

[1] http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053183/
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Shibata - “the first Asian American graduate of the US Military Academy”

When I recently began reading one of Mom’s old books, The Trail Led North by Martha Ferguson McKeown[1], I was moved by the inscription that the author added. This hardbound copy of the 1948 edition came with these words from the author who had been a mentor to my mother for many years. In flowing penmanship, she wrote: “Jo dear, This book comes to you as a birthday gift from your mother and father. I hope you will find Uncle Mont, whom you know in person, within these pages. My love to you, Martha Ferguson McKeown.”

The book is the true life story of Martha’s Uncle Mont Hawthorne[2], a surviving Pioneer who had driven ox-teams across the prairie, built railroads, constructed and operated salmon canneries on the Columbia and in Alaska. As if that were not enough excitement, his “trail led north” where he battled harsh elements and harsher men for gold during the Yukon rush in the 1890s.

As I read the history told in Mont’s own voice, the change was striking between the human attitudes and behaviors over 50-years, from the Gold Rush era to the days of my youth—and, more so, in just another 50-years to these our present times. But one human trait has not turned up a penny’s worth of change. That is the cruel magnetic attraction that bright and shiny gold exerts on the human heart. It spoils reason. It abandons long laid plans. It darkens souls and clutters minds with envy, haste and greed.

From the text of The Trail Led North, Mont Hawthorne says:

He looked starved and he sort of shook all over while he was talking to me. He said: “We knew we could find gold. No one could tell us anything. We took the map. We drew lines. We figured out a short cut to the gold country. We wouldn’t listen to no one. But we learned. Now if a little child would try to tell us anything we would sit down and listen with tears in our eyes. We have learned to listen. Now all we ask for is to see our homes before we die.”

A friend of Mont’s who outlived him by a good spell wrote this, “For Mont Hawthorne and thousands more Klondike stampeders of another century, the Yukon River was transportation, a means to an end, a one-way ticket to the City of Gold.”[3]

Here is an excerpt from Chapter 23 of my novel Bentari. The chapter is “What Passes Down.” The passage is a glimpse into the heart of a man who was instantly and completely distracted from his firm duty by his exposure to the bright and shiny metal:

“My God in Heaven,” murmured Weltschmerz sinking to his knees and shaking visibly in front of the solid gold wall. “Here we have more gold than even the Third Reich can spend,” the trembling Weltschmerz muttered to the wall. “Here is more gold than any other mine on Earth. No man can imagine so much gold. The entire mountain rests on gold,” he babbled on from the place where his legs had buckled and he knelt stupefied before the glorious shining wall. “Who would believe it? In this forsaken jungle, so much beautiful gold! Even I don’t believe it and I am staring right at it.” He glanced over his shoulder at his lieutenant who was poring over the jewels in one of the chests.

I encourage three things here. Read The Trail Led North, a true story of one man’s life, including his bent for travel, adventure and meeting people, many of whom he helped along the way—and his attraction to gold. Read Bentari, a novel about a boy in African forests, his people and their unlikely battle against a weaponized army—in defense of gold. At last, look deeply into your heart to read your own beliefs about the meaning of wealth—its procurement, its ownership and its best purposes. Ask yourself, in what ways will humans best be served by the expenditure of our planet’s riches? Now—what do you think?

Buy Bentari now – and read about a forest full of adventure – and a treasure hunt!

Contact me by e-mail: Tim@Bentari.com – I look forward to hearing from you!

Photos: Mont Hawthorne and his niece Martha Ferguson McKeown who loved to hear him tell stories of his travels, some of which she wrote down in books

[1] https://oregonencyclopedia.org/articles/mckeown_martha_ferguson_1903_1974_/
[2] http://old.seattletimes.com/special/klondike/mont_bio.html (photo: copyright 1997 by Seattle Times Co., used here with apologies to the unknown photographer) Article errs by stating book by his daughter; it was by his niece)
[3] http://old.seattletimes.com/special/klondike/html97/river_071397.html by Ross Anderson, Mont’s friend

Mother held you first, Daughter,
on that morning when dawn surpassed
the birth of former days. On that morning
I was there, all fired up and manly in the midst of it,
I witnessed you in Mother’s arms when
your eyes beheld life for the very first time.
You were not blind or blurry eyed, Daughter!
You looked long upon our faces. You saw things.
We cannot know what you thought, yet I held you next
and I knew you then—my deep well of hope!


Happy Birthday, Darling Caitlin!
My Pride, My Happiness, My Hope!

F. Clair Brown was born in a modest house in NE Portland on this day in 1923. Today he’d be 94, but he sailed with the Last Patrol on December 22, 1994. His wife, Josephine, preceded him in death by merely two months. It was fitting that my parents were together for the Holidays, since they had not missed Christmas together since the Korean War.

One of Dad’s last contributions was his work with the non-profit organization Save the PT Boat, Inc. He was the first president of that august group of veterans who preserved PT 658 and restored it through monumental efforts to full working status.[1] It is one of the last surviving PT boats and is believed to be the last one in operational condition.

At the organization’s website, under photos, if you select “Last Patrol,” you will find Clair’s photo first on the page[2]—as he was the first of his friends to set sail for the final time. The photo’s quality is not so great. Yet the photo is good enough to see the captain’s character. His friendly smile and kind eyes are handsome. But see if you note his concern just below the surface. His companion Josephine was ailing. All those years since they met at Franklin High in 1939 did not diminish Clair’s dependence on Jo or his devotion to the girl of his dreams—his darling, lovely Josephine. She spent two months in a coma. Seven months of her final year were spent in hospitals. And when she succumbed, he was bound to follow.

None of us suspected Death’s approach. But when it came, it came with haste for Clair—a counter-balance to Mom’s 12-month battle. His aneurysm decked him on the 15th of December. Brother Russ drove Dad to the hospital through rush hour traffic. I met them there. I was in the ER standing by him holding his left hand in both of mine as the doctors administered the ultrasound to see what caused the crippling pain. Russ had driven home to pick up his family and return. Suddenly, the doctor muttered something and yelled “STAT!” into the intercom. Then things happened fast. The doctor quickly explained that there was no time to waste. They had to operate immediately or Dad would die. I was alone.  “Operate,” I said. Then I slipped Dad’s watch off his left wrist and onto my right arm. And they whisked him off for surgery. He survived the operation. But he only lived a week until the heart attack sent him peacefully on his Last Patrol and to his reunion for eternity with his best loved Jo.

She was a pacifist and feminist—a Woman of Achievement. He was a line officer in the Navy Reserve—a veteran of two wars. Together, they harmonized in life, love and marriage.

Buy Bentari here and read how two African parents did not let differences divide them.

[1] http://savetheptboatinc.com/ (click on the photo to open tabs)
[2] http://savetheptboatinc.com/Last_Patrol.htm

On his first day of ineffectual leadership, the rude leader of the free world harped and twiddled that the audience for his inauguration eclipsed all prior inaugural events. The orange president marched his press secretary out for the very first time where he ranted and whined about poor coverage that made the crowd seem smaller than it was. It was the biggest ever, he nearly shouted, before stomping off without taking questions.

Meanwhile, masses in undeniably huge numbers peacefully claimed the streets of the planet where we shushed the president’s pouty mouth in grand style.

Here in Portland, Oregon, we proudly marched among the largest crowd of demonstrators to ever take over the streets of our fair city.

Our daughter and her boyfriend, our son and his wife, our granddaughter and many friends were there, too. In Portland rain, we gathered. 100,000 citizens came out. We support Women’s Rights, Civil Rights, Human Rights, and the rights laid out in our country’s Constitution. We deplore pretenders. We will stand up against liars, defilers, and bully boys—every single time! Even if the bully boy has an oval office, even if he has a toady press secretary to lie for him. We will set him straight until a straight line takes him back to his penthouse to count his gold in secrecy along with the IRS auditors (unless they, too, are only figments of his disgraceful lies).

Millions marched in cities around America. Marchers around the world locked arms and sang and carried signs—like these from our town:

“NEVER STOP BELIEVING THAT FIGHTING FOR WHAT’S RIGHT IS WORTH IT!”

“THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE IS STRONGER THAT THE PEOPLE IN POWER!!”

“A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE RESISTANCE”

“YOU HAVEN’T SEEN NASTY YET”

“Singers & Dancers For Light & Inclusion”
“WE WON’T GO BACK”

“NASTY AND PROUD”

“LOVE IS ACTION”

“VIVA LA VULVA”

Keep those signs handy, Sisters and Brothers! For, we have compassion guiding us. They are driven by greed. And we will carry on!

The March on the morning after—
the morning after the orange one took the sacred oath with his mouth puckered—
the morning after the abomination—the women arose! The women gathered!
The women descended on the capitol!
The women gathered in hundreds of town squares! The women spoke!
The women marched and chanted to the drumbeat! Trump goes down!

Well, here we are. And Trump was right about one thing at his inauguration. He said that the day marked the return of America’s government to the people.

Today, on the day after his tragic ascension to power, millions of women are marching across the breadth of America. By exercising their rights to march and speak, the women of America prove that what Trump said is true—our government is still in the working, loving and sharing hands of us—the people!

One of the early speakers in Washington, D.C. opened by observing, “We teach our children not to bully. We teach them that bullying is not leadership.” How true is that!  It sums up my questions to all my friends and relatives who support the newly installed egomaniac. It boils down to this:

Trump is rude. And that is his best quality! He’s proven it over and over and over again. Trump is one of the rudest excuses for a civilized human who has ever spoken in public. This is undeniable. So, how can you possibly believe that Trump makes a suitable public servant? How did you come to prop him up with your votes to be the rudest leader of the Free World since the nickname was invented after WWII? None of our presidents has been publicly rude. Some were crooks. Some were unfaithful. None were rude.

To deepen the inquiry, we must recognize that rudeness is Trump’s BEST quality, not his worst. His vulgar language ratchets him down. His bullying lowers him a long way down. His picking on individuals and groups debases him. His casual and flippant reference to making war puts him at rock bottom. (“We’ll kick the [sh**] out of them,” he said in reference to Iranian sailors who reportedly taunted US seamen on a destroyer.)

I want to have a level headed conversation with my friends and family about the good qualities that they must see in Trump. But first, I would ask them to address my simple question, “Why do you believe a rude bully should be sitting where Trump now sits— where you with your votes have put him?” Let’s open the floor for discussion. And, in the meantime, we march!

Buy Bentari here and read how two African parents teach their son to be polite and strong!

to that river of cloud and star
i cast up for a catch of time
and he strikes it like a tarpon
and i begin to strip in years

time’s fight is like no other
you look up, gills flaring,
his tail slapping huge rings in the light

it takes heartbroken strength
to reel in the king of ages
to hold it spent in your hands
then let go[1]


[1] Untitled poem by Steve Arndt © 2013 – Steve is a writer in Portland, Oregon

I dreamed I was barefoot in a public place.
What does it mean?
I dreamed I skated in shoes and I was pretty good!
What does THAT mean?
I dreamed my friend had a very valuable coffee cup and I helped him store it in
a locked display.
What for the love of Mike does THAT mean?
I dreamed I was back home where I grew up and I watched a pair of hawks
circling high on gliding wings and then I saw a sparrow frozen on a branch below
where it sidled under leaves and waited—what does it  all mean?
And why does all this and so much more
amuse, perplex and stump my
sleeping brain in one
night and in
a single
dream?

Maybe
it says a
great deal.
Perhaps it’s fraught
with meaning and importance.
Well, I don’t worry about that one bit.
But I did take stock and made note of a single thought—
a solitary takeaway from my startling, rambling nocturnal arabesque and
that is the thing that grabbed me most when I awoke—the sparrow!
In reverie, I perched on the limb beside the
hunted prey and I
perceived the still small bird and felt the rapid beating heart that somehow
some way was obeyed—
under total control, under maximum threat—
I learned then and there of
the manifest strength that dwells in the sparrow’s breast.[1]

Image: Fringilla Domestica, Common Sparrow Or House [Sparrow.][2]

Buy Bentari here to hear the sounds of Africa—from birds, predators and the prey.

[1] © 2017 North Star to Heaven/Bentari Project
[2] Art and Picture Collection, The New York Public Library. "Fringilla Domestica, Common Sparrow Or House [Sparrow.]" The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1789 - 1913. http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e1-03c3-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

“A Dog’s Tale” by Mark Twain is a stirring short story. It is told in a first person voice, er, first dog voice by the most steadfast, generous and loving character that Mark Twain ever created—Aileen Mavourneen! Yes, that is a dog’s name. Her mother learned it from a song.

Her father was a St. Bernard. Her mother, a collie. And even though Aileen discovered her mother’s tricks and knew that she was not above fabricating truth for the sake of a good laugh, Aileen Mavourneen learned all the important lessons from that fun-loving collie parent. She learned that she has a purpose in life—to always act “for the best good of others.”  And from her mother, she knew that, “to do well and right without reward would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in itself would be a reward.”

When she was sold and taken by new owners, Aileen Mavourneen summed it up by remembering her mother’s final bidding. “In memory of me, when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself, think of your mother, and do as she would do.”

Do you think that Aileen Mavourneen could forget those words! No.

Well, since we human animals generally outlive our pets, many a tale about our companions has a sad ending. “A Dog’s Tale” is no exception. But the master story-teller delivers his message on arrows of lightning to all our human hearts. Reading this tale came at just the proper moment for me. And now, I can never forget the love and labors of the adorable Aileen Mavourneen. Cushlamachree!

Sure, and don’t you think that almost every dog you’ve ever known behaves alike as well!

This entry is dedicated to Popper, our wee, elderly dachshund, and to Debra his best friend and mine! My wife, the golden spaniel, the true blue champion of dogs and cats and for all the pets and animals everywhere that are dealt a lot not becoming of their dignity!

And not incidentally—HAPPY BIRTHDAY to MY DARLING DEBRA!

Ruben Huenemann was a friend of my grandfather Roy Tate. They both were Presbyterians. The last time I saw Ruben was on a December day in 1983. It was at Willamette View Manor, where he and grandpa lived out their later years as neighbors. As we said our good-byes, Ruben told me that he wanted me to have a poem he’d written and he handed me a folded page. His words were on a piece of tablet paper that I still possess. I read the poem out loud to grandpa and Ruben, and I told them it was beautiful. Now I wonder—was that tablet page the only copy of his poem? For the words carry deep meaning still today! So it is on Christmas Eve 2016 that I share Ruben’s wish with a world in need—as much today as in 1983!

Too Far to Bethlehem

It’s just too far to Bethlehem —
From Grenada, Syria, Lebanon,
From Moscow, Teheran, Washington,
From Cuba, Korea, Nicaragua,
From Angola, Libya, Philippines,
East Zone, West Zone, In-Betweens.

My mind can’t grasp the distances.
My heart won’t bridge the gaps.
My eyes don’t span the spaces.
My hopes, in fear, collapse.

The martial feet will never tread
long miles to reach the starlit city.
This road is barred to all who walk
Without regret, remorse or pity.

Dear Child of Peace, leave Bethlehem-town,
Across the earth’s dark desolation
Your journey take, through desert waste,
To halt the foolish, warring nations.

Make haste, ‘tis late! Your Presence now
Can stay destructive madness.
Bring hope, and love, and peace once more;
Restore the joy of Christmas.              (R.H. Huenemann)

Whether you celebrate a Holiday or the solstice or anything at all; whether you are of one creed, culture or another, if you are rich or poor or healthy or ill—
May Peace be with you, may it spring outward from you and may the best measure of Joy find a way to enfold you, now and in the coming days!

After reading Bentari, our grandson Ashton sent me this e-mail:

I loved Bentari! The detail and flow of the story are amazing! The story was very descriptive and it sounded like it was all true! I liked all the intense action scenes the best! And I loved reading about all of the animals. They are really neat! A lot of the German and native names were somewhat challenging but they sounded cool, too. I tell my friends that this book is so amazing! You won't be able to put it down. 10 out of ten!

It’s so cool that Bentari and I are related because his family name is Badollet.[1]

Love you grandpa!!!!


Naturally, I did three handsprings upon opening this e-mail. Then, after back alignment, I sent this message back to Ashton:

THANKS, ASHTON! You are my plover, and I’m your crocodile! Together, we'll keep the forest safe from marauders!

Love, Grandpa


Image: Ashton loves Bentari! Photo taken at the Caldera Public House in Portland, OR during a meal with many “Badollet” cousins including Dan and Sam visiting from the east coast![2]

You may Buy Bentari here and fly with the Swift Climber!

Contact Tim Brown at: Tim@Bentari.com --- I look forward to hearing from you!

[1] Badollet: Bentari’s surname is an ancestral name in the Brown family tree!
[2] See “Bentari’s tribe—what’s in a name” http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=827

Ellen Meloy’s The Anthropology of Turquoise: REFLECTIONS ON DESERT, SEA, STONE, AND SKY came to me highly recommended by a writer friend. He told me that Ellen Meloy’s ability to cast readers under the spell of “Place” was the best he’d seen. Turns out, he connected.

If you ever wanted to cry until you laughed or to eat until you were starving, Ellen Meloy[1] seduces you to follow her there and back. Her own life, her family’s history, its diaspora and her own romance with her husband Mark comprise the windswept backdrop. The grist is the desert sand, the dust painted across land and sea, and the precious, benevolent and benign sky colored stone—the blue green Turquoise prized by men and women for hundreds of reasons and thousands of years. You are awash in time, afloat in the melting cover of color and light, severed and free, cut loose from the concrete calendar. On wings, you soar from L.A. to the Big Sur and the Sierras. On the last rays of sunset, you sail to the mines of ancient Nishapur in Iran where turquoise has been found for the world’s delight for at least 2,000-years—where saffron is harvested by hand one plant stigma at a time. It is here where you learn the truth that, yes, turquoise does have an anthropology of and unto its own vast self. We are bound to it by history and hue, by beauty and devotion. Here, your eyes open and you see. Ellen’s study teaches this: “Despite their distance from one another in time and place, people of diverse desert cultures invested turquoise with similar properties. This stone was universally benign, it soothed the vision, it bound eye and color like no other. The virtues of turquoise are available only if it is a gift, the old books say.”

Why do desert mountain sheep persist in lands devoid of sustenance? Why do herons follow courses above rivers long dried up from over-damming? And why in the name of “gad”[2] would Ellen Meloy risk her neck for a pair of rubber bathtub ducks? Ellen Meloy enjoins you to a world too beautiful to deny. Despite her intermittent and frank despair, the thin sliver of turquoise light, the final ray of sunset and the blue, blue sea conspire to bring her home—home to her desert, home to her husband and home to peace with time—and especially, to our peace with place—our home—our lovely, precious home.

Don’t be a “pū.”[3] Read this book and tell me if you don’t want to run out and buy a turquoise gift to give to a friend.

