Memorial Day 2024

This Monday, May 27, 2024 Americans across the nation and around the world will observe Memorial Day.  Its first official observation was May 5, 1868.  It is a day to remember those who have sacrificed and died in our nation’s service.

   As Teddy Roosevelt said, “Nations are made, defended, and preserved not by illusionists, but by the men and women who practice the homely virtues in time of peace, and who in time of righteous war are ready to die, or to send those they love best to die for a shining ideal.”

   Eighty years ago the Nazi scourge still threatened the world. On June 6th, 1944, a vast armada set forth across the English Channel for Fortress Europe to land almost 133,000 allied troops on the beaches of Normandy, France. D-Day had been in the planning stages for years, but its success was far from guaranteed. The Supreme Allied Commander, Dwight D. Eisenhower, had even prepared a message, to be released, if the Germans had pushed the invaders back into the sea. It read, "Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone."

   Well, the invasion did not fail, though its initial cost was steep. Casualties during the landing numbered 10,300. Those involved on the Allied side represented a host of nations. While Allied forces consisted primarily of American, British and Canadian troops, also included were troops from ten other nations. The average age of those landing at Normandy was early twenties. Men who in the recent past had mostly been civilians involved in a myriad of diverse occupations, but now they found themselves soldiers, clinging desperately to small patches of beach under intense attack from German gunfire.

   Allied advances were limited on D-Day itself, but the beachheads had been finally secured, allowing following waves of troops, tanks, artillery and other supplies to come ashore. Pushing inland, what became known as the Battle of Normandy was extremely hard fought and lasted from D-Day to late August of 1944 and the liberation of Paris. In that time period, 73,000 Allied forces were killed and 153,000 wounded.

   The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial located at Colleville-sur-Mer, France, contains the graves of 9,388 of our military dead, killed during the Battle of Normandy. Additionally, the names of 1,557 missing are inscribed on the walls of the memorial.

   What price freedom? Those that went ashore on the beaches of Normandy were most likely thinking first of personal survival and fighting for the men in their unit. However, in a larger sense, they represented a willingness to be put in harm’s way to protect those that they cared about the most. To protect family and country from the threat posed by the totalitarian regimes of the world. Democracy is a fragile concept which requires an abiding vigilance to protect it. Across the centuries, this vigilance too often requires the ultimate sacrifice from those we revere most.

   Theodore Roosevelt knew the horrors of war, but he also knew its inevitability if there were an existential threat to our continued existence as free men and women. He said, “I abhor unjust war. I abhor injustice and bullying by the strong at the expense of the weak, whether among nations or individuals …I should never advocate war unless it were the only alternative to dishonor.”

    This dishonor would see America under the boot heal of true evil empires. A dishonor we will never accept as we strive to preserve our core freedoms. Freedoms furiously fought for throughout our nation’s history.

Memorial Day 2023

Eighty years ago was a momentous time in world history. 1943 saw titanic struggles on three continents. Great armies, navies and air forces battled to define mankind’s future. Two years earlier, In January 1941, the war in Europe had already raged for over a year. In his January 6th State of the Union speech, President Franklin Roosevelt articulated the “Four Freedoms”: freedom of speech and of religion, and freedom from want and fear. Would 1943 see continued pressure against the Axis forces that wanted to destroy these freedoms and create worldwide servitude?

           This Memorial Day we can do no less than gratefully remember those who fought and those who made the ultimate sacrifice in protecting these freedoms. In World War II, 1943 was indeed a pivotal year. Armies of the United States, Great Britain and free French forces fought across North Africa, battling German and Italian troops in an attempt to take control of the Mediterranean basin. From the east, the British 8th Army pushed Erwin Rommel and the German Afrika Korps out of Egypt and across  Libya and Tunisia while the American 1st and 2nd Armor divisions attacked German and Italian forces from Algeria and the west. In six months of fighting, the Allies had over 250,000 casualties, including dead, wounded and missing. In some instances the dead had to be left where they had fallen because of the rough terrain, severe weather and enemy fire.

           In commenting on the resilience of his troops under very trying circumstances, General Dwight Eisenhower said, “I have observed very frequently that it is not the man who is so brilliant who delivers in time of stress and strain, but rather the man who can keep on going indefinitely, doing a good straightforward job.” This straightforward job resulted in the Allies pushing the Germans and Italians out of Africa by May, 1943. The resilience of the American soldier in this major campaign was founded on an inherent belief in the American character and the need to stand strong with ones comrades.

           The Allied campaign in Italy itself began with the invasion of Sicily in July of 1943 followed by entering the mainland at Salerno and Taranto in early September. The brutal Italian campaign lasted until the end of the war in May 1945 and resulted in 330,000 Allied casualties. During the campaign, fighting against entrenched Germans in freezing winter weather, an American lieutenant sent a dispatch to headquarters. “We have passed the crest of 907. We are receiving much machine gun and mortar fire from several directions…. Men are getting in bad shape…. I have stopped burying the dead…. German snipers are giving us hell and it is extremely difficult to catch them.” Such was the cost of preserving our freedoms.

           Across the world, in the Pacific, the army, navy and marines had begun island hopping in the war against Japan. Marine and army units had finally prevailed in the Battle of Guadalcanal by February 1943 after six months of fighting. The next major target in November of 1943 was the Tarawa Atoll in the Gilbert Islands. The small coral island of Betio was defended by 4,600 Japanese troops, deeply dug in after a year of strong defensive preparations. On November 20, an amphibious landing was made primarily by the 2nd Marine division with support from the army’s 27th Infantry division. In four days of very hard fighting, American forces lost over 1000 killed and 2000 wounded while the Japanese force was wiped out. This battle showed how difficult future actions would be on such islands as Saipan, Guam, Peleliu, Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Freedom exacts a heavy price, but the alternative is forever unacceptable.

           In closing his speech of January 6, 1941, Franklin Roosevelt intoned, “This nation has placed its destiny in the hands and heads and hearts of its millions of free men and women; and its faith in freedom under the guidance of God. Freedom means the supremacy of human rights everywhere. Our support goes to those who struggle to gain those rights and keep them. Our strength is our unity of purpose.”

Let Them Eat Cake

As I pull in the drive-thru, I see a sign which says, “We May Be Out Of Some Of Your Favorite Items, Sorry For The Inconvenience.” My order goes like this:

          “I would like a Boffo Burger, medium fries and a large Coke.”

          “We are out of hamburger patties and have no straws for the soda.”

          “Ok, I’ll take three tacos, no fries, and I can live without the straw.

          “We are out of taco shells.”

          “Do you still have the taco meat filling?”

          “Yes.”

          “Then put it on a hamburger bun and add back the fries.”

          “Do you still want the soda?”

          “Only if it comes without a straw.”

          This is the apocalyptic world of pandemic and supply chain induced shortages. The greatest country on Earth is now mimicking Soviet bread lines. At the beginning of the Covid virus, everyone hoarded toilet paper and hand sanitizer. No shortage there now. Our garages are full of the stuff.

          However it’s the other items that are scarce or non-existent for long periods of time.  My local grocery is like a third world fun house. I’m there when they open at 6 am, but things aren’t looking up. No baking potatoes. Down to three heads of limp lettuce. Out of  biscuits, light yogurt and breakfast burros in the dairy case. No prune juice. (At our age my wife and I see it as a necessity). Finally, they do not have the cheap swill wine I normally drink, and I have to settle for an upscale bottle of chateau whatever.

          When I visit the drugstore, my prescription is delayed because my pills are on a Chinese container ship circling off of Long Beach. I figure I can at least get some basic multi-vitamins for seniors, but they now only have the gummy bear variety that taste like a fruit plate. On the way out, I plan to buy a Snickers bar, but it is on the same ship with the pills. Looks like we have outsourced everything.

