Carl Bernstein
“Loyalties, a Son’s Memoir”
Executive Order No. 9835
By Richard E. Noble
I’ve just finished reading a book entitled “Loyalties, a Son’s Memoir” by Carl Bernstein, the Washington Post reporter of Watergate fame.
Carl Bernstein’s dad was a lawyer. He was interested in politics. He got involved in the Roosevelt administration and served on several prominent committees. He joined the military in World War II and went over to Europe to fight against Fascism and Nazism. When he returned to his home, it seems to me, he found more of the same waiting for him right here.
On March 21, 1947 Harry Truman passed executive order 9835. This order was to trigger the American Inquisition of the late 40’s and early 50’s - the McCarthy Era.
This law basically stated that anyone suspected of disloyalty could be summarily dismissed from their government job. You could be called before a commission on information provided anonymously. You had no right to a lawyer, no jury, no trial. You weren’t allowed to confront your accusers, or to even know who they were. No proof or specific evidence was required, but yet if the board found that you were suspect, you would be fired from your job, and labeled as a subversive. You might never find another job. You might have to move from your neighborhood, change your name, lie, hide and keep the knowledge of your appearance before this inquisition committee a secret for the rest of your life. And this all could happen to you because you were a member of some labor union, or an associate of a member of a labor union. Or you were a member of a club that petitioned for the rights of blacks or minorities in America; or you wrote something positive about the Soviet Union, or you associated with someone who did. You could lose your job, your career and the potential for your whole life’s efforts on the false accusation of an anonymous, jealous fellow worker; someone who may have had a cousin in line for your job.
Carl Bernstein’s dad was one of these people. He was bigger than an unjustly accused victim though. He was an outright champion of the victimized. As a lawyer, he took it upon himself to defend over five hundred of these people brought before Mister McCarthy and his team of government investigators until finally like, Clarence Darrow before him, he was brought to the firing line by his political rivals and enemies. He lost his status and position. He lost his Washington career. He lost his ability to practice law. He ended up opening up a Bendix coin-operated Laundromat in a black neighborhood, and that is how he earned his living from that time on.
This is quite a story, in itself, but there is more.
Carl Bernstein’s dad, a defender of the liberal left was confronted by the McCarthy champions of the right. Two of McCarthy’s prominent Knights were the infamous Roy Cohn, and Richard M. Nixon.
Richard M. Nixon, the man who was forced to resign from the highest government job in the land, who had his whole career ruined; who lived the rest of his life fending off accusations and denying his being labeled a crook, and a criminal - this man’s life, very much in the pattern of his late rival, Alfred Bernstein, was brought to this disgraceful position, at least in part, by the son of his victim, Carl Bernstein. The man whose life and career Richard M. Nixon had once helped to destroy.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Animals
Animals
By Richard E. Noble
Dogs and cats are being butchered in China for their pelts. An undercover reporter went to China, posing as an agent for a fir buying firm and with a hidden camera filmed his experiences.
He showed film of little kittens in cages all cowering in the corner, while a man with a string looped on the end of a stick, strung it about the neck of one of the little kittens, then pulled it tight and lifted the kitten to the top of the cage where it was left to dangle, kicking, mewing and struggling until it died. While we all watched the little kitten struggle, the camera caught the faces of the kittens still in the cage awaiting their turn with the noose.
“Those kittens are cowering in the corner with fear in their eyes. It is almost as if they understand what is about to happen to them,” offered the show’s host.
In another scene a man is shown walking a dog on a leash. The dog is wagging its tail as he walks obediently at the side of his master. The dog’s leash is then hooked to a fence, and the owner then takes hold of a back leg of the animal, slits an artery up in the thigh, and as the dog yelps, wines and whimpers he proceeds to skin the dog alive. As he peels the hide off the living dog, the dog’s tail continues to wag in friendly adherence to its master’s torturous demands.
The reporter comments that some of these pictures will be imbedded into his mind forever. I knew the moment that he uttered that phrase it would be the same for me also.
I wanted to scream out in righteous indignation at the brutal unfeeling Chinese, but before I could squeak out even a peep, I saw the dead, cooked carcasses of turkeys and chickens on my dinning room table. I saw pork chops and steaks sizzling on my Bar-b-que grill. I saw burgers and sausages browning in my sauce pan. And so, I thought, we humans choose some living creatures to pet and others to torture.
And how does a man who would like to consider himself as “good” rectify this sight with justice and morality?
I guess he doesn’t. Like much else in this world and life about us we simply turn our heads and deny that it is happening. We hire others to do the killing and perform the dirty deeds and we avoid as best we can the responsibility for even our own appetites. Or we perform the dirty deeds ourselves, and say that we have done it because it is so. But what should we do?
Well, I suppose that we could stop killing and eating other living things. If we can’t do that, we could at the least be a little more humane. After all, animals are also the possessors of that divine spark that we humans call life. Is it not that spark we attribute to the image in which we have supposedly been created?
“Humane”? That’s an interesting word, isn’t it? Humane does that mean treating other living things kindly, or does it mean treating other living things as we treat other human beings? You know - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
But, I am told that we are already doing that. It doesn’t seem to be working all that well.
Obviously we need to look for higher standards.
By Richard E. Noble
Dogs and cats are being butchered in China for their pelts. An undercover reporter went to China, posing as an agent for a fir buying firm and with a hidden camera filmed his experiences.
He showed film of little kittens in cages all cowering in the corner, while a man with a string looped on the end of a stick, strung it about the neck of one of the little kittens, then pulled it tight and lifted the kitten to the top of the cage where it was left to dangle, kicking, mewing and struggling until it died. While we all watched the little kitten struggle, the camera caught the faces of the kittens still in the cage awaiting their turn with the noose.
“Those kittens are cowering in the corner with fear in their eyes. It is almost as if they understand what is about to happen to them,” offered the show’s host.
In another scene a man is shown walking a dog on a leash. The dog is wagging its tail as he walks obediently at the side of his master. The dog’s leash is then hooked to a fence, and the owner then takes hold of a back leg of the animal, slits an artery up in the thigh, and as the dog yelps, wines and whimpers he proceeds to skin the dog alive. As he peels the hide off the living dog, the dog’s tail continues to wag in friendly adherence to its master’s torturous demands.
The reporter comments that some of these pictures will be imbedded into his mind forever. I knew the moment that he uttered that phrase it would be the same for me also.
I wanted to scream out in righteous indignation at the brutal unfeeling Chinese, but before I could squeak out even a peep, I saw the dead, cooked carcasses of turkeys and chickens on my dinning room table. I saw pork chops and steaks sizzling on my Bar-b-que grill. I saw burgers and sausages browning in my sauce pan. And so, I thought, we humans choose some living creatures to pet and others to torture.
And how does a man who would like to consider himself as “good” rectify this sight with justice and morality?
I guess he doesn’t. Like much else in this world and life about us we simply turn our heads and deny that it is happening. We hire others to do the killing and perform the dirty deeds and we avoid as best we can the responsibility for even our own appetites. Or we perform the dirty deeds ourselves, and say that we have done it because it is so. But what should we do?
Well, I suppose that we could stop killing and eating other living things. If we can’t do that, we could at the least be a little more humane. After all, animals are also the possessors of that divine spark that we humans call life. Is it not that spark we attribute to the image in which we have supposedly been created?
“Humane”? That’s an interesting word, isn’t it? Humane does that mean treating other living things kindly, or does it mean treating other living things as we treat other human beings? You know - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
But, I am told that we are already doing that. It doesn’t seem to be working all that well.
Obviously we need to look for higher standards.
Friday, November 24, 2006
JEWS
Jews – History
By Richard E. Noble
In this process of my self-education - and I must educate myself, because no one else has the patience - as far as history, philosophy, theology, science ... man, just about everywhere you turn, there are Jews. So I decided that I had to read some books about the Jews.
I followed the Jews back to Moses. But there is a controversy about Moses. They are not even sure he really existed. But Mark Twain helped me out there. Mark said that if Moses didn’t really exist, there was probably someone around about the same time with the same name.
So okay, we have Moses, “the Law giver”. But Moses wasn’t the first Jew. Moses was found floating down the river by an Egyptian Princess who took him home and raised him as an Egyptian Prince. Moses has it made; but Moses messes up. He gets into a fight with an Egyptian Foreman who is whipping a Jewish bricklayer whom the foreman feels is screwing up one of the pyramids or something. Moses wins, but he wins too good. The other guy is dead. Moses then tries to defend and explain himself, but the only people who agree and understand his point of view are Jews - kind of like the 0. J. Simpson trial. So Moses heads for the hills, and moves in with a bunch of Jews.
But then I ask myself, if Moses wasn’t the first Jew, I mean, he was no Buddha. There were Jews all around even before Moses showed up at the construction site. So who was the first Jew, and where did all this Jew stuff really begin?
So I find the oldest Jewish historian that I can find, a guy by the name of Flavius Joesephus - no relation to Bo-sephus, the red-neck country guy. This is Joe-sephus. This guy is a story in himself we will do something on him another time. But, in any case, I start reading in order to find out who the first Jew in history really was. And this book written by Josephus starts off like this:
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”
It’s the Bible, man! Can you believe it? According to Josephus, the first Jew is Adam and the first Jewish Princess is Eve. Now I wish that this Josephus had done a little more research, because I’m wondering now, was God really Jewish, Himself?
But whatever, the first man and woman were Jewish. Well, I’ll be damned, who would have thunk it? And if that is the case, then we are all basically Jews. I mean everybody!
But what if I don’t want to be Jewish, I don’t even have one of them little beanies. The Pope even has one. But why shouldn’t he? He’s just as Jewish as all the rest of us.
I just don’t get it. If everybody is Jewish, what has everybody been arguing and killing one another about for all of these centuries?
More books to read, I guess. You know, I’m beginning to think that there is no end to all this reading and educating business. You’d think if God wanted me to know all of this stuff, He would have created me as an Encyclopedia salesman or Funkend Wagnall or somebody like that.
By Richard E. Noble
In this process of my self-education - and I must educate myself, because no one else has the patience - as far as history, philosophy, theology, science ... man, just about everywhere you turn, there are Jews. So I decided that I had to read some books about the Jews.
I followed the Jews back to Moses. But there is a controversy about Moses. They are not even sure he really existed. But Mark Twain helped me out there. Mark said that if Moses didn’t really exist, there was probably someone around about the same time with the same name.
So okay, we have Moses, “the Law giver”. But Moses wasn’t the first Jew. Moses was found floating down the river by an Egyptian Princess who took him home and raised him as an Egyptian Prince. Moses has it made; but Moses messes up. He gets into a fight with an Egyptian Foreman who is whipping a Jewish bricklayer whom the foreman feels is screwing up one of the pyramids or something. Moses wins, but he wins too good. The other guy is dead. Moses then tries to defend and explain himself, but the only people who agree and understand his point of view are Jews - kind of like the 0. J. Simpson trial. So Moses heads for the hills, and moves in with a bunch of Jews.
But then I ask myself, if Moses wasn’t the first Jew, I mean, he was no Buddha. There were Jews all around even before Moses showed up at the construction site. So who was the first Jew, and where did all this Jew stuff really begin?
