Sputnik by Constantine Gochis

Time for a Dad story. I had long set for myself the placement of as many of Dad's stories as I can on this site as I have no progeny to whom to leave the actual paper of which there remains an abundance. I want him remembered as I guess I want for myself as well, if only by the digital. It seems the best solution in the absence of anyone to make a bequest of such memorabilia. I am writing on Christmas Eve and since I have time until I shower and dress for the Mass that used to be at Midnight, but now is at the more charitable time (I guess another complaint of we modern weaklings) of ten p.m., I figured something meaningful to do would be to add another of Dad's musings. This one is longer than most and harks back to days likely most schoolkids are no longer taught about as it reflects an American nation of ideals and we don't like national pride or encourage meritocracy any longer. It is so gauche and un-woke. But I digress. The story is called, "Sputnik". Sputnik was that little Russia satellite that started the space race back in the 1950s, launching the rise of technology that made things like the computer on which I am writing so advanced. But I digress again.

                                                                    Sputnik

It is the summer of 1957. Big Jim, Al Smith, Major McCloud and I meditate over our beers at McKeever's Bar and Grill.  McKeever himself serves us. He is somewhat displeased we do not order drinks with our usual frequency.

"Whaddya say, boys, we do not rent beer in this establishment. We try to sell it!" he admonishes.

We do not care for such critical comments, especially from a guy whose premises have so many empty stools.  And we patronize McKeever's joint with great regularity over many years. So, we ignore his lapse in good manners.

The day is one of real sadness. I cannot tell for sure, but I am convinced that McCloud, who just makes Major, sheds a tear or two into his beer.  The additional moisture does nothing to add a head to the flat beverage. My guess is that we are likely to join him in lamentation.

McKeever looks at us suspiciously. He knows that sometimes we feel like crying when we taste his usual bar whiskey. McKeever's Bar and Grill is not known for vintage liquors. There's also little evidence of a grill, unless one considers the stale pretzels, and a jar of pickled eggs, which may be an American version of the Chinese "hundred year old eggs".

"What gives?" says our solicitous bartender. "Do I not spring after the first three rounds, or do you guys lose a bundle on 'High Flyer' in the fourth at Pimlico? I drop a few rubles myself today. You win some. You lose some."

That's pretty close. I mean, the coincidence that he uses the word 'rubles" is startling. McKeever is no Nostradamus, but he is on to half the reason for our discomfort.

The Soviets send a satellite the size of a basketball into space successfully, causing great unhappiness from the Pentagon to the field units.

The daily newspapers take up the hysteria. They discover that American school students are seriously deficient in science and mathematics, which they conclude is the reason the Russians beat us into space. They neglect to mention reading and writing, a skill deficient itself.

In fairness, many of our youngsters are manifesting real talent in economic matters, like selling grass, and other basic needs for a good fix before classes.

It is not the news about Sputnik that distresses us and the rest of the company officers most, though.

The latest latrine rumor is that our unit gets the axe and that the fourteen days of our activity, this summer, will be the last.

The Congressional economy drive against the military budget reaches epic proportions. It does not make page twenty in the papers, but it does get down to our civil affairs company. This is the substance of the rumor and it comes from commode number three in the latrine, a reliable source.

"That Sputnik is a very bad omen indeed," says Major McCloud. "It is the year we go to summer active duty with a civil affairs group and a civil affairs area headquarters."

This is distressing news indeed. That group is headed by a two star general who is very picky about shiny brass, spit-shined shoes and especially empty beer cans in bivouac areas.

On the other hand, it is a chance for officer to negotiate for spots in these very large units. There are no odds of getting a pay slot, but there is a chance for 'attached' status. This way we earn retirement points; if one is lucky the guy he understudies gets hit by a truck, or imbibes a snootful in the Officer's Club and falls on his head.

The Commander, our own Frank DiGirolamo is very tense when we arrive in Fort Devens, Massachusetts. He is of a rank not very much in demand, a full Colonel. He recently passes his command and general staff correspondence course with a grade of 'excellent'.  Under normal circumstances, he makes General. But I think this is about the time the movie hero, James Stewart, makes General, even though some lady senator drops in the black ball. In the current situation, DiGirolamo is lucky if he escapes a poor unit performance report on his way out.

On the first day we arrive, an interim inspection finds that there are too many cigarette buts on the grounds in front of the Command Headquarters. In the military, this is a grievous matter. Our Commander is wroth, indeed.

The Old Man is further distressed when he gets a peek at the general situation, the theme for our Command Post Exercise. 

There is terminology such as ''thrust', 'solid fuel' as opposed to 'liquid propellants', escaping the 'gravitational pull', all foreign object to us, and especially him.

The Old Man, whose specialty for becoming a Principal of a Junior High School is a Masters in gymnastic matters, is in a deep fog. He is not alone.

At our first Officers Call, we sink low into our seats. The Old Man looks searchingly around the room for a savior.

"Where is Major Goodman?" he asks suddenly. "Sir," says our Executive Officer Salvador DiPena, "he has been excused from summer training. He marries and is on a honeymoon in Puerto Rico."

"Why am I not informed?" says the CO. "He is the only man in the unit with a science major."

"Sir," says the Exec. "You sign the papers yourself, when I place them in front of you."

The Old Man dismisses us without rebuttal.

"Let us head to the nearest town for some liquid sustenance," says Al Smith. Indeed, we have acquired a heavy thirst. We head to the town at the back entrance of Fort Devens, a burg named Athol.

We search diligently but there is no joint open that sells the kind of refreshment we are in sore need of. We settle for coffee at a sloppy joes, a very poor substitute.

Major McCloud is especially bitter, probably because he is in critical dehydration of booze. The Major is not given to a fast.

"The guy who names this town must have a lisp," says the Major. "He certainly misspells the name of this village."

Big Jim adds to our discomfort. "Do you not see that the officers of the group all have red bands around their caps?"

I do not see the relevance of that, but Big Jim elucidates. "They are all umpires for the exercise, and we are the patsies. They will be in our hair for the next fourteen days."

It is indeed prophesy. The next day, there are 'red hats' everywhere, in the barracks, in the mess hall, even in the latrine, where a man should have a little privacy.

"They are an ubiquitous evil," says Major McCloud. He is very learned and he explains the unfamiliar word to one and all. He even spells it, and while I do not claim any training in these matters, I see the word before, and he misspells it.

I agree, though that they are indeed ubiquitous.  I am proud that I spell the word correctly, under my breath. I do not wish to cause the Major any discomfort.