          Not to be left out, the motor industry is experiencing a severe microchip shortage. Maybe the chip plants overseas have switched to producing toilet paper. No microchips equals no vehicle computers equals no new cars and trucks. This now jacks up the prices for “pre-owned” vehicles which will cost you an arm, a leg, and your left ear.  An early 2000 beater car with 95,000 miles for only $450 a month!

          As we maneuver through these turgid waters (a little homage to the ships off Long Beach), it’s helpful to remember that good times may not be far off. While Marie Antoinette literally lost her head after saying to the starving plebeians, “Let them eat cake,” Napoleon then came along and the salad days returned until Waterloo. Well, I’m just going to go recheck the grocery store. We really need prune juice.

Goodbye Old Friends

Despite the title, this is not a piece about ruminating on farewells to human acquaintances, rather it is an homage of sorts to inanimate objects that have played a perceived seminal role in our all but too short lives.  This remembrance was triggered by the difficult (for me) decision to part with a refrigerator that had chilled our food and drink for twenty-five years.

          We bought our first house in the mid 80s, and by the late 90s, needed a new frig for the kitchen. I purchased an almond color model from Sears since that’s where my generation had learned to shop for appliances. The refrigerator was basic, with a freezer compartment on top. It even had a small icemaker which was a luxury at the time. The fridge then became a garage staple in our second and third houses.

          Finally, it started loudly rumbling away with a compressor that ran constantly.  I knew the time had come, and surreptitiously began scouting for a replacement. Eventually, I found one that was the same size, and importantly, the same color, which they now call “bisque.”  Before the new one was delivered, I spent some difficult quiet time alone with old reliable, reminiscing on all the provisions it had stored and humbly thanking it for its long service.

          I had an ink jet printer that lasted eight years. Pretty amazing in this era of planned obsolescence.   That printer happily churned out reams of copy related to my college teaching: syllabi, assignment instructions, grammar rules and quizzes. When it started only accessing the photo tray, I knew it was time to move on. I didn’t have endless pictures that I wanted printed. So it was a sad leave taking, and the replacement printer needed ink cartridges twice as expensive.

          Our biggest love affair with a movable object may be the car. It is sometimes more a part of our lives than many humans. During my hippie years I had a black Rambler station wagon which I named The Wonder Wagon.  It was festooned with day glo decals of mushrooms, flowers and feet. Inside I had Indian print seat covers, and I burned incense on the dash. The guy I sold it to drove it too fast on the interstate and blew the engine. What a cruel demise. Over the years we owned a series of white mini-vans which we named Moby I, II, III, for Moby Dick the great white whale. Each had its own personality and was painful to part with after years of good riding. Our family did not believe in frequent trade ins. When we drove those vehicles, they became true family members, just like our pets. Parting was such sweet sorrow.

          Even clothing can have deep emotional resonance. I have a sweatshirt with my college logo that I have preserved for fifty years. It is tattered and faded, but the associated memories while wearing it at my alma mater will not let me consign it to the dust heap. I have even kept worn out running shoes which I retired after an active life traversing the roads of many neighborhoods.  I don’t retain jeans that will know longer fit my paunch, but I do have a couple of prized cowboy shirts where I am too big to now button the snaps. And ball caps. That’s a whole nother story.

Whether it’s a refrigerator, a printer, a vehicle, a sweat shirt or some other item, we form deep attachments with our “stuff.” What is the lesson in all this? While we cherish the things that have a beating heart, we also can get a noticeable lip tremble when we have to part with or retire our non sentient friends. These friends indeed made our lives fuller.

The Green Knight - A Movie About Nothing

The Green Knight is basically a movie about nothing. Just as Seinfeld was pitched as a show about nothing. The difference is, Seinfeld was brilliant while The Green Knight really does add up to nothing. I know the film is from the A24 studio which means quite obtuse and artsy fartsy, but that doesn’t excuse the cinematic failure.  The professional critics gave the film a 90% on Rotten Tomatoes, but these are the same folks who go nuts over any Japanese film with French subtitles.

My own creds as an edgy cinephile should not be easily dismissed. I was an art house devotee during my hippie days in Bezerkley. I dug the French new wave and the films by Truffaut, Godard, and Bazin. I sat through Kurosawa’s samurai movies and pretended I understood Fellini’s symbolism. The foibles of youth, though these films soared in comparison to The Green Knight.

First, check out the basic plot of the 14th century poem “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” based on the Arthurian legends. Sir Gawain chops off the Green Knight’s head; the Green Knight says he will return the favor in a year.  After the year, Gawain is wearing a magic belt to protect him from harm. The Green Knight nicks Gawain’s neck with the axe, but doesn’t kill him and tells Gawain he should have been honest about wearing that belt. Gawain is kinda ashamed, but the Green Knight sends Gawain on to Camelot with chivalric best wishes. The knights of the round table welcome Gawain back and decide to also wear a similar belt because their boy Gawain is “the dude.”    

          The film version is a dumpster fire fueled by a weird synthesizer  soundtrack that sounds like angry bees. If you don’t already know the 80 page poem in Old English, you are in deep doo doo. Sir Gawain (Dev Patel) has all these adventures that have no understandable connective context. Hell, little of it is in the actual poem. Gawain gets mugged; loses his horse, sword and axe: hangs out with this beheaded chick; is constantly followed by a talking red fox; runs into naked giants, stays in this castle with a noble guy, an old blind lady and then gets seduced by the guy’s hot to trot wife (Alicia Vikander ) who mumbles inaudibly and gives Gawain the magic protective belt which Gawain gladly takes off at the end so the Green Knight can then take off Gawain’s head. The end.

          Bad story line. In the poem, Gawain lives happily ever after. But in the film Gawain has to die because he realizes his whole life has been crap, and the sun is never going to come out anyway. Talk about a major bummer. No upside to sitting through two hours of maudlin self-flagellation. Dev should go back to the brightness of Slumdog Millionaire and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. At least they let him crack a smile.

          Finally, the professional critics are having the vapors over the “stunning” cinematography. If your idea of effective cinematography is the equivalent of hanging a ten watt bulb in a dark closet, then have at it. Fifty shades of grey. I think the sun almost peeked out when Gawain was about to croak. As far as great cinematography goes, David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia this ain’t. Even the dark palette of Apocalypse Now made sense and garnered a deserved Oscar. The Green Knight is like being stuck in Ohio during a dreary winter.

          This movie was four hours of my life which I will never get back; two hours for the movie, two hours for this pithy analysis.  Instead, I could have gone to Jungle Cruise and fixated on Dwayne Johnson’s ripped biceps.

Life is too Short to Drink Sour OJ

My predilection has been to muscle through food groups that are on the edge of their sanitary shelf life.  After all, I paid for them. So drink the orange juice, even if it has begun to sour. Eat that stale bread which is just on the edge of mold. Cut out the soft brown/black spots on apples and bananas. Hey, critters would eat the whole thing. Well, no more with the spoiled food. At my age, with ninety percent of personal history in the rear view mirror, I’m putting my foot down. Life is short. If it doesn’t impact others, then I’m just goin’ to do, what I’m goin’ to do and get a Super Frappa something at the closest Starbucks..

          So I get this weird letter from the IRS, saying they need information about my last tax return, without telling me what information is required. I try calling the number they provide, and an electronic voice tells me to call back in five days when there may be an agent available. I go on the IRS website, and am told to register by first providing the most sensitive information about my poor pathetic life. I click out. Send Treasury agents if you want the info that bad.

          It’s my bedtime. Suddenly, all the Amazon echo devices in the house begin pulsating with a puke green circle. What the hell? I tell Alexa to stop; nothing happens. I unplug the units and then plug them back in. Same green circle. I go on the internet, says I have a call from someone. I tell Alexa, “Cancel the call!” She says there is NO call.  Desperate, I say, “ALEXA, WHY ARE YOU PULSATING PUKE GREEN?” Alexa tells me I have a “notification.” So I say, “Alexa, notification.” Her honey toned voice responds, “Amazon has an amazing deal for you on Ginzu steak knives.” I immediately disable Alexa being able to talk to me about anything but my music choices. Life is short.

