July 11, 2018

Summertime livin’ and eatin’ at its best

“It’s summertime and the livin’s easy” is a line from one of my favorite songs. And summertime is probably my favorite season. There isn’t much I don’t like about it. The reason that comes to mind right now is fresh vegetables.
       The garden planted in early spring starts to produce its delicious bounty in summer. According to what you like, you can enjoy a variety of the freshest-tasting vegetables you could ever want. White icicle radishes are my favorite. When they’re cleaned and washed, there’s nothing better with any meal than those radishes dipped in salt. Personally, I like to dip them in salt from one of the old-fashioned salt dishes like my grandmother used. Tastes better somehow.
       Now if you like lettuce, you’re in luck, too. Some people like fresh-picked lettuce wilted in hot apple cider vinegar, bacon grease and a touch of sugar. And it’s not bad, really. But I prefer to take fresh lettuce, wash it in cold water and pile it on a peanut butter sandwich.
       If your garden is planted as the summer clips along, you can have most anything you want for weeks. The onions have been in the ground for quite a while, if you haven’t picked them all to eat as green onions.
       It’s the large onions, sliced and put together with fresh sliced cucumbers in vinegar and water that I like best. Salted, of course. They compliment any dinner well. For a snack, there’s nothing better than a large Bermuda onion, sliced and salted and put on a bread and butter—real butter, please, none of that slick, tasteless margarine—sandwich. It may be better if you have a cast-iron stomach. I don’t know.
       Tomatoes have got to be next. The first vine-ripened tomatoes of the summer are difficult to beat. What I always liked to do as a kid was walk through the garden and spot a really red, ripe, juicy one, pluck it from the vine, wipe it off a little and eat it right there. And yes, I carried the salt shaker with me.
       All the fresh tomatoes taste good, but they don’t compare with that first one. Some people make the mistake of putting them in the refrigerator, though. That’ll ruin the taste of a tomato quicker than about anything I know. So just slice hot tomatoes and put them on the table with your favorite meal. I even like them with bacon and eggs in the morning. They just start the day off the way it should be started.
       Green beans come along when you’re ready for them and not a minute sooner. I think I like wax beans the best. But any kind of fresh green beans cooked with bacon grease and some onion chips tastes so much better than store-bought beans that I sometimes wonder if they’re even the same thing.
       Moving beyond the green beans in the garden but at about the same time, the peas ripen and bulge in their pods. When they do, you cheat a little and dig a bunch of new potatoes even before they bloom if you have to. Just as long as you get the potatoes. All you do then is skin the potatoes and de-pod the peas, cook them together in a thick, rich, cream sauce. A little salt and pepper tops them off just fine.
       And finally: Yeah, finally because it’s the pinnacle of the summer. It’s the World Series of garden eating. That’s when the corn starts coming on, filling out into large yellow ears. (I like white corn well enough, but I especially like the Peaches and Cream variety with both yellow and white kernels.) Nothing like it if you eat it right. I love to take the freshly roasted or boiled corn and dip it in melted butter—again real butter, please, if you don’t want to spoil the taste—salt and pepper four rows, add a glob of butter for good measure and eat the four rows across horizontally with one vicious gnawing.
       Okay, so I’m an enthusiastic garden eater who likes his salt and real butter. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. And don’t quit until you’ve eaten four or five ears that way.
       At the end of the summer, if you’re lucky, you can have at least one meal with all your favorites. I personally can’t imagine anything better than a meal consisting of corn on the cob—roastin’ ears we used to call them—sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and onions, creamed potatoes and peas, green beans and white radishes.
       Yeah, in the summertime, “the livin’s easy” and the eatin’s great.