Photo: Turquoise pebble—Image used with thanks to author Adrian Pingstone who graciously released this photo in the public domain to be used for any purpose.[4]

[1] http://www.ellenmeloy.com/ Ellen Meloy: 1946-2004
[2] Gad: Navajo word, “I thought it referred to a deity. Instead, it is the word for juniper…” Ellen Meloy
[3] Pū: “… a Japanese term that describes a person who is at home and unproductive, perhaps between jobs.” Meloy
[4] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Turquoise.pebble.700pix.jpg

Fred Hampton was murdered in his bed in the middle of the night on this date. He was 21. Growing up, he wanted to play centerfield for the Yankees. His bravery and honesty and the truth led him on his short-lived course away from the ball field.

Fred Hampton was a powerful and eloquent speaker.

He said, “You can jail the revolutionary but you can’t jail the revolution. You might murder a freedom fighter like Bobby Hutton, but you can’t murder freedom fighting.”[1]

He died without the time to say, “I told you so.” He was so young. He surely died knowing that truth was on his side.




Dig It! [2]

Honesty and bravery seek balance points along the way
Truth is the fulcrum that can only rest on evidence

History is fallible
Scribbled down by people heavy with agendas

Find the fulcrum and start digging

Hidden by detritus among blooded cores of dates and facts
Lies the buried records of every honest act and brave risk against deception
Heroes are the selfless ones
Leaders are appointed

Know them by the stains anointing them
Know the murderer
Know the victim


Image: Fred Hampton[3] (8/30/48-12/4/69) was a revolutionary and the deputy chairman for the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party. He said, “There’s no forgone conclusion with me.”

[1] Listen to Fred Hampton at: http://kboo.fm/media/54264-murder-fred-hamptonwords-fred-hampton-jr
[2] ©Tim Brown 2016, “North Star to Heaven”
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fred_Hampton.jpg w/ apologies to unknown author, used without permission; “It is believed that the use of this image may qualify as fair use under United States copyright law.”

Nobody Left To Crown[1]—by Richie Havens

To those of you seeking perfection
Oh Lord it’s not a long, long way to go
All you need is a bit of reflection
Just might seem like changing direction right now
Don’t go around taking up no collections
On your way down
There’s nobody left to crown

What if politicians were all good guys
Oh Lord don’t we wish they were
We would not be so dependent
On courts of laws that make us all feel like defendants sometimes
If we want freedom we’ve got to amend it
On our way down
There’s nobody left to crown

Be it ever so humble
There’s no place like home
Home… home on the range
Where the fear and the antidotes play
Where seldom is heard
An encouraging word
And our leaders do nothing all day

What if they gave an election
And nobody came to vote
The system it needs a bit of correction right now
Just might seem like changing direction right now
As it stands we don’t even make the selections
And to get into Heaven we even need a connection
On our way down
There’s nobody left to crown

Nobody left to crown
Nobody left to crown
Nobody left to crown
Nobody left to crown

Photo: Richie Havens—January 21, 1941-April 22, 2013 (earth Day)[2]  --- “Say not in grief ‘he is no more’ but live in gratefulness that he was.” Ecclesiastes

[1] Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KjRnh-TBno words and music by Richie Havens: --- http://www.richiehavens.com/official_site/lyrics/Nobody-Left-To-Crown.html
[2] http://www.richiehavens.com/official_site/

I wrote a poem that was meant to celebrate the election of this nation’s first woman President. But voters postponed its release date. So I wrote a letter instead. This is not it. Well, not exactly. This is the bare bones of it. The rest lies buried under polluted soil.

Dear Us,

Barack Obama has served two terms and earned widespread acclaim and high approval ratings. Now he will oversee the peaceful transfer of power to an individual who challenged his very citizenship, his Christian faith and his academic record. Hmm. Tough duty, Prez! But we know you’re up to the task, so we’ll leave the job in your good and incredibly large hands.

The President-elect has never held public office or a position serving the community or the country. It is an understatement to label his public behavior as “deplorable.” He has used profane language, mocked people with special needs, repeatedly demeaned women, and he has defamed ethnic and religious groups—all on national television. His business ledger, the source of his reputation, is filled with failed enterprises, bilked customers, unpaid laborers and unsatisfied consumers, partners and collaborators. Add to this woeful performance the fact that he does not denounce bigots—he hires them! Wrong kind of equal opportunity, Mr. President-elect. Our newly named “most powerful man alive” maintains iconic pop culture status by owning golf courses, the “Miss Universe” pageant, and a TV show that made him famous for telling losing contestants, “You’re fired.”

This outcome has stunned about half of all Americans. Moreover, it’s downright depressing for many of us. Faith in our fellow Man is shaken. The milk of Mother’s Kindness has evaporated. We awake to jangled nerves and the vertigo of uncertainty. As if on cue from a hardline leader, fascist graffiti appears on college walls. Students taunt Hispanic kids in class saying they will be deported. Even some teachers have! Our world has an incoming “King” who models cruel behavior and his example is being followed! Cruelty—acceptable? Preposterous! For Pity’s sake, have they no shame!

So, where do we go from here? What are good first steps for pathfinders looking to restore peace, equaility and fair play? Here are my suggestions. I'd love to hear yours:

1. Get involved locally. Support and listen to your community radio station. Here in Portland, OR, we are fortunate to have KBOO as a flagship station promoting social justice since 1968. (http://kboo.fm/)


2. Get involved globally. Support and watch or listen to Amy Goodman on her show “Democracy Now!” (http://www.democracynow.org/)


3. Get involved environmentally. Support and follow Jane Goodall and “Roots and Shoots.” (http://www.janegoodall.org/)


4. Get involved ethically. Support a charitable non-profit. We support Youth Progress. (http://youthprogress.org/)


5. “Look up when [you] walk so that tears won’t fall” from Kyu Sakamoto’s greatest hit, “Ue o Muite Arukou” (Sukiyaki) -- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc


6. Read Bentari (Oh! How in Trump’s name did self-promotion sneak in? Seems I can’t resist. I do have that in common with POTUS-elect! So, please Buy Bentari here)
   
   Send us your ideas. We’ll cross-pollinate!
   
   (Send e-mail to: Tim@Bentari.com)
   
   Photo: Caitlin shows us how she looks up—as if she knows “Happiness lies beyond the clouds.” Careful up there, Cait!

Bentari is a sweeping tale set in the panoramic back drop of ancient equatorial forests. The action rushes on the winds of war from an isolated village across plains and woodlands to a valley that surrounds a volcano. Within its caldera, the chambers and vents are hollow, dark and deathly silent. Yet still they breathe, and gas from the pit is deadly—the perfect place for a treasure of untold wealth to lie hidden.

Lava formations, calderas, caves and tunnels are more than scenery; they play roles in Bentari. The violent earthen evolutions of the ages shaped the setting. Man’s aggression wrote the story’s rending action—it flowed across the land—it sank under ancient forests and spilled into labyrinthine tunnels below a massive caldera. Nature’s vast equilibrium casts the net and causes many in its toils to wonder, “Is there balance?”

The Valley of Shadows, so named for the shadows of the dead, surrounds the wide caldera. An ancient rival tribe of Bentari’s people, generations earlier, was laid waste by a gas eruption. Poison air stole upon them and delivered extinction on the wind. Bentari’s tribe was so shocked by the mysterious obliteration that they left the skeletons where they lay. The land became forbidden.

Bentari scales up lava walls at the wellspring of the Kwa River. His ascent is peaceful in the drought’s final days. Crocodiles lie hidden in states of torpor in dried mud dens and pay no attention to the swift climber. When he returns, the storm has broken. Lightening throws a fleeting view below. The leviathans are awake. The boy’s enemies are upon him from arear. The rock ladder that he recently ascended held secrets unknown by his pursuers. Now this knowledge is the boy’s only hope as the chase concludes in the gale’s full fury.


Photos: In the caldera at Mt. Tabor Park—Portland, Oregon

When I grew up in Portland, we boasted that the caldera in Mt. Tabor Park was the only volcano inside a large city in the US. Now, geologists have taught us that dozens of volcanoes like Mt. Tabor are all part of the Boring Lava Fields in and around Portland.

Buy Bentari and Fly! Bentari is also available at Amazon.com and on Kindle.

a thousand degrees of recycled rock
hot rocks like diamond genitals
lava flows planetary semen
Prometheus clay
retching planet
future rockery
age old bed
a thousand degrees cuts deep rivers
and makes a glorious scab for
wounds that leave no scars
witness canyons caves craters calderas plugs and mountains—igneous
formations dignified by a million cooling years coinciding with
a breakout species that grew up thinking
it knows how to tinker
yet cannot cobble
a way past war
safe waters rippling
quiet stream beds cool
moss dripping clinging lasting
steep basalt walls and fallen logs
watery sweet prosperity
quietly waiting
rippling



Photo by Rebecca Autumn. Caitlin wades in Oneonta Creek in Oregon where many volcanoes of the Boring Lava Field surround her Portland home

This entry is about the kindest, most patient man that America has ever tortured, Mohamedou Ould Slahi.[1]

On Feb. 22, 2015, we posted a piece about this gentle forgiving man.[2] This update is a happy one—a belated, but glad outcome, indeed.

Shortly after 9/11, and at the request of the United States and the CIA, Slahi’s own country, Mauritania, arrested him and began his cruel descent into unthinkable oblivion.

Oblivion, pain, torture and the long years of U.S. imprisonment—but not one charge was ever filed against him. Thankfully, he was allowed to live in a bungalow setting for part of the last decade. He could do some gardening and watch some TV. But freedom was denied. His poor mother died while he languished in helpless oblivion.

On March 22, 2010, US Judge James Robertson found no grounds for the detention of Mohamedou Ould Slahi—none. The judge ordered his release. Yet the wheels of US justice locked up tight—until now.[3]

Now, “After fourteen years of being held in Guantánamo without charge or trial, Mohamedou Ould Slahi has been released and reunited with his family in Mauritania.”[4]

Read his memoir Guantánamo Diary. Though heavily redacted, you will respect this detainee’s story of hope and kindness. He befriended some of the guards. He wished that he could remain in contact with them, should he ever regain his freedom.

What a warm and generous heart beats in the breast of this devout Muslim from Mauritania. Let us add our good wishes to the many that have followed him home. We will continue to admire and emulate his example of kindness and respect—even toward his prison guards, even toward captors.

Mohamedou Ould Slahi—free at last.

Image: Mohamedou Ould Slahi (photo file found online at Wikipedia[5]; author: International Committee of the Red Cross; shared in accordance with GNU Free Documentation License)

[1] Author of Guantánamo Diary, edited by Larry Siems, Little, Brown and Company, 2015
[2] http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1040
[3] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/oct/17/guantanamo-diary-author-mohamedou-ould-slahi-detention
[4] http://guantanamodiary.com/
[5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohamedou_Ould_Slahi

A happy text message warmed my heart in the early morning.

Our niece Rebecca sent us a photo of her youngest son Henry.

He was all wrapped up in Bentari and under the spell of the African forest at dawn.

This is Rebecca’s message:

"Henry just told me that Bentari’s Dad went on a hunt and he hasn't seen him for a long time and that's sad."

Henry called me later and said, “Hi, Uncle Tim! I really like your story about Bentari. It’s really cool. Are you going to write more stories about Bentari?”

“Well, I am trying, Henry,” I answered, “I’m doing my best.” I told Henry how happy I am that he likes the story, and we chatted about it for a while. After I thanked Henry for calling me and welcomed him to call again at any time, I told Rebecca that there are bits of further tales already on my website, like the one about “Bentari and the Hedgehog.”[1]

Henry is an animal lover devoted to their dog Tucker. And Henry is a climber. He is in his realm when scaling anything and everything that he can reach around or grasp or span with his arms and legs.

Animals and climbing are two of the biggest fascinations for Bentari, who happens to be the same age as my grand-nephew Henry. And, at only seven, they are both clever beyond their years.

Henry will love the adventures of Bentari, Rebecca. But keep a mother’s watch when you see him beginning to succumb to the lure of those tall and irresistible trees.


About: Henry is a “second-grader” in the elementary program at the Lewis and Clark Montessori Charter School in Gresham, Oregon. To our knowledge, Henry is our youngest reader to date. Our oldest readers are Mary Amstad and Walt Aldridge, both of whom enjoyed the excitement in their 90s![2]

Coming Soon: A look at Dakota, Henry’s big brother. He is 8-years old, and, if you want to talk about a reader, Dakota is your boy!

Buy Bentari and Climb!

[1] http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1015 and

http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1087

[2] http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=854

Live in Joe Birdsong’s world. It is our world, in mid-20th Century, where a promising young African-American begins to build his musical acumen in Portland, Oregon. He becomes one of the first black high school teachers there. Paternity led to an early marriage that was bound for the irreconcilable rocks. Then the Army drafted Joe, and his educational journey heads south—Deep South. The Heavy Brothers are stationed there—trying to pound sense into Joe. Rednecks are there, too, keeping venal traditions alive—trying to pound sense out of him. Military stiffness bristles around him, but at night, the beat soars, casting forth exuberant chords and cool vocalizations. Musicians and audiences meld into mass humanity—a pulsating ensemble of human DNA. Violence may be sounded, expressed as an interpretation, but togetherness is the joyous explosion—most satisfying, a total groove.

Joe Birdsong tells the story in a first person, real-time reflection of his life, an odyssey. Black life in America pours over me—cool heat on desert sand. The music moves the spheres. It’s not just stardust. It is a record of pain unwarrantable and sadness without succor. Joe knows how he got there. His own blunders paved the path that delivered him. But it was human history that built the world he lives in, that we all live in. How does triumph factor in? How does a black soldier in Texas fit in, let alone survive. Feel it in shell voicings[1]—find a symbiotic ear. Pay attention to affinities of others. Pay attention to band leaders, members and listeners.

If you are patient and have a good ear, a strong woman may teach you how to love—or, at least how to find the path that fits you, and that will do. A veteran musician may show you to use the root of chords and you take the practice steps you need to trust yourself. The book’s closing scene describes a plane’s descent, but the mood lifts us. Joe Birdsong and many readers of The Fort Showalter Blues are on the rise.

Thanks, Mr. Harold L. Johnson,[2] for a compelling story told with immaculate craft. This is a sexy, dangerous, Homeric novel. And Joe Birdsong is a taciturn, modest man. I don’t know how you got your character to succeed in the telling. I’m just glad you got it done.

“Shell voicings, that’s what you call them,” he says, careful to enunciate the whole noun. "You just got the shell of the chord down here. See? You leave out everything between the root and the seventh. Just play the root and the seventh with your left hand.” Fowler’s big perfect fingers come down like the law in the middle of each black or white key. Out of nowhere, a sob wavers through my chest. My face might show it, but Fowler can’t see. (Joe birdsong hears his blind mentor Merce Fowler in The Fort Showalter Blues.)

[1] https://pianowithwillie.jazzedge.com/what-are-chord-shells/
[2] http://news.streetroots.org/2016/04/28/portland-authors-dream-long-time-making

Shown here, Malala Yousafzai[1] met the Obamas in the Oval Office, October 11, 2013. The First Family recognized the teen-ager for her leadership on girls’ educational equity. As if to demonstrate her lead role, Malala took the opportunity to point out that the President’s drone policy was fueling terrorism. “If we refocus efforts on education it will make a big impact,” she said.[2]

Last week, Malala paid a visit to Portland, Oregon, and our daughter Caitlin took us to hear her speak.[3] Malala addressed a large crowd, including one elderly Armenian gentleman who we met in the parking lot. He asked us how to get to Malala. He told us, “I’m very happy to see her! I don’t want to miss a minute of it!” As we left the parking structure on our way to the venue, a rushing crowd met our eyes. Though in good spirits, the old gentleman was overwhelmed by the mass of people flooding into the Rose Quarter. A giant queue expanded before us faster than the crowd could enter the Moda Center. The smiling old man did not know which way to go. Before we joined the gathering crowd, we helped him to the front of the line and made sure he got in. His grateful handshake and his warm smile made a fine reward.

And soon enough, so did Malala’s message! “Believe in your voice,” she told us. “Your story counts. Remove hatred from you heart. And the world will become a better place.” This from the girl who was shot in the face at point blank range by the Taliban! This from the girl who is now the leading champion for girls’ education—for every single girl in the world. Oppressors sought to silence her. Yet she lives—and her story grows.

Malala’s voice is not loud, but it is clear and lovely. It projects. It reverberates and it penetrates. And it most definitely counts! Nearly 5,000 Portlanders and one smiling old Armenian poured loud and frequent applause on the young woman from the Swat Valley in northern Pakistan. Everyone smiled at night’s end.

If you can’t see her in person, read her book, I Am Malala.[4] Her voice sings from the pages. She tells her story in plain and loving language. Humor is subtle and natural. It weaves a peaceful cushion between hard luck and tragedy. And a family’s strength emerges from events as simple and sad as when Malala’s grandfather habitually made fun of her young father when he stuttered. Yet—somehow, her father was possessed of a strength. He loved words and oratory and poetry. And he used his voice! His halting, labored, frustrating sticking consonants became stepping stones for his progress. And he became well-known in their village for his magnificent speeches. And her grandfather wrote those speeches for the son that he used to mock. Things do change. Strength of voice and stories do count.

Malala’s message, her story, her voice—Malala’s life is a mirror for us. The reflection shows the way. Thanks, Cait!—for taking us to see and hear Malala!

Images: Top photo, author Pete Souza.[5] bottom photo, by Caitlin 8/30/16 at Malala’s event.

[1] https://www.malala.org/malalas-story
[2] https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-politics/wp/2013/10/11/malala-yousafzai-meets-with-the-obamas-in-the-oval-office/
[3] http://www.oregonlive.com/portland/index.ssf/2016/08/malala_in_portland_believe_in.html
[4] http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17851885-i-am-malala
[5] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Malala_Yousafzai_Oval_Office_11_Oct_2013.jpg – author Pete Souza, taken by an employee of the Executive Office of POTUS taken or made in course of official duties. As a work of the federal government, the image is in the public domain

In his vital book The Devil’s Chessboard,[1] David Talbot spells it out—underneath our veneer, behind the curtains of power, our government plays chess against the world. The global stage is the board. World leaders are the pieces. We always get to move first, and our moves are often mortal for pieces that we take. “Check mate,” we state with vanity and pride upon our endgame maneuver. The term evolved from the Persian—“shah mat,” it means, “the King is dead.”[2] And the blood, by proxy, is on our own red hands.

As was the case of Patrice Lumumba, the first prime minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo.[3] He was elected democratically, and Lumumba led his land away from the colonial yoke of Belgium. His vision included unity for his people and independence for all African nations. But President Eisenhower wished Lumumba “would fall in a river of crocodiles.” Lumumba may have preferred that fate to the torture. But, reportedly, he never let go of his dignity throughout his ordeal. And our intelligence organization, the CIA, maintained a stoic pose of neutrality and innocence when Lumumba was gone. When President Kennedy took office, he had high hopes for Patrice Lumumba and his independence movement. JFK was crushed and incredulous in 1961 when they told him Lumumba was dead.

