In defense of shaddy heritage

Soon I will be seventy years old, they call that a milestone, so be it. I have been in this Country since nineteen seventy. Since then I have been like a kid in a wonderland, learning things, witnessing events, great, noble, and abominable. For the positive and the negative, I have been a witness in awe.

I have seen and still see in my new compatriots men and women an eagerness to learn about their past and their ancestry. I have seen in them an effort, almost an obsession to, somehow, connect their DNA to some famous or historical figure, prizing some connection to the Pilgrims, the Mayflower, and the Founding Fathers, before, or after. I found this desire, this obsession admirable and even charming.

I have learned to recognize the enormous chasm between the Americans, the people and the Americans, the perception of it by people from outside Countries reacting to the foreign policy of the Country.

The political exercise of all the succeeding Government have had a regrettable result, in foreign lands, to have the most generous Country in the world despised all over the world by people who, paradoxically have a very soft spot for the American people at the same time.

The answer to this paradox originate by the separation between the political life of the US being guided by people who cherish their heritage being descendants of the idealistic (theoretically) groups of those Pilgrims, Founding Fathers and passengers of the early migration and the actual actions of people knowing that their heritage is maybe a little less lofty but in my book much more remarkable.

The descendants of the struggling people, the people who went for broke crossing the Prairie toward the West, the miners, the gamblers and even the descendants of the Lady of little virtue of the Saloons of the West have in their soul the virtues of the desperate. They know of their human imperfection and extract great things out of it. They know that if your neighbor suffers you must help. They know that one who sin must be given understanding and support for a second even a third chance. They know it because they are descendants of people who could not have survived without the support and understanding of their fellow in misery. And all those people are those who make this People admirable, not the descendants of the Mayflower.

On eccenrics next door neighbors

Living in close proximity of eccentric neighbors/friends can be such an exhilarating thing!. They will help you to reopen your eyes, realize that your life does not have to be defined by the fence of your backyard. That it is OK to fall in love again with your wife of thirty, forty, or fifty years. That a total power blackout is nothing but an incentive to climb in some precarious perch in the dark to sacrifice that nice bottle of Single Malt kept for a special occasion . That a blizzard in South Dakota was a darn good excuse for a crazy snowmobile ride in the streets of the city covered by a few feet of snow, said coverage including of course the patrol cars of said City finest. You learned again that it was OK to mourn the death of a butterfly and that a good movie was worth either some great laugh or a few tears at time. Those are the things that eccentric neighbors next door bring to your life to take it to a higher plane……until that fateful day when they come running, short of breath with that flash of passion in their eyes to inform you of their decision to learn to play either Cello or Bagpipe!

Growing -up at Sixty-Eight.

There were lots of events and people of the earlier part of my life, awkward, unpleasant and even some painful that I had forgotten, blotted out of my memory. Those were memories of those things or actions of people that do leave you with a bitter taste in your heart, a lingering sadness of the betrayal, rejection or injustice. As I went on in life, somehow I had relegated those memories to some far corners and time had obliterated their memories.

For the great majority of my life I had become a happy guy, jovial, fun loving, able to shrug my shoulders to some of the inevitable bumps in life.

All that came to a screeching halt when during a trip to France, the place where I was born I came in close contact with some relatives that started reminiscing about events from my childhood. There intents were charitable and they did not know that most of the events for which they were telling me how much they fell sorry for me at the time had been relegated to the catacombs of my memory. The floodgates opened and all that caustic memory came back in a huge flow and then resentment showed its ugly face. I dove into somber and sad period of speculation full of “What If “and melancholic speculation of what could have been without the rejection, the benign neglect, lack of affection or support or just some coaching on what life was going to be. Then resentment showed his nasty, grotesque head. People that I have classified as close relatives but without a great feeling of closeness became in my memory monsters from which I wanted no contact or intrusion. The memory of those who had passed away became a source of nightmare. Melancholy and bitterness took over.

Then, little by little, the storm subsided, reason took over and after long period of meditation or self analyses one day the reason for all that inner-drama became blindingly clear: I had forgotten the actions, reject, neglect and injustice. I had buried them if a somber and far corner, away from my consciousness but they had festered away from my consciousness. I had forgotten indeed, but I had also forgotten to forgive.

With that new light on this issue I revisited all those memories and step-by-step I discovered a new truth: Those responsible for all those nasty and troubling memories were not monster!