The summer is hot, the days are long, the 'red hats' are everywhere. They issue paper problems for us to complete and pick up paper answers which we work in whatever shade we can find. Captain Berkowitz and I play word games. I beat him handily. I am not crowing on how smart I am but on how unlearned he seems, unless it is the humidity which dulls his brain. I spell 'unlearned' in my head to be sure I can.

There is a saying by some philosopher whose name I hear once from Major McCloud after a third round of drinks at McKeevers. Plutarch, I think. Anyway, he says, "If something can go wrong, it will."

The Commandant of Fort Devens is a famous infantry hero. He likes nothing better than bivouacs in the woods, the digging of foxholes and his favorite, 'perimeter defenses'. It is required that all units spend several days 'in the field'. This means sleeping on the hard ground, powdered eggs for breakfast and canned beans for lunch and supper.

The Commandant makes it four days. He lops off two days of paper problems. We pack up our pup tents, don the metal hats and head for the woods. 

It is fortunate we have Major O'Houlihan, whom I recruit into the unit. He is an infantry officer with the 77th Division before he loses his spot and joins our unit. He sets up a perimeter defense such as would please General Patton himself. I do not recall ever seeing such fine fox holes, such camouflage and not a single empty an or beer or a cigarette butt to be seen.

If there is anything I hate, it is being in the field. When I am a shaver, I refuse to join the Boy Scouts. I do not understand why units that run whole countries need pup tents and fox holes.

When I am in Italy during World War II, I do some of this work. We pick the best housing that is still standing. Once we find great quarters just before Naples, where a mortar hell explodes just enough to let us know where the wine cellar is hidden. If the Italians do not hide their wine, the Germans will surely drink it or send it home with the paintings they steal. Of course, we do not let it go to waste.

Several days pass without incident, unless I count when Private Golowitz encounters a nest of Yellow Jackets as he pounds his tent peg into the ground. On the plus side, he then escapes another night on the hard ground and gets to sleep on the white sheets of the hospital.

The Old Man visits him in the ward. I go with him to help commiserate, even though I don't know Golowitz personally, and I generally do not have conversations with privates. Of course, I do make exceptions for Private DiMaggio, who is a cop and drives the Police Commissioner around. 

Golowitz is sprightly and alert. I see from the empty tray in the room that he has had roast chicken for supper, which I begrudge him. He also has news for us that causes great alarm for the Old Man.

"I hear these two red hats, both full birds, converse in the hall," he says.

"They grade our unit on the Command Post Exercise. I lay six to five we do not make satisfactory, which is a low grade indeed," says Golowitz. He does not seem even slightly perturbed about his prophecy. Perhaps this is because he suffers great insult when a thousand Yellow Jackets cause him great discomfort.

If anything can go wrong, it will. It is the last day of our field exercise. The Old Man looks at his watch and observes a stubborn sun that refuses to go down. He is approached by two red hats with bright stars on their epaulets. I am, unfortunately, in the vicinity and there is no foliage into which I can scurry to practice cover and concealment, a vital military maneuver. This is double trouble I think to myself. 

A third red hat approaches the Old Man with a prominent clip board and reads the following to him:

"Your unit has been hit with a low grade atomic bomb. What are your immediate actions?"

The CO yells my name, which causes me great apprehension. He introduces me as the Chemical and Biological Officer. I am very surprised at this change of military specialty.  I am, in fact, the company's Arts, Monuments and Archives Officer. I see a large crater into which I will surely fall.

It is fitting that I relate that this is in the days before the hydrogen improvement on the miniscule Hiroshima type. There is no talk of megatons. We are dealing with kilotons, which is small indeed to the one that almost sinks the Isle of Bikini, and introduces a revealing bathing suit in the process.

"Sir," I reply, "We are in process of washing the unit equipment inventory with a slurry of 'Dakin solution'. I read, purely by accident, an Army manual where I fun across this treatment recommended to remove radiation. The problem umpire nods his head and makes marks on his clip board. It occurs to me that if a low yield bomb hits us, there will not be enough of our unit and equipment to put in a large ash tray.

The two generals have poker faces, stern indeed. I look at the Old Man and see that his expression is a reflection of my own sad one.

Major McCloud finds a bistro in Athol to which he suggests we repair to drown our sorrows. It is a creditable joint, though we find out immediately this bartender does not spring after the the third round. This breach does not deter us as we have had a long period of fasting.

Major McCloud adds more gloom. "How can we show our faces when we apply for spots in the Area Headquarters or Group?" Private DiMaggio says no one will make book on our chances.

"We will be held up to ridicule in the after action report in the auditorium, tomorrow," wails Al Smith.

And so the dreaded moment arrives. The hall is filled with dress uniforms. The guest speakers orate on the great deeds that are accomplished in the last two weeks. The Group General proclaims that all unit receive the rating of "excellent". 

There is much turning of heads in our portion of the audience. The Camp Commander is next introduced who has, we are told, a special commendation for a particular unit.

"I never see," says the General, "such a perfect perimeter defense as I find in the 400th Company. I do not find a single cigarette butt or empty beer can, though I see many in the other unit, for which I forgive them, this time, in my joy."

"To Colonel Frank DiGirolamo I present this Unit Citation. It is indeed fortunate he knows about "Dakin* solution". He responds with true leadership, indeed."

There is no mention of the Command Post Exercise. We do not inquire further.

Al Smith buys a round in the bistro at Athol. Major McCloud apologizes for his earlier remark about the town. I do not think he is sincere. He has a snootful.

The fact that Al springs is in itself another miracle. He too is potted.

*A note from the transcriber. My father spelled the solution he referred to as "Dank" or "Dark" Solution. I had never heard of this so I went online and could find neither as spelled. But I did find something called "Dakin" solution. Whether that is precisely accurate or not, I substituted it. It does not change the substance of the story. 

The Worst Times?

I was driving to an appointment in Mar Vista, going down a wide stretch on Venice Boulevard this past Friday. It was the first day after Thanksgiving, and the ease of traffic, provided proof that traveling was back again, after the insanity of the Covid lockdown now seared into private and historical memory.

Another lovely sunny day as is California's wont, but coolish, so that we have some idea that it is in fact close to winter in what I used to think as a paradise on earth. 

I was flipping Sirius channels and landed on the Broadway Channel which generally I pass up. They seem to me to play rather remotely known music from remotely known shows. But I stayed this time because "Shall We Dance" from the original 1951 show "The King and I" had just begun. I hadn't quite been born when that show first ran, but I am a child of the 1950s and early 1960s, and I was swept into a time and place that does not exist any longer. And I found that several emotions rolled like dominoes. The first was pure pleasure and happiness. Then wistfulness. Then outright sadness as I happened to pass a large bus stop ad for a new movie or television series, "The Sex Lives of College Girls". I had been pulled back into our time and its crass self-absorption with all things dark and dirty painted with verbal gold and enforced with shouts shaming anyone who challenges the societal gaslight. What a great civilization whose art includes Santa hawking a "Violent Night" another ad that is splayed all over the place. 