Yes, the Church Committee absolved the CIA of complicity in Lumumba’s fatal rendition. Yes, Lawrence Devlin, the CIA station chief in the Congo, would later rise to become the Chief of Africa operations. Yet, “… we now know that the people who beat Patrice Lumumba to death were on the payroll of the CIA,”[4] Sadly, the CIA’s naming of Patrice Lumumba as communist and the taking of his life put an end to his movement. This also coincided with the beginning of a 32-year bloody dictatorship by Mobutu Sese Seko. His reign was rife with the blood of Africans and the oppression of poor workers. African soil continued to yield its bounty to Western states and corporations, as it does to this day, in the forms of blood diamonds, coltan and, yes, even precious uranium. By then, this was an established tradition. African ore, you see, was used to create Little Boy and Fat Man, the atomic bombs used in our “shah mat” of World War II at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.[5]

Trace the loose line of history. Follow the moves upon the grand master’s board.  We smugly nod and smile approvingly as colonial arrangements are made. Then trade begins. We approve. Banks are burgeoning. Blood has neatly been washed from the funds. Success. Traditions are soon painted and dried into culture. And anti-colonialism is frowned upon.

It is time to look back. The yarn can be unraveled. Understand why it happened. And agree in growing numbers upon a future in which no one is crushed—by us. Call it Peace—Peace Without Poverty—A Future Without Cruelty.

Image: Patrice Lumumba (1925-1961)[6]—“His white shirt was now spotted with blood, but his head was still erect. He personified the best of a race that would never again be slaves.” Andrée Blouin

[1]  The Devil’s Chessboard, David Talbot © 2015, HarperCollins, p. 375-388; available at: http://www.powells.com/SearchResults?kw=title:devil%27s%20chessboard
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Checkmate
[3] http://www.biography.com/people/patrice-lumumba-38745
[4] http://www.democracynow.org/2015/10/13/the_rise_of_americas_secret_government
[5] See Talbot, p. 377 and http://www.atomicheritage.org/history/little-boy-and-fat-man
[6] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Anefo_910-9740_De_Congolese2.jpg See details regarding sharing of photo under Creative Commons licensing (quote from Andree Blouin, see Talbot, p. 382)

Now, the ceiling is smashed!
The sky is the limit!
Let masculinity take
a back seat to
Women drivers
at long and welcomed last!

Take heart, you girls!
Of all the ages,
your time has come!
Spine up, you men,
and cheer with that deep
and guttural primal scream,
for your mothers, sisters
and daughters have their day
at long and welcomed last!

In her speech last night, Hillary Rodham Clinton made strong affirmations, strong assertions—while accepting the Democratic Party’s nomination for President of the United States.

This is a good one:

“I can’t put it any better than Jackie Kennedy did after the Cuban missile crisis. She said that what worried President Kennedy during that very dangerous time was that a war might be started, not by big men with self-control and restraint, but by little men, the ones moved by fear and pride.”[1]

Images:

Julia Ward Howe wrote the words for “The Battle Hymn of the Republic in 1861; then she battled on the front and early lines with the suffragettes!

Hillary Rodham Clinton, the barrier buster—the proof, the payoff for centuries of progress!

(Photos in public domain)[2]

[1] Hillary Rodham Clinton, acceptance speech for POTUS at the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, 7/28/2016.
[2] http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e0-01f3-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99 and https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hillary_Clinton_official_Secretary_of_State_portrait_crop.jpg

In Chad, there once ruled a dictator named Hissène Habré. In 1982, the U.S. began to provide millions of dollars in military aid and training for Habré’s secret police.[1] Apparently, President Reagan and his advisors determined that Hissène Habré’s usefulness as a supporter of America’s global interests outweighed his terrible human rights record. For, surely, the U.S. would not possibly turn its back on the plight of the people of Chad without a great need that only Hissène Habré could deliver. This was the dictator who came to be known as “the African Pinochet.” Dictator Habré’s services must have been special indeed, for his human rights record includes the murder of 40,000 political prisoners from 1982 to 1990.

This is the story of one of them, Rose Lokissim, a young woman of Chad. She was beautiful, strong and brave. One of her torturers saved a small note containing some of her final words—and she became a legendary hero. Rose was one of her country’s first female elite soldiers. But after joining forces to fight against the dictator Habré, she was captured by his political police who tortured her in unthinkable ways for 2-years. Rose Lokissim never wavered. Despite being whipped, despite being the only woman forced to live with the men in “the cell of death”, Rose stayed strong. By her words and her deeds she willed her fellow captives to keep faith. She proved that she was the force to be reckoned with—not the police, not the oppressors, not Hissène Habré. Throughout her captivity, she made small notes about her fellow prisoners that she smuggled out to their families so they would know the fate and condition of their loved ones.

Witness these translated quotes from people who knew Rose at the prison Les Locaux:[2]

“Rose was a good woman. If they tortured her, bound her, whipped her, she wouldn’t even move…. Even when she’d come back from torture, she’d still chat like normal with us, as if she hadn’t seen a thing. A good woman.” (Fatime Sakine Hamadi)

“A woman who didn’t wish anyone harm. She didn’t want to see people suffer. Rose told us, ‘Stay strong until we can get out of this prison. Then we’ll change the direction of things in this country.’ A revolutionary, because she had ideas that fired us up to revolt, to dream of a change.” (Dohkot Clément Abaifouta)

“Rose was a good woman. In the morning, they made her go throw out the poop. She’d go out cheerily just like a man. It didn’t bother her at all. Rose was really courageous.” (Ashta Mahamad Ali Monique)

During her last interrogation on May 15, 1986, Rose told her captors, "I don’t care what happens to me. I’m doing this for my country. My cause is right. Chad will remember me, and history will talk about me." One of her captors wrote down her words. Now, 30-years later, we see that Rose’s brave statement was true. The “African Pinochet,” Hissène Habré has finally been sentenced to life in prison. People of Chad remember Rose and are still talking about her magnificent courage.

Image: Rose Lokissim (author or copyright owner: Human Rights Watch)[3]

[1] http://www.democracynow.org/2016/5/31/from_us_ally_to_convicted_war
[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DqJiIN2VBs ("Talking About Rose" 30-minute film by award winning filmmaker Isabel Coixet)
[3] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Rose_Lokissim.jpg “It is believed that use of this image may qualify as fair use under United States copyright law.”

In her first novel The Enchanted, Rene Denfeld[1] provides one of the most glorious yet gruesome tales of torture and triumph that you will ever enjoy. Standby. You will live in the pit, but your life becomes illuminated—somehow.

Your companion in the dungeon narrates. He explains one salvation, saying, “The books brought brilliance to my life, and they brought an understanding: Life is a story. Everything that has happened and will happen to me is all part of the story of this enchanted place—all the dreams and visions and understandings that come to me in my dungeon cell. The books helped me see that truth is not in the touch of the stone but in what the stone tells you.”

This is from the doomed prisoner who traps you in agony and wonder that are oddly synchronous. Mystery and transparency coexist. He introduces you at the outset to some of your fellows in the darkness who offer justification for the enigmatic title: the little men with hammers, the flibber-gibbets and the horses!—the magnificent horses. They are golden and they fly in thunderous torrents trailing sweat and steam and shaking foundations and playing havoc with bulwarks that are in great need of our inspection.

The stones of your cell inform you. Deny this story if you can. You will not avoid it.

First novel? Yes, yes indeed. Bravo! But this is not Ms. Denfeld’s first book. This author is an accomplished writer, not only of books, also of many newspaper contributions. More importantly, she has such a grand scope of human life experience, and she has made damn good use of it. This first novel of hers deserves to be read, to be celebrated, to be extolled, to be discussed—yes, to be discussed—in high places and to dungeon hollows and to all the corners, chasms and crannies of human enterprise that ripple in between. For as this story goes, we learn in pure and painful truth:

“The attorneys seemed ecstatic, but they were not going where I was going. I had been handed a bomb to carry for the rest of my life. The bomb was my life.” (Chapter 5)

“Even monsters need peace. Even monsters need a person who truly wants to listen—to hear—so that someday we might find the words that are more than boxes. Then maybe we can stop men like me from happening.” (Chapter 7)

The bulwark is crumbling, at risk of collapse. And we must inspect it for needed repairs before our neglect or thundering golden horses bring it down on us.

Image: Cover[2] for The Enchanted. “…their hooves unafraid of damning the dirt.” (Ch. 6)

[1] http://www.renedenfeld.com/author/the-enchanted/
[2] Jacket design by Richard I. Joenes; Horses by Pavel Konovalov/Veer. Image from Ms. Denfeld’s website (above)

Justice for Victor Jara is a victory for human rights. 43-years after he was murdered, his killer is close to facing justice in the form of extradition to Chile—there to answer the charges of war crimes. On Monday June 27, 2016, a court in Orlando held Pedro Barrientos responsible for Victor Jara’s death. The Jara family was awarded $28-million as compensation for grievous damages. As reported by Amy Goodman, The Guardian newspaper called the verdict, quote, "one of the biggest and most significant legal human rights victories against a foreign war criminal in a US courtroom," unquote.[1]

The cruelty was blatant. The act was bold, done openly for many to see. Barrientos stole the life away from Victor Jara. He did it in a stadium. Many others were killed. Then he ordered Jara’s body to be left in the streets. Such was the brazen impunity. Such was the U.S. backed power of Augusto Pinochet on September 11, 1973.[2] He was the newly installed tyrant, the dictator for life that the U.S. preferred above Salvador Allende, who was the democratically elected president of the people of Chile. Pedro Barrientos was Pinochet’s stooge.[3] Barrientos, the dictator’s lieutenant, was the heinous, unnatural thief. He murdered Victor Jara, the singer, the poet—the citizen who called out for fairness, for justice and for “The Right to Live in Peace.”[4]

Pinochet and his cronies and his henchmen, they tried to silence the voice of Victor Jara. They tried to crush the will of the people. And they killed a great many innocent people in the process. For a long time, they thought they were in the pink. But many years later, the bodies of Salvador Allende and Victor Jara were exhumed and examined. Witnesses were still alive who came forward. The boot of guilt found a perfect fit at long last on the feet of Pinochet and his goon, Pedro Barrientos! So, in the end, the voices of freedom began to echo again. “Peace!” they sang. And Justice rings sweetly in the hopeful refrain.

From Victor Jara’s song “El derecho de vivir en paz”:[5]

Indochina is the place
beyond the wide sea,
where they ruin the flower
with genocide and napalm.
The moon is an explosion
that blows out all the clamor.
The right to live in peace.

Image: Cover of An Unfinished Song: the Life of Victor Jara, by Joan Jara, his wife

[1] http://www.democracynow.org/2016/6/29/former_chilean_army_officer_found_liable
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pinochet_File
[3] http://miami.cbslocal.com/2016/06/11/ex-chilean-officer-faces-torture-trial-in-orlando/
[4] Lyrics in English: http://lyricstranslate.com/en/el-derecho-de-vivir-en-paz-right-live-peace.html
[5] Listen, the poet sings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4OaLC1erz4

“There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery…. and gives a sinister reality to shadows alone.” (Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, chapter 24)

Bentari’s introduction to war spans a few days and nights. During the nights, gathering clouds and a gibbous moon lend the “sinister reality” to the equatorial African setting. This, in homage and emulation, of Joseph Conrad’s brilliant craft found in the tropical crucible for Lord Jim and the forested exploits he created in Heart of Darkness.

Another nod to the masterful writer, Conrad, is in the naming of our stories’ villains.

Kurtz is Conrad’s enigmatic power broker in his classic novella Heart of Darkness, set in the Congo under the cruel imperial boot of King Leopold II. Kurtz attained his dubious greatness in the traditional manner. He imposed his ill-begotten will to accumulate wealth, power and fame. Why did Joseph Conrad choose “Kurtz” for this man’s name? The German word for “short” is “kurz”.[1] Is this significant? Did Conrad use this cutting, harsh name to underscore his villain’s short-sightedness? Was this name a symbol—a message about the fleeting fame and accelerated fate of a man with no compassion who lacks any vestige of a moral compass? I cannot say. There’s plenty of analysis available.[2]

What I can say, since I am the world’s only expert, is why I chose the name for my bad actor—Wilhelm Weltschmerz. The surname means “angst,” literally, “world pain.”[3] Weltschmerz is the leader of the German company invading the land of Bentari’s people. He is the man in charge. He represents the Third Reich. His actions are worthy of the power and global weight that he represents. He brings all that is wrong with the world into Mbara land, a secluded region that has largely escaped the Belgian powers by virtue of its remote location. All that is wrong with the world arrived with a murder and plans for the heist of all time. Africans would pay again for their losses in the customary colonial way—in African blood. World pain had reached them again, as if colonial Belgium were not enough. When it rains, it pours.

Images: Joseph Conrad and the moon[4]: the light of our nights, presiding over both hope and fear

[1] http://dictionary.reverso.net/german-english/kurz - short: brief: short-lived
[2] http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/heart/canalysis.html - “highly gifted but ultimately degenerate individual whose fall is the stuff of legend.” See also: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurtz_(Heart_of_Darkness)
[3] http://dictionary.reverso.net/german-english/Weltschmerz - world-weariness: world-sorrow: angst
[4] http://www.noao.edu/image_gallery/html/im0650.html - Minimum credit line: T.A.Rector, I.P.Dell'Antonio/NOAO/AURA/NSF

From Bentari, chapter 14 “A Tribe of Orphans,”—Chief Mankani contemplates the lonely, dire straits of leadership when battle looms. Alone on the savanna, his tribe’s lot consumes him—their history, their future and the prospects for war that menace tomorrow. Suddenly, his demeanor changes rapidly when, “…the gibbous moon shone down upon the joyful greeting between young Bentari and his grandfather.” Despite the doubts of imminent battle, good cheer beats fear aside when the warrior’s grandson emerges onto the plain. Suddenly, light from the humpbacked moon delivers promise.

I chose to set the story on the plains and in the forests when, during the night, a gibbous moon flirts with the actors below. Like a humped stranger cloaked in windblown, ragged coats of clouds, it affords uncertain light and ghost-like shadows.

The chief is planning to manage his out-manned warriors, to mitigate his tribe’s losses against a superior force and to restore peace against all odds. The boy wants to help if he can. Wives and mothers are in the village tending, abiding—hoping.

Their tribe’s history is unique. Over centuries, three separate fortunes, through desperation, generosity and assimilation, have found ways into their possession—and the world at large is unbeknownst—except for the German marauders. The soldiers were after riches from Africa’s reputed wealth. The Third Reich had grown cash poor. But the African patrol had stumbled across the local legend. Myth-like tales whispered of jewels and golden treasures. Even so, the intruders had no idea that immense, incomprehensible fortunes truly did lie within their grasp. The legends were understated.

This is the crux of our adventure. Wars are waged to win land, to gain resources, to accumulate wealth or to impose religion. What are the odds that peace will prevail? What should we be doing with our vast wealth—the mineral and resource riches held within our planet—what are we supposed to do?—instead of killing fellow earthlings.

Shouldn’t we all have “The Right to Live in Peace”?[1]

Image: A gibbous moon[2]

Buy Bentari now or contact me by e-mail at Tim@Bentari.com. Thank you.

[1] https://vimeo.com/150688251 - Victor Jara performs 'El derecho de vivir en paz' —The Right To Live In Peace—Video quality is rough, but the late hero and activist’s memory has just been sweetly served with justice!
[2] http://earthsky.org/moon-phases/waxing-gibbous Tom Stirling in Kennebunk, Maine, calls this photo Sea of Serenity. He caught the waxing gibbous moon from his driveway on June 15, 2016.

I see the moon.
The moon sees me.
The moon sees the one
I want to see.
God bless the moon.
And God bless me.
God bless the one
I want to see.

Mother sang the lullaby as we drove along Highway 26, west through the mountains, beneath the Milky Way. On our way to the beach, we sang songs. Dinah blew her horn. Old MacDonald had a farm. Boats were rowed. And the moon had a vision of someone far away and at war—my father.

Over the mountains
Over the sea
Where my heart is longing to be
Please let the light that shines on me
Shine on the one I want to see[1]

It was only 18-months that dad was gone. But I was only two, then turning three. He was only a picture to me, a story, an absent hero, a missing giant. Lucky for my brother and me—mom was a giant, too.

Dad came home after the cease-fire, all right. Yet, four short decades later, he still died too young. At 71, two-months after mom’s passing, they both were gone. It was only the two wars that were ever able to keep them apart.

Dad's dear friend and fellow “Save the PT Boater,”[2] Capt. Harry Wiedmaier, wrote in a tribute to dad for the Sea Service Section News: "Some may equal, but none shall surpass!" Harry has long since joined dad aboard the "Underway to the celestial seas beyond.” Bravo Zulu, Captains! Well done. And to your wives, as well. They kept faith at home and hearth throughout two wars when you were at sea and under fire!

As for me, the last living soul of those shown in the photos, I puzzle constantly about the price of peace when weighed against the dear cost of war.

Photos: 1951 photo that Mom mailed to Dad when he was overseas during the Korean War. (I'm the little guy!) - And the folks in 1993 before the bad luck changed everything.

[1] Author and copyright: unknown – lyrics from memories of Mother
[2] http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=19941106&slug=1940150 and http://savetheptboatinc.com/history.htm

Solstice Visions[1]

Deserted cliff dwellings
whistle loud and clean
over geological time
eroded dreams remain
the wadi runs through
dry rock bed land
wailing away under silent
stars and moon


Coyote serenade eternal
landscape crawls away
snake skeletons in sand
bony clean remains
where eskers sprinted
glaciers rushed
land thirst slaked
quenched by dust
beneath wistful streams
the stars and the moon

Sweet bed of rocks
soft dust blanket
desolate friends
accelerate time
the last drop
evaporates
lonely unobserved—
mating scorpions dance
a whirlpool whispered
sacred time eternal balance—
shadows take flight
like the stars and the moon


Photo: by Caitlin Brown, Strawberry Moon (full moon on summer solstice) taken from our garage roof, 6/20/2016

[1] ©Tim Brown 2016, “North Star to Heaven”

Illustration by Matt Rota.

On Memorial Day, we honor the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and volunteer soldier Delmer Berg—its last survivor has died.

2,800 Americans risked death to battle the forces of Fascism in the Spanish Civil War[1] (1936-1939). More than 700 Americans were killed during the war. They were selfless; they were brave. They put personal safety aside for Spain, for her citizens to live in freedom and to thrive on Spanish soil.

In the early 1930s, free elections created a new Spanish Republic. Many citizens believed that Democracy and modernity would spread increasing freedom, equality and prosperity across their land at long last. The old order, with a great deal of military might, saw things differently. They held on to the primacy of the old ways. Four insurgent generals had the clout to bring back the heavy hand of government, and they did it in the form of Fascism. Democracy was crushed and swept out of Spain before the blush had faded from its long-awaited birth.