June 16, 2018

A Memory on Father's Day

As I reflect on this year's Father’s Day, mine has been gone for more than 20 years. Still, it’s a day I want to remember him because of who he was, what he was, when he was, and for all the times I forgot that. This column is for him.
            My father was a farmer and a truck-driving man. Not the kind of trucker who drives the 18-wheelers on the interstate highways today. His trucks had no air-conditioning, sleeper cabs, cushion-ride seats, AM-FM or Sirius radios, GPS systems or any other comfort modern technology provides.
            No, he drove a regular two-speed axle, two-ton straight truck. The only bigger truck he ever owned was a 10-wheeler he took west a couple of years to follow the wheat harvest from the panhandle of Texas to the Canadian line. And the trucks were almost always Dodges. In a trucking career that spanned from 1939 to the mid-‘80s, he had only two trucks of a different make that I can recall with as many as five during World War II when he had a deferment from military service to support the farming community.
            With these trucks he hauled livestock, hay, grain, coal, lime, fertilizer, furniture—anything he could get in a truck. He and his drivers hauled through all kinds of weather. I’ve seen him scoop coal in the driving rain, load livestock in the bitter cold and haul hay in the blazing heat.
            Probably the only things that kept me from trying to follow in his footsteps was a trip I made to the Indianapolis stockyards with him one hot July or August when I was 10 or 11 years old.
            He had several stops to load a cow here, a calf there and a few hogs somewhere before being full loaded. A couple of places with just a calf or two, he wouldn’t even set up the loading chute. He just raised the end gate, tossed the animal in and drove off.
            The sweat dripped from his face, stinging his eyes while a river of it poured in; his shirt was completely soaked. As he wrote out the bill of lading for the woman at the last stop and wiped his eyes with a red handkerchief, the sweat trickled through the small hairs on the back of his hand, smudging the pencil lead on the paper as he wrote.
            ”Would you like a Pepsi, Harold,” the grizzled, white-haired woman asked.
            “Be good,” he said, still furiously scribbling and holding out his left hand for the drink. One gulp, two gulps, a breath, another gulp. The Pepsi was gone.
            “Thanks,” he said, handing her the empty bottle. Almost before he had the copy of the bill of lading ripped out and had given it to her, he was shutting the door, switching the key on and grinding the engine to life.
            As we turned out on the road, and headed east toward Indianapolis, he said, “Don’t ever do anything for a living that you have to work this hard.”
            Except for those trips, there were times I hardly ever saw him for days on end. He’d sometimes put on his clothes on Monday morning, load for Indianapolis, sleep in the truck at the coal mine in Brazil, Ind., while waiting for a load of coal for the return trip. And he’d scoop the coal, load for Indianapolis and do it over again.
            Or he‘d get home in the wee hours of the morning, sleep a little and be gone long before I got up. Even when I did get to go with him, he didn’t talk much. And when he did, it was about being honest or always paying his bills. 
            He slowed down as the years passed, had only two trucks for a while, then only one after he started farming. Then he’d work from six in the morning until nine at night—sometimes earlier, sometimes later—day in and day out, unless it rained. When I worked with him, I prayed for rain 24 hours a day. He never told me not to farm, but I remembered his advice about hauling livestock. Farming didn’t seem any easier.
            Just before he quit hauling livestock in the ‘60s, he took a straight load of cattle to Indianapolis and put four lambs on the upper deck at the front of the truck. Livestock hauling had dwindled and coal hauling was almost a thing of the past. He unloaded the cattle and was home by midnight.
            The next morning he woke to the sound of lambs bleating. Jumping out of bed, he bellowed, “What the devil is that?”
            “Sounds like sheep,” my mother answered.
            “Thunder and mud, I forgot to unload those lambs.”
            Another trucker going to Indianapolis stopped by for the lambs, and my father’s friends razzed him for a while. He’d smile and shake his head, but he never forgot his family or friends as he had those lambs. And it seems to me that a man who worked hard all his life needs to be remembered on Father’s Day.
            Thanks, Dad, I wish you were still here to share the day.

