Body Bags

I did not take this picture, by the way.

I was nine years old. It was October. The routine of the fourth grade had barely entered the comfortable stage for me. School that year was held in Fort Defiance, about six miles away from our home in Window Rock, Arizona. My brother, Steve, and I rode the same school bus back and forth from home. He was in the ninth grade. On the day I have in mind, Steve was already on the bus when I boarded.

"We're at war with the Russians," he said gloomily as I slid into the open seat in front of him.

My stomach lurched in response to a pang of terror.

"It has finally come to this," I thought.

I don't remember when I became fully aware of the very real danger we were all facing that October of 1962. When I say "all" I mean every blood pumping man, woman, and child on the planet. The United States and Soviet Union were eyeball to eyeball with each other, bristling with nuclear tipped war machines that, if unleashed, would spell a certain end to life as we knew it. And the Cuban Missile Crisis, as the situation came to be known, was the second gut-wrenching confrontation with the Soviet Union in less than two years. The other was when the Soviets built the Berlin Wall, dividing that city physically and apparently permanently. [Of course, the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, in large measure due to the influence of a Catholic cleric, Karol Jozef Wojtyla from Poland.]

Over the years I, like many of you, have experienced gut clenching world and national events. Right on the heels of the Cuban Missile Crisis, for example, was the assassination of President John Kennedy. That was a dark day. It was a Friday. I was sick and stayed home from school. My mom had just walked over to the post office, which was across the street from our house. Just moments after she stepped out, Walter Cronkite's voice came over the display of CBS's special bulletin screen, announcing that President Kennedy and Governor John Connally had both been shot in Dallas, Texas. Within less than an hour it was clear that the president was dead. In that instant, life as we knew it changed. America was different after that day. I could feel it, even as a ten year old boy.

For me there have been other disconcerting events since those tumultuous days of the early 1960s: the escalation of the Vietnam war; the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Senator Robert Kennedy; the discombobulating year of 1968, when it felt like the United states was coming apart at the seams; Watergate; a couple of Arab/Israeli wars; and the loss of two space shuttles.

Nothing in the intervening years, however, even came close to the Cuban Missile Crisis and President Kennedy's assassination for conjuring up fear and anxiety until that bright, sunny day in September, 2001. September 11 was nearly a full 38 years removed from the death of President Kennedy. And now it has been nearly seven years since we were glued to our televisions, watching the events unfold in New York City. I was on my way to work that day, just coming to 2700 West as I drove eastbound along 5400 South in Salt Lake City, when a segment of NPR's Morning Edition was interrupted. That first report was very sketchy. Just like other big events in our instant-news society, the facts quickly began to build. Within a half hour it was clear our world had changed, again with horrible violence.

In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, the enemy was identified. It wasn't some lone gunman or a vast super power; it was an organization made up primarily of Arab Islamic extremists. And that point of view was shared by most of the world. If you'll remember, countries all over the planet offered aid and support when the president made the decision to go after Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden, using America's military might in Afganistan. Even former Soviet republics allowed American bases on their soil so that the United States could project offensive operations into Afganistan. To me that was astonishing. The Bush administration reacted quickly, and within weeks of the American invasion, the Afgani Talaban regime fell, and Al Qaeda was on the run.

In my view, the president was spot on in his initial response to the events of 9/11. I remember coming out of one of my classes at the University of Utah (I was taking classes at the time to get my teaching license). As I took a shortcut through the Marriott Library to where I parked the car, President Bush was addressing Congress, telling of his plans to strike back at Al Qaeda. The library had television sets placed out in the foyers and lobbies so students could see his address. I felt a swelling of pride as I saw this man--this president, for whom I did not vote--boldly stating the position and intentions of the United States of America.

Barely one year later, unfortunately, the Bush Administration began beating the drums of war, this time against Sadam Husein's Iraq. In August of 2002 the war rhetoric began. Over the ensuing months the war language intensified. Personally, I felt like I was being marketed to--like I was being sold something. I did not like that feeling. I was wary. I said it then, and I say it now, it was the wrong war, the wrong enemy, and the wrong time. I noted in my journal the opinion that my grand children will be living with the negative aftermath of this war on their respective wedding days. I hope I am wrong. 

During the run-up to the current Iraq war, I had an instructional assistant, John, working with me at school. He had recently retired from active duty in the Air Force and was then in the reserves. Early one day just after the Christmas holidays when I arrived at school, John was already in the room.