They were, on their own, victims themselves. They were not acting with malice against the child I was, they were only doing the best with what they knew and understood of life and the circumstances they were facing on their own. There was no dark design in their actions. Their upbringing together with he despair of their country being humiliated, the rough treatment that was imposed on them during the occupation of France in World War Two, had broken something inside them that they could not put back together. So, one by one I started to forgive, to kill the bitterness and resentment. Some of those people are gone and I truly forgive, understand and extend compassion for their suffering. I have a harder time with some of those still with us, but I try to understand their circumstances, I am beginning to forgive, although with the wisdom to try to avoid an exposure to their way.

Little by little the lead cape is lifting and with it come a bright light warming my heart.

I know that I will have now and for ever a new optic and understanding of the way I am impacting the life of those around me.

I also know that I have gained in the process a greater love and an enormous debt of gratitude for the people who accepted among them the troubled adolescent I was and showed me what life is in a warm, loving and accepting family of caring individuals.

Life is much better under that light.

The Venus of Henry

She came to us on a crisp winter day with all the Pumps and Circumstances of the United State Postal Service. Riding in a Box of the finest cardboard from her exotic country, adorned with the most exquisite fine silver duct tape and the most refined clear packing tape. Inside in an elegant compartment made of the rarest recycled box of a refurbished blender, resting on a bed of the finest popcorn, she was reclining on pillows of rare air-filled bags, reading the Concrete Book of the Wisdom of the Ages. In the most gracious and elegant way she came out of the box and then sat for a while on the Grand Patio under the watchful eyes of the Great Guard. Squirrels and chipmunks, doves and finches came and marveled at the rare sight. There was a current of great pride in the whole population. Finally we would not have to feel lesser than Paris, it’s Louvre and their Venus of Milo! The Venus of Henry was here! Splendid in her entirety, more complete than the poor mutilated Venus of Milo. Our Venus was indeed complete, limbs, warts and all. Her grandiose chest was displaying the Sacred Hieroglyph that a wise and savant passing beagle deciphered to the crowd. All marveled at the bold value of the message: “I Love Chou!” Truly King Henry was a Fine Artist and his muse Julie an Amazing Inspiration as well That was one of those days that generation will remember as a glorious day in our Land and it was good. And the people were grateful!

To a Fallen Hero

This is a repost of a previous blog in Memoriam.

Rest, little brother…

Looking over the harbor, staring in disbelief at the cloud of dust and smoke rising over Lower Manhattan, the Spirit of Liberty, very sadly, hunched a little bit, slumping her great shoulders.
Slowly the Spirit freed herself from the bonds of her glorious statue. As if coming out of a giant cocoon, deliberately, she left behind the wonderful sculpture forged of copper, steel and tears. As beloved as her statue was, she knew that earthly symbols rise and topple, but she would always be. Eschewing the weight of a monument, she deployed her wings. Those are the great wings that Freedom granted her, when the best of men decided to give hope a chance and bring Liberty to another corner of this little green planet of ours, those are the wings that allow her to soar
However, on this day, this flight was to be a solemn one. Another Child of Man had paid the Price of Freedom. Liberty has to repay the debt. She started flying in direction of what had been the pride of New York. Her torch was dimming a little, her arm was not held so high but her flight of slow, long and deep strokes had the grace of an archangel
She reached the wreckage, shook her head and a tear rolled down her verdigrises cheeks. A sigh shook her chest. She gently parted some giant pieces of rubble, shifted a bit and gently, oh! so gently lifted the lifeless body of a young firefighter from within the chaos.
The brave was covered with dust, soot, and blood; the uniform in tatters but one could see the handsome face, peaceful as if only sleeping. Gently, without dropping her torch the spirit swept some of the debris off the face and body. Like a rag doll, in the full abandon of death.
The Ghost of Liberty stepped out, holding him carefully, with reverence. With majesty, she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and her torch, brighter all of a sudden, was raised up high. Then she started moving, slowly, ceremoniously but in a determined way. Deploying her great wings, she flew, rising toward the heavens. The sky parted as she made her way in what was obviously a holy mission. Giant eagles flew by and dipped their wings in sign of respect, blaring their great cry as if to warn ahead that a sacred flight was on its way
When she reached the Great Gates, there was a double line of the fallen firefighters of yesteryears. The Old Ones, from the Chicago fire, from the San Francisco Earthquake, blackened wet and sooty heroes of Pearl Harbor, sailors and marines killed fighting the fires caused by the Kamikazes aboard the Warships of the Freedom Armada, the brave, beautiful, heroic Fire Jumpers killed defending the Great Forest they loved so much, were there. They were all quiet and solemn: One of their own was coming home.
The Spirit of Liberty whispered “ He gave his life for me” then walked between the two lines of proud men and women fallen to the fires. They presented their hooks, axes and Pulaski in a silent salute as the ghostly figure passed and finally came to a stop. They all formed a large circle around a stall of the purest marble where the Ghost of Liberty gently deposited her charge.
He lay there, lifeless, covered of soot, blood and dirt that somehow looked like a badge of courage and spirit.
They were all silent. Slowly an old Fire Chief, himself covered with the burned badges of his own courage, approached the body of He who had been one of New York’s bravest. He dropped down on one knee, slowly reached out, and rearranged the position of the young hero as if trying to make him more comfortable. He took off his helmet and bowed his head for a moment. He reached out with a callous and blackened hand, moved away a lock of sweaty hair, bend down even more to deposit a gentle kiss on the forehead of the young men. As the young hero slowly opened his eyes and tried to rise, the old Chief gently restrained him and said with a chocked and gravely voice, “ You can rest now, little brother, we’ll guard you. When others cowered and feared, you gave it all and made a nation proud”
September 13, 2001