May 27, 2018

‘Blowing fire” takes the pain out of a burn

I was young, only 6 years old. Although I don't understand it, I do remember what happened, how I felt. Let me tell you about it.
It was an early summer evening and I heard my mother call me home for supper. For a while, I pretended I didn't hear her. Then I headed home, dejected that I had to do something as boring as eat supper when I could play.
As I walked along with my head down, the rest of the kids continued playing kick the can. I kicked disgustedly at the gravel at the side of the road with my bare feet. The remains of a brush and leaf pile a man had burned in front of his house was upon me before I realized it. But, I never hesitated or missed a step and began walking through it.
At the edge of the 12- or 15-foot-long pile, the powdery soft gray ashes felt pleasant to my feet. Closer to the center of the pile, the ashes began to feel warm. But, they still felt pleasant as I kicked along. Several feet in the center were red-hot coals, covered by mounds of ashes at the top.
Jumping and screaming, I took one, two, three, maybe four steps before I could get out of the hot coals. I ran gingerly, falling and landing in the ditch with my feet sending messages of pain to my brain.
A friend heard my screams and came running to my rescue. He tried to calm me down, told me not to cry. I only screamed louder. He didn't know what to do, but stayed with me.
My father was driving by a half a block away with a truckload of cattle on his way to Indianapolis. Somehow, my friend got his attention or my father heard my screaming. I don't know which. But he came and got me and carried me home.
It's not quite clear to me what happened for a while after that. I vaguely remember the doctor looking at my feet and trying to get me to shut up. Didn't happen. He smeared lard on both feet and wrapped them with gauze.
One of the neighbors suggested to my mother that a local farmer who could "blow fire" be called. By the time he arrived from the field, I had been screaming for well more than an hour. The doctor had done me no good at all. I awaited the farmer who blew fire hopefully, yet skeptically.
When he arrived, he told my mother that he didn't know what he could do since the doctor had put the lard on my feet. But he would try if she wanted him to. She did. So did I.
Between cries of pain and tears of anguish, I watched his kind face and steady eyes (that I can still see clearly today) as he unwrapped the bandages from my feet. Tenderly, he held first one foot then the other with one hand and blew through a finger of the other hand at my burned feet.
His eyes never left his job. Although I hoped he could help, I looked at him and knew almost that there was nothing neither he nor anybody else was going to be able to do for me. But as he blew, the fire seemed to leave my feet and my crying and screaming subsided.
Not quit, subsided.
He left to do his evening chores and returned in an hour or so and went through the process again. By the time he had finished the second time, even my blubbering had quit. My feet were tender, but they no longer burned. It wasn't long before I was asleep, exhausted.
In a few days, the water was drained from the massive blisters on the bottoms of my feet. My mother pulled me around in a little red wagon until my feet were healed and I could walk again.
Since then, I've tried to explain and understand how the pain left my feet. I've attributed it to the fact that I was young and wanted to believe, that I simply became exhausted and went to sleep and the burn went away, that I ... . But I've been burned since, and the burning sensation lingers for hours, even days.
Whatever happened, the pain of the burn doesn't go away as quickly now as it did back then. And the burns since haven't been quite so bad, either. I don't know.
I do know that many people believed the fire could be blown out of a burn. These people claimed it takes no special ability to be able to do it. Anyone can learn it, they said, if they could find somebody to tell them how.
Here's how they said it works: As the fire blower ministers to the burn victim, he or she blows over his or her fingers at the burned area, but doesn't let the breath touch the burn. While he or she is doing this, he or she repeats several designated words over and over in his or her mind.
The surface technique is simple. Anyone can learn it by watching or reading the above paragraph. The words are another thing. I have never found anyone who would tell me what they were. Nor did anybody know their origin, but they thought they were partially Biblical.
The fire blowers believe that for anyone to be able to blow fire, a man who knows the words must tell a woman, never a man. And he can't tell a relative. Then a woman can tell a man, never a woman. Nor can she tell a relative.
None of these people were allowed to take money for their services, they said. They only claimed that they could take the fire out of the burn so it wouldn't hurt; they didn't claim that they could cure the burn, eliminate scars from severe burns to alleviate the pain caused by tenderness.
Perhaps it's only folklore; perhaps there's nothing to it; perhaps it exists only in the mind. I don't know. I only know that one time a long time ago a man blew the fire out of my feet. At least I thought he did.

April 2, 2018

The Hanging of Elizabeth Reed

My June 21, 1978, column in the Robinson Daily News ...