"Well, it looks like we're going to war for sure. Being in the reserves, I may not make it to the end of the school year before I'm called up." [He was right.]

"It sure looks like Bush is heading us off to war, but how can you be so sure?" I asked. "He keeps saying he hasn't made any decision yet."

"I have a buddy who is in logistics. They move military supplies around the world whenever there is a military buildup. So far there is a lot of stuff going into Kuwait. That may not be more than a show of American might. It could all be for political effect," John explained, "but my buddy says that recently they moved a huge amount of body bags to forward positions in the Gulf. That's really unusual if we were only flexing our military muscle."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Because my buddy says that body bags are one of the very last things moved forward when we actually go to war," John replied. "They go forward even after stockpiles of small arms ammunition. According to my buddy, when the body bags go in, the decision for war has been made."

At that very time, the Bush administration insisted that no decision had been made. Of course, my story here is totally anecdotal. But it sure made me stop and think. The President was saying one thing, and the actions of his administration said another. Again, with all the talk of weapons of mass destruction and an Al Qaeda/Iraqi link, my gut told me that we were being sold a bill of goods.

I openly acknowledge that, as I write this, things seem to be going better in Iraq. By contrast, just two years ago the level of violence was unbelievable. But at what cost are things better? I mean, is the world really that much better off without Sadam? And what did he have to do with the threat of terrorism against the United States? To my mind, the answers to both questions are not favorable.

I'm not convinced that Iraqi citizens are better off.

I'm not convinced that a policy of preventative war is in the United States' interest--ever.

I'm not convinced that the debt incurred to fund this war passes even the most basic cost/benefit analysis.

I'm not convinced that the falling dollar and rising oil prices are not tightly linked to America's war debt situation.

I'm not convinced that pushing the definition of torture to its very limits does not severely restrict America's ability to take the moral high ground in the future.

I'm not convinced our fighting forces were given what they needed to maximize their safety.

I'm not convinced that the Bush administration had a clue about what to do after achieving certain military victory.

I'm not convinced the hit to American civil liberties (remember the Patriot Act?) is worth it.

I'm not convinced that our own governance is more stable now than before the war.

I'm not convinced that our military, especially the Army, is in good shape.

I'm not convinced that the returning wounded veterans are receiving a fair deal.

I'm not convinced that our oil supplies are more secure.

I'm not convinced that the strategic position of Israel is better now.

I'm not convinced that the Israeli/Palestinian peace process can be revived.

I'm not convinced that America's financial position in the world has benefitted from the war.

I'm not convinced we are less vulnerable to another, more devastating attack.

I'm not convinced that America's moral position in the world is better off.

I'm not convinced that our ability to take care of our own citizens' needs has been enhanced.

I'm not convinced at all that this war is worth it.

Do I support our troops? 

A resounding YES!

Do I support this president's policies surrounding his decision to go to war and his level of statesmanship and leadership (or lack thereof) in the prosecution of the war? 

A resounding NO!

Abraham Lincoln, in a different time and in a vastly different situation, said something like this about the Civil War:

I feel like I have a tiger by the tail and we're chasing each other around a tree. I dare not let go because, if I do, it will kill me, and I fear I cannot continue to hang on much longer out of sheer exhaustion.

The United States is in a similar position. Now that we are in this mess we have to see it through because letting go and pulling out unilaterally would be highly disastrous. Yet, hanging on like this will, in my opinion, erode America's moral, military and economic strength at home and around the world. We are less secure now than before 9/11. More importantly, the shining light on the hill is many lumens dimmer than it was on September 11, 2001. It's time for a change. It's time for truly principled leadership. That's why I am decidedly in support of Barack Obama for president of the United States of America.

Guilty Pleasures

Here are some things I like, which are often hard to explain in our PC culture (political and religious).

1. Twangy country music--Dwight Yoakam is a particular favorite.

2. Fruit Loops

3. The taste of beer

4. Beyonce

5. Alf

6. Handguns

7. Real Time with Bill Maher

8. The Sopranos

9. Bill Clinton

10. The prophet, Martin Luther King, Jr.

Dog Food

I tend to collect things. About ten or eleven years ago, for example, I got into handguns. I've met several folks over the years who like handguns, too. Usually, they own one, perhaps two; maybe a .357 Magnum and a .22 or a 9 mm and a .45 Long Colt cowboy rig. Me? No, I have thirteen of them. Or is it fourteen? I've lost track. I'd have to get up and go count them to verify the number, and right now I'm too lazy to do that.