So I find the oldest Jewish historian that I can find, a guy by the name of Flavius Joesephus - no relation to Bo-sephus, the red-neck country guy. This is Joe-sephus. This guy is a story in himself we will do something on him another time. But, in any case, I start reading in order to find out who the first Jew in history really was. And this book written by Josephus starts off like this:
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”
It’s the Bible, man! Can you believe it? According to Josephus, the first Jew is Adam and the first Jewish Princess is Eve. Now I wish that this Josephus had done a little more research, because I’m wondering now, was God really Jewish, Himself?
But whatever, the first man and woman were Jewish. Well, I’ll be damned, who would have thunk it? And if that is the case, then we are all basically Jews. I mean everybody!
But what if I don’t want to be Jewish, I don’t even have one of them little beanies. The Pope even has one. But why shouldn’t he? He’s just as Jewish as all the rest of us.
I just don’t get it. If everybody is Jewish, what has everybody been arguing and killing one another about for all of these centuries?
More books to read, I guess. You know, I’m beginning to think that there is no end to all this reading and educating business. You’d think if God wanted me to know all of this stuff, He would have created me as an Encyclopedia salesman or Funkend Wagnall or somebody like that.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Poverty
Poverty
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
Poverty seems to be both universal and timeless. But, as with pornography, everyone recognizes it when they see it, yet find the concept impossible to define. My reading in philosophy has led me to believe that nothing can be understood adequately unless it can be defined.
So far the simplest and most straight forward definition that I have is that poverty is a lack of money or material possessions.
This definition, of course, is very vague. Almost all of us can attest to having a lack of money and material possessions - to some degree - but we don’t necessarily consider ourselves to be living in a state of poverty. Today many consider the State of Poverty to be a real place - namely Mississippi. But even given this terrible set of circumstances most of us would agree that we would rather be poor in Mississippi that in India or Bangladesh, Bangkok or Baghdad.
So what is poverty? Let me give it a shot here:
Poverty is that state or condition in which an individual or a group of individuals within a given society or structure are unable to provide for themselves adequately.
Right off, I see that the problem with this definition is the word “adequately”. Who or how do we determine what is adequate?
Let’s try again:
Poverty is that state or condition in which an individual or a group of individuals are unable to provide for themselves in a manner acceptable to the majority of the people composing the group or community of which the said individual or group of individuals is a part or member.
This would make poverty into a relative concept. In other words whether a person is living in poverty or not would be determined by the judgment of the majority living within that particular group or community. And I would say that this is the case or fact of the matter. What would be considered poverty in Denmark might not be what is considered poverty in Bangkok.
But whether in Bangkok or Mississippi whatever we decided is poverty, this state is determined by “money” and or “material possessions”. It is not a state of mind. It is a condition that exists in economic reality.
And what determines a person’s relative poverty is a matter of what he owns or earns. If what he owns or what he earns is below a certain standard then it is deemed that he is living in a state of poverty.
The solution to poverty would then be that an individual or group of individuals living in poverty must somehow have their material possessions or quantity of money enhanced to that degree considered to be acceptable by the surrounding society or group.
So obviously, if we determine who are poverty stricken within a given society and we “give” them money and or material possessions in sufficient quantity we could eradicate poverty from within our society or any given society.
But as far as I know there has never been any society that has found this to be an acceptable method for the eradication of poverty. There are a million problems with this method and I don’t think that I have to elaborate.
But before we even get to the possibility of the above as a solution we must all be brought to accept that poverty does exist in reality within our particular societies.
In the early days of human civilization poverty was somewhat glossed over by the institutions of slavery and peasantry. And in these early days both slavery and peasantry were accepted as destined, inevitable, acceptable and in most cases established by God. Most of the early religious leaders - Buddha, Jesus Christ, Mohammed, and many of the early Jewish prophets - saw an “injustice” in this attitude. They set out on the charitable mission of reforming the established acceptance of poverty and turning the eradication of poverty into a religious goal. Instead of the elite and successful being the “chosen people” of God - Egyptians, Romans, Greeks etc., these reformers taught that the “poor huddled masses” were the “chosen” and if not the chosen at least they were to be included and not excluded from God’s select circle.
This went on rather haphazardly until Calvin and others of his time began to spin the story of God’s love back onto the lives of the rich and famous - and I would say that this is pretty much where we stand today on this matter.
The debate after Calvin was picked up though once again during the enlightenment. Certain social thinkers - Godwin, Voltaire, J. S. Mill, Karl Marx and many, many more - began to suggest that poverty was not a condition established by God or that this condition was not inevitable but was brought on by society in general. This did not sit well with the Generals of society. One of the first defenders of the status quo and society in general was Malthus.
Malthus suggested that the reason that poverty, starvation and destitution were growing at such an alarming rate was very simple. Food supply increased arithmetically while people increased geometrically. Therefore starvation, destitution, and poverty were inevitable. It was not so much that the rich were not willing to share or that society in general was inadequate, but more because of mankind’s sexual practices - and especially the sexual overindulgence of the poor and poverty stricken.
Today conservative thinkers like George Will still advocate this same notion. George Will says that the eradication of poverty in the U.S. is simple; all we have to do is stop teenage pregnancy. George says this because 55% of all women living in poverty in America today were once pregnant teenagers. I would also bet that over eighty percent of us alive today were born of a teenage mother or a very recent graduate from teenagerhood but ... whatever.
Both of these answers I find problematical. First Malthus:
If the question is: How can poverty be eradicated or how can we eliminate poverty. Neither of these answers addresses the issue.
If as Maithus suggested we have people who are living in poverty or who are of the poverty stricken class, produce fewer children - we would still have “poverty”. We could have fewer people living in poverty provided we do not have more people immigrating into this class (peasant) from other societies or that the economic circumstances within the society do not deteriorate thus reducing more and more people to a state of fewer and fewer material possessions or less and less monetary income. Poverty as you will remember is an economic condition. It is defined by how much money and or material possessions a person has.
Mr. Will’s solution would also fail to eliminate “poverty”. People would still be living in a state of poverty if teenage girls did not become pregnant. If all the daughters of the wealthy in America were allowed to become pregnant as teenagers and all the poor and poverty stricken in America were prevented from giving birth as teenagers the ranks of those living in Poverty would probably not be changed one iota. We may have fewer teenage girls living in poverty but poverty would remain.
By keeping your daughter free from teenage pregnancy you may decrease her chances of living a life of poverty but you certainly won’t eliminate poverty. Poverty depends on how much money a person earns or has access to – not on whether she is a teenager or if she is pregnant.
This also applies to those who advocate education as a means of eliminating poverty. You can educate a child and thus give him a greater chance of earning more money - but this will not eliminate poverty. You can educate everybody in the world but if the world does not have enough jobs of above poverty level income available you will simply have smarter people living in a state of poverty. You will probably have the additional challenge of trying to outsmart brighter thieves and burglars. Then you will have to create brighter police officers - that may prove to be even more difficult that eliminating poverty.
If in the time of Malthus all poverty was in the peasant class, then it would follow that poverty could have been eradicated by eliminating all peasants. But if I have my history in tact, peasants were the people who did the farming - they did the hoeing and the cultivating. So if the peasants were all eliminated the food supply would also have been eliminated. In which case Malthus’s bright idea would not only have eliminated “poverty” it would also have eliminated “prosperity”. One may have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but if there is no pudding or porridge or Campbell’s chicken noodle soup what good is your silver spoon?
The bottom line is - if the peasants constituted “poverty”, in order to eradicate poverty the peasant material condition must be enhanced - somehow.
If a pregnant teenage girl must live in “poverty” because she is only capable of working at a job that provides a poverty sustaining wage - if she delays her pregnancy ten years but at the end of that time she is still only capable of working at a job which pays poverty sustaining wages, then what have you accomplished?
There is an elephant in the living room here that neither Malthus or George Will want to face. As long as you have jobs that supply only poverty sustaining wages you will have poverty.
Now we are getting to the real problem.
If your “system” demands that your employers must, of necessity, pay wages that sustain poverty - you either have to learn to accept poverty - shake your head and blame it on God as they have in the past - or you have to tweak the “system”.
The system can only be tweaked in so many ways as I see it.
You can leave the employer alone and “subsidize” those who must perform the poverty producing jobs by some sort of redistribution of wealth via taxation; or you can standardize the pay rate so that no job is poverty sustaining; or you can do a combination of both of these alternatives until there are no people living under the conditions that the majority of the people of this society find inadequate.
Unfortunately the poor can not eliminate poverty. One poor person can work and possibly change his condition but this does not eliminate the economic conditions that dictate the necessity of poverty. Poverty is not individual but systemic - only the wealthy or those who control the supply of money and the opportunity of attaining money can eliminate poverty - in other words those who control the “system”.
If we apply the Willie Sutton Principle here; If a situation can only be satisfied by money, then those with the money or those who control the supply of money are the only ones who can apply the solution. This means business, banking, government - society.
The poor have to be willing, able and have the capacity to earn the money if it is made available. This is understood. There will always be those that are incapable - but that is a much different problem.
In the U.S. it is estimated that there are between 36 and 40 million people living in what is defined by the government as poverty. Unemployment is estimated to be between 4% and 5%. That means that one third of these people are currently registered to be looking for employment. There are no statistics on undocumented workers or on the criminal underclass of chronically unemployed. So this means that over two thirds of these people (36-40 million) are currently employed. These people are working to maintain their poverty. You can either raise their wages, or give them what they need. As long as society allows employment that pays wages that sustain poverty - there will always be someone who is living and working in a state of poverty. You can not educate away poverty; you can not de-populate poverty; you can not racially cleanse away poverty. To remove poverty requires “money” - somebody is going to have to pay for it.
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
Poverty seems to be both universal and timeless. But, as with pornography, everyone recognizes it when they see it, yet find the concept impossible to define. My reading in philosophy has led me to believe that nothing can be understood adequately unless it can be defined.
So far the simplest and most straight forward definition that I have is that poverty is a lack of money or material possessions.
This definition, of course, is very vague. Almost all of us can attest to having a lack of money and material possessions - to some degree - but we don’t necessarily consider ourselves to be living in a state of poverty. Today many consider the State of Poverty to be a real place - namely Mississippi. But even given this terrible set of circumstances most of us would agree that we would rather be poor in Mississippi that in India or Bangladesh, Bangkok or Baghdad.
So what is poverty? Let me give it a shot here:
Poverty is that state or condition in which an individual or a group of individuals within a given society or structure are unable to provide for themselves adequately.
Right off, I see that the problem with this definition is the word “adequately”. Who or how do we determine what is adequate?
Let’s try again:
Poverty is that state or condition in which an individual or a group of individuals are unable to provide for themselves in a manner acceptable to the majority of the people composing the group or community of which the said individual or group of individuals is a part or member.
This would make poverty into a relative concept. In other words whether a person is living in poverty or not would be determined by the judgment of the majority living within that particular group or community. And I would say that this is the case or fact of the matter. What would be considered poverty in Denmark might not be what is considered poverty in Bangkok.
But whether in Bangkok or Mississippi whatever we decided is poverty, this state is determined by “money” and or “material possessions”. It is not a state of mind. It is a condition that exists in economic reality.