Time was when there wasn't much for convicted murderers to look forward to after completion of their sentences. Take old Elizabeth Reed from Purgatory Swamp south of Palestine, Illinois, for example.
      Reed was accused and convicted of slipping a little “sweetin’” in her husband’s coffee (or sassafras tea, according to the account you read) back in 1844. Her sentence? To hang by the neck until dead. And that didn’t take long. What happened to her after ...
      But let's take a look at the events leading up to the hanging before going on to what little I could find out about what happened to her after she completed her sentence. Existing accounts are sketchy and inconsistent, and this account is based on a composite of the articles about the event now on file at the Robinson, Ill., Township Library (the library where as a youngster From Here To Eternity author James Jones honed his interest in literature).
      Reed and her husband, William, lived in a log cabin in what one writer called Purgatory Swamp; another writer said this cabin was located eight miles south of Palestine or about a half a mile northwest of Heathsville.
      During the summer of 1844, William Reed became ill. A doctor was called to the cabin. After a brief examination, the doctor said the feeble old man couldn't live long. And he didn't.
      A neighbor girl, Eveline Deal, was called to the cabin to help care for him. After the doctor left, Elizabeth put some white powder in the old man's coffee. He was dead when the doctor returned.
At the time of the funeral, Elizabeth acted like the grieving widow. It wasn't until later that her behavior became suspect. Or, more likely, it wasn't until the Deal girl told someone that she had seen Elizabeth pour white powder in the coffee that she was suspected of murder.
      The paper that contained the powder was still in the cabin. Evidently Deal turned the paper and her suspicions over to the sheriff, and he conducted an investigation. It was established that Elizabeth had bought the powder (arsenic) from a Russellville druggist. The paper was the kind used only by that druggist who identified it as the one he had wrapped the arsenic in for Elizabeth.
      Witnesses testified that she had gone to the druggist in a disguise to buy the poison. What kind of disguise was never mentioned. In various instances, Reed was described as a strange woman, ("of a very peculiar and hardened disposition") who seemed to have a facial disfigurement of some kind. She always wore a white cap or band tied around her head and wore a veil over her face when she went out. Perhaps that was the disguise.
     At the time of her arrest in August of 1844, Reed was placed in the county jail at Palestine. She quickly burned the log jail (which was never rebuilt because the county seat was moved to Robinson) to the ground. Until a change of venue was granted, she was kept in the loft of the sheriff's cabin "with a chain fastened to one of her lower limbs, and thence to a part of the bed."
     In September of 1844, the Grand Jury indicted her for murder. The change of venue was later granted, and she was moved to Lawrence County. Her trial was held in April 1845, and she was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged on May 23, 1845.
      One eyewitness said years later, "The (execution) day dawned bright and balmy." Some 20,000 people had come from all over Illinois and Indiana to watch the hanging. Many of them arrived before dawn.
      Elizabeth Reed supposedly gave a full confession, which was later printed in pamphlet form. She was visited regularly in Lawrenceville by the clergy and allegedly confessed to them or their wives. It is difficult to determine what actually happened, because one account of the incident indicates that the governor of Illinois offered to revoke the execution sentence if she would confess.
      Whether she ever confessed, she still rode to the site of the hanging on the morning of May 23, 1845, sitting on her coffin. The crowds surrounded her on all sides, singing songs like "On Greenland's Icy Mountains." Reed, who had been baptized after her conviction, was dressed in white and had shouted, prayed and sung as she rode along. She mounted the scaffold singing "psalms of praise."
      One writer said the "scaffold stood on the northeast corner of the green hill (in Lawrenceville) with the maple tree at the bottom which had its top badly broken by the great number of men and boys anxious to see the taking off of this poor woman." A later writer said the hanging took place near the 10th Street Bridge.
      Take your pick.
      Before the hanging, a minister preached Reed's funeral as she sat on the scaffold. At the conclusion of the long sermon, a black hood was placed over her head and she stepped to the trap and the sheriff, who had tried to resign rather than hang a woman but didn't because there was nobody else to do it, cut the rope which held the trap by a small pulley fastened to a post. Reed plunged through the trap, "revolved several times, but did not struggle much" and was lowered from sight. Her sentence was completed.
      No, they didn't put a convicted murderer in jail long in those days. Nor did they spend much money to bury one. Reed was buried in a shallow grave beneath the scaffold. Relatives dug her up that night and reburied her in an unmarked grave next to her husband in the southwest corner of Baker Cemetery near Heathsville. According to available reports, there is now a marker over her grave, and Elizabeth Reed has the distinction of being the first and only woman to be hanged in Illinois.

(Note: This is not the Elizabeth Reed that Allman Brothers guitarist Dickey Betts wrote about in his song, “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed.” He wrote that song about a girl but not the one in the title. Story is that Betts often wrote in the Rose Hill Cemetery in Macon, Georgia, where Elizabeth Reed Napier, born Nov. 9, 1845, a few months after Elizabeth Reed was hanged, is buried. He is said to have used the name on her tombstone as the title because he didn’t want to identify whom the song was about: “a girl he had an affair with who was Boz Scaggs’ girlfriend.” Many references to Elizabeth Reed can be found on the internet, including a book about her hanging.)