I cannot remember how many times in the past, especially when I was a teenager in the later 1960s, a person of a certain age, my father, my aunts, my grandmothers, would say, that things weren't like the old days, shaking their heads in dismay. I surely understand that now, especially as it seems that the wheels have come off the proverbial bus in terms of what is considered good and what is considered verboten, a complete reverse of any time I can remember in modern history. 

Here's the thing for me. I have to say that even as that teenager in the later 1960s I already had a queasy feeling that they were right, that this time in which I was enduring adolescence, difficult enough under the best of circumstances, was already venerating a kind of freedom that emphasized the worst elements of human nature, in the guise of elevating it. This was the age of "Don't trust anyone over the age of 30!" "We're the young generation and we've got something to say!" said the manufactured television group, The Monkees. The inherent idiocy of the statements might now be manifest as anyone who is still alive from that time (three of the four Monkees are not alas) is older than I am, deep into senior citizenry. Yeah. America has changed. You tell me if it was for the better. If sex, drugs, rock n' roll, relative morality enforced by power, the banishment of God and objective morality in favor of the secular flavor of the day, and a hierarchy based on race and identity which makes Martin Luther King's hope for a world that judges each of us on the content of our character meaningless, works for you, then it is better. 

In the 1960s, I was aware of the decay, but there was still a basic agreement on the rules of life even amid the various culture skirmishes. And, I was involved in getting through adolescence and becoming an adult as best as I could, as best as any of us could. But over time the decay has turned to rot, and those who control our lives, the government leaders who are as far removed from any idea of statesmanship as a leader could be, the universities, the media, insist that there is no rot to be seen. 

And our experts wonder why drugs and suicide and mental illness is on the rise. They cannot seem to make the obvious connection. Or perhaps, they simply refuse to do so. Whoever it is that wants all the power and wants you and I medicated or crazy or restrained may very well be content with the state of affairs.

For myself, I find this world, barely bearable, and if it were all there was in my life, I could well be crazy or suicidal. In fact, I am pretty certain I would be. 

You can laugh at the Bible all you want, should that be your disposition, or religion, like Catholicism, which is also under assault, from within and without; but knowing that the very thing that is happening in our world, in our nation, was expected and prophesied and warned of by God Himself, and that my job, my sole job, is to stand firm (biblical New Testament phrase) with His Grace, so that when I am judged I will not be lost to Heaven is all that keeps me going. Not easily for I become weary very often and I have to be constantly reminded of God's plan and not demand that He reveal it to me now, in the thick of the quagmire of daily life. But what is always clear when I stop to think, truly think, is "What's the alternative?" If you believe that there is nothing after this life, then I guess it's easy. If you don't believe in Hell, and that there is no Judgment by a Creator, then I guess it's easy. 

But I do believe in Judgment, Heaven and Hell, and everything that's happening around me tells me that they are very very real. I surely did not want to live in anything that resembled the end times (whether it is or not I cannot know), but here I am, where God wants me, and anyone alive now. It truly is the worst of times, and, I suppose, if you are a religious person, it might well be the best of times. History has been full of such times. Only God knows when the fullness of time is for His return in history. 

Evidence of the Fall Great and Small

I had not realized that it has been months since my last entry. Part of it is my engagement in a podcast, which I have done every week now, for nearly two and a half years. Part of it is the reality of life and the daily tasks that are necessary as well as those that distract. Finally, I think, the truth is that I find that there is so much difficulty and sadness and outright nuttiness in the world it seems that there just isn't much of cheerful note about which to write. 

I wish today were an exception. But it isn't. But today I feel I have to express it to the internet sphere. And to any whose eyes fall upon this entry.

It is reality that I am one generation behind many of my elder friends who are facing illness and inevitable death. As a person of faith (with all concomitant difficulty) I am familiar with the idea of Memento Mori, keeping the fact of our deaths before us, in our minds, not out of a morbidity, but because its inevitability ought to make us live good lives, God Centered lives. I hope I am living a good life, or mostly a good life for I am very much aware of the proximity of death, statistically and practically, and because I do believe Judgment follows. But knowing that if I live to their ages I will face what they are enduring now does give me pause. I pray that I will remain faithful as death comes closer. And sometimes it is a bit wearing to observe. Death, of course, is the most obvious evidence of the Fall, if one believes in God and the complicated relationship between we creatures and the Creator. And man's inhumanity to man is another large and obvious one. 

But sometimes little things bring it home to me. And affect me, even make me mad about how stupid Adam and Eve were in their effort to usurp God, and how we and nature itself reflects the utter catastrophe of the Fall. We blame God for not making things easier for us. But we had it easy when our first parents were in Paradise and we would have followed them, had they not disobeyed. What does that have to do with us? We are still doing it. We are told by God that we can have Paradise again, if we choose Him and not Satan--the very same choice that Adam and Eve had. And we diss God. 

So what got me started on this, besides being a little saddened by watching people I care about and have known literally for years fading away because of the Fall? And knowing I'm right behind them? (It's not morbid to think of this. We need to be ready, at least if you do believe that there is an afterlife and a meeting with God to account for our time here.)

One of the nursing facilities I visit has a few parking spaces above ground, but they are almost always full, so I have to go to the moderately sized underground parking. Today was a gorgeous day in Los Angeles. We never have cold weather like the Midwest or the East, but we do get down at night to the 50s and sometimes the 40s, and the days have of late been 60s and early 70s. Sweatshirt weather. 

We had some rain; we need more, but it was enough to clear the air and leave us blue puffy cloud skies, with just a touch of crispness in the air. So as I went into the parking garage I had been enjoying not having to use my car air conditioner and letting real air waft as I drove. I parked. And got out of the car to walk to one of the buildings. I could not believe that I was seeing a mouse just ahead of me. And because it didn't run as I walked forward, and seemed to be trying to get water from a small puddle remaining from the rain, I sensed that he must not be well. I am not afraid of mice or rats, but obviously I wasn't going to touch him, and I knew as some of the janitors started to come around, that he probably wasn't long for this world anyway. His dispatch would be coming sooner than I would have liked. Just a lousy mouse, no? And yet, even as I write, I feel terribly sad. This isn't how it was supposed to be. 