The situation in the Gulf, following the BP/Haliburton/Transocean disgrace is really embarrassing and we look to the world like a bunch of people who cannot get their you know what together! We are doing an excellent imitation of the Russian Navy not being able to rescue their own nuclear submarines! Once this mess is sorted out and hopefully resolved some drastic actions are needed to avoid a repeat of this disgrace. Yes new rules have to be put in place and a new watcher has to be charged with the enforcement! Lest it be an enforcer with sharp teeth and claws! We also need to put all the research and technology development executed by the US Navy for their Submarine rescue equipment, the CIA for the Glomar Explorer, get the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution involved for their Navy contract and Titanic program and others together and create an independent agency financed by a the industry and capable to create and operate the technology needed to insure the safety and rescue of all underwater operations. In case of accident similar to the present snafu., lets give a very short time to the operator to resolve the issue. If after that period the problem is not resolved, the property is to be immediately deemed abandoned, the new agency moves in with all their means and technology and resolve the problem. The site will then be treated according to the Rule of the Sea where an abandoned vessel becomes the property of the salvage operator. Give the option to the previous operator to buy back at cost plus. If the option is not exercised in a timely manner then the US must takes over the well and use the crude for the purpose of the National Strategic Reserve. If their is a short end to the present stick, lets turn it around!