          I get a new rattling noise in our mini-van. Sounds like a small fury creature is coughing up something in the glove box. Can’t figure it out. Go to online forums. Ah Ha! It’s a broken thingamajig, connected to the whatchamacallit behind the vacuum server unit. Right. Folks on the forum say take care of the problem now before the vehicle warranty runs out because the dealership is going to have to dismantle half of your van to replace the costly unit, and it will probably take a week. In a previous life I would have made a repair appointment that day, but I have six months left on the warranty, and for now I’d rather replace the lawn sprinklers. At least it gets me outdoors.

          I search online for a specific tan ceramic pot. The big box store near me is out, but they have two tan ones and five purple ones (yuk!) at a sister store fifteen miles away. Aisle 16 – shelf 3. I confidently drive to the sister store, envisioning the tan pot filled with a cavalcade of flowers. I go to aisle 16, ceramic pots. No tan ones, just the five purple. First impulse is to berate a store “associate” for their screwed up inventory count.  However, I slowly re-program my expectations and decide that with the right greenery, I can live with purple. Life is short. Don’t sweat the small stuff unless you’re in Florida in August with 95% humidity.

Breathing Space

Well, is it over? Can we put Covid-19 in the dustbin of pandemic history? Unfortunately not. It may be around for a long time with new variants popping up.  However, by and large, the people of the good old US of A have decided that enough is enough. It’s time to live again. Vaccines and potential herd immunity provide some breathing space (pun intended) to once again experience a semblance of normality. Most mask mandates have been relaxed, and being closer than six feet to someone is not viewed as an automatic death sentence.

          The experience of coming out on the other side of this pandemic can be both disconcerting and liberating.  I don’t have to see as many people driving with masks on, which was disconcerting.  I can now walk in a grocery store without fogging up my glasses from being double masked. This is liberating. The lady walking her dog with masks on both she and Fifi, that was disconcerting. Not having to match a colorful variety of masks to my daily ensemble, very liberating.

          And, I am finally allowed to sit down in my favorite fast food joint after enduring drive through for over a year. The clock ticks as the masked guy in front of me, driving a clapped out mini-van, is ordering for a family of eight, who are deathly afraid to leave the house. Frequently, I was not getting what I ordered. “I’ll take the Super Stack Cheeseburger, with large fries, onion rings and a chocolate shake.” When I get home the bag contains three tacos, potato wedges and a breakfast croissant. Now I can happily sit in the place’s air conditioned comfort, with the correct order, while Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” blares from the speaker system.

           However, it will still take a few months to go through all of the toilet paper stacked in my garage. Ditto the twenty bottles of hand sanitizer that I scoured grocery shelves for.  Heck, I even hoarded refried beans when there was an intermittent kink in the supply chain. During the height of the pandemic, finding a twelve pack of Diet Dr. Pepper was like striking gold. Now I can pass by restocked soda aisles without furtive glances at empty shelves

          There are still holdouts where masks are de rigueur.  You can’t enter a doctor or dentist office without a face covering. But it can be hell getting your teeth cleaned while wearing a mask. Now, in many medical situations, if you pull the mask just below your nose, they probably won’t consign you to the nether regions.  However, on an airplane you better have that sucker slapped squarely on your face; especially make sure your two year-old has that Mickey mask firmly attached.

          I have gotten both of my vaccine shots, surviving the second dose without every bone in my body creaking like a rusty door hinge. The signs on most establishments now give you a mask pass if you’ve submitted to the needle. However, it’s obviously an honor system. If you are a virulent anti-vaxxer, you can walk right into the store mask less while giving the clerk the fickle finger of fate. I really feel for the clerks in these stores, who are still required to wear unattractive masks while the patrons are mostly breathing God’s free air without a filter.

          I guess I can now take down the Plexiglas shields that separate family members at the kitchen table, and maybe my many masks can be turned into a colorful quilt commemorating a lost year where survival hinged on toilet paper and refried beans. Ain’t life grand.

Memorial Day 2021

(commemorated Memorial Day May 31)

On this Memorial Day as we remember both those who have given the ultimate sacrifice and those who have served, it is appropriate to look back in history.

Eighty years ago the United States was about to be thrown into the terrible cauldron that was World War II. Since the Nazi invasion of Poland in September 1939, the United States had maintained a neutral stance towards the war in Europe. However, we were, in fact, supplying Britain and Russia with needed materials to fight the Nazi menace, and beginning in September 1941, the American Navy helped escort merchant ships across the Atlantic. In the Pacific, there were continued war rumblings as Japan sought to expand its empire in the quest for a constant supply of needed raw materials.

          The United States in the spring of 1941 was still ill prepared for engaging in a world wide military conflict. Following World War I the size of the American military was drastically reduced. As the world slipped into depression, the forces were reduced even further. By 1936 the Regular Army had been reduced to 110,000 with roughly 225,000 National Guard. Budget expenditures were cut drastically. The size of the Navy had also been greatly limited by budget constraints and international treaties that dictated minimal navy ship construction. In short the United States had only the seventeenth largest military in the world, smaller than that of Portugal.

          By late 1940, with American military involvement looming, The United States had instituted a draft and our industrial might was slowly awakening. Also by December 1941 America's armed forces had grown to nearly 2.2 million soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines. However, the country still largely had an isolationist perspective whose proponents hoped we could avoid “foreign entanglements.”  December 7th, 1941 changed all of that. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor propelled the United States into a horrific worldwide conflict that for us lasted almost four long years.

          In the European theater, the Allies drove through North Africa, battled up the boot of Italy, and landed in France on D-Day while the Russians fought on the Eastern Front. In the Pacific, American forces island hopped towards Japan while MacArthur’s forces liberated the Philippines.

          By the end of the war in 1945, an astounding 16,000,000 American men and women served as soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen. This number included my grandfather, father, father-in-law and two uncles; who served in both the Pacific and European theaters. Because of the huge amount of war materials produced by our industrial base, the United States was aptly known as “The Arsenal of Democracy.” This response to Japanese and German aggression came at a great price. The human cost of war dwarfs other statistics. In World War II an estimated 75 million people perished. 3% of the world population at that time.  The war in the Pacific and in the Western theater claimed nearly 406,000 U.S. military deaths.  Lives lost on land, sea and in the air. American treasure spilled to ensure that the tenets of our liberties would not soon be extinguished.

          We honor those, who throughout our history, have been willing to vigorously defend democratic concepts that too much of the world ignores or actively seeks to suppress. Even in our country today, there are those who would choke off those precious rights in our Constitution that were bought by the blood of patriots. No nation, founded on principles of equality, justice and individual rights, can long survive a sustained attack on its core principles whether from without or within. This Memorial Day we look back to those whose lives were given for the greatest good. We look forward to those willing to sustain the fragile flame of freedom regardless of the cost. May God continue to bless the United States of America.

Korea "The Forgotten War"

This piece was published on Veterans Day 2020 in the Arizona Daily Star

Lt. Col. (Ret.) Robert Matte Jr.

On Veterans Day it is appropriate to remember those who fought in Korea during the “Forgotten War,” So named because it is seen as a mere sideshow to Word War II and the Vietnam conflict. But it was not a sideshow. Seventy years ago on June 25, 1950, some 75,000 soldiers from the North Korean People’s Army crossed the 38th parallel with the intent of overrunning the Republic of Korea in the south. North Korea was a Soviet puppet state that was established after WW II when the Korean peninsula was divided between the Russian and American Forces.