It’s one thing to be drafted for military service and to answer the call. Society’s sentiment echoes the government’s drum beat. The patriotic, the young, the honor-bound—some who need a job, some with a family history of military service, some whose only thought is to support their country—they answer the calls to war that seldom go unanswered.

Americans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade took up arms on an altogether different basis. Spain had just installed their first democratically elected leaders in a long time. For centuries, Spain had been ruled in accord with the ancient pillars of nobility, religion and monarchy. These standards were not always kind to the poor and working classes in Spain. And so the Americans, 2,800 of them, followed their hearts to Spain.[2] They were not drafted. Their government did not tell them to go. They were not promised high pay or healthy living. They saw Mussolini in Italy. They saw Hitler in Germany. And now there was Franco in Spain. They did not like bully-boy dictators oppressing people who had voted for freedom. They did not want one more country in Europe to be forced under the heel of Fascism. They could not stand by and let the Fascists destroy the freedom of workers—workers who were just like them. So they went. Of free will and compassion, they went. They joined with the rebels who called themselves Republicans. Like Abraham Lincoln, they believed in freedom and fair treatment for all people.

On February 28, 2016, the last known survivor of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, Delmer Berg, died at the age of 100.[3] The son of a first-generation Ukrainian immigrant, Mr. Berg was born and died in California. He was raised in Oregon where he briefly trained in the National Guard before leaving for Spain. He carried shrapnel from an Italian bomber in his liver for the rest of his life. After his year in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, he served three-years in the Pacific theater during World War II. He was a union member, a member of the NAACP and a communist. For years, he was hounded by the House Un-American Activities Committee. Delmer Berg worked his whole life to make things better for others. In 2014, he said, “I think staying politically active keeps me alive, too. It fills my life. I never slowed down – I’m right in the middle of things yet.”

Senator John McCain published and Op Ed[4] eulogizing Delmer Berg and his fellow American volunteers. These are some of Senator McCain’s words to honor Delmer Berg:

“Mr. Berg went to Spain when he was a very young man. He fought in some of the biggest and most consequential battles of the war. He sustained wounds. He watched friends die. He knew he had ransomed his life to a lost cause, for a people who were strangers to him, but to whom he felt an obligation, and he did not quit on them. Then he came home, started a cement and stonemasonry business and fought for the things he believed in for the rest of his long life…. He didn’t need to know for whom the bell tolls. He knew it tolled for him. And I salute him. Rest in peace.”

Senator McCain’s kind words for Delmer Berg, a life-long communist and a renowned activist in the Labor Movement, say much about the Senator—as well as the last survivor of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.

Images: Matt Rota’s artwork, shared with his gracious permission.  (Please visit Matt’s website, listed below),[5] and photo of Delmer Berg (1915-2016)—by Phil Schermeister, courtesy of Friends & Neighbors Magazine, Sonora, CA[6] (online obituary by Sebastian Faber, 3/2/16)

[1] See: http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/spanish-civil-war-breaks-out and http://history-world.org/spanish_civil_war.htm and http://www.spainthenandnow.com/spanish-history/default_4.aspx
[2] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/3/31/spain_in_our_hearts_adam_hochschilds
[3] See: http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/03/us/delmer-berg-last-survivor-of-abraham-lincoln-brigade-dies-at-100.html?_r=0
[4] See: http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/25/opinion/john-mccain-salute-to-a-communist.html
[5] See artist Matt Rota’s website: http://mattrotasartnews.tumblr.com/
[6] See: http://www.albavolunteer.org/2016/03/delmer-berg-last-surviving-abraham-lincoln-brigade-veteran-dies-at-100/ “The Volunteer” Founded by the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.

Father Daniel Berrigan went to Hanoi during wartime in 1968. He wrote this poem:

BOMBARDMENT

Like those who go aground
willfully, knowing our absurd
estate can but be bettered
in the battering hands of the gods—

Yet mourning traitorously the sun and moon,
beloved faces and heat of hearth—

Went under
like a blown match. The gases flare on the world’s
combustible                                                  flesh.


The U.S. strategy to win the war in Vietnam was to kill so many enemy soldiers that they would not be able to fill the vacancies created by their losses. It was just a matter of time, our politicians told us. Victory was soon to be at hand.[1] Then came the Tet Offensive, the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong’s massive assault early in 1968. No one saw it coming. Hundreds of cities and towns were attacked including almost every capital. Over 80,000 enemy soldiers carried out the impossible missions. In the end, our history books list the Tet Offensive as an enemy defeat—and a victory for the South Vietnamese army and the United States. But the Tet Offensive proved one thing: the strategy of winning by attrition had holes in it a mile wide. We were never going to kill enough soldiers to force a surrender—no doubt about it.

So we ramped up bombing. “Another poet quailed under American fury, taking refuge in shelters in Hanoi, 1968,”[2] said Father Daniel Berrigan for he was that poet.

Turns out, bombing was just another losing strategy.

The fearless priest, the teacher, the poet, the activist Daniel J. Berrigan had this to say: “The modern, technological, universal solvent of human conflict is—bombing, incursion, sanctions. Destroy people, and so solve human contentions.”

Image: Father Daniel Berrigan in handcuffs and part of his quote. It often includes this: “It may or may not be possible to turn the US around through nonviolent revolution. But one thing favors such an attempt: the total inability of violence to change anything for the better.”[3]

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_War “Westmoreland predicted victory by the end of 1967.”
[2] Lamentations From New York to Kabul and Beyond, Daniel Berrigan, © 2002, Sheed & Ward
[3] http://www.inspiringquotes.us/author/7292-daniel-berrigan

Where’s the man more committed to peace? Where’s the man more tightly bound in telling and living the truth? Was there ever a man less afraid of his government than the teacher, the priest, the poet, the activist—Father Daniel J. Berrigan? No! It was he—he was that man!

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. called him “Jesus as a poet” and followed by saying, “If this be heresy, make the most of it.”[1]

Father Dan once said, “Faith is rarely where your head is at. Nor is it where your heart is at. Faith is where your ass is at!”[2] He revealed his faith repeatedly.

In 1968, Father Daniel Berrigan and Howard Zinn went to Hanoi.[3] It was during the Tet holiday—a time of reunion in Vietnam. The two professors witnessed the misery that U.S. bombers delivered upon the people of North Vietnam. Our adversaries in combat sent three captured American pilots home with the activists—a kind gesture of peace for the pilots and their families. These were the first POWs released since the U.S. began the onslaught known as the Tet Offensive.

Later that year, Fathers Philip and Daniel Berrigan and seven other anti-war activists broke into the draft board office in Catonsville, Maryland. They took hundreds of draft records out into the parking lot where they burned them in homemade napalm. The Berrigans became the first Catholic priests to be listed on the FBI Ten Most Wanted list.

In 1980, Father Dan and friends advanced the cause of anti-nuclear proliferation by starting the Plowshares Movement in dramatic fashion. They trespassed onto the GE nuclear missile plant in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. Security was surprisingly lax. Eight men beat upon missile nose cones with hammers, emulating scripture, and the Plowshares Movement was launched.[4]

10-years later when the case was finally settled, Daniel Berrigan said to the judge, “Your honor, if the children of the world are safer with us in prison, so be it. We will go in good spirit.”[5] Clearly, Daniel Berrigan was not opposed to positioning his faith and his posterior in the exact same place.[6]

In 1981, TV reporter Chris Wallace seemed unaware of the nose cone desecration. For he asked Father Dan how he felt about being left out of the news spotlight (compared with his many protests in the 60s and 70s). The priest responded, "Well, you know, we don’t view our conscience as being tethered to the other end of a television cord."[7] We know where the priest viewed his conscience residing—right alongside with his faith and his derriere!

He wasn’t perfect, Father Daniel J. Berrigan. Ice cream had its way with him. He kept his freezer full of the stuff. His hankering was known far and wide. So much so, that the founders of Ben and Jerry’s gifted Father Dan with a lifetime supply—a gift that somehow grew to include his whole family. Many cousins, nieces and nephews took advantage of it throughout the years. The next time you hanker for Ben and Jerry’s, see if you like Raspberrigan ice cream.

These ancient words inspired the priest, the teacher, the poet, the activist:

“They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” (Isaiah 2:3-4)

Images: Daniel and Philip Berrigan on the cover of Time Magazine[8] and Sculpture “Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares” by Evgeniy Vuchetich in the United Nations Art Collection, photo by Neptuul[9]

[1] See: https://sojo.net/magazine/february-2008/picturing-daniel-berrigans-poetry - by Madeleine Mysky, 2008
[2] See: http://www.ibtimes.com/daniel-berrigan-famous-quotes-renowned-jesuit-priest-poet-peace-activist-dies-94-2362192
[3] See: http://www.carnegiecouncil.org/publications/100_for_100/005 in Father Dan’s own words
[4] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2015/5/21/an_act_of_protest_not_sabotage_at
[5] See: http://articles.mcall.com/1990-04-11/news/2749136_1_daniel-berrigan-plowshares-defendants-nuclear-arms
[6] See: http://biography.yourdictionary.com/daniel-j-berrigan - From 1975-1995, Father Berrigan was imprisoned several times for a combined total of nearly 7-yrs.
[7] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/5/3/jeremy_scahill_remembers_his_longtime_friend
[8] See: http://content.time.com/time/covers/0,16641,19710125,00.html – 1/25/1975, Time, credit Jim Sharpe
[9] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASchwerter_zu_Pflugscharen_-_Bronze_-_Jewgeni_Wutschetitsch_-_Geschenk_der_Sowjetunion_an_die_UNO_-_1959.jpg - image licensed under Creative Commons. By Neptuul (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons from Wikimedia Commons

Of the multitude of motherly qualities that we cherish, providing safety for the young is right at the top.

Mothers nurture safety. They cling to it tenaciously. Mothers provide our first warmth. Our sustenance begins in her womb, flows from her breast and infuses us with the safe inner havens we all need to go forth and to be productive.

If there is hope for us, it began with Mother’s Love. We will endure and save ourselves and our world, if we can just recall our shared connections to the earliest lessons we learned from her. The way of mothering is the way of safety. It is the way of peace. It began with her first sweet whispers in our tender newborn ears. We honor those echoing whispers throughout our lives. Every time that we are kind to a loved one—or to a stranger—we sing the soft chorus again.

Today, on Mother’s Day, my lovely wife Debra and I are joined by our daughter, her boyfriend and his parents. We’ll all be sharing a meal. Then we’ll find excellent seats to hear Amy Goodman speak to us at the Aladdin Theater in Portland, Oregon.

Amy is on a 100-city tour to promote public radio. Here is how she sums up its importance to all of us:

“I believe the media can be the greatest force for peace on Earth, because it provides a forum for people to hear each other. And that’s the beginning of understanding. And understanding is the beginning of peace.”[1]

What a wonderful way to celebrate—being with our cherished Moms and hearing a leading peace advocate tell stories to inspire us.

In Portland, support KBOO radio[2] where heroes volunteer and work for peace and justice in our communities.

Hear the echoing whispers. Share. Understand. Pass it along—please.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Images: Two heroes—Debra who is my rock, my anchor, my lush bed of roses!
And Amy Goodman,[3] columnist, author and host of “Democracy Now!” the war and peace report; shown here addressing the 2010 Green Festival.

[1] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/5/5/callings_in_radical_new_book_storycorps
[2] Go to: http://kboo.fm/
[3] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Amy_Goodman_in_2010.jpg photo author Chris Eaves, image in the creative commons, license at this link, no changes have been made.

In the 1964 film “Behold a Pale Horse,”[1] aftermath from the Spanish Civil War hovers over a handful of exiled rebels who had fought for democracy but lost. They continue to struggle. It is 20-years after the rebels’ defeat in 1939. General Franco’s fascist dictatorship has settled in like a foul and heavy mist. The story builds to its inevitable confrontation—a show down that does not bode well for an outlaw rebel with a price on his head. His enemy is the Army of Spain, and he is alone. He has just learned from a priest that one of his few allies is an informer who has rigged a set up. Now, it is clear. His odds are not long, they are impossible.

The old rebel discovers that the priest and he are from the same village, Lorca. He suddenly feels a neighborly kinship with the priest. They drink a toast.

“Tell me something—how did it happen that a Lorca man turned into a priest?”

“It was during the Civil War. I was 10-years old. Some soldiers came to our farm one night and killed my father.”

“Why’d they kill him?” the old rebel asked.

“We didn’t know. We didn’t belong to either side.”

“Which side killed him?”

“We never found out. It was dark. We didn’t see them.”

“It wasn’t our side,” says the old freedom fighter with a wave of his hand.

“What difference does it make?” the priest despairs. Clasping his hands as if in prayer, he leans forward over the table to ask, “Would either side have the right to take his life?”

They peer into each other’s eyes for eternal seconds until the old rebel shakes his head and looks down. “You better go, priest,” he says. The priest glares at the old soldier, trying to decide what to say, but words evade him. He stands and walks slowly to the door and he leaves.

“Behold a Pale Horse” was filmed in black and white. The priest in this scene utters one perfectly black and white question about war. Does either warring side have the right to steal life from children, elders and bystanders? Haphazardly, fate carries them into the path of bullets. Their lives, if counted, are coldly listed under the cost of war.

Images: Gregory Peck is Manuel Artiguez, Omar Sharif is the priest in these photos from the movie “Behold a Pale Horse.”

[1] See: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0057879/

When did humans begin celebrating May Day? Well, celebrations in the spring were called Floriala by ancient Romans, and called Walpurgisnacht by Germanic people, and called Beltane by the Celts in Stonehenge times. The old celebrants honored flowers in new bloom, the banishment of winter witches and the return of summer. These were times of great importance. People danced and sang. Bonfires lit the night sky on hilltops in homage to the Sun’s renewal. Cattle were led out to the fertile summer pastures. Celebrations of nature from around the globe are all part of the broad human experience. Over time out of mind, they have been melded into one worldwide paean upon the first of May each year. The glory of spring is a time-honored force and cause enough for folks of many cultures to make merry.

In 1627, Thomas Morton organized the first maypole dance in America at a place he called Merrymount in Massachusetts. Yes, it was a wild one—complete with revelry, debauchery, co-mingling with natives and even with some poetry! Puritans Cotton Mather and Myles Standish took a dim view. They made the moral and political laws, and they saw no good outcome from allowing Morton to establish the pagan celebrations in New England. This was their New World and heathen rituals were perfect targets for their strict code of conduct. They razed the maypole, wreaked havoc on the community and sent Thomas Morton back to England—but he would not stay put. Returning to Merrymount in 1630, the Puritans banished him again—this time to Maine, where Morton lived out his days in the cold northern clime, exiled by the will of Puritan Law. Today, nearly 400-years later, children are still encouraged to celebrate with vigor the advent of springtime, the fertility of life and the return of sunny warmth.

In early May of 1886, the tragic Haymarket Massacre in Chicago helped to seal the bond between May Day and the Labor Movement.  Workers were marching and striking to force companies to honor 8-hour work days without cutting workers’ pay. “Eight hours of work, eight hours of rest and eight hours of play” was a widespread refrain. What had been a peaceful rally erupted with police gunfire when an unidentified instigator hurled a stick of dynamite into the crowd. Deaths and many injuries were counted among the demonstrators. There were a few police casualties, too. Both sides accused the other of causing the casualties, but the truth could not be found. Four labor leaders were hung strictly for their beliefs and politics. For no proof was laid on any man to show he threw the bomb. A fifth leader, Louis Lingg, in a final protest, killed himself by detonating an explosive in his mouth to rob the hangman. These tolls were exacted and entered into History’s ledger. These costs were never due, but they were paid nonetheless by our ancestral workers. From these and many other sacrifices have grown all our job benefits that we enjoy today. The mayhem at Haymarket Square on that day in May,130-years ago, laid waste to life, but the symbolism of the seasonal rebirth was intertwined with the workers’ rights for safe work places and fair wages.

In 1894, President Grover Cleveland established Labor Day in September. The establishment of an official holiday for “Labor” in the fall was a political strategy to take steam from the sails of union organizers and labor forces that rallied in springtime on a global scale. And there was also this: President Cleveland had recently deployed 10,000 armed troops to bust a railroad worker strike in Chicago. Dozens of workers were killed. As an olive branch, he gave a day off, a federal holiday, to all workers—a day off—at the end of summer! President Cleveland encouraged Labor Day observers to go shopping at the new department stores. Many chose to go picnicking instead. And the labor votes that could have kept him in office did not come his way.

On May 1, 1958, President Dwight Eisenhower proclaimed that May 1st will be Law Day,[1] a little known “special” day to honor the roll of law in America. The choice of May 1st was also political strategy. The “powers that be” in our land felt they needed to suppress May Day celebrations by International Workers as they fought for better wages and working conditions. Believe it or not, Law Day is actually observed in some law schools across this land. Which, in an odd way, brings us back to Merrymount and Haymarket Square. It is nice that we pay tribute to the Law with its own day each year, just in case the Law was feeling beleaguered from eons of enforcement. I like to compare the levels of merry making each year to see which celebrations are most successful between the pagans, the workers and the law makers. Based on sheer numbers, who do you think wins this year? You’re right—workers and pagans, hands down. But pay attention to the quiet ones. They hold great power. And, the scales of justice remain out of balance, for all that!

Happy May Day!

Images: Walpurgisnacht,[2] The maypole at Merrymount (from Chronicles of American Film, “The Puritans,”)[3] Haymarket Square on May 1, 1886[4] and “Something wrong with the scales of justice!...”[5]

[1] See: http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/president-eisenhower-proclaims-law-day
[2] See: http://www.ancientrails.com/?p=14089
[3] In Public Domain at: http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47da-6b0e-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99
[4] In Public Domain at: http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e0-ff71-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99
[5] In Public Domain at: http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/4de31f00-dc44-0130-0228-58d385a7bbd0

During the Spanish Civil War, we saw Hitler’s German air force studying the Art of War. It was at Guernica where a peaceful Basque community had little interest in Spain’s turbulent Civil War. In Guernica, European civilians were bombed from the air for the very first time.

The Spanish version of Hitler was Generalissimo Francisco Franco.[1]  Franco got a lot of help as he battled the Republican rebels who were fighting to restore democracy. Hitler and Mussolini (the Italian mastermind of modern Fascism) had built immense military machines. They were willing to share the military wealth with Franco, their new fascist neighbor—and the welcome wagon brought pilots eager to practice a deadly art.[2]

In the northern Basque town of Guernica, the three dictators found an excellent crucible for brewing up a “test” batch of annihilation by way of aerial bombardment. It was a perfect way for Franco to demonstrate his mighty killing capabilities to the Republican freedom fighters—never mind that the town was not a military target. And Field Marshall Hermann Göring and his Condor Legion would add considerably to the growing German lexicon on waging global warfare.  Germany wanted to know what it would take “to bomb a city into oblivion.”[3] At the Nuremberg Trials, Göring openly explained: "The Spanish Civil War gave me an opportunity to put my young air force to the test, and a means for my men to gain experience." Experience, yes. And knowledge about oblivion.