Reflection on a Passing

Virginia Haggardt was born in Sturgis, South Dakota November 15, 1914. She passed away on Thanksgiving Day 2009 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Virginia was born in a Sturgis far different of the image that most people have of it today because of the association with the motorcycle rally held there for the last sixty-nine years. During the event the town is buried in thousands and thousand of loud, rambunctious motorized revelers, then when the last rumble echoes down the hills, the town return to its tranquil life of a little town of roughly six thousand people.
For Virginia, Sturgis and the Black Hills would be the place where she would return time and time over looking for solace, reprieve and sweet memories when life was getting a little too harsh.
She was the daughter of Al Bodley, known by his family as “Sonny”, and his wife Alice Davenport herself known as Oshie.
Sonny was a tall handsome man born in 1880 in a farm in Ohio. A bit of an athlete he became a semi professional Baseball player at the turn of the Century. Eager for a larger horizon than the one offered by a farm boy life, Sonny became a traveling Safe salesmen in the Midwestern states while studying law on his own. He “read” his law degrees and became a lawyer, as was the practice at the time.
Oshie was the daughter of a couple of early settlers of the Black Hills of South Dakota. Her Dad had been a drummer boy in the Union Army during the Civil War and her mother actually walked thru the Plains to join her husband in Sturgis. They where a couple of Pioneers displaying both the ruggedness needed for survival in the early times of the Gold Rush and the Civility and Culture of New England. Oshie character was a reflection of those values, holding her place well in the life in the hills but send out to an Eastern University for a “Proper Education”, an unusual combination in those times.
Sonny fell in love with Oshie and then started the Herculean task of not only gaining the love of Oshie but also chiseling his way thru the stout defenses of the father of the bride to be and the enormous reticence of the big brother of Oshie, Jarvis Davenport, who was not about letting his “Little Sister” get victimized by some sweet talking stranger.
Sonny’s task was finally met with success. Oshie and Sonny got married and in November 15, 1914 Virginia was born.
Upon Sonny’s return from World War One the family moved to Sioux Falls.
Virginia childhood was an easy, privileged and magical one. She would enjoy the education of a small private Episcopal School in Sioux Falls (All Saints School) where she formed some lifelong friendship. Virginia recalled those times and most vividly the times when the family had to take only showers since the access of the bathtub was hindered by Sonny’s use of it to manufacture home made gin during the Prohibition. Her vacation where spend back in Sturgis where she enjoyed careening thru the hills, standing on the footboard of the car of her Idol: her uncle Jarvis Davenport.
She became a respectable equestrian, equally at ease on a Western or English saddle and was at time opening the parade of the Days of Seventy-Six in nearby Deadwood, riding the Golden Horse. She inherited from Jarvis as well a wicked game of Gin Rummy.
It is during those times that she acquired a strong spiritual attachment to a place in the Hills known by the family as “The Dams”. That is where the roots of the family belong and it was Virginia’s Camelot. Throughout her life, when things were getting a little to hard or that a source of strength was needed, Virginia would go back to the dams, the cabins in the wood and the traces of the lives of her ancestors.
In line with the family traditions, Virginia was send to the College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia from where she graduated in 1937. Those where the times of the railroad travel and of the Great Depression.
Upon graduation Virginia worked as a Social Worker in Custer South Dakota.
In 1942 she was married and from that union two daughters were born, my wife Virginia (Jinny) and Julie. The family lived in Santa Barbara.
In 1944 Virginia and her husband build a lodge in her beloved Black Hill: the Powder House in Keystone, still operating under this name today. Virginia memories of those times were of challenges, hope, excitement and the struggle of trying to keep her Chef within the confine of relative sobriety. They had hired the only decent chef available in the area. The gentlemen had a respectable culinary reputation and was known Hills-wise as the maker of the most outstanding “Truite Au Bleu” in the area, providing, off course, that he was kept sober long enough to practice his magic. Trying to keep the housekeeping staff, mainly local college kids out of trouble was also a titanic job since the fresh air of the hills seemed to have an invigorating effect on said teenagers libido.
Her daughter getting older and close of school age brought the sale of the Lodge and the family moved to California. There Virginia would see the end of her marriage and find herself alone to raise her two daughters. She returned to Sioux Falls and lived there for the rest of her life taking care of her aging parents as well.
Virginia never remarried.
Her intellectual and spiritual curiosity became the driving force of her life.
She traveled extensively in the US and abroad, visiting England, France, Italy, Germany, Israel, Egypt and Brazil.
Virginia faith drove her to a deep involvement in her Church as a very active member and also a Lay Minister. She studied in depth all subject within her grasp, sometime with great success, some other time with maybe, a little less success. One point in particular was her adventures in the Choir motivating her at time to give a demonstration of her perceived vocal ability, to the great dismay of the family left in that event without a way of escape. Her singing, of a very high pitch trembled voice, of traditional Episcopalian Hymns would have, no doubt, brought the fear of God to the most harden, barbaric atheist tribes of the savage world.
Her strong intellectual curiosity prompted her to dive deep in research on the saga of Luther Pendragon and King Arthur and the Sciences of the Mind from ESP and Mind Control to the power of Pyramids. Her family was at time very concerned, but in fact it was not as much an eccentricity out of control than a deep thirst for knowledge and the desire to see if there was any meat on some of those sometime mythical bones.
Virginia met all the setbacks of her life; they were all severe, with grace and dignity. A distinguished equestrian she was, because of a spinal injury, unable to ride after the birth of her children’s. An avid reader she suffered of macular degeneration causing an almost total blindness in the later years of her life and a serious hearing impairment brought almost total silence in her life.
Throughout all the difficulties of the later part of her life, Virginia endured.
On the morning of Thanksgiving Day 2009 Virginia had difficulties waking up but with nursing help was able to get up. She joined her companions of the Hospice of Dow Rummel in Sioux Falls for lunch and after a quiet day retired in the evening, went to bed and passed away in her sleep.
Virginia was a gracious, generous and loving mother in law to me.
If there are hills in the Heaven of her Faith I know they will be her favorite place and if there are Parade in Heaven, I know, deep in my heart, that Virginia will be leading it riding the Golden Horse.
Enjoy Heaven, Virginia Haggardt, you deserve it and earned that honor on Earth.
We miss you already.

Memorial Day reflexions.

I have this image, engraved deep in my memory. It is the image of a little guy; his nickname was “ John-John”. His Dad John Fitzgerald Kennedy was President of the United State.

I do not know if, on this day, John-John really fully understood what was really happening. Somehow, John-John was in the process of saying a last farewell to his assasinated Dad whose coffin was hidden under the Flag draped on the back of an artillery caisson. Soldiers Airmen and Sailors were giving a salute to the Fallen Commander in Chief.