          U.S. Secretary of State Dean Acheson once said, “If the best minds in the world had set out to find us the worst possible location in the world to fight this damnable war, the unanimous choice would have been Korea.” By July, American troops had entered the war to try to save the South. “If we let Korea down,” said President Harry Truman, “the Soviets will keep right on going and swallow up one place after another.” This was going to be a war against the forces of international communism. During the conflict, Twenty-one countries of the United Nations eventually contributed to the UN force, but the United States provided 90% of the combat troops.

          Initially, American troops were poorly prepared for the fight. There had been a great demobilization of U.S. troops after WWII and as a result preparedness and training had suffered. By early September 1950, American and South Korean troops has been pushed to the brink and were holding a small defensive perimeter near Pusan in the south.  Then in late September, General Douglas MacArthur launched an amphibious counter invasion in the north at the port of Incheon near Seoul, the capital of South Korea. The North Korean invaders were trapped between two UN forces and those not destroyed, retreated to North Korea.

          The end of the war? Not so. UN forces drove to the border between North Korea and China at which point the Chinese Army attacked in October and drove UN troops back into South Korea. My father, Robert G. Matte, a career army officer who had fought in WWII, was one of thousands quickly dispatched to Korea. He was awarded the Air Medal and Bronze Star for flying in a storm, at night, in a small scout helicopter to reconnoiter the location of Chinese troops.

Eventually, there was a stalemate in the fighting back at the 38th parallel where the war had begun. Finally the fighting ended, and the Korean Armistice Agreement was signed on 27 July 1953. American forces have provided a protective buffer between the two countries ever since.

          In this “forgotten war” nearly 40,000 Americans died in action in Korea, and more than 100,000 were wounded. They are now remembered at the Korean War Veterans Memorial near the Lincoln Memorial on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.

          Hopefully, when folks hear about the Korean War they will understand that it was much more than a TV show called M*A*S*H with characters named Hawkeye, Trapper John, Radar, and Hot Lips Houlihan. The price for our freedoms is often steep, and those who fought at places such as Pusan, Incheon, Pork Chop Hill and the Chosin Resevoir, deserve all the honor we can give.

Rocks Have Feelings Too

As is the case today, the 60s and 70s were times fraught with social upheaval and great personal anxiety: civil rights, Vietnam, the counter culture, Watergate, gas shortages, high interest rates, the seeds of world terrorism. In response to this, during the mid-seventies, budding entrepreneurs came out with the mood ring and the pet rock.  The mood ring would change colors based on how you were feeling: from green/blessed calm to black/supper stressed. A certain leafy substance was suggested if you wanted to keep your ring in the green zone.  Pet rocks were for the busy urbanite who didn’t have time to clean up dog poop but still wanted a warm relationship with a non-sentient object.

          I named my pet rock Ralph. We were an item for a couple of months. Where I went, Ralph went. True buddies. I eventually released Ralph to a rock pile in back of my apartment complex, so he could be with his own kind. It was an emotional farewell.  This incident makes me think of all the ways we impute enduring value to certain inanimate objects that enter our lives.

          There is that item of clothing that we just can’t let go of. A t-shirt that is mostly threadbare that we got at a rock concert years ago. A team ball cap with busted brim and faded colors that we still wear on special occasions. A treasured prom or wedding dress. The old sneakers that are unwearable, but memories keep them secreted in the back of the closet. Our existence tied up in bits of fabric.

          I have close to three hundred LPs in a storage unit. Why not dump them? Because they framed my life from the mid 50’s until the early eighties. Someday I may still want to cradle my worn copy of  Elvis’s Golden Records or caress the English pressing of the Beatles’ Hard Days Night. Gaze lovingly upon that seminal album Sports by Huey Lewis and the News. I may even buy a turntable. CDs occupy the same emotional space. My very first CD, Roundup, a collection of Western movie themes, still speaks to me from a prominent bookshelf. How can I have a relationship with an MP3 song downloaded on Amazon?  We need a tactile friendship. Heck, I can’t even get rid of an old video tape I recorded that shows the incredible restoration of the Sistine Chapel.

          For many of us, male or female, four wheel transportation is a ticket to our hearts.  The car, truck or SUV that is just the right color, style and/or engine size. We accessorize the inside with rear view mirror doodads and color coordinated dash mats. We put decals on the rear window and add bumper stickers. Order a vanity license plate. This is who I am.  While some of us recycle vehicles every couple of years, many of us hold on to our cherished transportation for years on end. It becomes part of the family. I named our long series of white mini vans Moby I, Moby II and Moby III for Moby Dick, the great white whale. Trading in an old reliable one for the next shiny version was always gut wrenching.

          Our homes clearly have a defining place in our life stories. We associate phases of living with the houses and apartments we have known.  Such as that old ramshackle starter home that protected us so many years ago. The one where the plumbing frequently backed up and the roof always leaked. Or the wonderfully built house that had views to kill for. But as Thomas Wolfe said, “You can never go home again.” In other words, you can never re-capture the experiences of the moment at those unique residences. In Florida, the previous family homesteads of my grandparents and parents were both bulldozed years ago. Not even a physical footprint left of those halcyon days of being in the family embrace. Still, the memories from those houses linger on.

          So, cherish the clothing, music, vehicles and houses that we collect along the way.   All the stuff that maps our lives.  Now, if I can just remember where I put that little plush skunk I had as a kid, the one that survived a hotel laundry back in 1956.

Cola Wars

I had just seen a retro ad for Coca-Cola, and it took me back to the cola wars of the 80s. Coke vs. Pepsi. It was an earlier era, before personal computers, cell phones, wide spread cable TV or streaming services. There were fewer cultural distractions, so people could get really excited about what brand of soda they preferred/would die for.  I was an inveterate Coke drinker and sneered at Pepsi with its sickly sweet taste. Part of my preference may have been influenced by the fact that my grandmother was from Atlanta, home of Coca-Cola, and she wasn’t supposed to drink it in the early 1900s because it contained “dope” i.e. cocaine. However the actual use of  measurable cocaine in Coca-Cola was ended in 1903, though rumors of it as an ingredient continued for many years.

Pepsi, a perpetual number two, decided to make a serious run at Coke. In 1975 Pepsi introduced “The Pepsi Challenge,” a blind taste test between Coke and Pepsi. More people preferred Pepsi because of the appeal of that initial sweet taste. By the early 80s the cola wars were fully engaged. The Pepsi Challenge had significantly cut into Coke’s market share. Coke’s diet cola, Tab, was marketed specifically to women. I can attest that the after taste was horrible, but I drank it sometimes because by 1981 my system couldn’t tolerate the sugar shock of regular Coca Cola. I was initially high and then depressed. A compressed version of manic/depression.

I was very happy when Diet Coke was introduced in 1982. The ad campaign showed brawny constructions workers and professional male athletes swigging Diet Coke as if they were imbibing a fine whiskey. This was no drink for wusses. They sold a ton of Diet Coke world wide, and I could tolerate a bearable aftertaste without holding a pink can. (Now I can’t live without that diet aftertaste). Regular Coca Cola and Diet Coke were again slamming Pepsi in market share, so of course the Coke people decided to commit product suicide.

In early 1985 the folks at Coke had a big roll-out for a new version, New Coke.  They didn’t have enough sense to also keep the old Coke formula. New Coke mirrored the sweeter taste of Pepsi, and supposedly was taste tested with thousands of approving subjects. However, they didn’t bother to tell the rest of the Coke world what they were doing. Pandemonium resulted. “Where is our old Coke? How could you do this to us?  If we wanted the Pepsi taste we would buy Pepsi.” Pepsi seized the moment and put out ads saying they, Pepsi, had won the cola wars because Coke had now adopted their taste. So you should just buy Pepsi, the real thing, stealing Coke’s own promo line.