People aren't supposed to die. And neither are mice. I assume there were mice in Paradise. All creatures great and small. In paradise the lamb and the lion lay together, no? Something in me rebelled against this evidence of the Fall, this little mouse that was just trying to live and would be killed, if he did not die of whatever ailment was afflicting him when I encountered him. The friend I saw today is recovering from a health crisis this week.  And she was not doing as well as I would have hoped. "Early days," I tried to tell myself.

"What are you doing, Lord?" I yelled internally. I knew His answer. The truth. He didn't do it. And we know what we have to do. But will we? 

You Don't Want to Alienate Your Friends. . . .

The police all over the United States are under siege. They have a difficult job under the best of circumstances and the circumstances in an upside down political reality have made it nearly impossible. To act results in censure and liability. To not act results in the same. Although I have only been stopped a few times in my life by an officer, I can tell you that the one thing I would never do is mouth off to one, or start waving my arms around or making any kind of sudden movement. It isn't just what I was taught, but it makes absolute common sense. They have no idea of the status of the person they stop, and it only would take one movement for the officer to be dead.

I am sure that I have mentioned, in this blog, a stop that was made of me long ago when I was visiting my old home town, the Bronx. I was driving round and round looking for a parking space on an alternate parking day, which means that people were double parked and there simply was no spot. I was in a rented car in my aunt's neighborhood. I saw the cops parked in their car as I turned and turned, and then suddenly, they stopped me. I had no idea what I had done. As it turns out I made a right on a red, which you can do here in California, but at least then, you could not do in New York. Four officers surrounded my car. They clearly thought I was involved in something beyond a traffic violation. I have always thought that I was a youngish woman in a rented car in a neighborhood that had drug problems. They meant business. Being white and a woman seemed not a privilege, though in those days we weren't using such rhetoric about one another, and was no barrier to their somber approach with hands on their guns. "Do you know what you did?" asked one. "No, Sir." He ultimately told me but only after they checked me out fully. Two officers stayed with me. I stayed still in the car, except to provide, with their permission, the car's bona fides. Neighbors were hanging out their windows. Turned out ok. One of the neighbors asked, "What did you do?" "Turned right on red," I reported. Life went on. But I was shaken. 

I had a few less dramatic stops for traffic things over the years, but never did I get the impression that the officers were any less serious, and I believed they were fully within their rights to protect themselves if I did something sudden and stupid. I always understood. They have to be careful.

Things have gotten much worse in the last 20 years. And seeing video after video of the cursing laced talk backs and push backs and outright resistance on my local and national news, and though not considering police any less human than the rest of us, so capable of both mistake and intentional misconduct, I have found that overall police are worthy of my support. They are policing in urban war zones. They are in combat. So, based on my experience as someone stopped, and based on escalated violence by those stopped, I don't rush to judgment on either side, when there is a police involved shooting. And for the most part, with rare exceptions, and despite political propaganda, I have noticed that their actions are usually righteous under the prevailing circumstances.

So, ultimately, I have considered myself a friend of the police.

However, my personal experience when I have had to call them in an emergency, has not been good, and has made me consider that dreaded thing--that when something happens, I should go the other way, and let someone else make the call.

It has happened about five times. The earliest was when I first moved to Los Angeles. I was looking out my then apartment window when I saw a white Ford Falcon driving away having robbed an elderly woman and leaving her flat in the middle of the street. She wasn't moving. I called 911. It's fine that they ask questions that can reasonably be answered. But after I detailed what I saw and her location, the officer on the line, impatiently asked, "Is she hurt?" "Well, I said, I'm in my apartment, and she is lying in the middle of the street. So, I'd say yes." After my call I went outside to assist. There were a few other neighbors who helped get the lady up. She had a head injury of some kind. We brought her into another neighbor's apartment to wait for the police. When police and fire personnel came, they were in haste, impatient, and unconcerned. The lady, still stunned, was not much help in identifying anything  or anyone. I gave them what information I had. The TV was on. There was some kind of sports game. Both the cops and the fire people seemed more interested in the game than in the woman or the facts. The lady did not think she to go to tneeded to go to the hospital. Of course, they wouldn't take her unless she insisted on going, but she was still groggy and unclear and certainly needed to be looked at as she was bleeding. The other neighbors were long gone. They weren't taking her to the hospital. The police and fire personnel had been neither attentive nor compassionate. And they just left her there. Though I was feeling really nervous about having an injured person in my car, I took the lady to the hospital. I was able to get a name for some family member, whom I called and informed. The lady had multiple stitches. I waited until someone came to be with her.

A few years later. I had these neighbors, husband, wife, and two kids, three ultimately. They screamed about and to each other all the time. But one night, late, when I am in bed, there was an uptick in the screaming, and breaking glass. It didn't quiet. I was concerned that someone was hurt or was being hurt. I called 911. Again, an operator, was already impatient before I said anything. I reported what I was hearing.  "Is there a gun?" I told him where I was. I don't know if there is a gun. How could I know whether there was a gun in the OTHER apartment? Are they expecting me to go and find out? That seems counterintuitive.  I hadn't said that I heard a gunshot. I heard screaming and glass breaking. I understand that officers need some information for their safety and for their approach. But I cannot provide information I don't have AND if there is some threshold beyond screaming and glass breaking that I am required to show, well, then I guess I shouldn't have called at all. They ultimately responded. The family still lived there shouting at one another generally, but there was no repeat of that evening while I was in the neighborhood.

My last experiences have been relatively recent. 

One night as I came downstairs, I don't remember why, to get mail perhaps, there was a distraught woman outside who said she had been attacked. She looked like she had been. Her dress seemed either ripped or disturbed. I called 911. I don't remember my conversation on the phone, but when a cruiser came, and a few other of my neighbors had come outside, the officer seemed, as they always do, indifferent or annoyed at the potential victim. He wasn't being kind to her at all.  I waited so I could offer whatever was needed. The officer asked a question, which I though I could assist with. He said that he wasn't talking to me and suggested strongly I should mind my own business. I thought that odd as the person who had called 911 on behalf of the lady. But I went back into my apartment. Clearly, I was not needed. 