In Sven Lindqvist’s book A History of Bombing,[4] he writes about the destruction that rained on Guernica, turning buildings to dust and innocent human life to lost dreams and nightmares. George Steer of the “London Times” described the scene when he arrived at 2 a.m. to find the entire city was in flames, “… house after house falls into a fiery wreck. The only military targets—a little armament factory and two barracks—lie outside the city and are untouched.”

In Lindqvist’s words, “The image of a peaceful little town suddenly surprised by the inferno of war, of an ancient culture desecrated by flying vandals—even those images might soon have been forgotten had the Fascist and Nazi propaganda machines not attempted a cover up.”

Franco banned reporters and ordered all traces of the German presence removed. It took five days. When the press was allowed to return, they were told that Guernica crumbled at the hands of the Republican rebels. Imagine the audacity of trying to convince journalists that a town was leveled by rebel troops with only rifles, a few canons and hand grenades! Well, General Franco ruled Spain for decades and he did not recant his lies, despite eye-witnesses who saw the bombers and despite Field Marshall Goring’s own testimony at Nuremberg! Sven Lindqvist’s wrote, “Thus lies keep the truth alive.”

The final lesson for this study of war and peace examines who profits when nations wage war. In the Spanish Civil War, a prominent American pitched in on the side of the dictators. Texaco CEO Torkild Rieber sold fuel on credit to Franco—fuel that went to Göring’s Condor Legion and Mussolini’s Aviation Legionnaires.[5] Rieber was a man who admired fascism. U.S. laws forbidding these transactions did not deter Rieber from abetting Franco. U.S. courts found him guilty. He paid a trifling penalty. He spent no time in jail. Rieber is not a rare case. The list is long of U.S. CEO’s, manufacturers and financiers who have gotten rich from ill-gotten commerce during war times. Refer to one of America’s most decorated war heroes for further study—See War is a Racket by General Smedley Butler[6] who was twice awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

To be fair, remember that the methods for bombing cities into oblivion were also tested in America’s own crucible. At Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we set the standard for killing civilians by bombing from above. May the ghosts of our war art rest in peace.

When studying the Art of Peace, the lessons are learned with perfect economy—at least in terms of lives that are wasted—there are none.

Photos: Generalissimo Franco, Field Marshall Göring as he receives Hitler’s congratulations on his 47th birthday,[7] Guernica obliterated, General Smedley Butler[8]

[1] See: http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/b0764cf4-fc81-0cb7-e040-e00a18067af7 photo in Public Domain

[2] See: https://basquebooks.blogs.unr.edu/march-31-1937-the-mola-proclamation-and-the-bombing-of-durango-and-elorrio/ - Italian pilots bombed two towns for five days just weeks prior to the bombing of Guernica.

[3] See: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/guernica.htm

[4] © 2000 Sven Lindquist, 2001 translated by Linda Haverty Rugg, New York Press—p. 72, section 157-159

[5] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/3/31/fueling_fascism_the_secret_history_of

[6] See: http://www.americanswhotellthetruth.org/portraits/major-general-smedley-butler

[7] See: http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/ae7bb9f5-44fb-5a5d-e040-e00a1806317f photos in Public Domain

[8] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:SmedleyButler.jpeg photo in Public Domain

In his popular series “The Twilight Zone,” Rod Serling[1] set the television table for us to feast upon the unknown. He saw to it that we dined in a state of fear, or anxiety or at the very least in a state of intense curiosity. He kept us awake on Friday nights with tales of aliens, demons, time warps, criminals and despots. But what Mr. Serling so often served to us was a heaping plateful of human weakness. Such was the case in season five, episode 26, a show called, “I Am the Night—Color Me Black.”[2]

We are in a small American town. It could be anywhere in any state—when, on the morning of a hanging, the sun fails to break at dawn. Darkness prevails.

As the execution hour approaches, the whole town grows edgy at the sun’s utter absence. On the radio, in the background, we hear the eerie news of the missing sunrise. The news is spreading throughout the region and across the country—the sun did not rise on one small town this day.

The convicted killer avows his own guilt. Yet he begs no pardon. He is angry though. He is resentful. For his victim, you see, was a man who had committed cruel and vile acts.

The newspaper reporter at the jail voices concerns over “a few disturbing facets about this case.” To the Sherriff and his Deputy, the reporter explains, “One, the murdered man was not a decent man. He was a cross-burning psychopathic bully who attacked that man in there. And, two, Deputy Pierce, here, saw it happen, and then perjured himself.”

The evidence that the killing occurred from an act of self-defense was not presented during the trial. The evidence was buried in a community that harbored shared feelings—feelings about when bullying is “okay,” feelings about when it is acceptable to ignite a cross, feelings that justify them by virtue only from the false power of majority.

The clock tower tolls the hour. Behind the readied noose, we see the tower silhouetted by the rope. The citizens are congregated in the darkness. Deputy Pierce observes, “Looks pretty good. That ought to tend to him.” The Sherriff solemnly observes, “But who’s going to tend to us? Who or what is going to tend to us?”

The hanging is completed, but there is an aftermath. As the final scene is frozen, the last somber lines of the script emanate from a radio. In level tones, the announcer informs the world that the shroud is spreading around the globe.

“The darkness continues to make itself known,” the announcer says.

Then Rod Serling concludes our journey into the unlit lives of one small town.

“A sickness known as Hate—not a virus, not a microbe, not a germ—but a sickness nonetheless. Highly contagious, deadly in its effects. Don’t look for it in the Twilight Zone. Look for it in a mirror. Look for it before the light goes out altogether.”

This invitation is presumed to be personal since Rod Serling wrote this episode himself.

Image: Photo of Rod Serling (1924-1975)

[1] Photo of Rod Serling (1924-1975) found in Public Domain at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rod_Serling_photo_portrait_1959.JPG

[2] Originally aired March 27, 1964—see: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0734577/

Mae C. Jemison[1] is a Renaissance woman if there ever was one—a woman with many talents and a woman who utilizes them all.

Family support boosted Mae to many milestones including onto the NASA launching pad on September 12, 1992 when she and six other astronauts were launched aboard the Endeavour for an eight-day mission in space.

Not bad for a girl born in Decatur, Alabama in 1956, the daughter of a roofer and a school teacher. Mae’s sister (Ada Jemison Bullock) became a child psychiatrist and her brother Charles Jemison became a real estate broker. How’s that for some topnotch parenting and a first rate sibling support system!

Mae’s educational résumé includes winning a National Achievement Scholarship to Stanford University where she danced in theater groups and was the head of the Black Student Union before graduating with a chemical engineering degree. Then she entered Cornell University and earned her M.D. Mae also studied abroad in Cuba and Kenya.

Later, Mae served in the Peace Corps for two and a half years as a medical officer in Sierra Leone and Liberia. Maybe travels to far-off lands and all her work, studies and service were not exciting enough for Mae. Or maybe it was her early enchantment by Lieutenant Uhura on “Star Trek.” For Mae gave up her medical career in the mid-80s to pursue her highest dream—to fly in space!

This takes guts, obviously, but even more in Mae Jemison’s case since the ill-fated launch of the Challenger in 1986 occurred right before she made history. Mae C. Jemison became the first African-American woman accepted into NASA’s astronaut training program. And, after years of training, Mae was the first African-American woman to fly in space.

Mae reached a personal milestone at a Trekkie event when she met Nichelle Nichols[2] who played her hero on TV. We expect the feeling was mutual for Ms. Nichols when she met a real astronaut—one whom she had inspired to reach for the stars.

Mae said, “I realized I would feel comfortable anywhere in the universe because I belonged to and was a part of it, as much as any star, planet, asteroid, comet or nebula.”


Image: NASA photo of astronaut Mae C. Jemison (photo in public domain)[3]

[1] See her biography at: http://www.biography.com/people/mae-c-jemison-9542378

[2] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nichelle_Nichols

[3] See Wikipedia photo information: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dr._Mae_C._Jemison,_First_African-American_Woman_in_Space_-_GPN-2004-00020.jpg

These passages from Maya Angelou’s book[1] reveal two strong, good teachers—Sister Flowers and the author herself when she was a very young victim. In the depressed, Jim Crow town of Stamps, Sister Flowers was the black folks’ answer to the rich white women. She wasn’t rich, but she carried herself with such dignity that all the neighbors looked up to her proudly. It was Sister Flowers who taught Maya that she could talk again after years of self-imposed silence. Maya thought if she said a single word that another man might die. Her step-father was beaten to death after Maya reluctantly identified him as her rapist. Maya was eight. She didn’t know about rape. There was no man in her life, no loving father or any role model, to teach her what a father’s love should be like—let alone what the difference was between love and brutal assault. The child blamed herself for her step-father’s fate. So, she retreated into silence.


As told by Maya, this is how the one-sided conversation went when one good teacher started another on her young way:


She said, without turning her head, to me, “I hear you’re doing very good school work, Marguerite, but that it’s all written. The teachers report that they have trouble getting you to talk in class.” We passed the triangular farm on our left and the path widened to allow us to walk together. I hung back in the separate unasked and unanswerable questions.

“Come and walk along with me, Marguerite.” I couldn’t have refused even if I wanted to. She pronounced my name so nicely. Or more correctly, she spoke each word with such clarity that I was certain a foreigner who didn’t understand English could have understood her.

“Now no one is going to make you talk—possibly no one can. But bear in mind, language is man’s way of communicating with his fellow man and it is language alone which separates him from the lower animals.” That was a totally new idea to me, and I would need time to think about it.

“Your grandmother says you read a lot. Every chance you get. That’s good, but not good enough. Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with the shades of deeper meaning.”

I memorized the part about the human voice infusing words. It seemed so valid and poetic.

She said she was going to give me some books and that I not only must read them, I must read them aloud. She suggested that I try to make a sentence sound in as many different ways as possible.


Image: Maya Angelou[2] reads “On the Pulse of Morning”[3]

[1] For the poem, see: http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/maya_angelou/poems/494 and for the book, see: http://www.amazon.com/Know-Why-Caged-Bird-Sings/dp/0345514408

[2] See: http://www.biography.com/people/maya-angelou-9185388

[3] President Clinton's inauguration January 20, 1993

Thanks to author Patricia Kullberg[1] for her gripping novel, Girl in the River.[2] This book is riveting. Mae Rose is a poor, small-town girl, orphaned in her teens. Her life in Portland, Oregon in the 1940s and 50s becomes an inferno filled with darkness and evil. The Great Depression and rotten luck gang up on her as she slogs through deep and hazardous trenches. The tale is true to Portland’s history—a history with a dark under-belly of crime and corruption. It is true to Portland’s place—a place where opulent mansions line steep hills—and a place where caves are carved out in Sullivan’s Gulch and canvas tents are strung up. In tents and in caves, people in great need huddle together beneath relentless downpours of rain, sleet and society’s neglect.

Poverty in Depression racked Mill City didn’t trap Mae Rose, but the big city of Portland closed in on her fast. Starvation and a bitter winter imposed blockades that narrowed Mae’s options, and soon the only choices facing her were bad, terrible and worse.

The story is told in straight, hard-hitting prose and in short chapters that maintain the rapid journey through tough lives and harder times. While Mae contends with one haymaker after another, you and I, with our eyes and hearts as witness, must also cope with the weight of the blows. And the blows are incessant. From the cataracts of the North Santiam River to the slow ceaseless flow of the polluted Willamette, we are in the middle of a flood and at risk of drowning. The maelstrom is dizzying—the force irresistible. To survive, deal with it—deal with starvation. Deal with privation. Deal with shutting down your soul and becoming what you do not want to be. Deal with breaking down completely in the endless quest to keep hunger at bay. And, finally, deal with the fact that from time to time, despite precautions, the risk comes to life. A fetus inside you halts the menstrual cycle. What will you do about that?

Mae’s plight is impossible to ignore. Growing up by the rushing North Santiam, Mae knew that her mother was no angel. But the mother’s undeniable love for her daughter remains a steadfast glimmer that will not expire. And Mae’s mother gave her child a perfect gift. She taught her to swim!

Read this novel. You will see and feel what it is like to face the choice in the flood. I am enriched and grateful having been there up close inside this story.


Image: A promotional photo on author Patricia Kullberg’s Facebook page.[3] I hope you “Like” it.

[1] See: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14044757.Patricia_Kullberg

[2] Available at: http://www.powells.com/book/girl-in-the-river-9781941072240/1-6 - or at Amazon & in stores

[3] See: https://www.facebook.com/patricia.kullberg.author/

Bentari has a nickname for everyone and for many animal friends in the forest. “Scheherezade” is a name he employed twice. He used it for his mother, Mirawami, and for the lioness that saved his life—the same lioness he had taunted when he was a child—the same lioness that chased him to his dying father.

There is an excellent TV mini-series called “Arabian Nights”. [1] It is very true to the ancient stories about the heroine Scheherezade. She saved the lives of many women by her bravery and cunning. Scheherezade gave herself up. Into the breach she went, with only her belief and a plan. In Bentari’s eyes, her age-old name was a fitting tribute for two females who had made great impressions upon him by both teaching him and saving him.

Here is an exchange from the TV series, near the end, after Scheherezade has told her tales to the Sultan. Her stories accomplished two things—they taught him and they saved him.

Sultan: “What advice did the Holy Seer give Achmed when he handed him the magic cup.”

Scheherezade: “He said the world was an inferno full of darkness and evil, and there were only two ways of dealing with it. The first was easy and wrong: to accept it and become part of it. The second way was harder and right: you fight it and recognize those who aren’t evil and help them endure.”

Sultan: “You’ve taken the second way. You’ve helped me and saved me from the darkness. Why?”

Scheherezade: “I loved you.”

Sultan: “Is that the answer.”

Scheherezade: “It’ll have to do.”


Images: A strong lioness[2] and a strong woman[3]—like Mirawami

[1] See IMDB at: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181199/ “Arabian Nights” was produced by Hallmark Entertainment and stars Mili Avital as Scheherezade and Dougray Scott as Amin

[2] Found online: http://www.felineworlds.com/lioness_walking_south_africa/ Used without permission for non-commercial educational purposes and  with apologies to unknown author

[3] Image found online at: https://ourstorian.wordpress.com/2011/06/25/pan-african-womens-action-summit-pawas-2011/ Image used without permission and with apologies to the unknown author

A Scotsman narrates our story Bentari. This choice was easy since my family shares Scottish heritage; and how does one include a Scot in an African tale, after all, if he isn’t telling it? His name is Max Farleigh and he lost an arm at the Battle of Narvik during the dark early days of World War II. Since he couldn’t fight the Germans in his condition, hate was at home in his heart. So Max went to Africa to help his ailing uncle, and there he tries to rid himself of wrath. As Max tells the story, it’s clear that he succeeded—taught by a boy who suffered great loss yet somehow held the hatred of his enemies at bay.

Max Farleigh introduces himself in Chapter 2 ("My Struggle"):

“I came here for many reasons. For one, my uncle’s health was failing, and the trading post that he had established was more than he could handle alone. Secondly, I hoped that the tropical climate would be easier on my stump than the cold, moist air of my Scottish highland home. My left arm, you see, was a casualty of the Germans. I was there in Narvik in the spring of 1940 when the B.E.F. routed the German invaders out of northern Norway. It went for naught, however. The Germans held all of southern Norway. Soon, their superior air power sent us scurrying back to Britain. My arm stayed in Norway along with my peace of mind.”

Max tells the story of what happened when a German company’s secret patrol discovers the ancient untold wealth of Bentari’s tribe.

We are left to wonder: What should be done with the treasures of the earth? Who owns land? Who owns what lies within land? How are differences to be settled?

Bentari is forced the hard way to learn some answers of the brutality that occurs when men line up behind differing versions of what is right and then undertake to force their views on others.

Bentari is too young to comprehend it all. His father’s dying words exhort him to try, and he does try.

In the end of this story about Bentari’s early life, we hope that readers sense where a little boy finds himself. We hope that readers wonder along with the boy and say to the world about the warring ways of men: “There’s got to be a better way.”

Many a Scot is nothing if not a storyteller. Well, he might be a brawler, a poet, a dancer and a lover, too! But the heart of many a Scot will never stray from a closely felt kinship with the Bard of Ayrshire, Robert Burns. Max Farleigh is no exception.

Image: Leona, my grandmother—a link to our Scottish family history

Buy Bentari now for the Scot’s thrilling African story about a boy during wartime!

People remember the “Bard of Ayrshire” Robert Burns for his “Auld Lang Syne” and for his long list of songs and poems. People remember him as the great poet of Scotland and for being one of the early founders of Romanticism. Robert Burns must also be remembered for his early inspiration of the human movement toward empathy, equality and compassion. Robert Burns’ position was considered radical in his time, a time that coincided with two giant steps in the Human march toward Progress—the American and the French Revolutions.[1] Here is his poem, his song, his prophesy—the wonderful words, two-centuries auld—that foretold what we now are knowing—a man is a man, for all that, and we shall brothers be, for once and for all—and for all that![2]




“A Man’s A Man For A’ That” by Robert Burns[3], 1795

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, and’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gold for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a’ that;
Give fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that;
For a’ that, and’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er so poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Who struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that;
For a’ that, and’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:
The man o’ independent mind
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s abon his might,
Good faith, he mustn’t fa’ that!
For a’ that, and’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that;
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank that a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, and’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.


Image: Robert Burns statue by David Watson Stevenson, Leith. It was unveiled on October 15, 1898. (Photo author Kim Traynor, file licensed under Creative Commons)[4]

[1] See: http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/scottishhistory/enlightenment/features_enlightenment_radicals.shtml

[2] Listen at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2pGWkjwOBw for a stirring song, hie thee!

[3] See: http://www.robertburns.org/works/496.shtml

[4] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Robert_Burns_statue,_Bernard_Street.jpg – Used without author’s permission for educational purposes.

Pete Seeger (1919-2014) is widely and rightly remembered for many of his peace songs like “Turn, Turn, Turn,” “If I Had a Hammer” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone.” Please enjoy this simple song of Pete’s. Though lesser known, its lilting tune and seasonal theme are fitting for early springtime—a time of awakening and energizing—a time of preparation to work hard in the fields and under the sun, together.







“Flowers Of Peace” by Pete Seeger[1]

Oh, the summertime is coming, and the leaves are sweet returning
But those flowers of peace, it's for them I'm really yearning

Will they bloom, ever bloom?
Will they bloom in the springtime?
Oh, you flowers of peace
When the world should be in ring time
Will they bloom, ever bloom?

I built my love a bower by a crystal flowing river
But the thing her heart desires is a thing I cannot give her

Will they bloom, ever bloom?
Will they bloom in the springtime?

Oh, providence smiled impassive, as I fell on bended knee
Said, the lives of your empires are no more than swarms of bees

Will they bloom, ever bloom?
Will they bloom in the springtime?