After being battered by petitions and hate mail, Coke relented, and after a few months brought back old Coke as Coca-Cola Classic. They kept New Coke for a few years, but it never outsold old Coke. The irony is that because of the brouhaha, old Coke’s sales skyrocketed when it was brought back, because fans wanted to show their appreciation for the return of this hallowed drink. Then Pepsi decided to shoot themselves in the foot by introducing Crystal Pepsi.

In 1992 Pepsi thought a clear version of its flagship drink would be a big seller. Same Pepsi (minus caffeine) just clear instead of the normal cola color. Well, Crystal Pepsi was dead and gone within a year. People couldn’t reconcile Pepsi taste with a clear product. Did not compute. It was like when my college roommates didn’t appreciate my cooking, so I made the mashed potatoes blue. Same potatoes, different color. They didn’t touch them.

The Coke/Pepsi cola wars continue with different variations of the core product, but both companies have so diversified in product offerings that Coke and Pepsi aren’t the whole portfolio. The Coca-Cola Company also owns Sprite, Fanta, Minute Maid, Nestea, Powerade, Vitamin Water, and energy drinks such as Monster Beverages. Pepsico owns both beverage and snack brands such as Mountain Dew, Lay's, Gatorade, Tropicana, 7 Up, Doritos, Brisk, Quaker Foods, and Cheetos.

There is still fierce product loyalty for Coke and Pepsi drinkers. Some will even avoid restaurants, fast food joints and convenience store soda fountains where their chosen brand is not available. As I have grown older and wiser, I just avoid the discussion altogether. I drink Dr. Pepper.

Memorial Day 2020

174,000 service personnel. Barely the nineteenth largest army in the world. An army smaller than that of Portugal.  This was an unprepared American military on the eve of World War II.  However, after Pearl Harbor and its “day of infamy,” Americans answered the call, and by the end of the war eleven million had served in uniform.

          Memorial Day’s first official observation was May 5, 1868 following the Civil War. This Memorial Day we remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in a war that claimed over 400,000 American deaths. It is appropriate to do so on the 75th anniversary of the end of WW II. Victory in Europe day, May 8th; victory over Japan on August 15th.

          Resounding through the halls of history are the names of battles that defined the American resolve to preserve our democracy and its fragile freedoms from the onslaught of tyrannical regimes. In North Africa: Tunisia, El Guettar, In Italy: Salerno, San Pietro, Monte Cassino. In Western Europe: D Day, St. Lo., the Battle of the Bulge. In the Pacific theater: Guadalcanal, Midway, Iwo Jima, Bougainville, Okinawa.

          My father, Robert G. Matte, was badly wounded in the Battle of the Bulge; my father-in-law, Robert F. Lindsay, suffered serious wounds on Okinawa. Both eventually recovered and resumed military careers. Lest we forget the level of sacrifice, more than four hundred military women lost their lives during the war.

          The average age of soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen during WW II was twenty-six. They came from every ethnic and societal class. The American melting pot gone to war. In many combat units the age was between eighteen and twenty. Fresh recruits thrown into the hell of battle. Young men who grew up fast in a war they didn’t seek but one they couldn’t avoid. They did their duty, to fight for each other, for their country and for those back home.

          Those on the home front made significant personal sacrifices to contribute to the war effort. Five million women worked in defense plants and factories and collectively became known as Rosie the Riveter. Millions of men supported the war working in industry and agriculture.  No one went untouched by a conflict that threatened to consume the world.

          There were great celebrations on VE day and VJ day in hopes that the major sacrifices made would lead to lasting peace in the world. Unfortunately, we know this not to be the case.  Again and again Americans have still been called to arms to support the many freedoms we so deeply cherish, even at a steep personal cost. A remembrance of this cost is a gold star emblem, exhibited in the window of a home, indicating that a loved one has made the ultimate sacrifice in defense of this country.

In Washington, D.C, there are many monuments. Near the Washington and Lincoln memorials is a newer memorial dedicated to those who fought in WW II, remembered as “The Greatest Generation.” These words inscribed at the entrance of the memorial speak to them eternally.

HERE IN THE PRESENCE OF WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN,
ONE THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FATHER AND THE OTHER THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY PRESERVER OF OUR NATION, WE HONOR
THOSE TWENTIETH CENTURY AMERICANS WHO TOOK UP THE STRUGGLE
DURING THE SECOND WORLD WAR AND MADE THE SACRIFICES TO
PERPETUATE THE GIFT OUR FOREFATHERS ENTRUSTED TO US:
A NATION CONCEIVED IN LIBERTY AND JUSTICE.

Coronavirus Two Step

I will start by saying that covid 19 is nothing to sneeze at (please direct that at your elbow).  I do understand the seriousness and how it affects lives from health concerns to unemployment.  However, from a strictly personal perspective, I have some not so serious observations.

          If you are wearing a mask is there a fashion protocol?  Should you match your ensemble based on whether the mask is white, blue or one of those colored neckerchiefs that cowboys wear out on the range.  I am fortunate enough to sport an ND 95 mask which I accessorize with an olive green military style field jacket.

          The six foot rule is great if you actually have a concept of what six feet is. I was at Lowe’s the other day looking at plants. A woman about ten feet away, who was wearing rubber gloves and a large mask, screamed at me, “Six feet! Six feet!” My reply, “Lady, if you keep on like that, you will soon be six feet under.”  Most stores now have tape on the floor marking six feet increments.  This gives personal space a new meaning. Cashiers often have Plexiglas shields hanging in front of them. Wished I’d bought stock in Plexiglas, those folks are making a killing (bad choice of words).

          We all have new grocery store experiences.  If you go early enough in the day you may get a six pack of toilet paper that you can add to the other twenty packs now in your garage.  The only canned fruit available is a pineapple/kiwi mix. Great if you’ve lived in Hawaii your whole life. The meat cases are pretty much emptied unless you want chicken thighs and chuck steak so tough that you have to beat it with a hammer to get it tender enough to swallow.  Finally, if you make it to the store late, the only milk left is organic goat milk that’s not pasteurized for your safety.

With most of us being stuck at home, creativity is required to fend off that big blue boredom monster. There is an unmitigated flood of TV shows to stream but that can bring about viewing paralysis. Should I spend six hours watching a series on the history of buttons or go with two seasons of Zombie Apocalypse? Wait. We’re in an actual apocalypse. I do avoid most news shows. Why stress out to the daily totals of new cases of covid 19 when I can lose myself in a book about raising and showing unicorns? If you have kids at home, that’s a whole different kind of boredom. You’ve told little Johnny that he can only play video games ten hours a day instead of fifteen, and the homework that has been sent home, via video, is the new math, and you are clueless at how to help him with it. Your daughter has to write a paper on the history of the steam engine while you have steam coming out of your ears because the toilet is plugged up with your three year olds favorite security blanket.

Since we are supposed to stay out of most public places, if possible, one solution is to take trips to nowhere. Get in the car/suv/truck/van and drive aimlessly for twenty minutes. At least you are out of the house, and you can blast out that music you love without disturbing your significant others. Even sing along, which is a scary thought. Well, that’s how one person sees it. I think now, I’ll just troll Amazon and see if I can find a grossly overpriced packet of disinfectant wipes that will be shipped in June.

Ties

My tie collection is approaching eighty.  Some people collect baseball cards, coffee mugs or anything associated with unicorns.  Why am I seemingly obsessed with a piece of cloth designed to constrict the air flow to your lungs?  Let's start with a little history.

          A fascination with neckwear raged through France in the 1660s. It seems that Louis IV had hired a bunch of Croatian mercenaries to fight in the 30 years war. These dudes wore a piece of cloth around their necks to compliment their uniforms. Louis dug the look, and soon, if you were anybody in the orbit of Louis "The Sun King," you were sporting a colorful "cravat."  This little ditty kept the silk merchants very busy. Over the next two hundred years, various styles of silk cravats were a big winner for most of the European middle and upper classes. Just watch a couple of Jane Austin's adaptations on Masterpiece Theater, such as Pride and Prejudice, and you'll get the drift.