There is always a lot of formal pageantry in the Last Farewell in military circles. A rigid and solemn motion expresses grief. The last Homage is no trivial expression; it is the solemn sign of respect for one who has paid the ultimate price in service of the Nation.

John-John, I am sure was not aware of all the traditions involved, but somehow, seeing all those proud soldiers giving this hard and strong salute a need came to join in and pay homage on that fashion, his hand raised to his forelocks and, I am sure that this moment his voice was silent but his heart was screaming a lot and an immense feeling of respect and sadness for loosing his beloved Dad was engulfing the precious child.

I have not been a child for a long time; I am what you would kindly describe as an older guy, in someways, a precursor of Baby Boomers by only a few years. Tomorrow on Memorial Day, however, I will not go shopping or try to take advantage of some special bargain; instead I will try very hard to catch the spirit of all the John-Johns of this nation. I will keep my words trivial and abstains of long boring speech but my heart will scream of the pain of the lost of all those who fell for their country and the pain of their loved one. I will try to find a quiet place where without being showy or conspicuous I can, like John-John raise my right hand to my forelocks in the old sailor salute and rend homage to their sacrifice.

Somehow if that can reach some place where they rest, may it bring them comfort,

If there is a God , may He receive my message and accept it as a prayer to keep those fallen and their loved ones in the kindness of His Special Attention. That will be my main task on Memorial Day.

From the pound

From the pound

Medical Day in the Inland Empire.

They’re something funky going on the upper left side of my heart and the lower left side of my diaphragm is not functioning normally. So basically my Liberal side is going to pot while my Conservative side is holding the fort! How humiliating! If I keel over I better keep away from the Kennedy’s and Roosevelt’s for fear of disapprobation and I be damned if Nixon’s people try to welcome me!

I have been running from one Doctor Office to the other all day with no result! Men! I need a Stimulus Package all for myself! I've been poked, ultra sounded, taped, stetoscopized and pressurized. I need a nice glass of decent Beaujolais! Chambertin, Pommard anybody?

I'm not really worrying: I'm not that important!

Saturday was a great day. Jinny and I drove to Manhattan Beach to meet a long lost relative. The last time we saw Martha was a long, long time and the little girl we saw last has blossom into a beautiful lady.

Our lunch (at no other place than an eatery called:……”Martha’s Place”) was full of recounting of old memories and when the staff of the restaurant started piling the chairs on the tables, we quickly understood the subtle hint that almost four O’clock was considered, in that part of the country, as being outside of the conventional lunch hour.

After good and strong embraces and multi promises and commitment that the next time would not be counted in multiple decades, we went our separate ways; Martha to her host place and us back home by the way of Pacific Coast Highway.

Soon, the lunch started indicating a serious difference of opinion with my digestive system, and by the time we reached Newport Beach I was rumbling like an old truck and not comfortable at all. I pulled up to a convenience store and made a straight line for a lone mini-bottle of Pepto Bismol that looked at the time like the incarnation of Paradise on hearth. I plopped my money in front of the clerk who after the customary fiddling with scanner and cash register promptly gave me my change. As I was putting my change back in my wallet I realized that the guy had given me the change of a $10.00 and I remembered going to the ATM this morning and getting a brand spanking new $20.00 who joined a couple of single or three. The guy just tried to stiff me of ten bucks! I promptly called the guy on it, he denied the fact, a line started building up behind me, the clerk got frustrated and screwed-up the change of the customer behind me, leading him to join my camp! Tension was building. Then Jinny, who had been wondering what took so long, walked in and after a quick appraisal of the situation joined, nay! Took over the protest. So needless to say the clerk was now way out of his league and finally caved in, gave me back the extra Ten. With the Warrior Queen at my side I walked out of the store vindicated, while the aforementioned Warrior Queen was expressing in no uncertain term her strong denunciation of the questionable ethics of convenience store, their staff and the clerk of the particular one we came out from in particular.

As I sat behind the wheel of the car, I noticed a crumbled paper bag in the driver’s door pocket. The bag had contained two ham and cheese croissants that I had bought this morning in our way in. And I now remembered paying for those croissants and two drinks……with my brand new $20.00 Bill. The need for the Pepto Bismol was now imperative and after ravaging the mini-bottle I walked back to the store. I am pretty sure that when he saw me at the counter the clerk must have tried frenetically to remember where the panic button was located and I am also sure have wished with all his heart that he could have been an active and side packing member of the National Rifle Association.

