Category Archives: Memories

Regret, like resistance to the Borg, is futile. In all ways but one.

Fall                                                                                Falling Leaves Moon

Not sure why, but today I told Greg, my Latin tutor, why I was doing this. Or, maybe I’ve told him before and don’t remember, but I don’t think so. (Of course, by definition, how would I know?)

The story begins with my traipsing off to college, already doubting my Christian faith for a number of reasons, not the least of which was what I perceived as a holding back by my native Methodism of (to me at that point) elegant proofs for the existence of God. I got them from the local Catholic priest. I didn’t know that he re-iterating Aquinas.

It was not far into my first history of philosophy class that we dismantled each one, piece by piece. Oh. My.

Philosophy set my mind on fire week after week. I signed up for Logic in the second semester and the second history of philosophy segment. Even though I left Wabash I had already earned half a philosophy major’s worth of credits in my freshman year.

All this excitement led me quickly to the conclusion that I wanted to be able to read German, so I could pursue Kant, Hegel and Heidegger in their native language. So, I signed up for German, too. From my point of view it was a disaster. I struggled in every aspect of it and was faced with getting a D at the end of the second semester. That was not going to happen, so I dropped it.

A youthful decision, one I regret. It took me 45 years to get back to a language; but, I decided I wanted to challenge myself, see if my conclusion, defensively drawn in 1966, that I could not learn a language, was in fact true. It was not true.

Now I have a deeper regret, that I didn’t pursue German further and that I didn’t do Latin and Greek while in college, too. The classics and art history seem to be my natural intellectual terrain, but I never took a course in either one. Regrets are pointless, of course, the retrospective both wallowing in a past now gone and not retrievable, but I believe there is one good thing about them.

They can be a goad to action now, or future action. That is, we don’t have to repeat the actions we regret. We can change our life’s trajectory. So, I intend to spend the third phase of my life, as long as body and mind hold together, pursuing the classics and art history, doing as much writing about both as I can.

 

Lughnasa                                                                    College Moon

The College Moon reminds me that all of those stunned freshmen I saw at the University of Minnesota over Labor Day are now deep in the throes of their first semester. The student in me-and he is strong-envies them, the newness of it all. The library for quiet study. The smell of a book, paper glue and ink. Even the confusion. Confusion is the sweat of the mind, I read recently. The adult in me does not envy their angst, the worry about career, debt, love, success, about worth.

 

A Man, A Monument

Lughnasa                                                            College Moon

IMAG0657Third Monday of the month. It’s been the Woolly meeting night for years, over 25. Bill Schmidt suggested we visit a memorial related to war, a memorial in a neighborhood park in northeast Minneapolis, right on the Mississippi behind the old Grain Belt Brewery and its wonderful castles of yellow brick. The memorial is in an odd, very out of the way location, almost as if its hidden. And it is a monument to the effect one man can have on history.

That one man is Woolly Mark Odegard, a Vietnam War Veteran, who became part of this project and as part of it shaped its content in important ways. When the group gathered to consider it began, all the veterans wanted to honor the war and their service. This is after all the public script about how to notice veterans. We honor the historical event, the war, and their participation in the war. But Mark knew there was more beneath the public script.

When probed, the veterans admitted that war was ugly, painful and often confusing. Mark said the monument should show that side of war, too. He got this element added by interviewing veterans from various wars and putting their quotes on marble stelae along with historical facts about the war. Commenting on the Spanish-American War one man said, when the fighting against the Filipino’s began he realized the war “was about greed.” Unusual and telling language at a war memorial.

Each stelae is a slab of black granite with text acid etched into it and a face above it IMAG0661bronzed from living subjects, when possible veterans from the wars memorialized. Mark suggested that the monument start with the Dakota war in 1862 since that was the first war with Minnesotans serving. To particularize it further Mark suggested that the stelae have the number of Americans who died and the number of Minnesotans.

(Mark next to the Vietnam War stelae topped by his face in bronze.)

This monument will be in place for a long, long time and Mark’s effort to personalize war through the words of veterans will bring an element of realism to a too often romanticized human endeavor.