If you and I would see those flowers, go out and till the soil
It takes more than prayers, it takes hard and sweaty toil

When they bloom, ever bloom
Then they’ll bloom in the springtime
Oh, those flowers of peace
And the world will be in ring time
Then they’ll bloom, ever bloom

[1] Pete Seeger’s performance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1lnvhI0uxI

We are honored to join a grassroots effort to save endangered animals from extinction. Hundreds of volunteers have each committed to gathering 1,000 petition signatures so that Oregon’s ballot in November, 2016 will include the “Wildlife Trafficking Prevention Act”. When Oregon voters approve this measure, we will be effectively shutting down illegal animal trade on the west coast of the United States, since Washington and California have already enacted similar measures.

The measure will prohibit trafficking of ivory and rhino horns in Oregon as well as banning trade involving ten other endangered species. The list includes: elephant, rhinoceros, whale, tiger, lion, leopard, cheetah, jaguar, pangolin, sea turtle, sharks and ray. These animals are at risk of extinction at human hands. Poacher motivations include financing of terrorist activities, marketing fabled but falsely claimed aphrodisiac and medicinal properties and selling animal parts that are contrived to be “delicacies.”

Consider the beautiful pangolin of Africa and Asia, known as the scaled anteater. Though harmless to humans and a helpful member of nature’s balance, its keratin scales are sought for use to cure cancer and asthma. Sadly for the pangolin, keratin has no medicinal qualities to cure our ailments. If it did, we should be using our own finger nail trimmings for the source, for they are composed of keratin, too. The pangolin’s solitary defense against predators is to roll up into an armored ball. This sublime method for self-preservation has worked with charm-like efficiency against marauding lions through the ages. Yet it is only an impotent ploy against a human’s knife or gun.

The elephant's plight is particularly alarming. Here in Portland, we’ve had a small herd living in our zoo for 50-years, and we have grown to believe they belong in the wild, too. Well, in Africa, rebels and terrorists murder entire elephant families and use the cruel, ill-gotten wealth to buy weapons to advance their rapacious plans. The poor, dear pachyderms are going extinct and their passing sadly enables some of the wickedest man-on-man inhumanity that we have ever known. Though elephants thrive in matriarchal families and can communicate over vast distances using low-frequency sounds, humans cannot hear them. Please hear them now.

None of our planet’s endangered species stands a snowball’s chance against us. Our greed and innovative predation spell doom, and the only safety for our silent animal friends lies in our ballot booths and on corners where you can help by signing petitions that will bring that crucial vote into reality.

Please visit our website[1], consider volunteering with us and keep your eyes open for the smiling petitioners that need your signature to help meet that lofty goal of one-thousand!

Image: Pangolin by Valerius Tygart (licensed in the creative commons)

[1] See: http://www.saveanimalsoregon.com/ Join us to save animals! On Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/saveanimalsor

quark electron atom magnetic molecule
amino acid protein amoeba paramecium
bacteria virus yeast mold mushroom
fungus spirochete cytoplasm organelle
ooze plasma blood guts nerve respiration light



plankton coral octopus scallop clam squid
horseshoe crab crawdad
shrimp snail jellyfish sponge
nautilus lobster slug leech mussel

trout salmon steelhead gar piranha pike
barracuda catfish guppy shark marlin
manta ray herring lox anchovy smelt
goldfish tuna carp bass shad crappie
clownfish parrotfish mackerel flying fish
seahorse sawfish swordfish remora
coelacanth sturgeon
tetra beta eel chub
mahi-mahi cod
halibut

butterfly firefly moth flea mosquito centipede
lacewing locust louse tick cricket gnat
ladybug beetle leaf hopper aphid
earwig stink bug termite spider
scorpion mantis grasshopper chigger
honey bee hornet bumblebee wasp
roach weevil yellow-jacket mud dauber ant millipede
silverfish mayfly
pupa larva chrysalis imago

salamander frog toad horny toad skink
monitor anole chameleon bearded dragon
alligator crocodile caiman adder asp
turtle gecko dinosaur iguana boa python
rattle snake coral snake cobra gila monster
bull snake gopher snake garter snake
fer-de-lance copperhead sea snake tortoise

prairie hen roadrunner
chicken heron crow
robin jay sparrow
eagle wren flicker
hammerkop falcon hawk
stork towhee titmouse
crane finch kite quail ern tern junco
flamingo swan ostrich thrush
oriole grouse weaver goose
owl pheasant peacock
nuthatch tanager
emu brown creeper vulture
condor turkey plover humming bird
gull cedar waxwing killdeer duck swift meadowlark

manatee cow porpoise whale impala human
elephant mouse shrew cat dog horse rhino
pangolin capybara llama anteater
jaguar lemur armadillo skunk
meerkat mangabey hamster pig stoat
wolverine beaver seal hyrax gorilla
kangaroo potoroo sea lion rat
lion yak bison camel giraffe
squirrel boar leopard fox
duiker ape donkey mule
hippopotamus
orangutan chimpanzee
cheetah wolf platypus
sloth bat rabbit
hedgehog
koala panda
bear

buzz click chirp
hiss croak splash
screech caw warble tweet
peep cock-a-doodle
moo, moo-oo
neigh, whinny, neigh
roar, meow, grrrrr, bark, howl, yip

cogito ergo sum—i think, therefore i am
ehyeh asher ehyeh—i am that i am
oh, yeah—oh, yeah—oh, yeah

finis

Recommended listening for the reverie Animalia: “One Candle” by J. Ralph & SIA and “Manta Ray” by J. Ralph & Antony from the film “Racing Extinction”[1]

[1] On Youtube at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yyx9wMrmgXM “Manta Ray” and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FttNi9-S1E “One Candle”. Join Bentari and curse the darkness!

Our daughter Caitlin has inspired us for 30-years upon this day.
How can 30-years seem like a short span? Maybe it is a short span.
Cait has filled it up with plenty of love and talent and boldness.
Cait is great!

I remember the books she drew and wrote when she barely had learned how to read.
I remember the day at Sewellcrest Park when she snagged a liner to begin a triple play.
I remember how she fought hard and steadily to win her first high school tennis match.

Her paintings inspire awe. Her curiosity is alive and driving.
Her sense of fair play is a rock, a firm foundation, the best possible anchor.

Animals come first for Cait.
She studies animals and humans with an artist’s eye for truth and the beauty in life.
Health, kindness, welfare and fairness are the cadence of the drum that her heart beats.

Play the drum, Cait!—a kind and lively tune—a reel of wonder
for a parent to admire in that baby girl now grown 30-years and on the go!
Convictions of goodness, a morality of kindness, an eye for beauty
and a beauty in profile—my daughter!

Happy Birthday, Cait! Love, Dad

Images: Caitlin wades in the Oneonta punchbowl; “Impala in the Sun” by Caitlin

Oscar winning director Roger Ross Williams[1] is honored for another important film—“Life, Animated.” This is the story of Owen Suskind’s thrilling journey. Owen stopped talking at age-3. His parents were broken-hearted, but they never wavered in their loving care for Owen, who was diagnosed with autism.

Then came the breakthrough! Father Ron Suskind[2] was trying to make Owen happy by playing with a Disney character puppet. Suddenly, Ron was stunned to hear Owen’s long-muted lips give a clear and perfect voice to the character’s words—straight out of the movie! Owen had memorized dozens of Disney animated movie scripts—thousands of lines of his favorite characters! And Owen could recite the dialogue at will.

In short order, it became clear. Owen can communicate! All the while, as Owen watched Disney movies without speaking about them, he was absorbing a great deal. After his dad’s puppet show, Owen began to use the words of the animated characters that spoke to him.

Owen is an independent adult now, holding two jobs. He has many gifts[3]. He is an accomplished painter, and he speaks to others about his experiences. Seeing Owen with his father Ron, it’s clear that the wonder of sound and light came crashing back in the Suskind world. Now they deal with the world on terms we all can relate to—parental love is animated by a child’s amazing gifts. Now they communicate!

One thing that father Ron Suskind observes about his autistic son is that he can only tell the truth. “It’s like Jim Carey in ‘Liar, Liar,”[4] he said. Owen has no choice. Thank you, Owen, for being who you are, a vessel bearing many gifts—and truth.

Owen Suskind is a true hero. He emerged from the lonely abyss of autism, and he is finding a way for his affinity to have a powerful and positive impact on others. Owen’s favorite Disney characters are the cartoon sidekicks, like Iago, the parrot partner to the villain Jafar in “Aladdin.” Owen shows us that everyone in our world can make a big difference, no matter how we are cast in the script.

Roger Ross Williams is the first African American director to win an Oscar. (“Music by Prudence,” 2010 Academy Award® for documentary short subject.) This year, no black artists have been nominated for Oscar consideration. The Bentari Project recognizes the high art that has been created and performed by our worthy brothers and sisters of African heritage. We are all Africans.

Image: Roger Ross Williams, recognized at the Sundance Film Festival 2016 as Best Director (U.S. documentary) for “Life, Animated”

[1] Filmmaker Roger Ross Williams’ website: http://www.rogerrosswilliams.com/

[2] Author Ron Suskind’s official website: http://ronsuskind.com/

[3] Read about the Autism Affinities Project at: http://lifeanimated.net/

[4] See: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/1/27/roger_ross_williams_the_first_black

Pink Floyd’s founding member Roger Waters campaigns to close the U.S. prison base in Guantanamo Bay. Here are some excerpts from Roger’s interview with Amy Goodman during her recent broadcast of “Democracy Now!”[1]

AMY GOODMAN: Our first guest needs no introduction: the world famous British musician Roger Waters, founding member, bassist, singer, songwriter for the iconic rock band Pink Floyd. (Redacted) Roger Waters was one of the celebrities featured in the “We Stand with Shaker” campaign, a grassroots effort to win the freedom of British resident Shaker Aamer from Guantánamo. Aamer had been cleared for release since 2007, but the U.S. kept him locked up without charge until this past October. He was subjected to beatings, to torture, to sleep deprivation, starvation, doused with freezing water, forced to stand for 18 hours at a time. For the campaign, Roger Waters and other notable figures posed with photographs alongside a giant figure of Shaker Aamer. People around the world also submitted photos of themselves with homemade signs reading "I stand with Shaker."

ROGER WATERS: I got involved really with Shaker when Clive Stafford Smith, who’s his lead attorney, received a letter from him where Shaker describes part of his technique for staying sane in Guantánamo was to remember songs and sing them. And one of them was a song of mine called "Hey You." So he [sent] the letter, and Clive forwarded that letter to me. And I answered it, and I sent a letter to Shaker. And, I [immediately learned] this man has an extremely powerful and forceful personality and an extraordinary message of resilience and love for the rest of the world. And I was deeply moved by his letter—so I got involved.

AMY GOODMAN: [In] the words of "Hey You," [2] what so expressed Shaker’s feeling?

ROGER WATERS: Well, the first line is, "Hey you, out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old, can you feel me?" And in his letter, he says that those words and the couplets after it—he said, if you want to know how it feels to be in here, to be incarcerated, you should listen to this song, because it describes my feelings—which was very moving for me, for him to say that. I mean, it’s impossible for those of us who have not been incarcerated, as entirely innocent men with no recourse to the law—I mean, the fundamental problem with Guantánamo is that habeas corpus has been thrown out of the window, and so we no longer have our fingertips [grasping] the law that we’ve been used to for the last 800 years since Magna Carta in the fields of Runnymede in London. And it’s gone now. We don’t have it. It’s been removed from us. And so that’s what’s so important about Guantánamo.

Photos: Roger Waters[3] and Shaker Aamer[4] 

Please see our related entry about the “the kindest, most patient man that America has ever tortured.”[5]

[1] “Democracy Now!”: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/1/22/pink_floyds_roger_waters_launches_campaign

[2] For complete lyrics, see: http://www.metrolyrics.com/hey-you-lyrics-pink-floyd.html

[3] See: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en – author “Alterna2” see: https://www.flickr.com/photos/alterna2/ and no changes were made in sharing this photo

[4] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:ISN_00239,_Shaker_Aamer.jpg (in public domain)

[5] See BP entry of 2/22/15 at: http://www.bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1040

Yesterday was a giant day in our family.

I pushed myself away from the office desk one last time at 11:00 a.m.

The cubicles and office spaces were evacuated as the entire department crossed through the engineering shop and made ways to the return center.

Many kind hands set up the tables and chairs and arranged the flowers and refreshments.

My family joined me at the head table.

Turns were taken for memories and farewells and then they gave the floor to me.

I did my best to lace a few minutes together with whys and wherefores about how I wound up at the company.

My lovely wife Debra encouraged me for years, patiently but repeatedly, at appropriate intervals, “You should get a job at Freightliner.” I resisted stubbornly. I was a poet, you see—not a truck builder!

As she does with astounding regularity, Debra proved right. I finally began my job in the warranty department of Freightliner in January, 1999 at the age of forty-nine.

Over 17-years, we tackled big challenges, suffered tragic losses, and reveled in our successes. We swam in oceans of opportunity to make improvements.

I was so happy to tell the assembly the truth in my secret heart—you mean so much to me! I gave high praise to my management teams, and I confessed my endless debt of friendship to a great many co-workers.

Well, now my career is over. I tried to leave a favorable footprint where I had gone.

I’m eternally grateful to the people who hired me, the people who sat beside me, those who guided me and those whom I had the pleasure of leading.

To everyone at Freightliner, now Daimler Trucks North America[1], thanks for having me! You are superior. And the company is getting better, too, because of you!


Photo by Matt K.: Old Timmy Boy surrounded by the ones who make me proud—Cait, Deb, Kristina and Gus. Thanks for being there!

[1] For a great place to work, see: http://www.daimler-trucksnorthamerica.com/

Jane Goodall is an official hero of the Bentari Project. We support her global work to conserve species and their habitats.[1] Jane’s superhuman efforts have gained momentum for decades. For the last many years, her efforts include the critical work to stop climate change. Unofficially, we believe that Jane has the softest spoken voice in the world, and yet she still reaches a vast and multiplying audience of millions due to her relentless and energetic perseverance. Here are a few of her clear, softly-stated words as shared with Amy Goodman on “Democracy Now!”[2]

AMY GOODMAN: Why is it important to save the rainforest?

JANE GOODALL: Because they absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. And as we cut them down and burn them, that CO2 is released back from the trees, the leaves and also from the forest soils. And about 50 percent of our tropical rainforests have already gone. They’re going at a tremendously fast rate. And even when they are protected in many countries, because of corruption, the power of the corporations, the worship of money and profit, the protection isn’t always saving the forest.

AMY GOODMAN: Can you talk about why you’re a vegetarian?

JANE GOODALL: I’m a vegetarian because I respect animals. I know they’re all individuals. And I wouldn’t eat a cow any more than I would eat my dog. That’s the truth. And pigs are more intelligent than many dogs. But, in addition, [there’s] the impact on the environment from this intensive, intensifying eating of meat. It’s also true that being a vegetarian is healthier. And in order to feed the billions and billions of cows and pigs and chickens, even if you don’t care about the cruelty, even if you refuse to admit that these are individuals with feelings, who feel pain and have emotions, even if you don’t admit that, you have to admit huge areas of forest are cut down to grow grain to feed them. Intensive cattle grazing is turning forests to scrubland. And food in one end, gas out both ends, that’s methane. And that’s an even more potent greenhouse gas than CO2. It’s about 36 percent of all methane emissions come from this intensive farming.

AMY GOODMAN: We’re talking about the planet. How can one person make a difference?

JANE GOODALL: Everybody every day does make a difference. And if we think about the consequences of the choices we make—what we buy, what we eat, what we wear—and we start making the right ethical choices, then when that’s multiplied a thousand, a million, several billion times, we see the world moving towards change. So the most important thing is to give people hope. I have seen areas that have been destroyed that have come back to be beautiful again and support life. Nature is resilient. Animal species on the brink of extinction can be given another chance.

Image: Jane Goodall by Erik (HASH) Hersman, licensed under the Creative Commons

[1] Support JGI: http://www.janegoodall.org/

[2] See Jane on “Democracy Now!” 1/14/16: http://www.democracynow.org/2016/1/14/jane_goodall_on_the_threat_of

We find ourselves in a political campaign season overlapping with our Holidays. Despite the many wars and heated debates about those wars, this is not the time of the year for thinking hateful thoughts or for promoting vengeful actions—not even if we justify our thoughts or acts by calling them purely defensive, not even if we fear “it’s them or us!”

We all have those reflexes. Who hasn’t responded in kind to someone else’s aggression or slight or unkind word? Truth be told, we may feel like lashing out several times a day. Think of your momentary rage when a driver cuts you off, when a shopper grabs the last sale item away, when a bully targets you or your child. Defensive gut-reactions are hard-wired deep in our DNA. Our instinct for self-preservation still serves us.

Yet, we have re-programmed ourselves throughout time to be reasonable, to settle differences peacefully and to slow the swift impulse toward anger. We have learned to be polite and to show respect. We have learned to pay close attention when we listen to all sides in settling our differences. And we have gained justice and freedom through our slow, steady advancements to live together peacefully and to love one another.

Here is the formula. It’s simple: L=ra²

Math from the heart—Love = respect and attention squared.

This equation is basic. It is well-tried. It is true. Could it be as crucial as Einstein’s special theory (E=mc²) that proved empirically to the world that energy and mass are equivalent and transmutable? This equation for kindness may be even more critical to our self-preservation. It does not have to prove anything, for we know instinctively that it is true.

Love and forgiveness are equivalent and transmutable.

Einstein’s wisdom proves why gravity holds us tightly to the surface of our Earth.

Our spiritual leaders through the ages opened our hearts to Love.

And heeding the brilliance of our philosophers, we understand that paying respectful attention to each other yields compound interest for all who partake.

With all our scientific, spiritual and secular wisdom, we hold the keys to survival, the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven and the keys to peace on Earth.

Save History. End War!

Image: Jo Brown’s quilted segment of the Peace Ribbon that encircled the Pentagon in 1985

Listen. Learn. Connect. For we are all connected. We are connected to the high and the mighty. We are connected with the lowly and the suffering. One of the things that connects us all is our history. Our history is told in words from all our languages. And our languages are all related. Languages bring us together, they do not separate us unless we let them.

Take English, for example. It is a vast amalgamation of historical connections throughout our shared human history.

Words from thousands of other languages have tumbled down through time to land on the tongues of people who speak the current form of English today. So we who speak English today do not own the English language. We only borrow it. We use it to define ourselves and to tell our stories and to tell our history.

It is language, after all, that has been the trait men use to classify the races. How can it separate us, classify us, split us up? For English is “descended” from all the other languages that have influenced it and added words that we use today. We speak them with pride, thinking that this is “our” language. Yet, for most of us, however, English is our only choice. We are not multi-lingual. We are trapped into using English. It owns us.

Words from French, from German, and from Scandinavian tongues abound. Words with ancient roots from Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit roll off our tongues daily. We call words “English” that came to us from Japanese and Chinese roots. Native American words are proudly employed by English speakers. Many names for our rivers and towns derive from native cultures that the Euro-Americans overwhelmed just a few short centuries ago. English words derived from Arabic languages, too. Sofa, genie and genius are a few.