And what determines a person’s relative poverty is a matter of what he owns or earns. If what he owns or what he earns is below a certain standard then it is deemed that he is living in a state of poverty.
The solution to poverty would then be that an individual or group of individuals living in poverty must somehow have their material possessions or quantity of money enhanced to that degree considered to be acceptable by the surrounding society or group.
So obviously, if we determine who are poverty stricken within a given society and we “give” them money and or material possessions in sufficient quantity we could eradicate poverty from within our society or any given society.
But as far as I know there has never been any society that has found this to be an acceptable method for the eradication of poverty. There are a million problems with this method and I don’t think that I have to elaborate.
But before we even get to the possibility of the above as a solution we must all be brought to accept that poverty does exist in reality within our particular societies.
In the early days of human civilization poverty was somewhat glossed over by the institutions of slavery and peasantry. And in these early days both slavery and peasantry were accepted as destined, inevitable, acceptable and in most cases established by God. Most of the early religious leaders - Buddha, Jesus Christ, Mohammed, and many of the early Jewish prophets - saw an “injustice” in this attitude. They set out on the charitable mission of reforming the established acceptance of poverty and turning the eradication of poverty into a religious goal. Instead of the elite and successful being the “chosen people” of God - Egyptians, Romans, Greeks etc., these reformers taught that the “poor huddled masses” were the “chosen” and if not the chosen at least they were to be included and not excluded from God’s select circle.
This went on rather haphazardly until Calvin and others of his time began to spin the story of God’s love back onto the lives of the rich and famous - and I would say that this is pretty much where we stand today on this matter.
The debate after Calvin was picked up though once again during the enlightenment. Certain social thinkers - Godwin, Voltaire, J. S. Mill, Karl Marx and many, many more - began to suggest that poverty was not a condition established by God or that this condition was not inevitable but was brought on by society in general. This did not sit well with the Generals of society. One of the first defenders of the status quo and society in general was Malthus.
Malthus suggested that the reason that poverty, starvation and destitution were growing at such an alarming rate was very simple. Food supply increased arithmetically while people increased geometrically. Therefore starvation, destitution, and poverty were inevitable. It was not so much that the rich were not willing to share or that society in general was inadequate, but more because of mankind’s sexual practices - and especially the sexual overindulgence of the poor and poverty stricken.
Today conservative thinkers like George Will still advocate this same notion. George Will says that the eradication of poverty in the U.S. is simple; all we have to do is stop teenage pregnancy. George says this because 55% of all women living in poverty in America today were once pregnant teenagers. I would also bet that over eighty percent of us alive today were born of a teenage mother or a very recent graduate from teenagerhood but ... whatever.
Both of these answers I find problematical. First Malthus:
If the question is: How can poverty be eradicated or how can we eliminate poverty. Neither of these answers addresses the issue.
If as Maithus suggested we have people who are living in poverty or who are of the poverty stricken class, produce fewer children - we would still have “poverty”. We could have fewer people living in poverty provided we do not have more people immigrating into this class (peasant) from other societies or that the economic circumstances within the society do not deteriorate thus reducing more and more people to a state of fewer and fewer material possessions or less and less monetary income. Poverty as you will remember is an economic condition. It is defined by how much money and or material possessions a person has.
Mr. Will’s solution would also fail to eliminate “poverty”. People would still be living in a state of poverty if teenage girls did not become pregnant. If all the daughters of the wealthy in America were allowed to become pregnant as teenagers and all the poor and poverty stricken in America were prevented from giving birth as teenagers the ranks of those living in Poverty would probably not be changed one iota. We may have fewer teenage girls living in poverty but poverty would remain.
By keeping your daughter free from teenage pregnancy you may decrease her chances of living a life of poverty but you certainly won’t eliminate poverty. Poverty depends on how much money a person earns or has access to – not on whether she is a teenager or if she is pregnant.
This also applies to those who advocate education as a means of eliminating poverty. You can educate a child and thus give him a greater chance of earning more money - but this will not eliminate poverty. You can educate everybody in the world but if the world does not have enough jobs of above poverty level income available you will simply have smarter people living in a state of poverty. You will probably have the additional challenge of trying to outsmart brighter thieves and burglars. Then you will have to create brighter police officers - that may prove to be even more difficult that eliminating poverty.
If in the time of Malthus all poverty was in the peasant class, then it would follow that poverty could have been eradicated by eliminating all peasants. But if I have my history in tact, peasants were the people who did the farming - they did the hoeing and the cultivating. So if the peasants were all eliminated the food supply would also have been eliminated. In which case Malthus’s bright idea would not only have eliminated “poverty” it would also have eliminated “prosperity”. One may have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but if there is no pudding or porridge or Campbell’s chicken noodle soup what good is your silver spoon?
The bottom line is - if the peasants constituted “poverty”, in order to eradicate poverty the peasant material condition must be enhanced - somehow.
If a pregnant teenage girl must live in “poverty” because she is only capable of working at a job that provides a poverty sustaining wage - if she delays her pregnancy ten years but at the end of that time she is still only capable of working at a job which pays poverty sustaining wages, then what have you accomplished?
There is an elephant in the living room here that neither Malthus or George Will want to face. As long as you have jobs that supply only poverty sustaining wages you will have poverty.
Now we are getting to the real problem.
If your “system” demands that your employers must, of necessity, pay wages that sustain poverty - you either have to learn to accept poverty - shake your head and blame it on God as they have in the past - or you have to tweak the “system”.
The system can only be tweaked in so many ways as I see it.
You can leave the employer alone and “subsidize” those who must perform the poverty producing jobs by some sort of redistribution of wealth via taxation; or you can standardize the pay rate so that no job is poverty sustaining; or you can do a combination of both of these alternatives until there are no people living under the conditions that the majority of the people of this society find inadequate.
Unfortunately the poor can not eliminate poverty. One poor person can work and possibly change his condition but this does not eliminate the economic conditions that dictate the necessity of poverty. Poverty is not individual but systemic - only the wealthy or those who control the supply of money and the opportunity of attaining money can eliminate poverty - in other words those who control the “system”.
If we apply the Willie Sutton Principle here; If a situation can only be satisfied by money, then those with the money or those who control the supply of money are the only ones who can apply the solution. This means business, banking, government - society.
The poor have to be willing, able and have the capacity to earn the money if it is made available. This is understood. There will always be those that are incapable - but that is a much different problem.
In the U.S. it is estimated that there are between 36 and 40 million people living in what is defined by the government as poverty. Unemployment is estimated to be between 4% and 5%. That means that one third of these people are currently registered to be looking for employment. There are no statistics on undocumented workers or on the criminal underclass of chronically unemployed. So this means that over two thirds of these people (36-40 million) are currently employed. These people are working to maintain their poverty. You can either raise their wages, or give them what they need. As long as society allows employment that pays wages that sustain poverty - there will always be someone who is living and working in a state of poverty. You can not educate away poverty; you can not de-populate poverty; you can not racially cleanse away poverty. To remove poverty requires “money” - somebody is going to have to pay for it.
Friday, November 10, 2006
My Wife's Religion
My Wife’s Religion
by Richard E. Noble
It is funny, religion is one thing that my wife and I never really talked about. I didn’t ask her and she didn’t ask me. Until one day after we had been married for a number of years, she suggested that we go see the new movie Jesus Christ Superstar. She had heard some songs on the radio and she liked them. So I said okay. As we watched the movie it became obvious to me that my wife was not too familiar with the plot of this story.
“Who is that guy supposed to be?” she would ask.
“That’s Jesus,” I would say.
“No, no; not that one. I know Jesus - for God’s sake! The guy standing next to him?”
“Well, that’s Peter. You know ... Upon this rock, I will build my church.”
“Huh?”
“Peter, the apostle? Jesus’s right-hand man?”
“Why is Jesus’s mother following him around everywhere?”
“Jesus’s Mother?”
“Her! ... Mary?”
“That’s not Jesus’s mother, that’s Mary Magdalene.”
“Who’s Mary Magdalene?”
“Well ... ah ... she’s kind of like an apostle.”
“An Apostle? She looks like a tramp.”
“Yes, well she is … or was. She was a lady of the night, or whatever. Then she met Jesus and straightened up.” My wife looked at me kind of funny. “Well, I don’t know. That’s the story. I’ve heard from other sources that she might have been Jesus’s girl friend, or maybe even his wife.”
“Ahh ha!”
On the way home from the theater, I asked my wife what religion she was raised in. She said she was a Protestant.
“What kind of Protestant?” I asked.
She didn’t know. She said that she would call her mother when we got home and find out for sure.
“Well,” I said to her, “it doesn’t really matter. Did you go to Sunday School or anything like that?”
“Of course I did.”
“Well what kind of things did you learn there?”
“Ahh, I learned how to make nifflies, and roast pork with sauerkraut.”
“That’s good. I like roast pork with sauerkraut. What’s a niffly?”
“Oh those are really good. There like a kind of noodle. You eat them with lots of butter and salt. Umm ummm.”
My wife didn’t know Mary Magdalene from a whole in the wall. She didn’t know why Jesus was on trial. She didn’t know that He was a Jew. She didn’t know about the gates of Heaven being closed. She didn’t know about redemption, original sin, purgatory or what the pope had to do with anything. She knew how to make nifflies, and baked sauerkraut with roasted pork. But yet, knowing right from wrong never gave her a second’s pause. When it comes to right and wrong, I ask her. And she always seems to be right; certainly righter than I am. How does she do that, I wonder?
by Richard E. Noble
It is funny, religion is one thing that my wife and I never really talked about. I didn’t ask her and she didn’t ask me. Until one day after we had been married for a number of years, she suggested that we go see the new movie Jesus Christ Superstar. She had heard some songs on the radio and she liked them. So I said okay. As we watched the movie it became obvious to me that my wife was not too familiar with the plot of this story.
“Who is that guy supposed to be?” she would ask.
“That’s Jesus,” I would say.
“No, no; not that one. I know Jesus - for God’s sake! The guy standing next to him?”
“Well, that’s Peter. You know ... Upon this rock, I will build my church.”
“Huh?”
“Peter, the apostle? Jesus’s right-hand man?”
“Why is Jesus’s mother following him around everywhere?”
“Jesus’s Mother?”
“Her! ... Mary?”
“That’s not Jesus’s mother, that’s Mary Magdalene.”
“Who’s Mary Magdalene?”
“Well ... ah ... she’s kind of like an apostle.”
“An Apostle? She looks like a tramp.”
“Yes, well she is … or was. She was a lady of the night, or whatever. Then she met Jesus and straightened up.” My wife looked at me kind of funny. “Well, I don’t know. That’s the story. I’ve heard from other sources that she might have been Jesus’s girl friend, or maybe even his wife.”
“Ahh ha!”
On the way home from the theater, I asked my wife what religion she was raised in. She said she was a Protestant.
“What kind of Protestant?” I asked.
She didn’t know. She said that she would call her mother when we got home and find out for sure.
“Well,” I said to her, “it doesn’t really matter. Did you go to Sunday School or anything like that?”
“Of course I did.”
“Well what kind of things did you learn there?”
“Ahh, I learned how to make nifflies, and roast pork with sauerkraut.”
“That’s good. I like roast pork with sauerkraut. What’s a niffly?”