A few months ago, I got a call from a woman I did not know, who said that one of my current neighbors had my name as an emergency contact. I know the neighbor casually, to say hello when he walks his dogs, and to talk about things like the weather, but we have no personal relationship, so it was odd that he would consider me an emergency contact. I realized later that likely as all the tenants come to yearly HOA meetings, that's probably why he had my number. The woman said that he was going out of his mind and seemed to expect me to do something. I recommended that she call 911. Despite myself, I went to see if I could help and when I knocked on his door, he was alone. The friend had apparently gone outside to find someone to assist. I checked with another neighbor usually in the know about things in our building as to whether she had any information. As it happens, 911 had been previously called, and the neighbor had declined assistance. But there was clearly something wrong. He was terribly confused. What he was saying made no sense. I thought he might be having a stroke. I didn't want to bother 911, because they had already been there and left when he said he didn't need help, so I called the local sheriff's office to ask for advice. This operator, a woman, was kind. She said that she would alert the same emergency service that had previously attended. By this time, several neighbors, the woman who had called me, and the confused man were in the vestibule. When the police came, the lead officer announced that if he did not want to go to the hospital, that was that. I understand, up to a point, but the man was clearly not competent to make a basic decision. And, as another neighbor noted, along with me, waiting until either he or someone in the building was harmed seemed crazy. Again, I know that this is largely policy. After all, look at all these shootings where the person says they are going to wreak havoc. The police have the person on radar, but that isn't enough, and then he kills a few people. Only then is action taken. But it was, again, the attitude of the officers that was so deeply disturbing. It wasn't very civil, let alone kind. And in fact the officer said that they couldn't keep coming back and that unless circumstances changed we should not call them again. How I would determine, or my neighbors would determine the appropriate circumstances had been reached, was left undetailed. And why would any of us even involve ourselves again having been so roundly rebuffed?

We got lucky. They talked a little more to the neighbor and he finally agreed to be taken to the hospital.  He was in the hospital for multiple days. We found some responsible people to assist him. There was a problem that needed to be addressed. And got addressed. But with a lot of push back from the authorities we need to protect us.

This past couple of weeks, I was in my parish during Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. This is a sacred period for prayer before what Catholics believe is God Himself in the form of Bread that has been Transsubstantiated.

A man came in, clearly homeless. We welcome all, and so as long as he was respectful, and quiet, there would be no issue. But as happens so often in our parish and elsewhere (which is why Churches are being locked so that people cannot come and pray), he could not be quiet. He was either mentally ill or on some drug or both. He began to drum audibly on the pew with his fingers. I thought hard. People were turning around. I was right across from him. I was the closest. I could just leave and let it be someone else's problem. In light of my experiences before, here recapitulated, I truly considered just taking off. But how could I do that in good conscience? 

So, I took a deep breath and approached the man gently. I hadn't gotten more than two or three words out when he jerked and said, "You're interrupting my prayers!" And let out a few choice words not suitable for a Church let alone anyplace else. 

He got up. He was agitated. I backed away. I went out into the vestibule. At that moment I thought "I don't want to call the cops on this poor guy", but some one needed to be informed. I texted my pastor who said he'd be right there. Meanwhile, another parishioner approached the man who was cursing and walking up and down the aisle. At one point, he looked as if he would be attempting to breach the sanctuary where God is, in our belief. But he didn't. I was concerned now for safety and I called 911. An operator. I explained the situation. A barrage of questions, some of which I could not answer. The man had gone back to the pew and I was looking at him from behind. "What does he look like?" I explained that I was in the vestibule and I was looking at him from behind. I described what I could see. "Is he wearing pants?" I didn't know. I wasn't going to look. The parishioner who had tried to help was arriving in the vestibule. I asked, "Is he wearing pants or shorts?" He was wearing pants. The dispatcher was annoyed. I was getting annoyed. And deeply frustrated.  Meanwhile Father came and made a separate call. I couldn't totally hear the dispatcher at this point, but I did hear him say, without much friendliness, "You can hang up now. I said someone is on the way." Meanwhile the man had quieted. The vestibule had more people staying out of the way. I waited outside the Church with Father. The police didn't come quickly. I can somewhat understand their annoyance because this department was just cut of several officers in favor of civilian "Ambassadors" to defuse such situations. Good luck to them. 

Four officers arrived. They discussed strategy. Two went in. Two stayed at the door. I have to say that the two officers did a remarkable job. At first, just as had happened to me, the man yelled "I'm praying. You're disturbing my prayer," then descending into multiple lines of cursing. He got agitated and walked up and down. The police were patient and diplomatic. It took a while, but the man agreed ultimately to leave. "Mischief managed". 

I have to say that a few years ago, a homeless man did much the same thing in our parish, when I was present. I was asked to call 911.  I was greeted with the precise dismissive attitude that I have received on every occasion where I tried to assist. There is a not so subtle response by the authorities that you are bothering them with something not worth their time. I have heard mentally ill homeless routinely disturb our services. This has become a common occurrence at our church, where the doors are kept open so that people might come in and take spiritual rest from the world. Is the solution yet again to lock doors rather than to address the problem?

I want to repeat that I am sympathetic to the burden under which the police must work. They are not allowed to take action when the red flags fly. And so, why would they want to intervene before deadly behavior has occurred? However, I am a friend, and as Teresa of Avila said to the Lord once, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few of them."

The "You're bothering us" attitude which may come from understandable frustration on the part of the police when you try to say something when you see something (the mantra you see on billboards related to other dangerous acts), is like ringing the bell to Pavlov's dog. After a while, they will have modified the behavior not only of some citizens, but of all of them, such that when mayhem is in fact being done, no one will call to assist another. 

And I want to remain a friend of the police, which is hard when they keep pushing you away. 

A Fly Made Me Cry

Today's title sounds a bit like one you'd see on a Dr. Suess children's book, doesn't it?  I realized later that there was another children's book, from the same time period, which I had, as a child, called A Fly Went By, by Mike McClintock. 

I remember reading it regularly with great contentment every time.  I actually still had my original copy until I gave it away to the family of a new born. I have done that over the years, since I never had a child, alas. 

But this is my Thursday tale. I guess, if I had the talent, I could write my own children's book based on the brief moment in which a fly made me cry. They were not tears of sadness. They were tears of recognition and of joy and gratitude. So. Here's the small story.

I was sitting out on my terrace in the early afternoon. This is the place where I think, I watch hummingbirds, read, work, and pray, not necessarily in that order. Suffice it to say that my terrace is my most used space. 

Oh, yes, I also eat there, today a late breakfast of corn flakes and strawberries. And a fresh cup of pour over coffee. As I finished and placed the not completely empty bowl on my table, a fly began to buz about, not unlike the Fly Above that Went By. My fly, however, did not go by. . .

He seemed to be looking for something. He landed on my hand. The thing about this fly was that it seemed smaller than most and I determined with complete lack of scientific evidence that this was a young fly, even a baby fly. And unlike what happens usually when you move your hand, this fly did not dart away when I did. Yes. I began to talk to the fly. And I know, this is crazy, but the fly seemed to be aware of me. And it was not afraid. It moved from my hand to my shoulder, in a crease of my hoodie. I looked at it. He did not run. I was convinced. The fly is hungry. So. I moved my bowl from the table, with a few pieces of corn flake soaking in almond milk and I placed it nearby on the arm of my Adirondack chair. 