March 26, 2018

When Emperor Nero ruled Rome, life got complicated

Roman emperor Nero, named Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus at birth, ruled more than 2,000 years ago. He was born Dec. 15, 37 A.D., not long after Pontius Pilate had Jesus nailed to the cross between two thieves.
      I recall hearing that while Rome was burning, Nero was playing the fiddle. Fake news, maybe. So I sought the truth. According to the ancient biographer Suetonius, Nero was the son of the first Roman emperor’s only daughter, and his ancestors were not what you would call hospitable folks. His grandfather enjoyed “violent gladiator games,” and his father was “irascible and brutal.”    
      His father, Domitus, had apparently been involved in a political scandal of some kind and died in 40 when Nero was 3. Before that, Nero’s mother Agrippina had her own scandal and was a “suspect of adultery with her brother-in-law.” Quite a group running things back then, replete with banishments, power grabs, and plots to take control—even an assassination.
      Just the kind of environment for someone to seize control of the government. His great uncle Claudius took Nero’s mother for his fourth wife and added Claudius to his name “to mark the adoption.” And so he became Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus and entered public life as an adult at 14 years old.
      While there were differing accounts about how Claudius died in 54, most folks think Nero’s mother Agrippina helped to make sure her son would become the emperor. So with a little manipulation, Nero rose to power.
      All reports from ancient writers say Nero was quite extravagant in his construction projects and the way he spent the country’s funds and left the provinces ruined. But historians today take a different view, believing that Nero was really interested in making things better with public works projects and charity—which took lots of cash and seems likely for someone leading his country to make it great. Still, Nero’s policies were deemed “well-meant but incompetent notions.” Like a failed initiative to abolish taxes in an effort to help the people.
      At only 16 years old when he became emperor in 54, Nero had no experience in governing. His tutor, Seneca, is said to have written his first speech before the Senate, and his mother has been reportedly to have “meant to rule through her son.” While she was doing that, they say she got even with her political rivals and murdered three of them. How’s that for taking care of business?
      Nero followed in his mother’s footsteps by getting rid of people who didn’t share his beliefs. He was also said to be having an affair with a slave girl, and he poisoned his half-brother Britannicus because his mother sided with him when she saw Nero was following his own mind. That got her exiled from the palace.  
      Later, he had his mother killed, possibly because of her disapproval of his affair with Poppaea Sabina while she was still married. Regardless, Agrippina was no more. The modern scholar Miriam Griffiths suggests things go really went downhill after her death and says, “Nero lost all sense of right and wrong and listened to flattery with total credulity.”
      Prior to this, his relationship with the Roman Senate had been relatively good. But scholar Jurgen Malitz writes, “Nero abandoned the restraint he had previously shown because he believed a course supporting the Senate promised to be less and less profitable.”
      He divorced another of his wives, Octavia, on grounds of infertility, banished her, and when there were public protests, he accused her of adultery and executed her and married again in 64, the same year The Great Fire of Rome erupted. That was the night of July 18-19 when a large number of mansions, residences and temples were burned. The fire lasted a week, destroying three of 14 Roman districts and severely damaging seven more. 
      Differing accounts of the cause have described it as an accident, a plot of Nero’s or simply “unsure.” Some said the plot was because of Nero’s dislike of the ancient construction, and he wanted to build his own lush palace and a “30-meter-tall statue of himself, the colossus of Nero.” So he accused the Christians of starting the fire and had many arrested and brutally executed by “being thrown to the beasts, crucified and being burned alive.”
      More than 2,000 years later, scholars and historians continue to research and argue whether Nero started the fire, sang and played the fiddle while Rome burned. But Nero ruled his kingdom for several years and did pretty much what he wanted and nobody touched him.
      By 65, though, there was a conspiracy against Nero, with many wanting to “rescue the state” from him and restore the republic. But he got wind of it and executed its leaders. Even his old adviser, Seneca, was accused, but denied being involved. Nevertheless, he was ordered to commit suicide.
      Then some said Nero kicked his next wife, Poppaea, to death before she had her second child. Other historians suggest she may have had a miscarriage and died.
      Later, his tax policies caused a rebellion. The rebel leader lost the battle and committed suicide, while the followers of Nero’s commander wanted him to be emperor. He wouldn’t act against Nero, but others stepped up, and his army officers refused to obey him.
      He couldn’t leave Rome, the palace guard left and most friends abandoned him. At this point he wanted someone to kill him. But he couldn’t find anyone, and reportedly cried out, “Have I neither friend nor foe?” and ran to throw himself in the Tiber River but couldn’t do it.
      A friend offered a villa outside Rome, and some of Nero’s loyalists accompanied him in disguise. Once there, he ordered them to dig a grave for him. He knew the Senate had declared him a public enemy and planned to execute him by beating him to death. The Senate hoped to find a compromise, but Nero didn’t know that and prepared to commit suicide. He begged one of his companions to set an example by killing himself.
      When he heard horses approaching, and knew they were coming for him, he pressed his private secretary to kill him. But Nero finally got the job done, becoming the first emperor to do so. One of the horsemen tried to stop the bleeding, but was too late.
      His last words were reported to be, “Too late. This is fidelity.”
      That was June 9, 68 A.D., almost 1,950 years ago. What a time in which to have lived in such a place!