“Oh those are really good. There like a kind of noodle. You eat them with lots of butter and salt. Umm ummm.”
My wife didn’t know Mary Magdalene from a whole in the wall. She didn’t know why Jesus was on trial. She didn’t know that He was a Jew. She didn’t know about the gates of Heaven being closed. She didn’t know about redemption, original sin, purgatory or what the pope had to do with anything. She knew how to make nifflies, and baked sauerkraut with roasted pork. But yet, knowing right from wrong never gave her a second’s pause. When it comes to right and wrong, I ask her. And she always seems to be right; certainly righter than I am. How does she do that, I wonder?
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Bus
Put ‘em on the Bus
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
Compassion for the poor in the U.S. is a waste of time. Americans do not believe that there are poor, hungry people in America.
My wife doesn’t believe in poverty: my wife who needs, at the most recent estimate, seven thousand dollars worth of dental work; my wife who hasn’t been to a beauty parlor in at least thirty years; my wife who buys her clothes and furniture at the Goodwill; my wife who has traveled, along with her husband, all over the United States picking fruits and vegetables, living under bridges and equipment shelters, washing dishes in crummy restaurants, sweeping floors and working as a transient laborer the majority of her life; my wife who at best can qualify for a minimum wage job anywhere in America; my wife who was once keeping index cards for a cook book which she had tentatively entitled, “One Hundred Different Ways to Cook Chicken Necks”; my wife who, if she happens to get sick tomorrow can look forward to a cot in the corridor at the local hospital because we have no health insurance and throughout our entire working careers never, ever have had any health insurance; my wife who can’t even join in the country song … “A big old brew, my double-wide and you” because the best that we have ever been able to afford is a single-wide; my wife who called the property appraiser’s office last week because our property evaluation went ‘up’ to eleven dollars and thirty-six cents; my wife who recently received a call from a mortgage company who said that if we owned our own property, they would refinance our property, site unseen, for 100,000 - Carol was laughing so hard the man finally hung up; my wife who considers the minimum Social Security benefit a windfall.
My wife doesn’t think that she is poor; she thinks that she is “middle class”.
This is the problem here in America. We have “middle class” folks, like my wife, who watch a show about prison conditions in this country, and who say to themselves; “Man, what can I do to get into that place? free medical and dental, room and board, my own private room, church services, conjugal visits, vocational training, and educational and career training programs. It will take me the rest of my life to earn those benefits out here in the “free” world. And if I can finagle a life sentence, I don’t even have to worry about old age benefits. Wow! That’s as good as the United States Marine Corps, better working conditions, more rights, and no bullets, mud or barbed wire either.”
We have been living in a country where the welfare benefits have been better than the going to work benefits. But that has all been changed - we no longer live in a “welfare” state we live in a “well-fare” state. But here is the Catch-22; when all of the hard working people complained about how even life in prison was better than their lot as honest hard working people, the “middle class” decided that the prison system needed a downgrade. When working people complained that people on welfare had better health care benefits than they did, the “middle class” folks solved the problem by removing health care benefits from welfare recipients. Hardly pays to complain, does it? Next time any of you poor, underprivileged complain; please don’t mention my name - or any names for that matter.
In the past, I would have suggested that the homeless be packed up, put on a bus and brought to a farm out in North Dakota, but I am sure that by adhering to even Geneva Convention rules, or the SPCA the farm will very shortly be better than conditions in parts of New York, Chicago, and L.A., and people all over America will be marching to North Dakota demanding equal rights.
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
Compassion for the poor in the U.S. is a waste of time. Americans do not believe that there are poor, hungry people in America.
My wife doesn’t believe in poverty: my wife who needs, at the most recent estimate, seven thousand dollars worth of dental work; my wife who hasn’t been to a beauty parlor in at least thirty years; my wife who buys her clothes and furniture at the Goodwill; my wife who has traveled, along with her husband, all over the United States picking fruits and vegetables, living under bridges and equipment shelters, washing dishes in crummy restaurants, sweeping floors and working as a transient laborer the majority of her life; my wife who at best can qualify for a minimum wage job anywhere in America; my wife who was once keeping index cards for a cook book which she had tentatively entitled, “One Hundred Different Ways to Cook Chicken Necks”; my wife who, if she happens to get sick tomorrow can look forward to a cot in the corridor at the local hospital because we have no health insurance and throughout our entire working careers never, ever have had any health insurance; my wife who can’t even join in the country song … “A big old brew, my double-wide and you” because the best that we have ever been able to afford is a single-wide; my wife who called the property appraiser’s office last week because our property evaluation went ‘up’ to eleven dollars and thirty-six cents; my wife who recently received a call from a mortgage company who said that if we owned our own property, they would refinance our property, site unseen, for 100,000 - Carol was laughing so hard the man finally hung up; my wife who considers the minimum Social Security benefit a windfall.
My wife doesn’t think that she is poor; she thinks that she is “middle class”.
This is the problem here in America. We have “middle class” folks, like my wife, who watch a show about prison conditions in this country, and who say to themselves; “Man, what can I do to get into that place? free medical and dental, room and board, my own private room, church services, conjugal visits, vocational training, and educational and career training programs. It will take me the rest of my life to earn those benefits out here in the “free” world. And if I can finagle a life sentence, I don’t even have to worry about old age benefits. Wow! That’s as good as the United States Marine Corps, better working conditions, more rights, and no bullets, mud or barbed wire either.”
We have been living in a country where the welfare benefits have been better than the going to work benefits. But that has all been changed - we no longer live in a “welfare” state we live in a “well-fare” state. But here is the Catch-22; when all of the hard working people complained about how even life in prison was better than their lot as honest hard working people, the “middle class” decided that the prison system needed a downgrade. When working people complained that people on welfare had better health care benefits than they did, the “middle class” folks solved the problem by removing health care benefits from welfare recipients. Hardly pays to complain, does it? Next time any of you poor, underprivileged complain; please don’t mention my name - or any names for that matter.
In the past, I would have suggested that the homeless be packed up, put on a bus and brought to a farm out in North Dakota, but I am sure that by adhering to even Geneva Convention rules, or the SPCA the farm will very shortly be better than conditions in parts of New York, Chicago, and L.A., and people all over America will be marching to North Dakota demanding equal rights.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Christianity
Christianity
By Richard E. Noble
I was born a Christian, raised a Christian, and have lived all of my life in highly Christian areas, and in, for the most part, what the world would consider a Christian Nation. But still I have trouble in defining what a Christian actually is.
Most reference books will inform you that a Christian is a person who follows the teachings of Jesus. But I can not consider this a true definition. People claiming to be Christians range all the way from pacifist (Quakers), to barbarian (Nazis), and every stage of development and opinion in-between. What Jesus may or may not have preached is almost indiscernible when viewed from the perspective of the various teaching of all of the various sects claiming to be Christians. So disregarding the various interpretations of the teachings of Jesus, what unifying quality would all of the various Christians agree to?
I think all Christians would agree that Jesus was God - or is of a Divine Nature. I don’t know for sure, and there may be Christian sects who follow the teachings of Jesus but who do not believe in the divinity of Jesus, but if there are, I am unaware of them. If I am not mistaken Albert Schweitzer was such an individual. He wrote a very interesting book, entitled: “In Search of the Historical Jesus”. Albert’s conclusion was that the historical record was much too obfuscated to find any accurate evaluations. He further concluded that Jesus was not God and had made no claims to being God that could be corroborated, historically. Yet Albert went on to live his life in accordance with what he believed to be the philosophy of “love” as proposed by the “prophet” Jesus. But I think most would agree in today’s language a Christian would be a person who devotes himself to the notion that Jesus Christ was Divine, the Son of God, and a God, himself
So then I wonder, is this the belief or opinion of the majority of the World?
It is not. The majority of the world does not believe that Jesus was God or that he was of a Divine Nature.
That is shocking, isn’t it? In fact, did you know that the early Christian Church argued and debated over this very notion for quite some time? It was still being debated in the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries. There was Nestorius and Saint Cyril. There was the Council of Ephesus and the Council of Chalcedon where they were arguing over the human and divine coordination of Christ. The entire authenticity of the Bible, New Testament and Old, is challenged by Tom Paine in his “The Age of Reason”. To think that most of the population of the world does not believe in this, the most fundamental of Christian beliefs, is difficult to come to grips with.
Most of China, over one billion people do not believe that Jesus was, or is God.
India is mostly Hindu or Buddhist and they do not believe that Jesus was or is God.
The Arab world is mostly Islamic, and they do not believe that Jesus was or is God.
Japan and Russia are not Christian nations. Shintoism prevails in Japan and supposedly atheism in Russia.
Jews, of course, have never believed that Jesus was Divine, or a Savior for that matter. And Jesus was one of them. Jesus was or is a Jew depending on who you ask.
From the perspective of the peoples of the world, then, if you are a person who believes in the divinity of Jesus, you are the member of a minority religious, cult group. Your group may be the largest of any such group, but nevertheless, a minority when placed beside all of the other beliefs of the present world. When you take a particular sect of Christianity (Baptist, Methodist etc.) the figures placing you in a minority opinion become even greater. In a good many parts of the world today you would be considered strange and your beliefs odd; you would be labeled as different, an outsider.
Christians like to take heart that, as a whole they represent the largest single belief in the world, but yet in truth they are still a minority of the peoples of the world, and if all of the different Christian sects are assembled in a room to discuss for example, the Christian Bible - traditionally or Historically, they have ended up killing one another.
1 History of Western Philosophy Bertrand Russell pp 366-375.
By Richard E. Noble
I was born a Christian, raised a Christian, and have lived all of my life in highly Christian areas, and in, for the most part, what the world would consider a Christian Nation. But still I have trouble in defining what a Christian actually is.
Most reference books will inform you that a Christian is a person who follows the teachings of Jesus. But I can not consider this a true definition. People claiming to be Christians range all the way from pacifist (Quakers), to barbarian (Nazis), and every stage of development and opinion in-between. What Jesus may or may not have preached is almost indiscernible when viewed from the perspective of the various teaching of all of the various sects claiming to be Christians. So disregarding the various interpretations of the teachings of Jesus, what unifying quality would all of the various Christians agree to?
I think all Christians would agree that Jesus was God - or is of a Divine Nature. I don’t know for sure, and there may be Christian sects who follow the teachings of Jesus but who do not believe in the divinity of Jesus, but if there are, I am unaware of them. If I am not mistaken Albert Schweitzer was such an individual. He wrote a very interesting book, entitled: “In Search of the Historical Jesus”. Albert’s conclusion was that the historical record was much too obfuscated to find any accurate evaluations. He further concluded that Jesus was not God and had made no claims to being God that could be corroborated, historically. Yet Albert went on to live his life in accordance with what he believed to be the philosophy of “love” as proposed by the “prophet” Jesus. But I think most would agree in today’s language a Christian would be a person who devotes himself to the notion that Jesus Christ was Divine, the Son of God, and a God, himself
So then I wonder, is this the belief or opinion of the majority of the World?
It is not. The majority of the world does not believe that Jesus was God or that he was of a Divine Nature.