We all use words that came to us from places that we now call foreign. It doesn’t take a genius to see the value of sitting down together, as if on sofas in ancient Mesopotamia, sitting and talking and listening with folks and working on peaceful outcomes. What a concept? Instead of trying to bomb our way to victory over those who speak a different language, we learn each other’s language and culture. We share. We help each other. Yes. We are smart enough, with our common language and shared history, to work with volleys of words instead of gunfire. Let’s put the genie back in the bottle.

Listen. Just listen.  Answers lie in words, not in bomb bays, not in drones—in getting to know each other.

Image: “Rise” by Caitlin Brown

Mandy Patinkin[1] shared a memorable interview on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.”[2] Patinkin, the great actor, brought a true “Reason for the Season” to the comedic host’s holiday fair. That “Reason” is our reason—our ability to design our own global human ethos, our ability to design and preserve a better world. Please enjoy some excerpts of Mandy Patinkin’s voice of reason:

Stephen Colbert: My first guest tonight is a Tony and Emmy winning actor who plays Saul Berenson on “Homeland.”[3] Please welcome Mandy Patinkin. Thanks for being here, and thanks for bringing your beard along this time. You don’t always travel with it. It’s a pleasure to see you.

Mandy Patinkin: You’re welcome, you’re welcome. It’s a pleasure to see you.

SC: The finale is Sunday. Am I going to be okay, because I watch it like this, gripping things, every Sunday? Is Saul going to be okay? Just tell me that.

MP: Well, I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you anything specific. But I can tell you that you’ll be happy about some things and confused about others. You’ll be relieved about a few things, and you’ll walk away wondering, what was that all about. (General laughter)

SC: That’s what I feel about the entire world right now! [Redaction] The line of evil runs through all of us. But there’s still free will. Not every single person causes the death of other people for political ends.

MP: But anyone who causes the death of someone else is placing themselves above the law and thinking that they are God. No human being is God. And it is essential that we stop this paradigm of violence that Saul has learned. That’s what he learned at the end of season 4, and that is what he tries to remember every day, and that’s what Mandy tries to remember. And by that I mean—it hasn’t worked. It hasn’t worked, this violence, an eye-for-an-eye. The new paradigm—we have to come up with a new paradigm, and that’s what Saul is clear about. And what is that new paradigm if war isn’t working? War—you spend 4-trillion dollars on this war. What is being spent on the marginalized people in humanity? All of these young Muslim, wonderful young Muslim men and women that have no education, no opportunity, no good schooling and so what do they do? They look for someone else who says “We’ll give you a better life!” Why aren’t we taking that money that’s used for bombs and making schools and hospitals and homes and opportunities? (Applause) Why?

SC: Well, you’re putting me in a position to defend bombs, right now. And, I’m not going to defend bombs, but I will say…

MP: There are people who will, because bombs make a lot of money for a lot of people! But education doesn’t make much of money.

SC: But there are people here in the United States that will say why would we spend that money over there to do that, because we’re not taking care of our own roads, our own bridges, our own schools, our own people; there are poor people here…

MP: We certainly need to do that here, too, and with 4-trillion dollars you can do a lot of good here, too.

SC: You could do a lot of good here.

MP: Yes, sir! (Continued excerpts below. Please read on.)

Let’s do a lot of good, like Mandy Patinkin and Stephen Colbert observe—both here at home and wherever we can help, where marginalized people are living in wretched circumstances that were not of their making. They are innocent. They need us. And we need them.

Peace and Goodwill!

Image: Mandy Patinkin in 2008, (A cropped picture of Mandy Patinkin posing with a fan at the Israel @ 60 event in Washington D.C. on June 1, 2008.) Author Jeff Hardy released photo to the public domain worldwide.[4]

[1] Current star of “Homeland” and veteran star stage, screen and TV (“The Princess Bride,” “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” “Criminal Minds,” etc.)

[2] See Xfiniti for “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” 12/18/15

[3] See: http://www.sho.com/sho/homeland/cast/16474/saul-berenson

[4] Found online, see: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:MandyPatinkin.jpg

Mandy Patinkin’s[1] continued interview with Stephen Colbert, seen on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.”[2]

SC: Now, you’re famous for you preparation, and did you do, like, a ride-along with any CIA directors? Because I know you narrated the Spy Masters. Did you get to know any of the people who actually had the role that Saul Berenson has?

MP: Yes, I have. And I know one very well. And the writers and Claire and myself go every year in January and we sit with all the heads of national security, CIA and other security forces, White House, etc., and they come in for two-hours at a time, three-days straight, and ten-hour days, with lunch and breakfast. And they unload everything to us. We’re actually asking them what are you most frightened of, what concerns you the most.

SC: And do these conversations calm you down, Mandy Patinkin, or do they frighten you?

MP: They frighten you, and it’s more information than any human being needs to know. And let me add a couple of things about fear—(looking directly at the studio audience) which we are all dealing with, all over the world—fear is a very healthy thing to have. No one can get away without it. You gotta have fear to run out of a burning building. But—to fear monger, and this fear mongering and hatred that’s going on by people running for president of the United States is so misguided. It is important that we open up our arms and our hearts to refugees that are fleeing a horrifying situation. (Applause)

SC: I understand you went down to Greece when you guys were on break [from filming] to actually help some of the Syrian refugees.

MP: Yes, I did. I finished [filming]—and I’ve been living in this fictional world, and let me just say—[redacted for brevity] I went to Greece, and I met some of these extraordinary families. I met the people in Greece who opened their arms and their homes and hotels to these people—500,000 refugees that have come across since the beginning of this crisis. And then, when we got back here, [we] called the International Rescue Committee. There are 24 or 26 all around the country. Find out where some Syrian refugees are in your neighborhood. We have found a family in Elizabeth, NJ. We’re meeting them, we’re taking them around New York. We’ve given them clothes. We’ve asked them what they need. And you can do it, too. (Applause) And I guarantee you, please believe me! I guarantee, when you meet these families, these women and children, you won’t be afraid. You will not be afraid, and I just ask all of us to remember something. When I was growing up in the 50s, everyone was terrified of atomic bombs. Everyone. Well, atomic bombs are still here—more than you ever imagined. And—no one’s thinking about it anymore, because Humanity has taken over, and Humanity is a good thing—when it’s exercised. And I ask people to exercise their Humanity, oh, more than they’ve ever imagined. Use your imagination on how you can make the world a better place—and “bomb” all of these marginalized people with “Opportunity” and with everything that I’ve said. And, I guarantee you, no one’s tried it, so they (can’t) say it wouldn’t work. And if we can make life good for all of those people, than I believe people will stop thinking that the “West” is so evil. (Applause)

SC: My second question is… (Loud laughter and applause)

MP: (Laughing and slapping his knee over and over)

SC: Merry Christmas!MP: Merry Christmas! (Hearty hand-shake to prolonged applause)

SC: Mandy Patinkin stars in Showtime’s “Homeland” which has its season finale this Sunday at 9 p.m.

Let’s exercise our Humanity, like Mandy Patinkin pleads us to do—both here at home and wherever we can help. Let us welcome the marginalized people here, in our homeland, where, together with them, we can all live safely and in peace.

Light a candle for peace and pass it on!

Image: “Candle”[3]

[1] Current star of “Homeland” and veteran star stage, screen and TV (“The Princess Bride,” “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” “Criminal Minds,” etc.)

[2] See Xfiniti for “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” 12/18/15

[3] Found online in the public domain by author Bangin, see: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Candle.jpg

Matters of Doubt is a darn good yarn! Author Warren C. Easley’s[1] first Cal Claxton mystery novel accomplishes several winning outcomes. Claxton is a former LA prosecutor turned attorney whose sympathy for the disenfranchised minority forges, if not forces him into the role of sleuth. He makes his way into your heart and then finds a way to make himself as welcome as an old friend. He battles personal demons—his wife’s suicide and a budget that is purposely of modest means. He has serious doubts, too, about the troubled youth who rode a bicycle for miles through Oregon rain to his door. Why should Claxton care about a street-kid artist with snake tattoos and piercings? Then he sheds light on a cold-case trail, and he squares off with imminent peril. It is his own sense of duty and his newly donned detective hat that place him deeply in the way of harm.

The tale is set in Portland, Oregon. Claxton has moved nearby to begin a new life. Portland, Oregon—The City of Roses, The City of Homes, The City That Works!—at the confluence of two mighty rivers—and like any city, it is a good home for murder.

Mr. Easley’s minimalist style is perfect for his noire-like tale—a genuine whodunit times three. Who killed Picasso’s (the street artist’s) mother eight-years ago? Who killed suspect number-one, his mother’s own boyfriend? And whose dark and powerful political forces are well-hidden but lurking behind in the cover-up?

This novel works on several levels. The mystery itself wends a fast-paced journey to a rollicking wrap-up. Yet, the under-story mirrors the mystery in poetic fashion. How can Portland, Oregon, the bastion of liberal lifestyles and the fabled home of progressive living, be also a cavernous pit of poverty? Picasso is a skilled muralist whose current project reveals local and historical heroes leading a symbolic march toward a better world. But Picasso’s predicament exposes society’s most vulnerable souls to the one man he thinks may help him. Cal Claxton, the attorney, the prosecutor, is a man of “safe” means. But he is a man in mourning—a man dealing with grief while at the same time facing up to the illumination that his career ambition contributed to his wife’s unnoticed spiral toward suicide. Picasso brings Cal face to face with the unseen community around us where people not far removed from our own lot must deal each day with the grief and loss that homelessness delivers. With only the means that they carry in backpacks and shopping carts, the homeless are forced into battle against brazen apathy to their sad and barren conditions. Especially, the children—Picasso’s peers—they are forced by circumstances not of their design into bands who cling to survival with little hope except for their own comradeship.

Cal Claxton finds the way, but not without a great deal of help. His Cuban friend Nando, Anna the doctor at the free clinic, Picasso’s “posse,” and even his faithful canine companion—Archie, the Australian shepherd—are among Cal’s collaborators and his saviors. If the story involves Portland, after all, there will be a dog in it. Speaking of Portland, Mr. Easley includes many landmarks and neighborhoods—from St. Johns to John’s Landing, from the Pearl to Lents, from “Dignity Village” to Lake Oswego, from Laurelhurst to PDX, from Westover to Westmoreland and east to 82nd Ave.  The City of Roses is on display—a “character” in her own right. Like Picasso’s mural, it unfolds before a reader’s eyes. Yet, unlike the mural, the city we are so proud of does not always shine brightly below the majesty of Mt. Hood. But what city does?

For a Portland reader, Matters of Doubt feels right at home. And I recommend it to readers everywhere, to readers of all walks and all stations of life, to readers who are interested in drama—the high art of murder resolution, and the deep sadness of loss, especially for the loss of love, respect and attention. But mostly, I recommend this book to readers who like to find that Hope lies somewhere in the mix.

Dead Float, Warren Easley’s #2 Cal Claxton mystery novel, has risen to the top of my reading list.

[1] See: http://www.warreneasley.com/ and http://www.poisonedpenpress.com/matters-of-doubt/

We were studying English literature, Joseph Conrad in particular, specifically Lord Jim. It was a weighty tale, but Bentari and I, well, we found the reading light. Reading was one race that I could win from Ben, but we weren’t in a hurry to reach the last page—we were looking for Conrad’s gems. For instance, when I read this passage, lightning struck twice.

“It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much—everything—in a flash—before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence.”

The book fell flat to the desk and I grinned like a boy on Christmas. Conrad had that gift. He rattled on with such odd beauty. He practically rattled you to sleep. But then he had this way—this contrasting style where opposites made such sense together when he put them side by side. No one else could do that. Now, here it was again, and this time that “flash” of knowing hit me on the button.

I asked Ben later if he’d gotten to that passage yet. Of course, he hadn’t. Without hesitation, he reached for my text and I handed it to him, opened to page one-hundred-thirty, and I told him, “First paragraph, Chapter Thirteen, he’s cast his fleeting spell on me again! What do you make of it?”

His grey eyes raced over the page. His shadow smile appeared. He hung isolated in thought for a brief moment. Then he pointed to the page and said, “I love this man! This is the part that got me—right here. Why do you grin like Old Man Tinker, Dub?”

“Don’t you see, Ben? Conrad revealed you! He describes you! The only difference between this passage and you, is that you don’t return to somnolence! You always know in the blink of those grey eyes—in a bloody trice you make up your confounding mind—and you’re never blinking wrong!”

It’s not easy to make Bentari blush, and not easy to notice when he does. But I could tell. His shadow smile gave him up. I had gotten through to his deep heart again. He tried to make light of my appraisal, saying, “Well, here’s how I get through—it’s nothing, really. If my thoughts turn dull, I think of Boudicca. If I’m sad, I think of Tarmani. If I’m afraid—I think of Scheherazade.”[1]

“There you go, Ben. Lightning strikes again.”

Image: “Lightning over water” by William R. Curstinger.[2]

[1] Bentari had a nickname for everyone. I was “Dub,” after my middle initial “W.” His girlfriend was Boudicca, and Scheherazade was his mother. He called his father by his actual name—it was Tarmani.

[2] Photo used to illustrate a metaphor without the author’s permission and with apologies; found at: http://environment.nationalgeographic.com/environment/natural-disasters/lightning-profile/

He did not let go of things. His embrace, to me, seemed able to hold onto the world and its troubles—the mountains and deserts, the hopeless sea and its worried storms, and even the starry sky—so full of hope.

I remembered Bentari’s favorite passage from Conrad’s Lord Jim.

“I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to speak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery hold. It is when we try to grapple with another man’s intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable, and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away into the darkness I would never forgive myself.”

Years ago, on that summer day, when I asked Bentari why that passage was his favorite out of the whole book, he told me, “There is no difference between that man and me. None.”

Image: Joseph Conrad by Alvin Langdon Coburn (1882-1966)[1]

[1] Photo in the public domain in the U.S. where copyright has expired. See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Joseph_Conrad_1916.jpg

The second after the car crash the silence explodes and that still shock wave sucks eardrums into convex distortions that assimilate the plundered brain and vacant soul—for a fraction of a second you are your basic self.

An addict’s best high is her last flight or the trip she makes through screaming hell on hell-fired rocks all the way to the hair torn confessional where a population of failure swarms her but one atomic nucleus of possibility gets swallowed and—for a fraction of a second she is her basic self.

At the drill or printing press, on the line or on the website, cobbling shoes or hedge fund deals, at the mill or under the wheel or behind the wheel or wheeling and dealing or washing dishes, or filling orders, taking orders, bussing tables, driving buses, filling tanks or welding tanks or telling banks and all the billion ways we do our bit to earn our bread and pay the rent or piper or the very devil to stop the weight from crushing us—when each day it’s quittin’ time—for a fraction of a second we are a basic self.

We, the children of Want and Ignorance—we, the throng—unwashed unwanted masses—humanity’s noisome core, hidden in plain sight the better to ignore, the better to accuse, the better to scorn, to abuse and best of all to blame—we have no car to crash in—we have no booze to drown in—we have no occupations except to find a cup—to fill it and to sup—to keep our babies dry and warm and fed—and despite a symphony of industry, despite the global commercial crescendo, despite the chorale hymns of praise ascending—the war is waged in silence yet Loneliness is the loudest silence in all the world—

for each eternal second we are our basic selves


Image: “Your Tired Your Poor Your Huddled Masses”[1]

[1] Found at: http://home.earthlink.net/~old-etcher/YourTiredYourPoorYourHuddledMasses.htm (used without permission and with apologies to the unknown artist; no credits were attributed at this website)

Angus Brown is 40-years old today.
What in the world can his old-man do?
How in the world does he know what to say?
For starters, Angus, I am proud of you.

This happy return of that happiest day
Delivers a truth that is known far and wide.
For you live your life in such grand ways
That rivers of strangers flow to your side.

I am no carpenter, but you are a builder--
You're a friend-maker, a kind man and a good father.
You're a family pillar and community gilder.
On your broad wings, we ride higher and farther.

Now, how in the world can I stem this praise
When my light is on you and you gleam and shine?
Now that you are forty, I love you in new ways,
Now that you are forty, and I am "forty-nine.”

Happy Birthday! Love, Dad

Henry Louis Gates, Jr.[1] had this to say upon reading the story of Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay: “When I read this, I wondered whether Jefferson had heard of Mansfield’s great-niece Belle and whether she reminded him of his own mulatto children. Their story, like so many of our family stories, destroys the fiction of strict racial categories.”

Belle was a mixed-heritage girl raised in 18th-Century British aristocracy. She was educated with all the classical knowledge of the mid-1700s. She enjoyed some privileges rarely experienced by people of color at that time. Yet Dido Elizabeth Belle saw the signs all around her that people with skin of a darker shade were treated very differently—terribly in some cases—wretchedly in far too many cases.

Belle’s great-uncle was one of the highest judges in all England. He settled a case in 1772 that was an early precedent for equality. It revealed that slavery was not affirmed by God or nature. Slavery was described in this act as odious and evil. This case allowed that slavery could only exist where man-made laws permitted the age-old practice, and there was no precedent for slavery in English common law. Not much of a first step, since man-made laws were hardly rare around the world—but it was a first step. In 1807, the British Parliament passed an act that ended the slave trade in England. In 1833, Great Britain abolished slavery altogether.

Was this first step taken in part because young Belle bore a loving influence upon her great-uncle? How did she touch his heart? How did she move his thoughts? How did she, a young dark-skinned girl, lead him in the right direction? If Belle did not live in his home, would the judge, a pillar of British imperialism, have ruled for human rights to take precedence over imperial power? Would he have done it, if not for Belle?

This is a fascinating possibility. At the heart of the human march toward freedom, a girl of mixed African-English heritage was raised by her great-uncle. As fate provided, he happened to be William Murray, Lord Mansfield, the lord chief justice of England and Wales—the very man who would decide the case, the first step, and the acknowledgment that even under man’s law the practice of slavery is an abomination.

And the fiction of “strict racial categories” continues to fade away today.

Image: Portrait of Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay and her cousin Lady Elizabeth Murray.[2] Read about Belle’s story[3] and a good film depiction[4] of her fascinating life and times.

[1] See biography at: http://www.biography.com/people/henry-louis-gates-jr-9307556

[2] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dido_Elizabeth_Belle.jpg in public domain in United Sates

[3] See: http://www.theroot.com/articles/history/2014/05/did_belle_really_help_end_slavery_in_england.5.html “Who Was the Real Dido Elizabeth Belle?” by Henry Louis Gates, Jr., posted 8/25/2014

[4] See: http://www.belle-themovie.com/#/

King Leopold II[i] hired Henry Morton Stanley[ii] to follow the Congo River. The famous explorer was not drawing maps for the King. He was hoodwinking indigenous leaders to sign over all land rights to the great and beneficent Leopold! The King’s reign for the next 23-years was anything but great and beneficent. The Belgian Congo was called the “Crown Jewel” of Leopold’s Empire. It was a bloody gem.