March 12, 2018

School shootings—a shocking and drastic change for safety consideration in education

At Columbine High School in Littleton, Colo., two teens went on a shooting spree on April 20, 1999, killing 13 people and wounding more than 20 others before turning their guns on themselves and committing suicide. At the time, the massacre was the worst high school shooting in U.S. history and prompted a national debate on gun control and school safety, as well as a major investigation to determine what motivated the gunmen, Eric Harris, 18, and Dylan Klebold, 17. —History.com

Nearly 20 years later, the “national debate on gun control and school safety” is still ongoing, and there are always “major investigations to determine what motivated the gunmen.” Changes have been made by some retailers regarding who can buy what kind of gun after the shooting on Valentine’s Day that killed 17 students and staff at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla.
      But our perspectives changed with the Columbine shooting.
      At the time of the Columbine High School shooting in an unincorporated area of Jefferson County, Colo., I was teaching English and journalism at Urbana High School. Not long after the story broke, the administration sent a notice to all teachers to read to their classes about what to do if someone was suspected of planning that type of incident or that someone was exhibiting a suspicious form of behavior.
      While I was reading the notice to my class, I saw one student about half way down the middle row in front of me writing and not seeming to pay attention. After I finished reading, I intended to have a discussion about the school shooting and what it meant for the school environment.
      But the student got up and brought his note to me.
      I don’t remember exactly what it said, except that it was something about a possible event of the Columbine type happening at the high school and identifying a student dressed in black as a possibility. Knowing the student in my class and his father, I didn’t think the student was serious in what he had written or that there was any danger from the kid dressed in black.
      Nonetheless, I walked over to the side of the room, punched the call button and asked for a dean to come to my classroom. When the dean arrived, I handed her the note and told the student to go with her. From that point, the student’s parent was immediately contacted, explained the situation and asked to come to the school and get the student. At the time, the father was involved with an extremely important situation at his job that I won’t try to explain.
      Suffice it to say, he was very upset at being interrupted and by what his son had done. And while I don’t know what happened at home, I do know that the father brought his son to school a couple of days later, had his son apologize and assured me that that behavior would never happen again.
      And it didn’t.  
      But the Columbine shooting marked a new time. Prior to that there had been school shootings going all the way back to the Enoch Brown school massacre on July 26, 1764, when a group of Delaware Indians entered a log schoolhouse in the Province of Pennsylvania and killed Brown, the schoolmaster, and nine students. Others followed through the years, but it wasn’t until Columbine that school shootings seemed to increase in their frequency and really got the country’s attention.
      Since Columbine, there have been 25 school shootings, 10 of which resulted in the deaths of four or more students or staff for a total of 122 fatalities, including the death or suicide of the shooter(s) who gunned down the innocent.
      Before Columbine, there were training sessions for tornado drills, and how to respond if hostages were taken—back in the early days of the atomic age, there was even something called a “duck-and-cover” air-raid drill where students were instructed to crawl under their desks and cover their heads to somehow protect against nuclear fallout.
      Holding training drills and sending a kid to the dean’s office who did a stupid thing because he thought it was cool (sounds like something I might have done as a kid, and my father would have done the same thing my student’s father did—maybe even taking off his belt and wrapping it around my rear end in the process) are what the school environment has come to, even more so today after all the school shootings and other threats to our security where the benefits of freedom are curtailed.
      There have been cable news talk show discussions 24/7 since the shooting in Florida, town hall meetings, politicians and the National Rifle Association members spinning their positions and everybody who has an opinion or a solution bickering, talking over each other, tweeting and jacking their jaws, still without any idea of how to really stop the senseless killings.
      But with the available security to get on an airplane, enter a courthouse and other public arenas, it would seem that it is equally important for security to be afforded to the staff, teachers and students going to school day in and day out.