          We had to wait until the Roaring 20s for the modern necktie to take off.  Some New York clothier named Jessie Langsdorf put together a tie which "bounced back" to its original shape after each use. Simple concept, big improvement. Ties were de rigueur for business attire. Even the seven mugs who were killed in the St. Valentine's massacre were wearing ties. Got to represent the mob with class.

          Over the ensuing years, ties went from fat to skinny, back to an average size of 3.25-3.5 inches. Fat ties in the thirties and forties were also shorter and very colorful. If you watch some of the old film noir detective movies, the ties stop at about the belly button. Talk about flapping in the breeze. The fifties and early sixties ushered in the skinny tie most favored by rockers such as the Beetles and Buddy Holly. Black was the preferred color.  Excitement in the music, not the neckwear.  By the mid sixties, the counter-culture pretty much killed the traditional tie for all but the business world. Even then, you could wear a Nehru jacket when pitching real estate investments. Today ties tend to be reserved for formal occasions but are still a staple for corporate office wear. Bold colors, varied fabrics and differing price points keep ties relevant to a select clientele. However, don't wear a neck tie in Iran where it is seen as  a decadent symbol of European oppression.  Blame the Croatians.

          How do you knot a tie?  When I first heard the term "necktie party" I imagined a bunch of guys sitting around yucking it up while tying various knots such as the four in hand, the half and full Windsor or the Shelby knot. I didn't realize the necktie party involved nefarious intentions and the branch of a tree.  I favor the fairly simple four in hand knot because I can do it without also twisting my fingers into knots.

          There are two subspecies that need mentioning: the bow tie and the clip-on.  The bow tie is most associated with scientists, engineers and those ensconced in nerd central. Bill Nye the science guy is a favored practitioner. There is a picture of me and my parents in 1962. My mother is wearing a pillbox Jackie Kennedy hat. My dad is wearing a skinny tie.  I am wearing a red sports coat and a bright blue clip-on bow tie. Kids of that era almost all wore bow ties for formal occasions. Today, older kids still wear regular ties that are clip-ons. My sons had quite a few of them. Why knot when you can clip. Law enforcement also favor clip-ons. That way the perp can't strangle the officer but instead gets a handful of cloth and metal.  However, as an adult, wear a clip-on in the professional business world and see how far that gets you.

          My journey with neckties got a slow start. The late sixties and most of the seventies, I was in my hippie mode (with time out for serving Uncle Sam). I wore jeans, white shirts, and vests. Nary a necktie to be seen. However, in the early eighties, I decided to get on with life and ended up a college writing teacher. Still wore jeans and vests (I had over twenty) but began incorporating colorful eclectic ties into my wardrobe a couple of teaching days each week. I may have been a sartorial anomaly, but it kept those students guessing as to what crazy combination the prof would wear next. After I got right with Jesus and started attending church, I often wore a tie to the service. Hey, I was in God's house, and wearing ties was a sign of respect.

          Now that I'm retired from teaching, I still find opportunities to wear some of those eighty ties. Will it be one celebrating the works of Van Gogh, Monet or Degas? Maybe a tie with birdhouses, tropical fish or hot air balloons?  I could do stain glass windows or the raising of the American flag at Yorktown. Maybe the one with all the Beetles' albums on it.  Can't wait for national tie day on October 18th. Gonna drape all those ties around my neck at once...

The Light

I have several solar powered hanging yard lights. One stopped working so I cleaned out the housing and replaced the rechargeable battery. No bueno. Messed with the wiring; tried another battery. Nothing. I set the “light” (oxymoron) on a bench in the yard. Would dispose of it later.  A few nights later I got out of bed to use the loo, and while the other yard lights had almost faded out, the no bueno one was lit up in all its glory. I'd given up on that light, and it had come back on with a vengeance.

          There is some kind of lesson here.  Something to do with there being light where none is expected.  When someone is suffering from a severe illness or a disease or deep depression, it can be difficult to see any possibility of light. Just blackness all around.  However, sometimes those moments occur, if only briefly, where light shines through. It could be a thought, a visit from a friend, relief from pain. A realization that even at dark moments, light can find its way in.

          We live in a world where despair and general negativity are often the order of the day. Media venerates the dysfunctional; that's what gets the most attention in the marketplace. Murders, natural disasters, political mayhem, celebrity breakups.  All grist for the mill.  The kids' lemonade stand shut down because they don't have a health department permit. Print it. Make it click bait.

          How, on a personal level, to counter this darkness? Is there a manual that tells how to be forever "dancing in the light." Well, there may be books with such promises on Amazon, but the pages might a well be blank. No bueno.  Nirvana can't be achieved in a ten step program.  However, a way out of total darkness and toward the light is possible.  It is recognizing that as humans, the cosmic "we," something bigger than ourselves must be depended on. How many happy atheists do you know?  A strong spiritual base, premised on knowing a loving God, can provide comforting light in dire situations that are confusing and even incomprehensible from our limited perspectives. While we can't eliminate the darkness, we need not be destroyed by it.  Slivers of light are available.

          That solar light in the backyard will eventually fade. New batteries may or not make it work.  However, there was that magic moment, when it gloriously started working again, when all things seemed possible.

The Wait

I recently drove by our local Dunkin Donuts. There were eleven cars in the drive thru.  I imagine number eleven getting to the order window.

          "I'll take an apple fritter, two chocolate glazed and a black coffee."

          "Sir, we are out of fritters and chocolate glazed."

          "Then give me a bear claw and two plain cake donuts."

          "Sir, we are out of those too."

          "Then, just the coffee."

          "We are out of cups."

          It is amazing how long Americans will wait in line to get some ephemeral food item. It's not like you have to stand in line for eight hours just to get a moldy potato and stale bread in the old Soviet Union. Folks willingly spend a quarter of their life sitting in drive-thrus; also standing outside stores or camped on the internet, waiting for that magic moment when some gewgaw or concert ticket is finally/possibly available. "Sid, look at this nice flat screen I got on Black Friday. I had to yank it out of the hands of a lady with a stroller."

          While there are many opportunities where we willingly wait forever, (I stood in line two and a half hours to see the original Star Wars in '77) there are plenty of occasions where we are held hostage to long wait times.

          First is the infamous DMV (Distressed Motorist Venue).  For some muddled reason you actually have to go to a local DMV office. They apparently won't let you take care of business on-line.  You get there early but still end up with a number in the high fifties.  The powers that be have gone out of their way to make the chairs as uncomfortable as possible. Every other person ahead of you seems to have a registration issue that requires two supervisors to confer for inordinate amounts of time.  After several hours you finally get to the window, only to be told you could have taken care of this on-line if you'd only known the super secret website URL.

          You go to the post office to mail a package overseas. After standing in line for twenty minutes you finally reach the counter, only to be told that the forms you need to fill out are back where you came in. You fill out three custom forms, where you need to write a mini essay about the contents of the package. You get back to the counter after another twenty minutes. The clerk tells you the address is insufficient for international mail, but that's all you have. You give up, deciding that your friend in Europe really doesn't need what you had planned to send.

          My wife and I are at an age where we spend more and more time in medical offices. The last trip to the eye doctor was typical.  While the wait to see the doc was, for once, not overly long, the environment was not exactly great. Fellow seniors engaged in full throated talking on cell phones. "Well Beulah, the damn dog did have fleas!"  The ubiquitous waiting room TV is blaring out advice on how to solve dry eye problems. The reading selection includes the following: Retinal Diseases in Adults, Tumors of the Eye and Advances in Cataract Surgery (I am not making this up). Trapped in old geezer hell.