That is shocking, isn’t it? In fact, did you know that the early Christian Church argued and debated over this very notion for quite some time? It was still being debated in the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries. There was Nestorius and Saint Cyril. There was the Council of Ephesus and the Council of Chalcedon where they were arguing over the human and divine coordination of Christ. The entire authenticity of the Bible, New Testament and Old, is challenged by Tom Paine in his “The Age of Reason”. To think that most of the population of the world does not believe in this, the most fundamental of Christian beliefs, is difficult to come to grips with.
Most of China, over one billion people do not believe that Jesus was, or is God.
India is mostly Hindu or Buddhist and they do not believe that Jesus was or is God.
The Arab world is mostly Islamic, and they do not believe that Jesus was or is God.
Japan and Russia are not Christian nations. Shintoism prevails in Japan and supposedly atheism in Russia.
Jews, of course, have never believed that Jesus was Divine, or a Savior for that matter. And Jesus was one of them. Jesus was or is a Jew depending on who you ask.
From the perspective of the peoples of the world, then, if you are a person who believes in the divinity of Jesus, you are the member of a minority religious, cult group. Your group may be the largest of any such group, but nevertheless, a minority when placed beside all of the other beliefs of the present world. When you take a particular sect of Christianity (Baptist, Methodist etc.) the figures placing you in a minority opinion become even greater. In a good many parts of the world today you would be considered strange and your beliefs odd; you would be labeled as different, an outsider.
Christians like to take heart that, as a whole they represent the largest single belief in the world, but yet in truth they are still a minority of the peoples of the world, and if all of the different Christian sects are assembled in a room to discuss for example, the Christian Bible - traditionally or Historically, they have ended up killing one another.
1 History of Western Philosophy Bertrand Russell pp 366-375.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Thanks
Thanks for the Birds
By Richard E. Noble
I just returned from a visit to “my hometown”. It was a tough and rugged place to be raised and it hasn’t changed any. It was an emotional ride over the hilly countryside of laughter and tears. Laughing with all of my remaining friends about the good old days and tearing-up over the living conditions and circumstances that some Americans are forced to live under.
Actually, in many ways, conditions are pretty much the same as those that I was reared under. My old friends see the town through their sixty year old eyes as better then and horrid now. But Christmas trees were a lot bigger then and girls a lot prettier than they are today, at least as I remember it.
But certain things definitely are different. The tenements and the streets - the patchwork of potholes and tar, aren’t that much different. But crime has been escalated to the unimaginable. One of my old buddies owns a business down in the “combat” zone. He has roil-up steel doors, no windows, and surveillance cameras that provide a picture of the streets outside so that the patrons inside can keep a watch on their cars while they are eating their pizza or having a beer. My hometown has been voted twice as the stolen car capital of America.
I stayed at my friend’s apartment which was one block up from the street where I spent my first twenty-seven years. All night long the police cruisers race about town screaming their warnings. The emergency vehicles, ambulances, rescue vehicles and fire trucks blast their sirens. Beeps, screams, battle cries and horns blast all through the night. My buddy’s police scanners, at the shop and at home, keep a constant report of where the action is. Not because he is a crime buff but to keep tabs on how close the bad guys are to his home or business, so that he can get out his own personal fire power and/or take protective steps. This is not Beirut, Lebanon or Jerusalem. This is “my old hometown” ... once a part of the industrial capital of not only the good old U.S.A., but the world.
As you might have guessed, I woke up early every morning. I got dressed and went walking down the narrow, dark second floor tenement steps and out onto the street. It was shocking. The sun was shinning, birds were singing, and hundreds of little kids with backpacks were banging about, playing tag and rough-housing on every corner waiting on the school buses. I laughed as I thought about it. The sun up in the sky has no choice - it must shine wherever God commands. The kids are stuck. They can’t choose where they will be born. But the birds could fly someplace else; but they don’t. They were singing their merry songs, just as if they were in an apple orchard or blueberry patch in Paradise. I said to myself as my eyes, moistened and glassed over, ‘Thank God for the birds.” They have guts. The whole morning was ablaze with their music. Even the clattering of the crows sounded sweet. If I had a camera I would have taken a picture of them propped up like clothes pins on the drooping telephone wires, or lining up in the crevices and window sills of the tenements or perching on the rims of the open garbage cans that lined the sidewalks.
The sweetest sound I ever heard.
I thought of them as whispering their little songs of hope into every school child’s ear. And I knew, though I don’t remember it now, that they must have been whispering to me many, many years ago, way back when ... in “my hometown”.
By Richard E. Noble
I just returned from a visit to “my hometown”. It was a tough and rugged place to be raised and it hasn’t changed any. It was an emotional ride over the hilly countryside of laughter and tears. Laughing with all of my remaining friends about the good old days and tearing-up over the living conditions and circumstances that some Americans are forced to live under.
Actually, in many ways, conditions are pretty much the same as those that I was reared under. My old friends see the town through their sixty year old eyes as better then and horrid now. But Christmas trees were a lot bigger then and girls a lot prettier than they are today, at least as I remember it.
But certain things definitely are different. The tenements and the streets - the patchwork of potholes and tar, aren’t that much different. But crime has been escalated to the unimaginable. One of my old buddies owns a business down in the “combat” zone. He has roil-up steel doors, no windows, and surveillance cameras that provide a picture of the streets outside so that the patrons inside can keep a watch on their cars while they are eating their pizza or having a beer. My hometown has been voted twice as the stolen car capital of America.
I stayed at my friend’s apartment which was one block up from the street where I spent my first twenty-seven years. All night long the police cruisers race about town screaming their warnings. The emergency vehicles, ambulances, rescue vehicles and fire trucks blast their sirens. Beeps, screams, battle cries and horns blast all through the night. My buddy’s police scanners, at the shop and at home, keep a constant report of where the action is. Not because he is a crime buff but to keep tabs on how close the bad guys are to his home or business, so that he can get out his own personal fire power and/or take protective steps. This is not Beirut, Lebanon or Jerusalem. This is “my old hometown” ... once a part of the industrial capital of not only the good old U.S.A., but the world.
As you might have guessed, I woke up early every morning. I got dressed and went walking down the narrow, dark second floor tenement steps and out onto the street. It was shocking. The sun was shinning, birds were singing, and hundreds of little kids with backpacks were banging about, playing tag and rough-housing on every corner waiting on the school buses. I laughed as I thought about it. The sun up in the sky has no choice - it must shine wherever God commands. The kids are stuck. They can’t choose where they will be born. But the birds could fly someplace else; but they don’t. They were singing their merry songs, just as if they were in an apple orchard or blueberry patch in Paradise. I said to myself as my eyes, moistened and glassed over, ‘Thank God for the birds.” They have guts. The whole morning was ablaze with their music. Even the clattering of the crows sounded sweet. If I had a camera I would have taken a picture of them propped up like clothes pins on the drooping telephone wires, or lining up in the crevices and window sills of the tenements or perching on the rims of the open garbage cans that lined the sidewalks.
The sweetest sound I ever heard.
I thought of them as whispering their little songs of hope into every school child’s ear. And I knew, though I don’t remember it now, that they must have been whispering to me many, many years ago, way back when ... in “my hometown”.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
“The Uncle Joe Memorial”
By Richard E. Noble
To me War is Uncle Joe.
When I was a little boy and fascinated with six-shooters and guns, and playing army with my box full of little tanks, and trucks, and infantrymen, I was looking through a photo album with another of my uncles, my Uncle Ray. The album was filled with pictures of my Uncle Ray and my Uncle Joe in their army uniforms. Seeing my uncles all dressed up in their uniforms prompted me to ask;
“Uncle Ray, did you ever kill any Germans?”
My uncle laughed. Why was he laughing, I wondered? I suppose that it was the naiveté of a child enthusiastically talking about War and killing as if these things were positive achievements for mankind. I’m sure that he realized instantly from the gleam in my eye and the thrill in my voice, that if he said, “Darn right, I did. I wiped out a whole platoon of them suckers!” he would have been an instant hero. But, I’m sure, as much as he wanted the admiration and hero worship of a young idol seeker of about six or seven years of age with eyes just burning to hear a tale of war, victory, and brave endeavor - and knowing that he could tell me any number of lies and I’d never know the difference - made him see a humorous situation written all over my little face.
“No, no,” he said still laughing. “I never left Fort So-and-So. The closest that I got to see any war was at a John Wayne movie.”
“But, but. . .” I said pointing to his picture in his army suit, “you were a soldier.”
“Oh yes, yes,” he explained. “But there were millions and millions of us soldiers who never even shot a weapon. I spent most of the war shooting off a typewriter in this far away foreign land called California.”
Needless to say, I was gravely disappointed. My hero, Uncle Ray, was a typewriter shooter assigned to killing enemy file cabinets in California. Boy, you would think that he could have, at least, knocked down a German - or beat one up - or something. But no, unfortunately, my Uncle Ray was one of those guys who could not tell a lie. He probably read too many cheery tree stories.
But then, seeing all the disappointment dripping from my face, he quickly added; “If you want to know about killing and shooting bad guys, you’ll have to ask your Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe?”
“That’s right. Your Uncle Joe is the man who saw the action. He can tell you all about it.”
I was very glad and proud that I had an uncle who saw action and killed a bunch of enemy people - but Uncle Joe?
Uncle Joe was somewhat of a family mystery. He was semi-mystical. When anybody in the family mentioned his name, a look came over them - as if they were talking about someone who didn’t really exist. Someone who had died a long, long time ago. But Uncle Joe wasn’t dead. He was alive and periodically, I would bump into him. He died before I was twelve years old, yet I can describe to you, in detail, every one of the few encounters that I had with Uncle Joe throughout those years.
Uncle Joe lived as a kind of recluse. He lived somewhere in the neighborhood, but I never did know where. I think that he lived in a little apartment up on Center Street. The apartment was above a small neighborhood tavern known as Coza’s Cafe’.
Uncle Joe had these deep penetrating eyes. They seemed to be sunk deep into his skull - like they were trying to hide back inside his head. The skin around his eyes was always somewhat yellow - funny looking. When I asked my mother about it, she told me it was because my Uncle Joe had contracted malaria during the war. He always looked yellow and . . . . well. . . ghostly.
I learned about Uncle Joe, little by little. He got put together in my life like a picture puzzle - a mass of little jagged pieces, frayed, torn and never quite fitting together properly.
Uncle Joe was the brave, warrior guy who saw all the action and killed all the Germans, but Uncle Joe looked like the saddest, most sensitive, all-alone person who I had ever met. He never got married. He never had any children. And, even though he lived just around the block someplace, you very rarely saw him. Whenever my mother or my aunts talked about Uncle Joe, they talked in “used-to-be's”. Uncle Joe used to be like this; or Uncle Joe used to be like that. Uncle Joe used to be something. Uncle Joe used to be someone, but now . . . what is he? Who is he?