And take bicycles as another example. I have four. Who on earth needs four bicycles? Today I was feeling a bit conspicuous in my cycle consumption. That is until I saw a blurb on TV about some Russian billionaire who has four mega-yachts. I don't feel so bad about my four bikes now. If he can have four huge,  cruise-ship sized yachts, I can have four good bicycles. That's my rationale at any rate.

So, what does this have to do with dog food? Not much, except to say we also have a collection of animals in our household. It's only a modest collection, mind you. We have Chester, the oldest. He's a dog. We've had him since he was a puppy of about six months. He recently visited his 14th birthday. He's blind and wobbly now a days. We have to carry him outside to do his business. That's a bit of a hassle in the winter, though.

Then there's Gracie, the next oldest. She is our grand-cat. When our son James and his wife, Aimee, prepared to go to Brazil for several months about seven years ago, they asked us to watch her for them. On their return they found they couldn't take her back. We didn't have the heart to send her off to the pound or the Humane Society. At the time she was such a grouchy beast we figured sending her off like that was a certain death sentence. We just didn't have the heart. Over the years she has mellowed. She no longer lies in wait to pounce out of nowhere in order to bite our toes and ankles. She's quite patient and loving now. Her only downside is her long, thick coat that mats easily. Well, that and her chronic dandruff. Fortunately the dandruff only comes out when Yvonne gives Gracie a buzz cut, which is meant to cut down on the shedding and the mats. Gracie looks pretty goofy with a haircut, but that's what we do.

Then there's Katie. She's the tomboy Black Lab. She is one of those Labs that is rather small and lean, but her bark is as big as any male I've heard. It's her bark that makes her a tomboy. We've had her for three years now. Ironically (or, maybe not so ironically), I got her from the Humane Society. She cost $37.50, spayed and all. I just happened to drop by on the day of the Society's pet sale. That's no lie; a dog and cat sale. 

Of all the dogs in jail that day, she was the only one standing quietly in her kennel. The rest were yelling at me, doing their best to get my attention. Katie got my attention, all right: first, by being a Black Lab, and second, by being so well behaved. She was this beautiful creature, looking up at me with those big brown eyes, crying out to me, "Save me from this insanity." I fell for her line completely. I folded like a lawn chair.

After going through the Humane Society's getting-to-know each other routine, I paid the 37 bucks and took her home. What does this petite, well-mannered dog do the first thing upon entering our bedroom? She jumped right on the bed. That seemed an odd thing to do for a dog that the Humane Society said was kept outside all the time and pretty much ignored by her owners.

She's a smart dog and is very affectionate. She loves to cuddle up, and if she could get close enough to get right inside of you she would. She's also a creature of habit. I have a book I haven't read yet that talks about dogs being autistic. People with autism thrive on very exact routines. That's just how Katie is. She probably is autistic. An example of her tendency toward being routine bound has to do with her eating time. She eats at 7:00 p.m. If I forget to feed her, she comes around nosing herself right in the center of my attention. It doesn't matter what I'm doing. If it's 7:00, she's right there. If I feed her at 6:00 or 6:30 she generally ignores the food until it's closer to 7:00. Then she has to eat in the same room I'm in. If I'm in the bedroom and her dish is out in the computer area, she takes a mouthful of kibble and carries it in to where I am, drops it on the floor, and crunches away, smacking her lips. Then she goes back for more. If we are gone for the evening and have left food out for her, she doesn't touch it until we return. She's nuts.

Along with her weird eating habits, she poops exactly twice a day: once in the morning before Yvonne goes to work, and once in the evening. We buy a premium brand of dog food for her. That's because the cheap stuff gives her bad diarrhea. We can't have any of that, now can we? I buy the stuff her system tolerates best from Pet Smart. It's chicken and oatmeal for dogs with sensitive stomachs. I buy the 40 pound bag. 

This evening, as I carried the most recent purchase slung over my shoulder out to the car, I said to Yvonne, "You know, all this is is unprocessed dog poop," and, "I'll bet for every pound she eats, she produces half again more in poop." Producing more output than input just has to violate some law of physics. It has to be a physical impossibility to get out of a closed system more than is put into it, yet that seems to be the reality.