 

 

 

A Minor Leftie Memoir

Lughnasa                                                                   College Moon

Groveland UU has asked me to speak on December 14th. Their theme for the year is social justice. They wanted me to talk about restorative justice, a topic about which I know little. Instead I suggested this:

Social Justice: Reflections       Looking back at work for affordable housing, neighborhood organizing and neighborhood economic development, against corporate control of neighborhoods, organizing for jobs, for equity in philanthropy, for a sustainable human presence on the earth, for undocumented immigrants, for progressive politicians like Wellstone, Karen Clark and Peter McLaughlin, against the Vietnam War, for women’s rights, against the draft.

Looking forward at work necessary to retain and expand gains made.

When looking at it again, I realized it had the character of a summing up about my political work over the years, mostly in Minnesota. Sort of a minor leftie memoir, but not for the purpose of the memories, or not mostly for them, but mostly for teasing out the themes, the underlying rationales, the whys. What worked, what didn’t. What might work now, what might not.

This topic came to me because I realized it would be my last time at Groveland, with whom I’ve shared a two decade plus relationship and possibly my last time speaking in Minnesota, maybe ever. I don’t, at least right now, intend to find a religious community in Colorado since such institutions no longer interest me.

There is a modest bolus of energy in reviewing a body of political work that arose mostly in response to individual issues and moments of time, that never followed a straight path and that, like most serious political work, had some successes and many failures.

Where I wondered, did all this energy and effort come from? It wasn’t a good career move, yet the political path was the one I followed anyhow, pushing away more logical trajectories. There was, of course, my father’s role as a newspaper editor and his often weekly airing of his Rooseveltian liberal opinions, basically pro-social welfare and anti-communist, pro strong defense. That may have shaped my willingness to be seen publicly as a representative of unpopular points of view.

Also important was the nature of my hometown’s work force, the parents of my friends. With few exceptions, my parents being among those exceptions, my friend’s parents were either factory workers or stay-at-home moms. It was the 1950’s after all. As factory workers, a very high percentage worked for General Motors, others often in suppliers to the auto industry or other vehicle related manufacturers like Allison-Chalmers. They were members of the UAW.

These folks, the majority by far from the hills of West Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas and other southern states, usually had not finished high school, but had jobs in General Motors, jobs that, thanks to the UAW, had health care, pensions, regular vacations, good wages and decent working conditions. As a result, Alexandria, Indiana hummed. When the auto industry went into decline and the UAW with it, Alexandria crashed into a ghost town.

A third factor was my mother’s unwavering compassion all people, no matter their condition in life or the color of their skin. Her example shaped me profoundly in that way.

The final ingredient came when the U.S. went full force into Vietnam. I started college in 1965 and would be in higher education for the duration of the war. The struggle against the war radicalized many students and I was one of them.

A Milestone

Lughnasa                                                                                College Moon

Well. A milestone. Every bookshelf except the one beside my computer, stacked with books I use frequently, has been cleared, sorted and boxed. I thought I would be done in late August, early September works, too.

(New Harmony as conceived by Robert Dale Own in 1833)

As I passed these last books from shelf to box, new arrangements for them cropped up, new reading projects and writing projects, too. I have, for example, a collection of historical documents about New Harmony, Indiana. They are records of the Harmonist era 1814-1824 and documents from the Robert Owens era soon after that. There are, too, maps, Indiana Historical Society monographs, photographs and notes of my own journeys there.

(stone labyrinth in current day New Harmony)

New Harmony features in my novel, The Last Druid, and continues to interest me, both as the site of two utopian communities, one very successful, the other a successful failure and as a present day historical site with an emphasis on spirituality. Reading through those would definitely spark something.

There are, too, a collection of books, stacked up on each other, concerning the west and Colorado. These are the first tools I’ll use to get up to speed on our new home and the historical context that made it what it is now.

Now I move to file sorting, magazine culling. After that, objet d’arts.