I meekly apologized for my mistake and the clerk turned out to be a gentleman about it.

No doubt, that young man is a better man than me.

So last Sunday we got reunited with a long lost relative and I discovered a solid chunk of evil in my soul. May I keep the first one a long time and earn the wisdom to loose the second.

Trouble brewing

Yup! The pooches are not fooling me! I know that the Chihuahua of the next-door neighbors has put a contract on the Angora cat from the green house AND I also know that the Bulldogs Leopold and Mimi are planning the hit in cahoots with the Poodle (a.k.a. the French Connection) from across the street. Off course the local cop (The Irish Wolfhound of the Blue House) is way to busy sniffing some fluffed up Pomeranian to pay attention to the shenanigan. I know that all together there are some skeletons in the closet, even if the slick Terrier of the Tudor on the left (the Consigliore of the Chihuahua) keep on barking that those bones are only the reserve of the large family of Pugs of the Mormon family living in the large house with the stripped awnings. There is trouble in Fire Hydrant City my friends! And it’s Doggy Mafia spelled with a D and an M!

Now the damned cat is not helping the situation either. Flicking off the bulldogs from the branches of the tree in the front yard was really a dumb way to add oil to the fire and the musical serenade under the window of the cute Tabby from the house in the corner at 2:00 O’clock in the morning was downright unnecessary. Although both bulldogs snoring their heads off at the time did not seem to be disturbed, the Chihuahua was plum pissed of! And not shy about it either, until he got hit by the left slipper of the Master of the House and went back yelping into his basket to plot his revenge.

Now I am a quiet guy, just trying to get along and all that gang activity is disturbing my peace of mind. I thought the neighborhood was safe after the couple of white supremacist German Sheppard moved out. They had been involved in a few arguments with the two nice Pointers mix of the Graham house, barking slogans about the need to maintain racial purity. I think that the Grahams dogs handled the situation just right by first lifting a hind leg to a tree and then pointing across the street, an action that I take as a figurative way to say “Piss Off “ in doggy language. That was a small incident in comparison to the gang warfare brewing today. Well, lets hope that spring will come soon and with it a couple of females in heat, a situation that, no doubt will redirect the attention of the canine population of the block, until a new Postman comes in!

Call me Joseph

I am the proud father of three kids, if you can hang that description on three characters born in the early seventies. Or if you want me to be more specific I have a son and two daughters in the full throw of adulthood. So far so good.

When the story of my family turn to the really weird sector is that this gentlemen (father of a daughter on his own), and those two ladies (one mother of a boy and a girl, the other one convinced that she is the dotting mother of two English Bulldogs, no kidding!) are absolutely convinced that they are the result of immaculate conception! Yup all three of them.

Their minds, pretty astute in some very advanced area of either communication and cinematographic art, cardiac imaging, child rearing, trip planning, party throwing and other speculative and operative area comes to a screeching halt when the subject of their conception is broached.

They are not in any way, shape or form able to handle the concept that their creation was the result of sexual activity of two (very) consenting adults. No! No deal!

Any conversation coming even close to the subject is immediately interrupted by loud protest, covering of head and flat refusal to go there!

That is a little puzzling at the least.

For starter, I should know since I was there.

I also know that if my sweet and gentle spouse should have, at the time, started the conversation, some evening around the fireplace or the pool, by informing me that she had received the visit of an archangel and consequently was going to give birth to a child my first reaction would have been a good laugh. Upon her insistence the conversation would have taken a very interesting turn with me trying to find out what kind of stuff said sweet spouse had ingested, sniffed or smoked in the recent past. Thing going any further could have brought me to an early stage of planning of discovery of the location of the archangel with the goal of paying him a visit, in company of my favorite baseball bat, off course.

Any attempts to explain to my kids the error of their thinking as failed miserably and will I am afraid never reached a successful conclusion.

So…call me Joseph….. And NO I do not do cabinetry!

Good night.

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

You might be surprised to receive a letter from me since I have not sent you one for the last fifty-nine years, if memory serves me well.

I sincerely apologize for the lack of communication.

For a long time I considered letter to Santa as childish, and frankly, a waste of time, paper and postage. Then I started looking at the record of my grand children and was amazed of the effectiveness of the Santa Letter. I am no master of statistic but at last count their batting averages on Letters to Santa Vs. what end up under the tree is pretty darn good.