Now, here's something I just don't get: They say that dogs fed the premium brands produce less poop. I'd like to know how she could possibly produce any more than she does? I'd hate to see her production quota if she only ate the cheap stuff like Purina Dog Chow or KalKan. 

Horse Hair

I got a haircut today. It has been quite a while since my last visit to Great Clips. I was starting to feel like the Wild Man of Borneo. I hate haircuts today as much as I did when I was little. Back then my dad performed the operation, usually on a Saturday afternoon. Whenever my brother, Steve, and I saw Dad get the clippers out of the hall closet, we high-tailed it out the front door to hide in the Russian Olive hedge that was in the front yard. By the way, the Russian Olive trees will soon be in bloom around here in Utah. They give off a sweet smell that immediately takes me back to my childhood. Their odor is magical stuff. But I digress.

At Great Clips this morning, and by the luck of the draw, I got Lillian, I think her name is, who usually does a good job. I saddled up in the chair, took off my glasses, and got comfortable. Lillian confirmed that I wanted a #4 on the sides and about half an inch off the top. Yes, that's great. Off she went, carefully blending with a #5 so I wouldn't have one of those Nazi-era ridge lines circumventing my head.

"Do you want it squared or rounded in the back?"

"You'd better make it rounded. I've got a couple of goofy cowlicks back there, as I'm sure you can see."

No kidding. Along my neckline on both sides in back my hair grows upward, while the hair between those two hairy whirlpools points downward with an odd duck-tail-like, pokey-out thing in the middle, hence the use of the #4 in the first place. I need to get it short enough to make all that mess disappear. I'd go for a full buzz cut except for the fact that I have this boney ridge running down the center of my head, front to back. If I got a buzz cut I'd look like a Klingon.

After some very skilled snipping and buzzing around the sides, Lillian moved to the top of my head and deftly lifted a line of hair pinched between her index and middle fingers. 

"Does that look like enough from the top?"

Now, keep in mind my glasses are in my shirt pocket. I'm nearly 55 years old, for crying out loud. I wear trifocals. I was sitting a good four feet from the mirror. That made my apparent image eight feet away. From that distance without glasses I could hardly tell it was me sitting across the way, let alone tell how much hair she was holding up.

"Yeah, that looks great."

I know exactly how people who can't read feel when they ask someone else to read a label for them at the grocery store because they 'left their glasses at home.'

All during the process, great tufts of hair fell onto my lap. Yikes! What's all that gray stuff? It looks exactly like . . . like . . . Flash back to when I was a kid. 

When I was four or five, my parents belonged to a square dancing club, or something. My mom got all dolled up in this puffy, turquoise colored dress, while my dad put on a western shirt and his favorite (only) Navajo bolo tie, which he still wears to this day at the age of 95. At the time, we lived in Window Rock, Arizona on the Navajo Nation. Well, back then everyone referred to it as the Navajo Reservation. It's still a reservation, but Navajo Nation sounds better. I remember clearly one night they dragged me along. Being a little kid, I was sleepy and whiny within minutes of arriving at the dance. Dad scooted six or eight old leather covered, padded folding chairs together, nose to nose, with a blanket over the top, forming a sleeping tent for me. It was real cozy. Besides that, it made a great fort.

This memory goes back to around 1958 or '59. Those padded folding chairs were ancient. I wouldn't be surprised if they were government surplus from the Spanish American War. I'm not kidding! I'm also guessing the old building where the dance was held was World War I vintage, maybe earlier. It was a rickety old barn-like structure made out of native stone. It's still standing, believe it or not. I don't know how. Even fifty years ago the old wooden floor bounced when the dance troupe really got revved up do-si-do-ing and promenading with great flourish. 

I clearly remember lying in my makeshift tent with my nose a couple of inches away from a hole in one of the padded seats. What's a little kid to do? Well, pull out the stuffing, of course. So I stuck my pinchy fingers in the hole and pulled out a big mat of this gray hair stuff. I popped out of that tent lickety-split as though I had pulled out a mouse. Dad was sitting right there, drinking some punch.

"Tommy, don't mess with that stuffing. It's old horse hair. Who knows how clean it is."

Today I was taken right back to that night long ago by the old gray horse hair looking fluff lying in my lap. Hmmm? I got to thinking. Maybe that stuffing in those chairs wasn't horse hair after all. Maybe some barber shop owner in Altoona had a stuffing contract with the Acme Padded Chair Company back in the day.