Sure enough. The fly dropped onto the outside of the white dish, following a small trail of milk that had dripped. And then. The fly went to the rim, walked to the top of the spoon in the bowl and used it as a ladder down to the morsels. It seemed completely unconcerned that I was there. And usually I would swat at a fly at that very moment, as one would do at a picnic. But then, I thought, I am finished with my meal; what harm does it do to let this tiny creature over whom I effectively have the power of life and death as a member of creation in the top of the hierarchy to have a safe meal? 

Creation. I have been spending time of late in learning to pray deeply, not in my usual,sporadic, hit and run style. I have been exploring, again (I have done in the past, but then with less intensity) the richness of my Catholic faith and its Transformative essence. Meditating on Creation is a part of it. 

As I watched this fly, I found tears coming to my eyes, not only for the unusual nature of this particular encounter with a tiny insect, but because of the sudden intensity of my sense of creation, His Creation, both of us, this fly and I, Creations of the same God. I want to be clear. It wasn't some New Age, pantheistic sense of the divine in everything that sometimes leads to the idea of man as self-divinizing. That sounds great but it is a mistake, or it's not precise. God isn't in Creation. He is the Author of Creation. He isn't part of it, though it reflects His Glory, and His abounding Love. We can see Him as in a mirror--the complexity and beauty reflects Him. But I am as much made as was the fly in my bowl. I think perhaps that was what St. Francis was saying in His Canticle of the Sun.

Most high, all powerful, all good Lord! All praise is yours, all glory, all honor, and all blessing. To you, alone, Most High, do they belong. No mortal lips are worthy to pronounce your name.

Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures, especially through my lord Brother Sun, who brings the day; and you give light through him. And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor! Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars; in the heavens you have made them, precious and beautiful.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air, and clouds and storms, and all the weather, through which you give your creatures sustenance.

Be praised, My Lord, through Sister Water; she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom you brighten the night. He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.

Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth, who feeds us and rules us, and produces various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

Be praised, my Lord, through those who forgive for love of you; through those who endure sickness and trial. Happy those who endure in peace, for by you, Most High, they will be crowned.

Be praised, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whose embrace no living person can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin! Happy those she finds doing your most holy will. The second death can do no harm to them.

Praise and bless my Lord, and give thanks, and serve him with great humility.

In a way, don't laugh, (though I know exactly who might if they read this!) my experience was of Brother Fly whom we forget is among the necessary pollinators, who cleans up our waste and even has medical uses. He is an indispensable stitch in God's tapestry. The fly, as I am, was formed out of nothing, by an Invisible Hand. That is what makes us brother and sister.

I didn't realize it immediately but my tears were thanking God. His Creation manifests His desire for us to share in HIS Divinity. We don't make ourselves divine. Especially through God made Man we are offered to experience, to partake in, His divinity. But we will always be His creation. We will be His Creation united to Him. And I don't know, the fly that I watched comfortably take pieces of my remnant Corn Flakes, made me cry for the implicit recognition of the Wonders of the Wonderful God that was manifest in the moment. 

Stuff

It has been over two months, not far from three, since I have made any entry onto this blog.

I can tell you why. It's because the state of humanity, never pristine, sees to be at its nadir. There was a time, where, though imperfect indeed, the United States maintained the recognition and pursuit of objective truth and a unified moral imperative that recognized a Power higher than ourselves. One could hope that America would be at the head of a global reawakening. 

That time seems to have passed. Our leaders have led us instead to an earthly pit that is a shadow of the eternity of hell.

The only reason I am not personally, utterly demoralized--and some days it is a close question--is that I do believe in God and all that entails. Nothing and no one will prevail against His Goodness--certainly not his own creatures. And my job is to stand with Him, and stick with Him, no matter what I see around me. I will be asking for the Grace to do that till the moment before I die. It isn't a sure thing that I will exercise my free will any better than anyone else. 

As I write, the news is full of the leak of a draft--partial it appears as not all concurring or dissenting opinions are included-- of a momentous, long awaited decision of the Supreme Court, which, purports to overturn the ill constructed Roe v. Wade by which the Judiciary legislated a Federal right to abortion in 1973. This does not mean, alas, that abortion is no longer legal in the United States. It does affirm states' rights. That is, each state has a right to make its legislation (or maintain that which it has) in this arena. So, California and New York, for example, will be able happily to continue sacrificing children at the altar of abortion. Nonethless, the pro-abortion advocates are wailing and bemoaning, and seem to have come out in such numbers so quickly that it suggests they knew of the impending leak before it actually dripped on the rest of us.  Protests are being scheduled for today. The idea that many many many women, including me, do NOT support abortion never occurs to them. And if those folks do any protesting, they are targeted for interfering in a woman's rights. The heck with the babies' rights. As to that leak, does it concern anyone that its occurrence is another fissure in the deconstruction of the United States? Some unelected person, some kid, probably as the staff is no doubt predominately young, decided to take an action calculated to throw the independent decision making of the Highest Court in the land into question. Supposedly the Chief Justice, having just confirmed that yes, this was a real draft, is seeking an investigation. Well, we'll see if there is any actual consequence to that person or persons, if uncovered, or revealed, when uncovered.

That's the thing about man made as opposed to natural law or God based rules--when men make the rules they are applied variously. If one group riots, but its narrative is the one held by those in power, they are considered to be exercising their rights. If another does anything remotely close to that, but their narrative is unapproved, they are considered dangerous extremists. When David Daleiden did an series of undercover reports showing that abortion is an industry of profound and bloody commercialism, he was, and continues to be prosecuted for RICO crimes and is said not to have a journalist's rights. He's not exposing a Watergate and therefore beloved for his bravery. He's attacking a sacred industry of eradicating our young called "womens' rights". Here, note, everyone can define the nature of a woman, something our newest Justice of the Court, cannot. 

Then there is the War in Ukraine. I feel such sadness for the people who have been victimized by the dictator of Russia. However, when I see Nancy Pelosi, Adam Schiff and some others of the Democrat party say they will support the Ukraine until "Victory is Won", as much as I would want to help the poor souls of the Ukraine, I find myself VERY suspicious, given all the surrounding machinations of prior years by other Democrats, and family members. Has War against Russia been declared? Did I miss something? I'd like to believe that it is some grand principle that is motivating all this talk. But let me just say, I do not. The opportunism is transparent. And alas, who suffers, the dying people of the Ukraine. 