But first, with your permission I would like to discuss with you the issue of the lump of coal. Off course I am not expecting any, since on the criminal or just plain naughty department I score a way below average If I look at the activities reported by the newspaper and compare to my daily activities I come to the conclusion that I am actually involved in a rather boring life totally void of criminal excitement. Beside I know of a few people in Wyoming, Montana, Illinois etc. who must have been totally rotten and now own a tremendous amount of coal and seem perfectly happy about it. So the use of this stuff as a deterrent is counterproductive; and I am not even going to touch on the ecological issue. You are a fair-minded person and I know you will understand.

Now as far as my Christmas wishes are concerned : I am going to give you a wide list with the understanding that I do not expect everything but want to give a field of options. In spite of the real need to restart our economy most of my wishes cannot be bought in store.

So here we go.

1. Hip discomforts and flatulence got to go! After a long drive or a long period of time spent sitting on a hard seat I would like to be able to stand up without walking like a bad string marionette and the rest is not pleasant either. If you can take care of those two it would be swell.
2. All my life I dreamt to be one of those heroes climbing the Everest. However I am lazy and subject to procrastination. Beside, my service in the Navy punctuated by the regular NBC (Nuclear, Biological and Chemical) protection training gave me a strong aversion to any type of breathing apparatus. I also totally lack any kind of ability in the Nepalese language making communication with a trusty Sherpa very problematic. The fact that I do not believe my employer would be willing to give me the time needed is also a huge consideration. So, in view of all that, if you could regroup (for a short time off course) the Everest (and if that is not too much trouble the Anapurna, K2, Kilimandjaro, Mount Fuji and Mount McKinley) let say in Southern California (Camp Pendleton would be fine if you can work it out with the Marine Corp) and reduce them to a workable altitude of say..150 feet so a few friends and family can nail those bad guys in one after noon between burger and beer at noon and sauerkraut and bratwurst in the evening. I would be very grateful. Off course I will be sure that you receive all credit.
3. One afternoon with Ben Franklin, shooting the breeze over a pint of Colonial style Cider and one of those fine clay pipe filled with fine Virginia tobacco from before the time they turned that stuff into a chemical dump would be swell. I promise not to mention the stuff about all those parisien gals. What happen in Paris stays in Paris, sorry Vegas!
4. A 1960 Cadillac Coupe de Ville Convertible, non polluting and running on Biofuel would be grand. Love them fins!
5. Whats’his name, the dude from The Mentalist TV series having one episode during which he display either a wart on his face or snut hanging from his nose for the entire said episode. That request is for the purpose of allowing me one evening without having my sweet wife Jinny, Daughter Deb and the juvenile bulldog Mimi swooning each time that guy is shown on screen. I do not want the guy to sustain any permanent injury, just a chance to recalibrate the libido of the bunch. Would be really nice, thank you.
6. Once in a while, the Sun to go over the yardarm before five O’clock so I would not have to stand, very cold shaker in hand, in front of the liquor cabinet counting “four fifty nine and forty seconds, four fifty nine and fifty seconds… One Saturday a month at let say three O’clock would be just peachy, thank you.
7. Gas at thirty-five cents to the gallon would be super! I do not even need an attendant to clean my windshield and give me a cool printed glass.

If you could work any one or a combination of those it would be a great Christmas present and as you can see… no money to be spend in store nor waiting in line at the register.

Off course a terrific cookie and glass of milk will be waiting for you on Christmas Eve. I would leave you some of my terrific eggnog, but sorry Santa you’re driving. But I’ll give you a rain check on the eggnog!

Thank you for your kind attention.

Best regards

Dan Faye

November 11

Ninety years ago, on November Eleven of the year Nineteen Eighteen at eleven AM, in a fancy railroad car parked in Rethonde in the great Forest of Compiegne France the belligerents of World War One came to their senses and signed an accord of Armistice.

Guns would stop and bells would ring.

What was left of an entire generation listened to those bells in disbelief, needing some time to realize that they would get out of the trenches alive and go back home. Many, many more would never have that chance, it was too late for them, all eight millions of them. But at least, for the lucky ones, sweetheart would be reunited, parents would get their sons and daughters back, sons and daughters would get their parents back.

At first we celebrated that day as Armistice Day, then when the War To End All Wars did not keep its promises and more conflicts ebbed and flowed, some more Armistice where signed and soon we changed this celebration to Veterans Day in the US, Remembrance Day in the British Commonwealth.

On this day we honor the sacrifice of all the Veterans, men and women, draftees and volunteers.

We should also honor those who stayed behind in fear, parents, loved ones, children living in anguish, living with the guttural fear of two men in uniform knocking at the door to announce that a loved one would not be coming back and seat among his/her family and friends. Those are also in their own way Veterans to be honored. A folded flag and the gratitude of a nation cannot fix the hole in your heart where the hope of getting reunited with a loved one was kept.