Sounds Pathological, But Feels Blessed

Lughnasa                                                                              College Moon

Understanding of more than the motives of the moment seem more and more elusive as the third phase of life wraps itself around me. The deep reasons for liking, say, the classics and dogs and reading are lost in the fog of memory darkened by time into near opacity. There was a time when understanding felt more accessible, more relevant, perhaps as a lever with which to change personality, to affect a less tangled future.

Now though the past, my own past, not that long a time by historical reckoning and none at all in the sweep of geological time, not only seems to recede faster than the clock’s ticking, but happily so. It’s as if the meaning of the past, my intimate past that is, has begun to detach itself from my present, floating off like Sandra Bullock in Gravity, untethered and weightless.

This sounds pathological, but it feels blessed. This man that I am now is just who he is, not explainable by his past nor excused by it, but who he is either in spite of it or to the side of the past. Perhaps it is always like this: that the person we are now seems only distantly related to the person we were ten years ago, forty years ago, even an hour ago. That untethered feeling comes with a sense of liberation, of not being bound to the threads, the strings, the ropes, the cable of yesterday; not being bound and free to go where today goes, not captive to yesterday.

Oh, this is not to say that the past does not still have its effects. Of course it does. Just that they are no longer determinative, destiny creating. They are, after all, in the past.

Ropes Slacken More

Lughnasa                                                               College Moon

At the State Fair yesterday. Realized, as with the garden, how much my thoughts of next year and the year after were tied up in what I did today. I no longer went through the Agriculture building with a keen eye for new information, stuff I wouldn’t have found otherwise. Say, a new apple. Maybe a new way to compost or treat troublesome weeds. A different method for keeping bees healthy.

Also, that building where local groups like the Sierra Club present information, help you connect to networks in state. Didn’t even visit it.

That’s why, when Kate and I both realized we’d gone as far our legs were going to carry us, we hit the skyride for a trip over the fairgrounds and back to the express bus lot.

Still, there were memories there, of years volunteering at the DFL booth or the Sierra Club booth or, long ago, as a State Fair chaplain (mostly monitoring lost kids. though, come to think of it, I wonder how folks would feel about that these days?). Cheese curds. Foot long hot dogs. I can even remember drinking beer at the fair. That’s reaching pretty far back into my Minnesota past.

The sense of pulling back, pulling away, of not-quite any longer a full Minnesotan took something from the fair for me. It was not mine in the same sense it had been before. Not as much a shared experience, like the weather, that helps define Minnesota. Not shared fully because part of me has gone ahead to the mountains. To the Great Western National Stockshow.

The circus tent has considerable slack in the ropes. The rings and the bleachers have been packed. The moment when the elephants are called to strike the big tent? Not yet. Not for a while. But we don’t want to let them wander too far away. They will be needed.

Back to the packing. The end of book packing for right now (the bookshelf immediately beside the desk will remain loaded until this room has to be vacated for staging.) is in sight. Perhaps today. Then there are files and art objects, office supplies, novel manuscripts. Still a lot to do, but a lot less than existed three months ago.

A Madras Sport Coat?

Lughnasa                                                                College Moon

In 1965 Gentlemen’s Quarterly had an off to college issue for the young man. As a result, a navy blazer, charcoal slacks and several oxford cloth shirts ended up in my closet along with a madras sport coat. There was, too, an oxblood pair of casual dress shoes. None of this had been part of my wardrobe before.

It felt, what did it feel? How to describe it? It was costume for the new role, the away from home, out of town guy. Choosing this clothing was more important than the clothing itself. The act of shopping, getting measured and fitted, deciding on cuffs or no cuffs, stripes or no stripes and the radical choice of a madras sport coat. First. A sport coat! Second. Madras. Au courant.

This was about shedding the t-shirts, plaid shirts and cotton pants of high school, putting high school behind me, or, perhaps better, leaving the high school me behind. Wanting to. Needing to. This was a boy leaving home, wanting and needing to become a man. Whatever that meant.