          The grocery store is infamous for long waits.  If you get there early in the morning to pick up a couple of items, they only have one checkout open which is usually dedicated to 15 items or less. So you are there to get OJ and some eggs; however, there are two carts in front of you filled to the brim, to beat the rush. You get there late afternoon, and they have three lines open, but you get in the line where the lady in front has to write a check. It takes two minutes for her to find the checkbook in her large purse. Or the person in front is trying to use a debit card that is continually rejected, or the person in front forgot an item and the bagger is sent to find it, only to return unsuccessgul, minutes later. It's enough to consider using their home delivery service.

          Welcome to phone tree hell. You spend thirty minutes and multiple calls maneuvering through disembodied computer voices; either the syrupy female voice or the "confident" male version. Finally you reach a live person, but they aren't in the right department, and when they transfer you, the phone goes dead. Alternately, the live person is in India, and through their broken English you realize that rather than really helping you, their main function is to sell you an upgraded service you don't need. Then there is some company's internet chat service, where the back and forth typed conversation takes ninety minutes, and at the end you are supposed to complete a survey on how great the whole  frustrating experience has been. Oh for the days of brick and mortar stores and walk-up customer complaint departments.

          If you live in a place where you have to commute long distances to work, then freeway grid lock can be a way of life. Better have plenty of water and a bunch of audio books to pass the time. However, for most folks, the mother of all wait times starts at the airline terminal.  Long lines to check in. Long lines to go through TSA security. "Ma'am, a llama is not a recognized emotional support animal." or "Sir, that bag of eels in your carry on will be turned over the Fish and Wildlife."  Then the flight is delayed for hours or cancelled altogether. Will the airline put you up in a local hotel overnight? Only if the airlines say the delay/cancellation is their fault, which happens about 5% of the time. "Sir, we are not responsible for a blizzard. God did that. Try to get some sleep in that comfy chair and here is a voucher for a cup of coffee." Tired of being treated like cattle? Maybe a long road trip would have been the better option.

          Looking forward, when we get to the pearly gates, let's hope the wait won't be long. If it is, at least the view will be spectacular.

Emergency!

It didn't end well.  I was walking our Lab puppy early in the morning when it was still dark.  We were going behind a car that I didn't realize was pulling out of a driveway. I yanked Abby May into the street, fell and hit my head. The car missed us, or we would have been road kill. Guy never saw us; not his fault.

          When I got up, my bleeding looked like one of those punch bowl fountains.  Soaked my favorite t-shirt and my shorts. Made it back to the house. The dog seemed fine but wearing a tasteful spattering of my blood. The wife, remaining calm,  said we should call 911. I said I was John Wayne, and we could still take Iwo Jima.  The wife differed. I called 911, said kill the siren, the neighbors deserved their beauty rest.

          Fire truck and EMTs showed up.  Six guys as concerned about the dog as me.  Hey, I'm over 70 and not very cute.  The bleeding had almost stopped. They clean the gash and wrap up my head so I bear a striking resemblance to Boris Karloff in The Mummy. Decide that taking an ambulance to the emergency room is a smart bet. Don't want to get blood stains in our new mini-van.

          EMT in the ambulance asks me if I have ever enjoyed this mode of transport before. I say no, but I have watched many episodes of  Live Rescue, if that counts.  Bummed because I don't get the EKG monitor or the lecture on living my life more responsibly since I didn't OD.  The EMT poo- poos my concern that the dog may develop PTSD.

          At the hospital emergency room, they triage me while a passing EMT looks at my blood soaked shirt and shorts and says, "Someone sprung a leak." An incredibly insightful comment. While I would make a great photo for the next hospital fundraising appeal, initially they put me in a wheelchair and push me to a waiting room where the TV is trumpeting the merits of dental implants.  Where the hell have I ended up?  The wife finds me, and my son also shows up, bringing me a muffin and fruit juice, both of which I can't have in case head trauma precludes those brands. A nurse brings me a blanket since the air conditioning is kept at a cozy 60 degrees. Registration shows up, delighted I have old gummer coverage which will pay the freight for this little episode.        

          They decide I need a CT scan of my head to make sure I'm not in the humpty dumpty category.  It's still early in the day, and after briefly acknowledging that I exist, the two techs pop me into the scanner while continuing their conversation on what pizza toppings are most noxious. I'd go with anchovies, but they don't ask my opinion.  I would like to know if the banging noise in my ears is normal, but the techs pull me out of the tube just before I become severely claustrophobic.

          They then find a bay with a bed for me on the trauma floor. I'm in number 13, hopefully not a harbinger of things to come.  My wife is brought back, and Cheri, a perky (politically incorrect) strawberry blonde RN, says she will be with me shortly, but I don't see her for thirty minutes. Not her fault. Two trauma cases suddenly show up: a woman who has suffered a severe stroke and a guy who just went through a windshield. While this is going on, in a bed across from me, a Hispanic male covered with tattoos seems to be writhing in pain, the alarm on his vital signs monitor is going WAA, WAA, WAA, WAA incessantly. Turns out his heart had stopped and they revived him with CPR before bringing him in. With my narrow world view, I figured heroin overdose, but the guy had been on kidney dialysis and something went wrong. These other situations make my problems seem like chump change.

          Cheri the RN finally returns and unwraps my mummified head.  The CT scan results are back, and my skull seems to be in one piece. No need for brain surgery. Next,  June, a statuesque (politically incorrect) nurse practitioner, looks at my gash and says it will require staples to close it. I imagine those guns with one inch staples that they use at construction sites. Maybe brain surgery will be necessary.  As I wait for the numbing cream on my noggin to kick in, my blood pressure spikes and my vital signs monitor starts going WAA, WAA, WAA.  I ask my wife to push every button to try to stop it, but she is afraid doing so might make be blow up.

          Finally, NP June returns with staple gun in hand. She says I might feel something. You think? She goes POP, POP, POP -three staples- and the deed is done.  It feels no worse than me banging my head against a wall. They are now happy to bring the discharge papers, which I sign in triplicate. June says I might experience concussion symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, headaches and double vision. And I had a big weekend planned watching football players get concussed. As we exit the emergency room, the registration lady gives me the thumbs up, acknowledging that I have survived and that my medical insurance has cleared.  It's been over six excitement packed hours. I get in our mini-van; devour the stale muffin and drink the fruit juice.  I don't care what brand goes poorly with head injuries.

          In the days that follow, I get donuts for the EMT guys (they're not only for cops) and gift cards for my nurses. Fortunately, I don't suffer concussion symptoms other than mild headaches. The other good news is that all of the blood washed out of my t-shirt, and it does not appear that the dog has PTSD. The bad news is that my son says I have to wear a headlamp and three other lights on my body when walking Abby May.  I vacillate. All I know is that John Wayne didn't wear no stinkin' lights in The Sands of Iwo Jima.

The Box

Almost everyone has one. A repository for keepsakes. It could be an old cigar box or an ornate wooden chest.  An army trunk can be the resting place of valued items from a long military career, or a shoe box full of faded Polaroids from a by gone era.

          The traditional "hope chest" or "cedar chest" was used by prospective brides and contained such items as clothing (including a special dress), table linens, towels, bed linens, quilts and occasionally dishware. Things needed to get the marriage off on the right foot. Long before fast food and TV dinners.

          My box had belonged to my mother. It is cedar; 18 L x 9 W  x 10 H.  There is a painted image of Mandarin Chinese on the side .   Most of the items are from childhood through the teen years. Baby tooth, marbles, lead soldiers, Boy Scout patches, first driver's license, prom pictures, foreign coins, Mickey Mouse watch, draft registration, letters from my father.

          What about the memory boxes of our lives:

 The School Box

          Crayons. Gum erasers. Sister Mary Eloise. Rapped knuckles. Math. Concrete playground. Best friends forever.  Bullies and mean girls. Cafeteria mystery meat. Hating gym class. School play - forgetting lines. Teacher that cared. Falling asleep in history class. Admiring graduation tassel. The real world...