Uncle Joe popped into our apartment one Christmas. My Dad, who was a man of very few words, loved my Uncle Joe. Whenever Uncle Joe walked in that door everybody laid it onto him. He was the wailing wall of the family. Whenever he popped his head out of his “foxhole” it seemed that everyone in the world came running towards him with their arms wide open. And there would be “crying and the gnashing of teeth” as they dumped all of their petty problems and grips onto his shoulders. My mother could moan and cry and bellyache to poor Uncle Joe for hours. I remember sitting on the parlor floor on this particular Christmas, and saying to myself, “Why don’t these people just shut up; can’t they see that they are just going to scare Uncle Joe away? He is just going to fly off someplace.” Uncle Joe was the butterfly – the delicate, sensitive loving butterfly. Didn’t they realize that they were going to chase him right out of the house and that he might never come back?
From my perspective, Uncle Joe was the one who needed the comfort. He was the one who obviously needed the hug and someone to say; “It’s all right. Don’t worry. You’re safe.” But instead, he got the exact opposite. He was the toxic dumpsite for everybody else’s pent-up frustrations - everybody else’s problems. He was the one who understood everyone, but also the one who everyone else didn’t understand. He was the mystery man.
A week later when my older sister and I were taking down the Christmas tree, we found three envelopes scattered among its branches. They had our name written on them - my name on one, my sister’s on another and my brother’s on a third. When we opened the envelopes we found a dollar bill inside. The name of the giver was not to be found on the envelope anywhere.
My sister and I stood for a moment looking at our dollar bill and the unsigned envelope. Then, we looked at one another. Without hesitation, we both said, Uncle Joe! Who else would give and not want anything in return - not even a thank-you, or a hug, or a kiss. Who else did we know who would leave dollar bills hanging in the Christmas tree anonymously - probably the only three dollars that he had.
I still, to this day, don’t know what Uncle Joe did for a living. He didn’t work at the mill or own a car, or a house, or own anything as far as I knew.
One time, my mother was getting back at me for showing too much attention towards my grandmother. I always liked my grandmother. She would cook the same dish that my mother would prepare, and I would eat my grandmother’s and not my mother’s. My mother would get infuriated.
“1 use the exact same recipe that your grandmother uses; in fact, she is the one who taught me how to make this dish.”
“Sorry Mom,” I’d say. “You can blindfold me or put me into a dark closet; I’ll still be able to pick out grandma’s pirogues over yours every time.”
Well finally, this one day, my mother blew her top; “You think that your grandmother is so darn wonderful; well let me tell you this, sonny boy - that woman is the same woman who threw your favorite Uncle Joe out into the street when he came home from the war.”
Boy, my mother knew how to hurt. Could that possibly be true? I didn’t believe my mother. My grandmother was a round, jolly, barrel full of hugs and kisses and chocolate pudding with milk on the top; and cheek-pinching and smiles and laughter.
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “Why would Grandma throw Uncle Joe out into the street?”
“Because he didn’t have a job - that’s why, smarty pants!”
“So?”
“So, your wonderful grandmother didn’t want your Uncle Joe, war hero, sitting around her house and eating her food, without paying any rent.”
Well, I wasn’t going to argue with my mother, but I also knew that she had a sharp tongue and could often say things without thinking - even make up things, sometimes. But just having this new knowledge made me look at my grandmother differently. Could anybody do that to their child? Work was important, but a son? . . . home from the war? Could my grandmother have done such a thing?
One day I was puttsing around helping my Uncle Ray with something. I popped the question; “Did Grandma really throw Uncle Joe out into the street after he came home from the war just because he didn’t have a job and couldn’t pay her any rent?”
My Uncle Ray stopped dead in his tracks. He turned and looked at me.
“Who told you that?” he asked. I lowered my head, shuffled about, and kicked at the concrete at my feet. He could tell that I wasn’t about to squeal. “Well,” he said sitting down on an old crate. “Your grandma did put Uncle Joe out, but your description was not exactly the way that it happened. You see, when your Uncle Joe came back from the war, he wasn’t the same as before he left.”
“I know. He got malaria.”
“Yes, he did have malaria, but he had something else also - something that nobody had a name for; and no cure for either.”
“What was it?”
“Well it is hard to describe. It is something that comes with war and killing people. It makes a man different inside. When your Uncle Joe came back, he was different. He didn’t want to work or even look for a job. He sat in your grandmother’s living room and just stared out the window.”
“So what? I do that sometimes.”
“Yeah, but your Uncle Joe did it day after day after day - for a long, long time. Your grandmother was worried about him. He couldn’t just sit there in the parlor staring out the window for the rest of his life. He was making himself sick inside. Your grandmother tried and tried and tried. She talked and talked, but Uncle Joe just sat there staring out the window and smoking cigarettes. Finally one day she just couldn’t stand it anymore. She packed his bag and brought it to him. She told him that if he wasn’t going to live anymore . . . he would just have to find someplace else to die.”
“So what did Uncle Joe do?”
“He left. Then after awhile he got a job, and pretty soon, he was all right again.”
“What is Uncle Joe, anyway?”
“Well,” my Uncle Ray said with a smile. “Uncle Joe is kind of a Jack-of-all-trades. You know, he was always the kind of guy who could do anything - and be good at it too.”
My Uncle Joe is a part of the reason that I don’t like war. It always seemed to me that my Uncle Joe was a casualty of World War II. Somehow his life ended over there in Burma or Bataan or wherever it was, but his name never got carved into a wall or put on a plaque. Unfortunately he was still alive. But what was he? Who was he? Where did he live? What did he do for a living? Who did he care about? Who cared about him?
War sprouts bodies like my Uncle Joe. Guys who make it back, but don’t make it back. They live under bridges, and in flophouses, out in some woods, or in empty apartments. My Uncle Joe fought on the “right” side in World War II. No question about it. He didn’t fight no “Little Hitler”; he fought the real Hitler - the democracy hating, Jew killing, monster who wanted to take over the world and didn’t care who or how many died in the process. No mistake there, my Uncle Joe fought on the right side - for the good guys. But yet he couldn’t find his way back from Burma - and why? He was right; they were wrong. What’s the problem?
War creates a lot of heroes. We get a lot of plaques and a lot of monuments. We get bronze guys on horses - concrete guys with swords. We get statues, and walls, and pillars, and pits, and ponds and lakes, all surrounded by canons, and cartridge boxes and stars and stripes and flags - lots and lots of flags. But war also creates a hell of a lot of Uncle Joes.
There are no memorials to the Uncle Joes. I doubt if there ever will be. How do you carve a ghost out of marble? How do you paint a picture of a man searching for the soul he lost on Pork Chop Hill or in some Vietnam village or on Bataan or at the Battle of the Bulge or in Flanders Field? How do you make a statement about a man who no longer has anything to say?
The Uncle Joe War Memorial? what would it look like?
My guess is that these Uncle Joe types would not want a memorial. They would probably tell the public to keep the money and put it into the hot lunch program at the public schools.
So don’t start up a collection or hire a sculptor just yet. These guys probably like living under the bridges and in those empty apartments - it’s now a tradition; a very, very old tradition.
I don’t know about you but there is a part of me who lives in an empty apartment; a part of me who would rather live under a bridge; a part of me who doesn’t want any hugs and kisses; a part of me who just wants to be left alone - all alone; a part of me who thinks that he has nothing left inside of him - nothing left to give; a part of me who would just like to die - to die in peace; and may they all someday rest in PEACE; someday . . somehow, somewhere - may we all rest in PEACE. . . amen.
By Richard E. Noble
To me War is Uncle Joe.
When I was a little boy and fascinated with six-shooters and guns, and playing army with my box full of little tanks, and trucks, and infantrymen, I was looking through a photo album with another of my uncles, my Uncle Ray. The album was filled with pictures of my Uncle Ray and my Uncle Joe in their army uniforms. Seeing my uncles all dressed up in their uniforms prompted me to ask;
“Uncle Ray, did you ever kill any Germans?”
My uncle laughed. Why was he laughing, I wondered? I suppose that it was the naiveté of a child enthusiastically talking about War and killing as if these things were positive achievements for mankind. I’m sure that he realized instantly from the gleam in my eye and the thrill in my voice, that if he said, “Darn right, I did. I wiped out a whole platoon of them suckers!” he would have been an instant hero. But, I’m sure, as much as he wanted the admiration and hero worship of a young idol seeker of about six or seven years of age with eyes just burning to hear a tale of war, victory, and brave endeavor - and knowing that he could tell me any number of lies and I’d never know the difference - made him see a humorous situation written all over my little face.
“No, no,” he said still laughing. “I never left Fort So-and-So. The closest that I got to see any war was at a John Wayne movie.”
“But, but. . .” I said pointing to his picture in his army suit, “you were a soldier.”
“Oh yes, yes,” he explained. “But there were millions and millions of us soldiers who never even shot a weapon. I spent most of the war shooting off a typewriter in this far away foreign land called California.”
Needless to say, I was gravely disappointed. My hero, Uncle Ray, was a typewriter shooter assigned to killing enemy file cabinets in California. Boy, you would think that he could have, at least, knocked down a German - or beat one up - or something. But no, unfortunately, my Uncle Ray was one of those guys who could not tell a lie. He probably read too many cheery tree stories.
But then, seeing all the disappointment dripping from my face, he quickly added; “If you want to know about killing and shooting bad guys, you’ll have to ask your Uncle Joe.”
“Uncle Joe?”
“That’s right. Your Uncle Joe is the man who saw the action. He can tell you all about it.”
I was very glad and proud that I had an uncle who saw action and killed a bunch of enemy people - but Uncle Joe?
Uncle Joe was somewhat of a family mystery. He was semi-mystical. When anybody in the family mentioned his name, a look came over them - as if they were talking about someone who didn’t really exist. Someone who had died a long, long time ago. But Uncle Joe wasn’t dead. He was alive and periodically, I would bump into him. He died before I was twelve years old, yet I can describe to you, in detail, every one of the few encounters that I had with Uncle Joe throughout those years.
Uncle Joe lived as a kind of recluse. He lived somewhere in the neighborhood, but I never did know where. I think that he lived in a little apartment up on Center Street. The apartment was above a small neighborhood tavern known as Coza’s Cafe’.
Uncle Joe had these deep penetrating eyes. They seemed to be sunk deep into his skull - like they were trying to hide back inside his head. The skin around his eyes was always somewhat yellow - funny looking. When I asked my mother about it, she told me it was because my Uncle Joe had contracted malaria during the war. He always looked yellow and . . . . well. . . ghostly.
I learned about Uncle Joe, little by little. He got put together in my life like a picture puzzle - a mass of little jagged pieces, frayed, torn and never quite fitting together properly.
Uncle Joe was the brave, warrior guy who saw all the action and killed all the Germans, but Uncle Joe looked like the saddest, most sensitive, all-alone person who I had ever met. He never got married. He never had any children. And, even though he lived just around the block someplace, you very rarely saw him. Whenever my mother or my aunts talked about Uncle Joe, they talked in “used-to-be's”. Uncle Joe used to be like this; or Uncle Joe used to be like that. Uncle Joe used to be something. Uncle Joe used to be someone, but now . . . what is he? Who is he?