I was born in France during the Second World War and as all Europeans of my generation, I share in the enormous debt of gratitude owed to the men and women who fought to give us another chance to be free.

I am now an American Citizen and I know that with all the benefits I received with my citizenship came also a large share of the debts owed to the Veterans and their loved ones.

I am not a religious men in the sense of belonging to a Church but I pray to God, whatever is name is, to hold all those Veterans and their kins in the Palm of his hand and to look kindly on them. They have given more that their share. Thank you the chance to be free you gave to me and my family.

Kris Kristopherson

Jinny and I went to a benefit concert today. I was at one of the winery in Temecula.
Seating outside under the star we enjoyed an very nice dinner al fresco. Then the show started with a the opener of a Spanish guitar player whose performance included some very good flamenco numbers.
The music was good, the food tasty and the local Pinot Grigio helped setting the stage for what ended up being an unbelievable emotional roller coaster.
I am not a great connoisseur of country music; I only knew that Kris Kristofferson would be the main attraction of the evening.
His set started with some song I recognized from old time: “Me and Bobby McGee”, “Jody and the kid”, “Sunday Mornin’ coming down”, “Derby’s Castle”, “ Help me make it trough the night”.
The magic of the simple melodies, the raspy voice, the honesty of a delivery without pretension, reached out deep into me and soon I was not in the courtyard of a winery in the middle of a charity fundraiserany longer.
Some songs took me way back to some better times and some other one to bitter sadder times.
The music and songs of that men standing alone on a simple stage were really tearing my soul, at time feelings of joy or tenderness were rolling in, at time I was chasing tears.
I felt again the boozy loneliness of a confused kid in sailors uniform in the bars of the infamous Chicago area of Toulon France or in the cold foggy night of Recouvrance in Brest, trying to convince himself that he was a tough and heroic warrior but not able to accept what he saw in Algeria nor willing to ask if he was on the right side.
Then another set would come and other feelings would swamp me. Songs dedicated to his kids would send me back to the time when my own kids were still very physically close to me and trying to open there wings before the heartbreak of the departure in their own flight to freedom.
Some song brought me back to the time when Jinny came into my life and gave me the breath of a new life in allowing me to take a look at it from another vintage.
I felt a deep kinship to his spirit when the song were condemning the use of war and the stupidity of the arrogance of claiming to bring freedom to people by bombing them back to the stone age.
I was not a sixty year old men anymore, my emotion were raw and to the surface. Some songs brought tear to my eyes, some put a lump in my throat, some raised my indignation and some brought a warm glow of tenderness.
When the show was over I felt drained but somehow cleansed and could not resist the impulse to thank Jinny for being part of my life.
That was a good evening.

Of deers and two pretty cool women in my life

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I was driving my daughter Debi to the dentist in Orange County. We were driving on the infamous Ortega Highway that on top of being a site of horrendous motorcycle accidents is notorious for the large amount of road kill. Beside crossing a couple of free spirited villages with an hefty population of free roaming dogs and cats, providing a fairly heavy percentage of the road fatalities the highway is traveling thru the Cleveland National Forest and it is a rare day when one does not have to drive by the carcass of a rabbit, skunk, fox, coyote, bearcat or even deer. I hate those moments and feel a large amount of guilt about being part of the problem.
On this day, on the approach of San Juan Capistrano, we drove by a dead deer and a quarter of a mile later by the car responsible for the killing. I was very troubled and felt my throat a little tight at the thought of the killing of an innocent animal for the sake of a right a way. I noticed that Debi was a little too quiet and turned to look at her, and that beautiful young women look at me with tear rolling out of her eyes and gently sobbed with a desperate anger: “That not fair Dad! It was his country! And we shoved a road through it” I was not able to carry much of a conversation at this time, able only to give her a gentle tap on her laps.
The other morning, driving to work with my wife Jinny on the same highway, coming to the Forest Service Fire Station next to the lower San Juan bridge, we came across another deer, visibly hit by another car, but still alive, prone on the side of the road, heads up, unable to stand and get away. The sight greatly disturbed me, as I was turning toward Jinny, I saw this stern look on her face, as without any hesitation she pulled her cell phone out and called 911. No other seemed to react as they sped by the incident.
I do not know what the outcome was. But tonight, as I seat her on my computer reminiscing, my eyes get a bit misty and I realize how proud I am of the humanity of those two wonderful women in my life.