 The Work Box

          First job: Flipping burgers. Babysitting a little brat. Life guard at a decrepit city pool.  All dressed up for a real interview. Healthcare and wage scale package. Cubicle farm. Dress code? Idiot co-worker. Pride in project completion. Mai tais at the annual convention. Pink slip. Networking for a new career. A fresh idea! Trash cans never emptied. Gold plated watch.

 The Vacation Box

          The tent that wouldn't stay up. Burnt pancakes that never tasted so good. Canadian geese taking off  from a mirrored lake. The sound of wind through tall pines. Poison ivy. The warmth of a sleeping bag. Hotel from hell. Hotel from heaven. Lost passport. Finally, a villager that speaks English.  Ancient ruins at sunrise.  Candlelight dinner in the town's old quarter. Your kids saying they're sick of museums.

 The Romance Box

          First kiss. Dating. Heart about to burst. Too much perfume/cologne.  Brilliant conversation. Saying really stupid stuff. Breakup-makeup. Finally moving on. Finding the one. Making incredible love. First house. Picking out drapes. Life as compromise. Diapers. Teenagers. Where did the years go? Age spots. Last kiss in hospice.

 The Spirituality Box

          God is dead. God was never alive. God is.  The invisible hand. Making sense out of the senseless. Fellowship of believers. Too many questions. Just enough answers. A calming during the dark night of the soul. The true friend. Ribbons of light across eternity. 

          I have another box. It's made of teak and has carved scenes of Filipino natives. It has small pull out drawers and belonged to my grandfather.  It contains swatches from my adult life. Old driver licenses. School pictures of the kids. Social Security cards for me and my wife. Military insignia spanning twenty-eight years of service. Political buttons. ID cards from my teaching career. A photo of my wife when we were first dating. The years ticking away.  Go find your box. A touchstone. A life fully lived.

The Elderly

I was perusing the local newspaper, and in the law and order section, an “elderly man” was assaulted during a home invasion. The victim was listed as being 70.  Now when I was twenty-five, I would probably have equated “elderly” with anyone over 60.  However, now that I am in the eighth decade (70-79), I take it as a personal affront being seen as "elderly."

          To the younger generations, “elderly” connotes a barely moving, toothless individual, swaddled in Depends, who can’t remember his/her phone number. Have I lost a step, do parts of my body ache that I didn’t know existed? You bet. However, the brain is functioning just fine, thank you, (except for all those senior moments) and I plan on driving until they remove my cold dead hands from the steering wheel.

          Of course, in discussing the “elderly,” you do have to pay attention to cultural and historical contexts. Asian societies have traditionally venerated their older citizens.  The wisdom that comes with age is valued, and it is expected that mom and dad live with the kids when they can no longer thrive on their own. In fact, in most societies where life hasn’t become artificially processed and formed, the older folks are seen as an asset, not as tomorrow’s trash.  However, in many “modern” first world Western cultures, one of the biggest industries going is warehousing the geezers in assisted living ghettos. Out of sight, out of mind; let them keel over at the bingo table.

          If we take a step back in history, the average life expectancy looked pretty grim. In biblical times it was around 35 years. As late as 1907, the average life expectancy for men was 45 years.  Hardly enough time to sell these folks a decent chariot or replacement buggy wheels.  The Weekly Scroll in Rome might have had the lead, “Senator Flavius Valerius dies in the Forum at 36. He was a true elder statesman. Leaves behind strong but brief legacy.”  The point is, senior status may be both in the eyes of the beholder and in the sweep of history.

          Now, I realize that we all reach a life stage where heavy duty assistance may be needed, but too often, those Americans in their golden years are perceived as a blight upon the planet.  There is a reason the prime demographic for advertisers is 25-54. How much profit is there in a bottle of Metamucil and heating pads? We old folks rarely buy a new car every other year. We hold onto the rust bucket for at least ten years, cherishing the cassette tape player and engines that a mechanic can understand.  We buy our clothes at Sears (Oops, the dustbin of history) and have phone landlines (that’s right, my cold dead hands). I may not see myself as “elderly,” but I have a lot of preferences that place me firmly in the Luddite camp.

          Who says the relics can’t get it done? Picasso was still painting and fathering kiddos into his 70’s and 80’s.  Frank Lloyd Wright was cranking out the architectural plans until he assumed room temperature at 92.  Kurt Vonnegut was wielding the mighty pen into his eighties. Mother Teresa was heading a missionary group when she was almost 90. In short “elderly” shouldn’t mean comatose.  Me, myself and I plan on writing the great American novel sometime in my mid-eighties. I just might have enough life experience by then.

Demolition Derby

27 miles. That's what the odometer showed on our new vehicle, a Chrysler Pacifica mini-van. A real step up from our worn out twelve year old trade-in. Within 3 1/2 months of buying it, the van was involved in two accidents, being rear ended at a stop light and clipping a car going twenty-five miles under the speed limit.  Reminds me of that saying, "You just can't have nice things." The collision damage made me reflect on the various types of bad drivers that clog the road on a minute by minute basis.  The egregiousness of their driving habits is listed in no particular order.

Homo snowbirdalis - These old folks flock in from the Midwest in late fall and cause havoc until they fly home in the spring, Blind, hard of hearing and unsure of their surroundings, they ignore lane markers and drive so slowly that they are regularly passed by bicyclists. They also crash into buildings after experiencing "medical incidents."

Homo aggressis - Can be male or female. They drive like they own the road and are competing in Formula 1 at Le Mans. Weaving in an out and crossing over three lanes of tight traffic so that they can cut right in front of a car before making an immediate left turn. Have perfected the California rolling stop and believe that red lights are only an annoyance to be ignored.

Homo imparis - Juiced up on alcohol, drugs or weed, these drivers blithely skim along the highway without a clue that they are a death threat to all around them. At a police stop the refrain usually goes something like this, "Hey bro, I only had two beers." "Dude, I don't know what that white stuff is, These aren't my pants!" "I just lost my medical marijuana card. That scale isn't mine. I don't know why my car reeks, I last smoked weed three days ago." Society's creme de la creme.

Homo cellphonator - Technology from hell. Usually drivers under forty who talk, text and search on cell phones while being vaguely aware that they are in a sea of traffic. Skype your best friend while going around hair pin turns.  Browse Amazon while driving sixty mph in a construction zone. Text your agreement to a business proposal as you engage the side of an eighteen wheeler.  Ain't progress great?

Homo illegex - Suspended driver's license; no auto insurance, expired car registration. Burned out headlight and brake light. "Officer, I was going to take care of all of this as soon as I get paid from a job I'm starting in two weeks. Can you just give me a warning?"

Homo mornians - Guys are shaving while driving or trimming their mustache. The ladies are applying makeup and curling their eyelashes while steering with their knees. They already think they're in self-driving cars. RIP Sally Musgrove. She was pulled from the wreckage, still clutching hair spray in her left hand.

Homo gluttonus - Breakfast, lunch, dinner. They all taste better when consumed behind the wheel.  Shove that breakfast burrito in your maw as you maneuver through morning rush hour. Look down at the salsa that's dripped on your pants as you belatedly marvel at the car that slams on its breaks in front of you. Crush the monster burger while someone eating sushi in a Subaru is about to crush you.

Homo boomboxicus - At a stoplight, the guy's car is shaking so hard from loud rap music, that it's about to leave the ground. You don't dare look over because that could obviously be a sign of disrespect that would get you shot with a very large handgun. Enjoy the moment.

          While I don't claim to be the "perfect" driver, I've had a lot of years of observing what not to do on the road, and committing same to my memory banks.  Defensive driving is only way to survive the free-for-all attitude of today's road warriors. "Is that lady really making an illegal u-turn with two dogs on her lap?" Be safe my friend.