Uncle Joe popped into our apartment one Christmas. My Dad, who was a man of very few words, loved my Uncle Joe. Whenever Uncle Joe walked in that door everybody laid it onto him. He was the wailing wall of the family. Whenever he popped his head out of his “foxhole” it seemed that everyone in the world came running towards him with their arms wide open. And there would be “crying and the gnashing of teeth” as they dumped all of their petty problems and grips onto his shoulders. My mother could moan and cry and bellyache to poor Uncle Joe for hours. I remember sitting on the parlor floor on this particular Christmas, and saying to myself, “Why don’t these people just shut up; can’t they see that they are just going to scare Uncle Joe away? He is just going to fly off someplace.” Uncle Joe was the butterfly – the delicate, sensitive loving butterfly. Didn’t they realize that they were going to chase him right out of the house and that he might never come back?
From my perspective, Uncle Joe was the one who needed the comfort. He was the one who obviously needed the hug and someone to say; “It’s all right. Don’t worry. You’re safe.” But instead, he got the exact opposite. He was the toxic dumpsite for everybody else’s pent-up frustrations - everybody else’s problems. He was the one who understood everyone, but also the one who everyone else didn’t understand. He was the mystery man.
A week later when my older sister and I were taking down the Christmas tree, we found three envelopes scattered among its branches. They had our name written on them - my name on one, my sister’s on another and my brother’s on a third. When we opened the envelopes we found a dollar bill inside. The name of the giver was not to be found on the envelope anywhere.
My sister and I stood for a moment looking at our dollar bill and the unsigned envelope. Then, we looked at one another. Without hesitation, we both said, Uncle Joe! Who else would give and not want anything in return - not even a thank-you, or a hug, or a kiss. Who else did we know who would leave dollar bills hanging in the Christmas tree anonymously - probably the only three dollars that he had.
I still, to this day, don’t know what Uncle Joe did for a living. He didn’t work at the mill or own a car, or a house, or own anything as far as I knew.
One time, my mother was getting back at me for showing too much attention towards my grandmother. I always liked my grandmother. She would cook the same dish that my mother would prepare, and I would eat my grandmother’s and not my mother’s. My mother would get infuriated.
“1 use the exact same recipe that your grandmother uses; in fact, she is the one who taught me how to make this dish.”
“Sorry Mom,” I’d say. “You can blindfold me or put me into a dark closet; I’ll still be able to pick out grandma’s pirogues over yours every time.”
Well finally, this one day, my mother blew her top; “You think that your grandmother is so darn wonderful; well let me tell you this, sonny boy - that woman is the same woman who threw your favorite Uncle Joe out into the street when he came home from the war.”
Boy, my mother knew how to hurt. Could that possibly be true? I didn’t believe my mother. My grandmother was a round, jolly, barrel full of hugs and kisses and chocolate pudding with milk on the top; and cheek-pinching and smiles and laughter.
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “Why would Grandma throw Uncle Joe out into the street?”
“Because he didn’t have a job - that’s why, smarty pants!”
“So?”
“So, your wonderful grandmother didn’t want your Uncle Joe, war hero, sitting around her house and eating her food, without paying any rent.”
Well, I wasn’t going to argue with my mother, but I also knew that she had a sharp tongue and could often say things without thinking - even make up things, sometimes. But just having this new knowledge made me look at my grandmother differently. Could anybody do that to their child? Work was important, but a son? . . . home from the war? Could my grandmother have done such a thing?
One day I was puttsing around helping my Uncle Ray with something. I popped the question; “Did Grandma really throw Uncle Joe out into the street after he came home from the war just because he didn’t have a job and couldn’t pay her any rent?”
My Uncle Ray stopped dead in his tracks. He turned and looked at me.
“Who told you that?” he asked. I lowered my head, shuffled about, and kicked at the concrete at my feet. He could tell that I wasn’t about to squeal. “Well,” he said sitting down on an old crate. “Your grandma did put Uncle Joe out, but your description was not exactly the way that it happened. You see, when your Uncle Joe came back from the war, he wasn’t the same as before he left.”
“I know. He got malaria.”
“Yes, he did have malaria, but he had something else also - something that nobody had a name for; and no cure for either.”
“What was it?”
“Well it is hard to describe. It is something that comes with war and killing people. It makes a man different inside. When your Uncle Joe came back, he was different. He didn’t want to work or even look for a job. He sat in your grandmother’s living room and just stared out the window.”
“So what? I do that sometimes.”
“Yeah, but your Uncle Joe did it day after day after day - for a long, long time. Your grandmother was worried about him. He couldn’t just sit there in the parlor staring out the window for the rest of his life. He was making himself sick inside. Your grandmother tried and tried and tried. She talked and talked, but Uncle Joe just sat there staring out the window and smoking cigarettes. Finally one day she just couldn’t stand it anymore. She packed his bag and brought it to him. She told him that if he wasn’t going to live anymore . . . he would just have to find someplace else to die.”
“So what did Uncle Joe do?”
“He left. Then after awhile he got a job, and pretty soon, he was all right again.”
“What is Uncle Joe, anyway?”
“Well,” my Uncle Ray said with a smile. “Uncle Joe is kind of a Jack-of-all-trades. You know, he was always the kind of guy who could do anything - and be good at it too.”
My Uncle Joe is a part of the reason that I don’t like war. It always seemed to me that my Uncle Joe was a casualty of World War II. Somehow his life ended over there in Burma or Bataan or wherever it was, but his name never got carved into a wall or put on a plaque. Unfortunately he was still alive. But what was he? Who was he? Where did he live? What did he do for a living? Who did he care about? Who cared about him?
War sprouts bodies like my Uncle Joe. Guys who make it back, but don’t make it back. They live under bridges, and in flophouses, out in some woods, or in empty apartments. My Uncle Joe fought on the “right” side in World War II. No question about it. He didn’t fight no “Little Hitler”; he fought the real Hitler - the democracy hating, Jew killing, monster who wanted to take over the world and didn’t care who or how many died in the process. No mistake there, my Uncle Joe fought on the right side - for the good guys. But yet he couldn’t find his way back from Burma - and why? He was right; they were wrong. What’s the problem?
War creates a lot of heroes. We get a lot of plaques and a lot of monuments. We get bronze guys on horses - concrete guys with swords. We get statues, and walls, and pillars, and pits, and ponds and lakes, all surrounded by canons, and cartridge boxes and stars and stripes and flags - lots and lots of flags. But war also creates a hell of a lot of Uncle Joes.
There are no memorials to the Uncle Joes. I doubt if there ever will be. How do you carve a ghost out of marble? How do you paint a picture of a man searching for the soul he lost on Pork Chop Hill or in some Vietnam village or on Bataan or at the Battle of the Bulge or in Flanders Field? How do you make a statement about a man who no longer has anything to say?
The Uncle Joe War Memorial? what would it look like?
My guess is that these Uncle Joe types would not want a memorial. They would probably tell the public to keep the money and put it into the hot lunch program at the public schools.
So don’t start up a collection or hire a sculptor just yet. These guys probably like living under the bridges and in those empty apartments - it’s now a tradition; a very, very old tradition.
I don’t know about you but there is a part of me who lives in an empty apartment; a part of me who would rather live under a bridge; a part of me who doesn’t want any hugs and kisses; a part of me who just wants to be left alone - all alone; a part of me who thinks that he has nothing left inside of him - nothing left to give; a part of me who would just like to die - to die in peace; and may they all someday rest in PEACE; someday . . somehow, somewhere - may we all rest in PEACE. . . amen.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Old Man and Oysters
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
An old man came walking into the restaurant. I had to look twice. This old man had grown old right before my eyes. A lot of this type thing has been going around in my world lately. Little girls who I just last saw scrambling around on a floor were now mothers themselves; teenagers I once knew somehow became school teachers and policemen; my one time paperboy is now a marine colonel and this old man was once a middle aged man I knew. He had a bulldozer and a dump truck when last I saw him. He cleared my lot as a matter of fact. But there he was sitting over in a corner of this restaurant with his ball cap on, reading the menu.
I gave him a look and a big smile when he came in but he didn’t recognize me - it had been a long time. I kept looking over at the old timer because I was still somewhat shocked. I could look at his face and remember just how he looked thirty years ago. He was basically the same today - his cheeks a little hollowed, his step more tentative, his gaze slightly glassy - but basically the same guy. He had that same big smile and that constantly bemused look. I had absolutely no doubt as to who he was. He took off his ball cap and placed it on the table - and I suddenly realized why he always were a baseball cap.
When the waitress came over he joked and laughed and put in his order. The special for the day in this little seafood community that has been my home for so many years was raw oysters on the half shell. Oysters have been caught right out in the bay in this area for decades - maybe even a century or so.
My wife and I were there for the oysters. We had already downed four dozen and we were now sitting back and sloshing down the last of our draft beer.
As I glanced over every now and then to check on my old neighbor, I noticed that he had gotten the raw oysters also - and he was having the same trouble that we were having. For some reason the oyster shucker had not cut the oysters away from the bottom shell. That’s not a major catastrophe but it is a little annoying to have to be scrapping the oysters out of the shell. And, although one might expect something like this in New York, one didn’t expect it in this little oystering community - where everybody knew better.
The old man struggled with the raw oysters attempting to scrape them away from the shell with his tiny fork. I could see that he was getting a little annoyed. That seems to happen more and more often to “older folks”. He began looking around for the waitress as he played around with his oysters. But she was busy. The place was packed and she was running all over the place. Finally, seeing that the oysters were being shucked no more than five steps away from his table - at the little raw bar - he rose from his seat picked up his straw basket lined with deli paper and headed for the raw bar.
I could see that he had developed a little case of the “shakes”. His straw basket was giggling in his hand like a Spanish maraca. He walked straight ahead concentrating on his goal and trying to catch the oyster shucker’s eye - not noticing that juice and water from in his basket was sloshing out of his straw tray all over the place - most heavily down the front of his nicely pressed tan trousers. He was spilling so much water over himself that I almost jumped up from my seat to run and help. My wife saw my agitation and she turned to take a look. She watched as he continued drenching himself all the way over to the raw bar. We both looked at each other and smiled.
As teenagers we probably would have witnessed this event and giggled and snickered but now, being just a few years behind my good neighbor, a sadness comes along with the slight amusement. It is really sad but, like a couple of insensitive kids, one has to laugh.
After he got his oysters cut away from the bottom shell, laughing and chatting all the while, he turned and headed back to his seat. I forced my wife to turn around and watch. It was the same on the way back to his table as it was on the way over - if not worse. The poor old boy was soaked.
When he sat down at his table he gathered up a fresh napkin and proceeded to spread it out onto his lap. Of course when he looked down at his lap he was completely shocked. How had his lap become soaked with water? He stared down at his pants and my wife and I could just hear the gears moving. “My god, what did I do ... piss my pants? I didn’t feel anything. There must be something wrong here.” Suddenly he looked up to the ceiling. That must be it. The damn ceiling leaks.
The ceiling was one of those warehouse type deals. All the rafters and pipes were left visible for the effect. When my old buddy saw the big round pipes running across the rafters, he had a revelation. One of them damn pipes up there must be leaking. When the waitress came to his table we watched the silent movie.
The old man says something. They both look down at his lap. The poor waitress is horror struck. She grabs up some napkins and starts scrubbing at the poor old man’s crotch. The old man’s face turns red - then the waitress’ face follows. The old man wards her off. He says something and then they both gaze up at the ceiling and stare at the giant cream colored pipes running across the rafters. The man continues to talk as the waitress shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. My wife and I now had our napkins up over our faces trying to disguise our laughter.