Then there is our leader. Notwithstanding the fact that from the day he ran from office, he was obviously impaired, common sense is not allowed to shout, "The Emperor has dementia!" He was purportedly elected, but he is clearly not the one running the country.

Americans are being led by an anonymous (though we could take bets on who they are) group of unelected individuals. As used to be said by one of the characters, a lawyer, in Ally McBeal--"I need a moment". Do you not see the imminent danger in this reality?

And you know when I knew that we were at the lowest point? It was at that sad moment a month or two ago, when Barack Obama made a triumphant public appearance at the White House, "jokingly" calling Mr. Biden along with Kamala Harris his "vice president(s)" and leaving the confused old man wandering amid the crowd with not one staff person, not one person period, talking to him. When the fragile and vacant Joe pitifully put his hand on Mr. Obama's shoulder, with everyone pretending they didn't notice, Obama did not even turn around or drop the wide smile being directed at one of his acolytes. You or I would at least have looked to see who it was. He knew who it was. And we would have said, "Be right with you" or something instead of a complete and utter disregard of the putative President of the United States. 

Only prayer and the Will of God in response to it may change it, but my sense at that moment was of the punctuation of the death of the United States. 

I try to keep informed. But I don't trust anything I hear from my leaders.Or the mainstream press. I never thought I would experience that in the United States. 

 

Thanksgiving by Constantine Gochis

 

So. Back to Dad stories. Well, at least this one. I am always amazed at how cynical Dad was. I don't know why exactly, because I was exposed to his disposition of it for 50 years of my life. I think perhaps it is a matter of incongruity because he rather surprised me by converting to Catholicism at age 85. This suggests a faith in Providence a story like this would gainsay. On the other hand, as a practicing Catholic myself, I understand the cynicism. It's hard to avoid with the abundance of insanity thrust upon us fragile humans by other humans who think they are invulnerable to death and the consequence of hell. Cognitive dissonance is a regular experience in modern times. 

I cannot say that I recall a particularly memorable Thanksgiving.

True, I have attended my share of these events and hosted many. If I must expand about these, some were worthy of a Roman banquet and others dull to disastrous at best.

Perhaps I misunderstand the theme proposed by our mentor for this week's writing exercise. I do not think it called for a recapitulation of exciting table talk. I thought, peraps, there may have been an inference that the spirit of the holiday called for some reflection on a meaning other than the pleasures of gatronomy.

"Like what?" as Woody Allen is likely to say i one of his film monologues.

"Well," as he might reply, "Like an expression of gratitude received, a sense of some metaphysical interposition in our lives to interrupt the ordinary banality of every day living."

"Like the non-intervening God of your movie, 'Crimes and Misdemeanors?"

"O.K. so He don't go to Thanksgiving parties. Maybe he prefers the aroma of roasting lamb instead, certainly more material than the unintelligible mumblings of sated party goers."

I would then ask, "Who's to thank?"  Maybe the friendly Indians who supplied the Plymouth colonists with a spate of turkeys, thereby establishing our national predilection for this friendly but unwary bird as a meat course for this fete?

It would have been fun to discuss this matter further with Woody, but I could not conjure his presence for more dialogue.  I bethought myself of my street bum friend Diogenes who was sure to accost me soon for his regular periodic stipend of spare change.  I expect he was about due to find himelf, by pure chance, in the environs of my apartment.  IT is suspeiciously coincidental that he times his appearances to when I am returning from a shopping tour with bulging plastic bags. I am prone to give him some items from the largesse.

His expected appearance, as I predicted, was consonant with my needs for some counsel on the subject of Thabnksgiving.  I must note here that Diogenes is a man of surprising erudition. He was not, in fact, always a bum. Rather, he occupied the apogee of economic success and was suddenly hurled into the depths of bum hood by love.

At this point, some description of Diogenes is called for: He has a full head of disoriented graying hair, and a full, similarly untended beard.  He carries a long staff that was once the handle of a push-broom. If I were recasting for the remake of the film, "The Ten Commandments" he would be my Moses--though he has more the tragic quality of John the Baptist.

For those of you who eschew Biblical references, his severed head, I mean John the Baptist, was an expression of gratitude to Salome for her celebrated dance and more pertinently, her later rendezvous with a grateful Herod.

Without further exploration of meaning, let us say that her gratitude was better than turkey.

Diogenes was expressing great interest in the contents of my shopping bags.

"Maybe you got something I could eat raw?" he questioned.

I gave him several ears of corn. He eats corn raw and is known to eat raw potatoes.

"Diogenes," I said, without preamble, "have you had any memorable Thanksgiving holidays?"

"One," he answered without hesitation. "It was the year my wife Seraphina abandoned me as we were on a cruise on the Mediterranean.  She fell in love with poetry and a poetess."

"Seriously, Diogenes," I offered, "Aren't you scheduled for one of those spectacular full course meals at a homeless center, you know for one dollar and fifty seven cents. I bought ten of these for bums like you I don't even know."

"You might have deposited the one dollar and fifty seven cents to a more worthy cause, like me." Diogenes opined.

"I generally avoid those festivals unless times are particularly hard.  The food isn't bad, but usually some guy preaches at ou about salvation and you are reminded there is an obligation to thank someone for the meal.  This causes me much mental distress and a bout with dyspepsia." 

"Do you not think that the colonists in Plymouth gave thanks for their bounty to a higher being?" I asked.

"I thought, " Diogenes responded,  "this might be true when I attended a parochial elementary school.  When I hit the publi ones, the teachers suggested this was a lot of mythology propounded by the gun lobby, and those who wanted to destroy the separation of Church and State.  If I am not mistaken, I think they included the tobacco executives and Republicans."

"By the way," he added, "would you have a spare cigarette and another quarter, for which I will bestow everlasting gratitude upon you, in the best tradition of the season."

I felt this was a modest request.  When I confer with Diogenes, it is a learning experience. In addition to the wisdom he exudes, he is imbued with a huge store of "chutzpah".

"Listen," he said as he departed. "It's all political.  Republian Presidents name a date and the Democrats filibuster. It's all a question of what is or not.  For the less contentious like me, it is best to be less confrontational about matters that have no visible effect one way or the other. If you have to--look upward as if in devotion and take on your most pious expression.  Every guy who donates one dollar and fifty cents, once a year, expects some visible proof of gratitude.

As he departed, I had to reconsider casting him as Moses or John the Baptist. Perhaps the role of Mephistopheles or Faust would be more appropriate--after he was cleaned up and combed, of course.

How sad. Is this all there is? Well, in the meantime, there's a good dinner in the offing. I shall be a guest in sumptious surroundings.  I will bring a bottle of wine I prefer. It's best to be prepared since if there is a Providence that guides these things, it makes only occasional appearances, and these can be attributed to mathematical chance--lousy odds but its the best we got.