It meant being ready. And of course I wasn’t. We never are when we make these transitions. Kate and I sat behind a young girl today, maybe 13. She had blond hair, neon sneakers, khaki shorts and a pair of fashion sunglasses. I watched her as she leveled her shoulders, threw out her chest just a little and ran her hand through her hair. All while looking bored. Or unsure. She was between being a girl and wanting desperately to be a woman, or at least an older girl.

That was me. Wanting desperately to be a man, at least a young man. Not. A. Boy. It was this navy blazered, charcoal slacked, blue oxford dress shirted, oxblood shoed young man who wanted a liberal arts education. He wasn’t sure quite what that was but he had come to believe that he needed one. That’s why he had chosen Wabash, a private liberal arts college. The emphasis at Wabash was not on vocational training but on learning, about developing the ability to think and becoming saturated with the Western intellectual tradition.

What happened to that young man and the need for navy blazers is another, more complicated story, but he never let go of liberal arts. Never. Not even now. It was the one aspect of that transition from boy to man, from secondary education to higher education, that did not get set aside or changed or abandoned.

And you know, I don’t recall ever wearing that madras sportcoat.

Fallen

Lughnasa                                                                     New (College) Moon

It fell out of a book. Wouldn’t have meant much to somebody else, a polariod, slightly faded, with a golden haired dog looking through a gate, his head on the bottom supports. But for me it was another one of those Olympian bolts. Tor. God, I loved that dog.

Tor used to sleep on the corner of the Persian rug, right by the edge of the large glass-doored bookcase. When I got up in the morning, when I went to bed at night, he was there. It was with him that I first started consciously stopping, getting down on his level, rubbing his head, telling him how much I loved him.

The shortness of the Irish Wolfhound’s life span awakened me to the brief time we have with those we love. Awakened me to not waste the moment by passing by, too busy, ignoring the thumping tail. Those brown eyes turned up.

So consider this, for this moment, my coming to you, on your own level. My hand touching you, with the only gift we mortals have, presence. Me to you. Tor taught me this.

Go, Cave Men

Lughnasa                                                                   College Moon

Looked at the world college and wondered, where does that come from? Here’s the answer from Lewis and Short, the OED of Latin dictionaries:

collegium:  persons united by the same office or calling, or living by some common rulesa collegeguildcorporationsocietyunioncompanyfraternity

(The Sodales Augustales or Sacerdotes Augustales, or simply Augustales, were an order (sodalitas) of Roman priests instituted by Tiberius to attend to the maintenance of the cult of Augustus and the Iulii in 14 AD. see Wiki. picture below)

September. Lots of schools start in September. It’s no accident that Mabon the second of the harvest festivals falls in September. In a largely rural America children were needed at home during the growing season, so school ended in May, late, and began again in September, when the harvest was…I started to repeat this nostrum, but then realized it didn’t make a lot sense. The fall harvest extends into September and the growing season in many parts of the country starts in early May, so I looked it up and found this:

“Why does the American school year start in September and end in June? It’s something of a mystery. Did children once “bring in the harvest” on the family farm all summer in the distant rural past?

Historians at Old Sturbridge Village, a living history museum that recreates an 1830s New England farming village, say not. According to the web site and schoolmistress there, farm children went to school from December to March and from mid-May to August. Adults and children alike helped with planting and harvesting in the spring and fall.”

Read more: School Year and Summer Vacation—History | Infoplease.com http://www.infoplease.com/spot/schoolyear1.html#ixzz3BE5Xf8Bx

This makes sense with what I know of agriculture and horticulture. Will need more research. Don’t have the time right now because I’m going out to harvest, especially raspberries. No school for me.

September always found me excited, a pleasant feeling of anticipation. That was never more the case than my freshmen year of college. I was off to Wabash College, a private all-men’s school in Crawfordsville, Indiana. Wabash was my fantasy college, brick buildings, leafy walkways, odd traditions. At that point in time it was also exclusive, very difficult to get into though that has changed.

(Freshmen had to wear the beanie, or “pot” as it was known on campus, everywhere. This made it easy for upper class men to identify you and make you do small chores for them, like carry their books.)

Leaving for Wabash meant that my adult life was about to start and I couldn’t wait. So, this month’s moon is the college moon.