If Bentari were a real person instead of my fictional hero—this true story would apply to Bentari’s tribe, to his kin and to the vast region where they lived. Leopold’s thievery installed him as a sovereign ruler over land that was 76-times larger than his own country. This is the true history of this land—known in the novel as Mbara Land—called, ironically, Congo Free State by the empire builder Leopold.

Hubert Sauper’s new film “We Come as Friends” shows us how modern colonialism is not only alive, it is healthier than ever.[iii] We have become the new King Leopold. He robbed people of land and riches. He conscripted laborers against their will. His enforcement was total, his retribution cruel and uncompromising. Approximately 10-million native deaths, about half the population of the day, are heaped at the feet of Leopold II. The heel of his colonial boot left the tragic footprint for all-time—how cruel can a man, a nation and a world be?

We do this now—all of it. The only change is that now we kill locals and split up families by means of economic and cultural forces instead of bychain, blade, bullet and slave ship.

In my novel, Bentari is only a child. Yet he manages to find a glimmer of hope. He senses the shred of an answer to the impossible global dilemma. How can the poorest people in the poorest lands be lifted onto an equal place with more fortunate humans. How can they bask in freedom instead of suffering the boot heel from military-corporate hell that squashes small communities and swallows up whole nations? Bottom lines rule. Shareholder profits justify the means. Growth, another word for death, excuses collateral damage, another word for genocide. Rape and cruelty defy words let alone our imaginations. It doesn’t matter. We look the other way.

Bentari barely understands his seed of a thought, but he knows that something is up. Something important is amiss. After the deaths are tallied, some of his tribesmen and even their German foes seem to sense it, too. Thanks to a little boy’s eyes, they see beyond their circumstances, and they wonder.

[i] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leopold_II_of_Belgium

[ii] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Morton_Stanley

[iii] See:  http://www.wecomeasfriends.com/us/

Challenges are rarely as bewildering as those confronting Stefan Zweig in 1942. He succumbed to them—a tragedy that coincided with the publishing of his memoir, The World of Yesterday. Read it and you will learn about a kind man who cherished personal freedom for everyone. All he wished for was the opportunity to study, to create and to share. You will be carried to peaceful Vienna in the 19th Century. And you will be dragged into war in the 20th, when certain doctrines robbed millions of their freedom, their opportunity and their very lives.

Words of Stefan Zweig:

“Today, now that the word ‘security’ has long been struck out of our vocabulary as a phantom, it is easy for us to smile at the optimistic delusion of that idealistically dazzled generation, which thought that the technical progress of mankind must inevitably result in an equally rapid moral rise. We who, in the new century, have learnt not to be surprised by any new outbreak of collective bestiality, and expect every new day to prove even worse than the day just past, are considerably more skeptical about prospects for the moral education of humanity. We have found that we have to agree with Freud, who saw our culture and civilization as a thin veneer through which the destructive forces of the underworld could break at any moment. We have had to accustom ourselves slowly to living without firm ground beneath our feet, without laws, freedom or security. We long ago ceased believing in the religion of our fathers, their faith in the swift and enduring ascent of humanity. Having learnt our cruel lesson, we see their overhasty optimism as banal in the face of a catastrophe that, with a single blow, cancelled out a thousand years of human effort. But if it was only a delusion, it was a noble and wonderful delusion that our fathers served, more humane and fruitful than today’s slogans. And something in me, mysteriously and in spite of all I know and all my disappointments cannot quite shake it off. What a man has taken into his bloodstream in childhood from the air of that time stays with him. And despite all that is dinned into my ears daily, all the humiliation and trials that I myself and countless of my companions in misfortune have experienced, I cannot quite deny the belief of my youth that in spite of everything, events will take a turn for the better. Even from the abyss of horror in which we try to feel our way today, half-blind, our hearts distraught and shattered, I look up again and again to the ancient constellations that shone on my childhood, comforting myself with the inherited confidence that, some day, this relapse will appear only an interval in the eternal rhythm of progress onward and upward.”[1]

Image: Cover art for the English translation © 2009 by Anthea Bell and Pushkin Press; Manufactured in the United States of America; First Nebraska paperback printing 2013[2]

[1] From The World of Yesterday by Stefan Zweig, edited by Anthea Bell; opening chapter “The World of Security”

[2] Used here without the artist or editor’s permission for educational purposes only.

The story of a slave’s life is expected to be a tortuous tale—a tale to learn from, a tale made heavy by immense sadness.

The story of Phillis Wheatley’s[1] life as a slave is burdened by cruelty. It is also heavily weighted, ironically, by her short place of honor and of privilege.

Was she treated as a piece of property? Yes. Was she kidnapped from her home and family? Yes. Was she removed 5,000 miles to a strange land? Yes.

Yet, oddly, the tragedy of Phillis Wheatley’s life is more poignant not by virtue of harsh and bloody punishment. It was her good fortune—a twist of fate that led directly to Phillis Wheatley’s prominence as a celebrated poet! She had an audience with the Lord Mayor of London and also with George Washington. Voltaire wrote about her to a friend observing that Phillis Wheatley proves black people can write poetry.

Now, Frederick Douglass learned to read, but he paid the whip’s savage price! And after paying that unthinkable price to educate himself, he lived long and productively, leaving to all humanity the legacy of his leadership by example.

Phillis Wheatley’s benevolent “owners” allowed their daughter to teach her how to read and write. They also encouraged her to pursue her talent for poetry. Not a typical life in slavery, no, and her words inspire us today. Her “master’s” will released her from servitude, but though she was “free,” she died alone at the age of 31— in poverty, from dire illness. Her last surviving infant child soon died thereafter. What cruelest fate did teach her spirit to soar only to waste her body, her mind and the babies that she bore?

The crushing blight of slavery yet stains our history. The words of great teachers, leaders and poets—they teach us today. These words we owe to Phillis Wheatley:

Britannia owns her Independent Reign,
Hibernia, Scotia, and the Realms of Spain;
And Great Germania's ample Coast admires
The generous Spirit that Columbia fires.
Auspicious Heaven shall fill with fav'ring Gales,
Where e'er Columbia spreads her swelling Sails:
To every Realm shall Peace her Charms display,
And Heavenly Freedom spread her gold Ray.[2]

Image: Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784), by Scipio Moorhead (in Public Domain)[3]

[1] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phillis_Wheatley

[2] From “Liberty and Peace,” see: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/phillis-wheatley

[3] See: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Phillis_Wheatley_frontispiece.jpg

Jacob George (1982-2014)[1]—the founder of Afghanistan Vets for Peace, died by his own hand 1-week after President Barack Obama released plans for his tactical strikes in northern Iraq and Syria.

Jacob served three tours in what he then considered to be the ultimate service for his country. His song “Soldier’s Heart” beckons us to recognize the absurdity of poor farmers like him going off to kill poor farmers in other lands when people everywhere are starving.

He went back to Afghanistan as a peace activist. He met with a young Afghani who was a farmer like him. They shared many things in common. They both recoiled from the tragedy of daily news—the bombing, the fighting, the killing—farmers and workers destroying each other.

Here’s the deal—it’s workers killing workers. Bombing victims into moderation has not worked. Why is it celebrated? Why is it a tactic? Why do worker-soldiers perform it? Take war off the table. Put it to bed and do not bother telling it good-night.

Rest in peace, Jacob. You were a good farmer, a good soldier and a good ambassador for peace.

Good Night, my Brother!

Image: Jacob George[2]

[1] See Jacob remembered on “Democracy, NOW!” with Amy Goodman:

http://www.democracynow.org/2014/9/29/soldiers_heart_remembering_jacob_george_afghan

[2] See: http://www.veteranstoday.com/2014/09/29/jacob-george/

The first people[1] were not people, strictly speaking.

The first people were almost modern humans. Scientists do classify these early folks as member of the genus Homo, but they were not quite members of our species, the modern humans. We named ourselves Homo sapiens, “the man who knows,” but even though Linnaeus described us scientifically in 1758, there is not a specific “type” and there is not a prime example of how we look.[2] We come in all sizes, shapes and hues.

We call some of our predecessors Homo neanderthalensis[3] after the Neander valley in Germany where we first discovered their bones. They migrated out of Africa long before “the man who knows,” and they settled in what is now Europe. Neanderthals controlled the vital element of fire. They wore clothing and they built shelters to live in. They were skilled hunters but their diets included plants. Their brains were larger than our own. They left traces of an artistic culture, and they crafted ceremonial burial sites for their dead. These “cousins” of ours were the first primates to behave in these human ways. Neanderthal DNA shows that they did not belong to our species; despite that their DNA is 97% the same as ours.

There is also evidence that the earliest modern humans in Asia interbred with Denisovans[4] who were similar in stature and culture to Neanderthals. There is even a likelihood that “the man who knows” did, in fact, combine his DNA with Homo erectus,[5] our first ancestor to migrate out of Africa. These were our first predecessors to possess bodies shaped like ours and to assume erect postures like our own.

Popular scientific theory has held for decades that all three of these precursors to us were dead-end species. They died out, we were taught, or they were driven out and conquered by “the man who knows” or by another modern type, the Cro-Magnon man.[6]

We now know that the genetic make-up of every human alive today (except for Africans) includes 1% to 3% of his or her DNA from Neanderthal or Denisovan inheritance. We didn’t conquer Neanderthals. We mated with them. My DNA is 3.2% Neanderthal. I’m above average in my caveman ancestry! (Africans do not have Neanderthal genetic inheritance, since the inter-breeding occurred after the “pre-modern” humans and the “modern” humans migrated out of Africa.)

We are all descended from original humans in Africa. We all contain DNA from “people” who were not the same exact genetic composition as us. We are all cousins to a degree. We are all hybrids!

No matter our size or shape or hue, we are all related.

Image: Male Neanderthal reconstruction based on Shanidar 1. Image Credit: John Gurche, artist / Chip Clark, photographer

[1] PBS series “First Peoples” see: http://www.pbs.org/first-peoples/home/

[2] See: http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-fossils/species/homo-sapiens The Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History on “What Does it Mean to be Human?

[3] See: http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-fossils/species/homo-neanderthalensis

[4] See: http://www.sci-news.com/othersciences/anthropology/science-denisovans-homo-species-interbred-modern-humans-01476.html “Mysterious Homo Species Interbred with Modern Humans in Australasia,” Oct. 20, 2013, Sci-News; see also: http://archaeology.about.com/od/hominidancestors/qt/Denisovans.htm “The Denisovans: The Third Human Species” by K. Kris Hurst

[5] See: http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-fossils/species/homo-erectus

[6] See: http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-fossils/fossils/cro-magnon-1

Wouldn’t it be a great idea to upgrade the Magna Carta![1]

It’s been 800-years, after all.

Let’s go to v. 2.0—a charter for the entire world to ensure human rights for all people.[2] From the poorest starving child in the world’s poorest nation to every hardworking laborer in every land, to every clerk and nurse practitioner and doctor, to every peddler and author and reporter, and every jobless worker, too, and every stay-at-home parent, and to every single child—we will all be included and covered by the same code to protect our human rights and to preserve our peace with one another.[3]

This patchwork poem is cobbled together from prior entries representing the glory of our rich progress along the steep path toward improving human rights. Josh White and Dr. King’s words and Maya Angelou’s sentiment and the Bentari Project’s rallying response can be like a poem, if you are generous. Isn’t that a good thing to be and a fine way to feel as we celebrate our nation’s independence from tyranny—let’s be generous!

“So listen you African, Indian, Mexican, Mongolian, Tyrolean and Tartar”[4]
“whether Ashanti, Mbara or Turk, whether German or Scot or Maori or Inuit—
we will hold these sentiments deep within our own freest hearts”[5]
Martin said, “No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied ’til justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”
And we said, “We are marching—justly and righteously, like a mighty stream.” [6]

Sisters and Brothers of All Lands,
On Independence Day in America, 2015
May we realize our inter-dependence at last, and—
May Peace be with Us All.

Image: Gandhi teaching[7]

[1] See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magna_Carta

[2] See: http://www.un.org/en/documents/udhr/ and http://hrusa.org/

[3] Join the “Wage Peace” Community on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/wagepeacenz

[4] Josh White lyrics for “Free and Equal Blues” at: http://www.mudcat.org/@displaysong.cfm?SongID=2127

[5] See prior entries: http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=830 and http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=1026

[6] See prior entry: http://bentari.com/Blog/Entry.aspx?pid=276&bid=51&beid=829

[7] See: http://wagingnonviolence.org/feature/how-would-gandhi-lead-the-leaderless/

John Gilbert Winant became a leader and a hero to the people of many nations.[1] During the Great Depression and throughout the years that led to and consumed World War II, people in America, England, France and Poland were heartened by the role he played—by his honest championship for them and their plights. He labored to improve their beleaguered fates. Gil Winant stood tall among the statesmen of his day. He led the march for workers, for freedom and for peace. His legacy stands tall among all statesmen of all times. His hero was Abraham Lincoln. His fate was also tragic.

Winant’s public speaking skills were unremarkable. His delivery was often labored. Yet despite awkward moments of silence, he captivated listeners by what he had to say and the honest manner in which he said it. He became an influential Governor in New Hampshire and, later, during the war, he was America’s Ambassador to England. The Brits loved him. They called him “Winnie.” They knew that, if they could count on anyone throughout the Blitz, it was John Gilbert Winant—their American hero.[2]

Winant knew firsthand about the horrors of war—what they meant to warriors, what they meant to luckless civilians. In World War I, he was a fighter pilot for the Lafayette Escadrille. He also knew the horrors of peace time—how the specter of starvation visited a land that once overflowed with “Plenty.” In Durham, England, he witnessed the starving coal miners and their families. With one stirring speech, Winant belayed a strike that could have crippled the war effort. For the good of the cause, the miners resumed work, marching back into the pits for the war’s duration. Because of Gil Winant, they were happy and proud to do their bit despite their grave hardship.[3]

The moral of this tale of a little known American hero is not about nationalism or patriotism or doing one’s duty at all costs in all times of crisis. It is a moral that hides in our history and survives to this day. It is a truth concealed in Winant’s obscurity, and it is a danger cloaked in the fog of two forgotten “World” wars—terrible wars—wars that were fought a scant century ago. The truth and the danger are the endless cycles that haunt our human life on planet earth. The top and bottom lines to the Great Mandala[4] are the same. Whether or not John Gilbert Winant understood this, we can only guess. But he did say this during a re-election speech in 1930:

"There is want in the land today and men who know the dignity of labor are idle. When we turn into the new year and the sweep of winter winds and hunger and cold crowd in upon many a home, let those of us who plan to take on the duties of office and administer public funds see to it that the stigma of the pauper is never laid upon the consciousness of the willing worker, who asks help for wife and child because the wheels of industry have ceased to turn and there is no work abroad. We must plan to meet these great cycles of depression and manfully provide against them so that the poverty may be no part of modern civilization. That is the great task that confronts the American people today."

Now, today, let us not be idle. Let us harness the Mandala. Let us unite the people of our land and the world at large. We are all workers, and workers want to work. Peace must be at hand. If it is not, we must know why! And make it so.

Gil Winant could not get there with us. On November 3, 1947, the very day that his only book was published, he ended his life in sadness.

Can we find the hope that he once gave to millions? Can we carry the banner onward? Who will lead? Who will follow? Who will turn the great wheel from a cog of war into a mill that grinds the grist of Peace?

Image: John Gilbert Winant, 1889-1947 (in public domain)[5]

[1] See James O. Freeman’s “Brief Life of an Exemplary Public Servant” at: http://ww2hc.org/articles/winant.pdf

[2] Read Citizens of London by Lynne Olson: http://www.amazon.com/Citizens-London-Americans-Britain-Darkest/dp/0812979354 or at Powell’s Books: http://www.powells.com/s?kw=citizens+of+london&class=

[3] See: http://harvardmagazine.com/2000/11/john-gilbert-winant.html

[4] Richie Havens and Peter Yarrow sing “The Great Mandala”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozX0KazFoDk

[5] Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_Gilbert_Winant.jpg

So, here’s the news from Josh White’s immortal “Free and Equal Blues.”[1]

"A molecule is a molecule son, And the damn thing has no race," said the doctor to the man who asked, “Was the donor dark or fair?”

Wait a minute! If even the tiny molecule has no race, then what does have “races”?

The answers vary: a track, a contest, people in a hurry, rats in a maze (poor things), a gully, a ski slope—why, there might be a hundred things with races! But our human species, you know, Homo sapiens sapiens—our very own subspecies of the genus Homo, un-uh. We ain’t got no races!

Then, Doctor, why do we call races “races”?

Well, you may as well ask why we call the game of tennis “tennis.” Or, why do we call a guitar a “guitar”?

The answers vary. But if you poke around in the etymology of the word “race,” as used to describe groups of humans, you find that it seems to have started 500 to 800-years ago. People speaking in Italian (razza) and French (haraz) and maybe even people speaking with Norse tongues (hárr) were classifying humans according to what language they spoke and the regions where they lived—not by how they looked. There are hints that the term “race” came to differentiate people by their surface features after the term was used to identify old “race horses”! The old nags that were too old for stud-sharing were revealed by the gray hairs on their muzzles! Aha! By Jove! No wonder we think there are different races dividing our subspecies of the genus Homo! Old studs turn gray! (By the way, I’m an old stud. I am beknownst of these things.)

There is more genetic diversity between humans based on varying types of ear wax than there is between humans with different skin tones! There are no races dividing us. Most certainly our so-called differences are “not enough to keep a man in chains.”

The great Joshua Daniel White[2] was beknownst of this. Born in Greenville, South Carolina, his minister father was beaten and jailed in an insane asylum after he threw a white bill collector from their home. At six, Josh took to the streets to support his family. He managed to do it for 10-years, shoeless and in rags, singing and dancing. Then he became a recording star! His life and music influenced the great ones. He was befriended by the Roosevelts. He was the first black actor to play a movie role on equal terms with the white stars in the cast. Then the HUAC black-listed him. Yet he did abide. With the help of his wife, he got by. In 1969, Josh White died at the age of 55. Yet, his music and his legacy, they live!

From “Free and Equal Blues:”

So listen you African, Indian, Mexican, Mongolian, Tyrolean and Tartar
The doctor's right behind the magna charter
The doc's behind the new brotherhood of man
As prescribed at Gettysburg, Iwo Jima, at Bull Run, and at Guadalcanal
"Every man, every where is the same... when he got his skin off"

I loved hearing Josh White sing about the “magna charter.” He knew the score. He knew there may not be such a thing as “race.” But there sure is a liberal dose of racism stirred well into the human mixture. Josh White delivered the antidote for hate on musical notes with words hearkening of “Freedom and Justice for All!”

Image: Josh White and Mary Lou Williams, NYC, 1947 (in public domain since 2010 in accordance with wishes of William P. Gottlieb)

[1] For Lyrics: http://www.mudcat.org/@displaysong.cfm?SongID=2127 and to listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqCaXW5faPc