It is the Season to Be Merry by Constantine Gochis

 I am home, indefinitely, as the crie du jour goes into the land once again, "Be Afraid, be very Afraid!" and no one seems able to avoid someone positive for Covid. A friend I saw last week was/is positive. I am, alas, a woefully fearful human being who knows in the depth of her being that the last two years have been an orchestrated use of an opportunity in the form of one of the many viruses and dangers that exist around us. Still, overwhelming fear means she cannot take the smallest chance that she might be responsible for the possibility that someone she has come into contact with is felled. Clearly whether one is vaccinated or not is irrelevant to the need to take basically the same scrupulous steps to prevent either sickness or death. This is particularly distressing in that sickness and death are inevitable no matter that in this one instance it MIGHT be held off. It may well come to the mind of one of our saavy politicians that, in fact, except for them in the pursuit of their duties and of course, the exceptions for their recreational needs, the rest of us should never be in contact with another human being because we are, walking germ sticks and are always likely to harm another. 

Be that as it may, I am here and I have plenty of time to add Dad's stories and observations. This was written circa 2001, after the murders at the World Trade Center. As you know, in more recent, enlightened years, we were told by a Congresswoman who was about 8 at the time the destruction happened, that "some people did something." Politifact said her comments had to be taken in context. I read the context. The description of the event is not changed by the context, in my opinion, if my opinion be allowed, as may not be the case. If my father is able to hear me, or even care in that he has met God and that trumps all earthly concerns, I think he would tell me that he is glad that he is dead, and reserves compassion for me, his daughter, who is living through the hell on earth courtesy of the diabolical leaders and their minions of the mass media and the universities.

The observations were written, apparently, around Christmas, 2001, because the title of the piece is "It is the Season to Be Merry".

Andy Rooney, of the CBS Magazine Show, Sixty Minutes, has read the Koran.I suspect he digested this monumental work in less than sixty minutes. Andy is a quick study.

He read his dissertation on that tome, and interpreted the liturgies of the West in less than five minutes.  I do not wish to critique his theology.  Suffice it to say that I suspect Rooney is another disenchanted Catholic who was kicked in the ass by a nun or an exasperated brother in an elementary school.  Probably with justification.

The content of the program featured two turncoats. The first was an FBI double agent whose twenty years of spying for the Soviets amounted to calumny and deceit beyond the metaphysical boundaries of Hell:  Death, sexual perversion, treason, among his lesser transgressions, which were legion.

The other, Senator Jeffors, who has achieved historical immortality by deceiving his supporters who elected him to his representative status, as well as the country, by an example of political chicanery unparalleled in two centuries. This pebble in a field of boulders gave leadership of the Senate to the political party whose obsession is oriented to the capture of Congress, even if it means damage to the defense of the country and the destruction of the economy as an added bonus.

His change of allegiance has brought the reign of senatorial leadership in the incarantion of Senator Daschle. This sombre, unsmiling postulant for hte Presidency, has hugged the current President in public and has then unleashed the dagger of obstruction in a campaign of calumny.  His acolytes fill the media with obsequious eulogies for George W, tempered by lies and deceitful allusions.  There is always the popular vote the Supreme Court intervention. The Supreme Court is only valid to the cultist Democrats when it refers to Roe v. Wade. 

The call has gone out to the faithful, "We need a new Gingrich!" The odds on favorite is Ashcroft, a prime choice for demonization, but he holds an eighty percent popularity rating among the unwashed.

Still, it is a dangerous war and surely Bush will stumble, and the economy will go bad and the mantra can be revitalized, "It's the economy stupid." It served to disestablish the father.  And will surely do in the son.  This is their hope for 2002 and 2004. 

Ask David Corn. Who is David Corn? He is the editor of The Nation.  The LA Times published his analysis of the Bush War effort in its opinion section.

"We are killing civilians in Afghanistan," is the substance of a full page of calumny.

There is no mention of the three thousand collaterals buried under the World Trade Center.

And the others of this species who have scurried into the dark in the illumination of the tragedy of September 11 venture out again.  The liberal strategists, cloaked in the texts of the Constitution, spew their venom against a country that gives them freedom.  They miss the hey day of the Alger Hiss apogee, the party faithful who took their orders from Moscow.

There are as many enemies within as without.

At the very least we dishonor our dead of World War II, the several hundred killed in our wars against the Soviets, and those who will surely pass as a sacrifice to the corrupted God that Andy Rooney has so quickly digested. 

Rising "Above" My Principles

 I haven't been making entries onto this site since late December 2021. I guess I just kept hoping that the inconsistent insanities of Covid "policies" would end soon, even though I knew intellectually that such a lovely opportunity for societal deconstruction is not easily relingquished by those who are doing the deconstruction. 

As before, in some states the national milieu went back to normal. But here in California it took until about last week to lift some of the mandates. Of course, in the County of Los Angeles, a large area in which I happen to live, the emergency remains red hot. No way that a virus can cross county boundaries, correct?

I have, as I have endlessly said, tried to avoid entertainment venues in which I would have to wear a mask or show a vaccination card, though as I must always disclaim so that I am not disregarded even more readily than I will be anyway, I was thrice blessed with the anti-virus potion that well, doesn't has it happens protect as was advertised. I have conceded in obligatory environs, like my Church, but for the most part I was not participating in what to me had become an arbitrary and capricious soft totalitarian warm up to hard totalitarianism.

But I am a small creature, alas, and as the New Year arrived and friends wanted to get together for ordinary human celebrations like birthdays and the odd entertainment movie event, I found my resolve crumbling and making exceptions, willing to go and to wear a mask, and worse, willing to show my vax card and ID to demonstrate that I am clean enough, virally speaking, to be allowed inside a restaurant, while other humans relegated to the status of  lepers, were excluded. Worse, I enjoyed myself.

You might say, what does it matter? What's the big deal? The big deal is that the slippery slope is real. Take a look at Canada. 

Human beings incline toward all sorts of evil, but one version is that they like to exert power over one another. And if one does not take the threat of these prefatory efforts at control--disguised as a matter of good and protection--seriously and takes the position what does it matter to me, history shows that how much it matters becomes very apparent, in short order, and when it is too late. 

I keep hoping that this Covid incarceration will end and I won't feel compelled to write about it any longer. On the other hand, today it is Covid, tomorrow there will be another crisis that aspiring dictators will find useful for their consolidations of power, and you and 
I will be footnotes in history. And we will bear responsibility for sheepish failures which led to our very demise.