But I must say we weren’t laughing at the poor old cougar; we were laughing with him or at ourselves - because without doubt in a very few years even with the grace of God there we are. And one day Sonny, if you’re lucky enough, even you.
Commentary
By Richard E. Noble
An old man came walking into the restaurant. I had to look twice. This old man had grown old right before my eyes. A lot of this type thing has been going around in my world lately. Little girls who I just last saw scrambling around on a floor were now mothers themselves; teenagers I once knew somehow became school teachers and policemen; my one time paperboy is now a marine colonel and this old man was once a middle aged man I knew. He had a bulldozer and a dump truck when last I saw him. He cleared my lot as a matter of fact. But there he was sitting over in a corner of this restaurant with his ball cap on, reading the menu.
I gave him a look and a big smile when he came in but he didn’t recognize me - it had been a long time. I kept looking over at the old timer because I was still somewhat shocked. I could look at his face and remember just how he looked thirty years ago. He was basically the same today - his cheeks a little hollowed, his step more tentative, his gaze slightly glassy - but basically the same guy. He had that same big smile and that constantly bemused look. I had absolutely no doubt as to who he was. He took off his ball cap and placed it on the table - and I suddenly realized why he always were a baseball cap.
When the waitress came over he joked and laughed and put in his order. The special for the day in this little seafood community that has been my home for so many years was raw oysters on the half shell. Oysters have been caught right out in the bay in this area for decades - maybe even a century or so.
My wife and I were there for the oysters. We had already downed four dozen and we were now sitting back and sloshing down the last of our draft beer.
As I glanced over every now and then to check on my old neighbor, I noticed that he had gotten the raw oysters also - and he was having the same trouble that we were having. For some reason the oyster shucker had not cut the oysters away from the bottom shell. That’s not a major catastrophe but it is a little annoying to have to be scrapping the oysters out of the shell. And, although one might expect something like this in New York, one didn’t expect it in this little oystering community - where everybody knew better.
The old man struggled with the raw oysters attempting to scrape them away from the shell with his tiny fork. I could see that he was getting a little annoyed. That seems to happen more and more often to “older folks”. He began looking around for the waitress as he played around with his oysters. But she was busy. The place was packed and she was running all over the place. Finally, seeing that the oysters were being shucked no more than five steps away from his table - at the little raw bar - he rose from his seat picked up his straw basket lined with deli paper and headed for the raw bar.
I could see that he had developed a little case of the “shakes”. His straw basket was giggling in his hand like a Spanish maraca. He walked straight ahead concentrating on his goal and trying to catch the oyster shucker’s eye - not noticing that juice and water from in his basket was sloshing out of his straw tray all over the place - most heavily down the front of his nicely pressed tan trousers. He was spilling so much water over himself that I almost jumped up from my seat to run and help. My wife saw my agitation and she turned to take a look. She watched as he continued drenching himself all the way over to the raw bar. We both looked at each other and smiled.
As teenagers we probably would have witnessed this event and giggled and snickered but now, being just a few years behind my good neighbor, a sadness comes along with the slight amusement. It is really sad but, like a couple of insensitive kids, one has to laugh.
After he got his oysters cut away from the bottom shell, laughing and chatting all the while, he turned and headed back to his seat. I forced my wife to turn around and watch. It was the same on the way back to his table as it was on the way over - if not worse. The poor old boy was soaked.
When he sat down at his table he gathered up a fresh napkin and proceeded to spread it out onto his lap. Of course when he looked down at his lap he was completely shocked. How had his lap become soaked with water? He stared down at his pants and my wife and I could just hear the gears moving. “My god, what did I do ... piss my pants? I didn’t feel anything. There must be something wrong here.” Suddenly he looked up to the ceiling. That must be it. The damn ceiling leaks.
The ceiling was one of those warehouse type deals. All the rafters and pipes were left visible for the effect. When my old buddy saw the big round pipes running across the rafters, he had a revelation. One of them damn pipes up there must be leaking. When the waitress came to his table we watched the silent movie.
The old man says something. They both look down at his lap. The poor waitress is horror struck. She grabs up some napkins and starts scrubbing at the poor old man’s crotch. The old man’s face turns red - then the waitress’ face follows. The old man wards her off. He says something and then they both gaze up at the ceiling and stare at the giant cream colored pipes running across the rafters. The man continues to talk as the waitress shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. My wife and I now had our napkins up over our faces trying to disguise our laughter.
But I must say we weren’t laughing at the poor old cougar; we were laughing with him or at ourselves - because without doubt in a very few years even with the grace of God there we are. And one day Sonny, if you’re lucky enough, even you.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Mister Duchnowski
MISTER DUCHNOWSKI’S BEAN SUPPERS
[Poetry]
By Richard E. Noble
The majority of my friends, and myself, spent the most of our young adult lives ... looking for love in all of the wrong places. I don’t think that we knew what we were doing. I don’t think that we realized that we were looking for love. But that is what we were doing. That is what we are all doing ... no matter how we express, or try to deny it. That is what we are doing.
Mister Duchnowski was the Dad of one of my bosom lifelong buddies. Every time that we saw him, he had the same advice for us. We had heard his advice so many times, that we knew his lecture by heart. We were always respectful to Mister D., but for the most part we thought of him as somewhat odd. I think that he knew what we thought, but he continued to give us the same speech nevertheless. There were times when we just laughed. We never took him seriously. We never really listened to his well intended lecture. And, we never followed his advice.
Today, Mister Duchnowski is no longer with us, but I can still see him smiling, his teeth back home on the bureau soaking in a glass, his stained, flat-topped golf cap stationed askew atop his wavy gray, and those polish eyes sparking sincerely and hopefully as he offered to us his best thought considerations with regards to our future love life. I still smile as I hear his voice, but now that I am the age that he was then, I have to think twice about what he was trying to say to us. I don’t think that we should have been laughing.
Here’s to you Mister D; and here’s Mister D to the all of you.
MR. DUCHNOWSKI’S BEAN SUPPERS
Listen to me ... listen to me!
You guys is entirely on the wrong track, ya see.
Skip the nightclubs, the booze, and the dim lights.
Take yourself down to a church bean supper one of these nights.
The prettiest girls that you have ever seen,
are right there in the line, spoonin’ out the beans.
I know, I know, you think that I’m old and outta my mind,
but believe me, at them ham and bean suppers are the prettiest
girls that you’ll ever find.
You wouldn’t believe the girl last night slicin’ up the German rye.
It gave ten years back to my life just to see that sweet look in her eye.
And next to her, with the Polish Kielbasey,
was an Italian girl by the name of Bonacarsee.
That dark hair and olive skin ... she could a been a movie star.
And there you guys are, down some dive or two bit bar.
What do you think you’re gonna meet down there?
You guys are missin’ it, I’m tellin’ ya ... But I don’t care.
My life’s over. It’s no matter to me.
But if it’s beautiful girls that you’re lookin’ for
them bean suppers is where you oughtta be.
That’s right! That’s right!
Oh yeah, you can laugh all you want,
but them Church bean suppers
are the places you guys oughtta haunt.
The prettiest girls that I’ve ever seen,
spoonin’ out pork ‘n beans like outta some dream.
You guys is just missin’ the boat.
Why it puts a lump right here in my throat
to think if I was you guy-es age,
I’ll tell ya, I wouldn’t be watchin’ some nude-y dancin’
in some cage.
I’d be down to one of them bean suppers, in a rush
tryin’ to steal a smile or pinch a blush
from one of them lovelies with sauce on her apron,
and bread flour smearin’ her chest.
Take it from me, it’s at them bean suppers
where the girls are the best.
You can leave it behind ... you can forget all the rest,
try one of them church bean suppers
and then you tell me if them girls ain’t the best.
That’s right! That’s right!
You try one of them bean suppers some night.
then you come back and tell me if old Mr. Duchnowski didn’t tell ya what’s right.
You just try one of them bean suppers some night
and see if what I tell you ain’t right.
[Poetry]
By Richard E. Noble
The majority of my friends, and myself, spent the most of our young adult lives ... looking for love in all of the wrong places. I don’t think that we knew what we were doing. I don’t think that we realized that we were looking for love. But that is what we were doing. That is what we are all doing ... no matter how we express, or try to deny it. That is what we are doing.
Mister Duchnowski was the Dad of one of my bosom lifelong buddies. Every time that we saw him, he had the same advice for us. We had heard his advice so many times, that we knew his lecture by heart. We were always respectful to Mister D., but for the most part we thought of him as somewhat odd. I think that he knew what we thought, but he continued to give us the same speech nevertheless. There were times when we just laughed. We never took him seriously. We never really listened to his well intended lecture. And, we never followed his advice.
Today, Mister Duchnowski is no longer with us, but I can still see him smiling, his teeth back home on the bureau soaking in a glass, his stained, flat-topped golf cap stationed askew atop his wavy gray, and those polish eyes sparking sincerely and hopefully as he offered to us his best thought considerations with regards to our future love life. I still smile as I hear his voice, but now that I am the age that he was then, I have to think twice about what he was trying to say to us. I don’t think that we should have been laughing.
Here’s to you Mister D; and here’s Mister D to the all of you.
MR. DUCHNOWSKI’S BEAN SUPPERS
Listen to me ... listen to me!
You guys is entirely on the wrong track, ya see.
Skip the nightclubs, the booze, and the dim lights.
Take yourself down to a church bean supper one of these nights.
The prettiest girls that you have ever seen,
are right there in the line, spoonin’ out the beans.
I know, I know, you think that I’m old and outta my mind,
but believe me, at them ham and bean suppers are the prettiest
girls that you’ll ever find.
You wouldn’t believe the girl last night slicin’ up the German rye.
It gave ten years back to my life just to see that sweet look in her eye.
And next to her, with the Polish Kielbasey,
was an Italian girl by the name of Bonacarsee.
That dark hair and olive skin ... she could a been a movie star.
And there you guys are, down some dive or two bit bar.
What do you think you’re gonna meet down there?
You guys are missin’ it, I’m tellin’ ya ... But I don’t care.
My life’s over. It’s no matter to me.
But if it’s beautiful girls that you’re lookin’ for
them bean suppers is where you oughtta be.
That’s right! That’s right!
Oh yeah, you can laugh all you want,
but them Church bean suppers
are the places you guys oughtta haunt.
The prettiest girls that I’ve ever seen,
spoonin’ out pork ‘n beans like outta some dream.
You guys is just missin’ the boat.
Why it puts a lump right here in my throat
to think if I was you guy-es age,
I’ll tell ya, I wouldn’t be watchin’ some nude-y dancin’
in some cage.
I’d be down to one of them bean suppers, in a rush
tryin’ to steal a smile or pinch a blush
from one of them lovelies with sauce on her apron,
and bread flour smearin’ her chest.
Take it from me, it’s at them bean suppers
where the girls are the best.
You can leave it behind ... you can forget all the rest,
try one of them church bean suppers
and then you tell me if them girls ain’t the best.
That’s right! That’s right!
You try one of them bean suppers some night.
then you come back and tell me if old Mr. Duchnowski didn’t tell ya what’s right.
You just try one of them bean suppers some night
and see if what I tell you ain’t right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