February 21, 2018

Impasse and arrogance in Springfield

The recently published, slightly edited column in the Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette was originally sent as a letter to Illinois Gov. Bruce V. Rauner and House of Representatives Speaker Michael J. Madigan on April 5, 2017. I received a perfunctory reply from a member of the governor’s staff merely thanking me for writing and nothing from Speaker Madigan.

I returned not long ago from a tour of Saipan, Tinian, Guam and Iwo Jima where I went with Military Historical Tours and the Iwo Jima Association of America to attend the 72nd anniversary of the Battle of Iwo Jima and the annual Reunion of Honor where the United States and Japan, once bitter enemies in combat, come together as comrades in peace to commemorate the battle that took the lives of 6,821 Americans, another 19,000 casualties and the lives of 21,000 Japanese. That war preserved our freedom.
         Unfortunately, however, we citizens in Illinois don’t enjoy the freedom we should because of the puerile manifestations of partisan politics in Springfield reminiscent of schoolyard bullies for which Gov. Bruce Rauner and Speaker of the House Michael Madigan are the principal players in the resulting lack of budget, people and businesses leaving the state in droves, college students going to universities out of state, school systems throughout the state cutting programs and faculty, ad infinitum.
         There was a saying in the Marine Corps for people like them: “Lead, follow or get the hell (there was a stronger word when it was as critical a situation as it is now) out of the way.”
         The Iwo Jima veterans on Guam, Saipan, Tinian and Iwo Jima, now in their late 80s and early 90s, were able to follow that directive at the ages of 17, 18, 19 and 20 and on up without acting as these two politicians both do in their esteemed positions of responsibility. Where would this country be had all those men and women fighting in World War II behaved in the deplorable manner both the governor and the speaker are now?      
         Another adopted Marine Corps mantra and directive that has been quite successful is to “improvise, adapt and overcome.” The Marine Corps and the other military services and the civilian working men and women who keep the country moving smoothly follow that concept. The part of society that rarely practices that concept and leaves people behind, as Marines and others in the military and all good citizens never do, is many politicians like Rauner and Madigan.
         Their arrogance amazes me. I first met Madigan briefly in 1986 on an elevator in the state Capitol when I was raising money and doing publicity for the Illinois Vietnam Veterans Memorial. That was just after a couple of us had gone to Rep. Zeke Giorgi, a World War II veteran, and got a $500,000 rider attached to the Veteran’s Bill so we could order the marble and get the memorial dedicated before year’s end.
         On the elevator, Madigan was surrounded by his minions and had the arrogant and pitiful look of superiority and desire for power that the state has come to know so well from him. He looked prime for a blanket party, even then—in Marine boot camp when one of the recruits failed to measure up to his responsibilities, the other recruits threw a blanket over his head after lights out and delivered a few punches for inspiration. Of course that is not PC now, but once was all it took to get the recruit squared away.
         Madigan’s personality and behavior remind me of the comment usually attributed to Sir John Dalberg-Action, the 8th Baronet, who was an English Catholic historian, politician and writer: “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
         That is not to say that the governor is any different. He’s got the power corruption thing, too. He just smiles more and tries to dress more like the common man. And he’s filthy rich, much like our current president, and just as arrogant as either Madigan or Trump. I’ve met Rauner a couple of times. Once at the dedication of the Chez Family Center for Wounded Veterans in Higher Education at the University of Illinois and once at the celebration of designating Champaign County as the “Birthplace of the Tuskegee Airmen March 1941” and the signs to be posted on local highways. Rauner was jovial and were wearing his campaign and political face in both instances. Neither of the men is impressive in their actions and the condition in which they have the State of Illinois.
         ’Nough sed. While this is mainly cathartic, I hope they both can do the right thing and sit down with members of both parties and settle this impasse. They owe it to those who fought and died for our freedom and to those living here in Illinois and depending upon their leadership, not their power struggle.