Could country music legend Marty Robbins soon get official recognition from his hometown, Glendale, Arizona? Hoping to find out more when I sign my memoir, Some Memories – Growing Up With Marty Robbins, at Krispy Creations, 7013 N. 58th Avenue, next to Murphy Park in downtown Glendale, 1-3 Saturday (June 22nd).
A Note On The Blue Guitar
The format may be digital, but the thrill of seeing one’s work on public display is tangible enough no matter what the medium.
I’m among the creative spirits featured in the Spring 2013 issue of The Blue Guitar, an Arizona-based ezine that takes its name from a Wallace Stevens poem, “The Man with the Blue Guitar”.
As always, I look forward to reading the work of fellow contributors and hope that they find similar enjoyment in reading the featured excerpt from my novel, Shine Like The Sun.
Sometimes it seems that the book world is altogether too preoccupied with celebrity and sales. Of course most of us want recognition. But a publication like The Blue Guitar is a reminder that the essence of creativity is close to home. The themes may be universal, but the details and the passion are right in front of us. And that’s why local support counts for so much. So thank you editor in chief Becca Dyer and her talented team.
Bloggin’ ’Bout My Generation
The truth is I’m a reluctant “baby boomer”. As that designation proliferated in the media over recent years, I felt blindsided. I was being cemented into a segment of the population which experience had shown to have a tenuous sense of unity. This is a generation, after all, that has produced Clinton and Bush (George W.), Ted Nugent and Morrissey. Any illusion I had that people of a similar age necessarily share values vanished along with the Woodstock spirit.
It’s the same, no doubt, for any generation. Those Xers and Y-ites, not to mention the Zsters on the horizon, will come to ruminate on their divisions. Time may well reveal that youthful exuberance masks serious, perennial ideological differences.
Anyway, so here I am, an enrollee in a boomer group on the book lovers and book creators site, Goodreads. I ask myself: is all this generational labeling just marketing? Or does an age bracket define us better than I’d like to think?
I’m about to find out. Goodreads’ Boomer Lit group invites authors to post samples of their work for something called a blog hop. I’ll try it. Sounds more my style than hip-hop. Maybe those mid-20th century childhoods have forged a common bond after all.
Here’s my contribution (from my novel Shine Like The Sun):
“Light and a beat. The one so piercing it fogged his eyes with iridescence, the other a heart-churning pulse with no discernible point of origin.
He staggered on to the angular wooden deck extending from the house, and skipped over the cracks between the planks in mimicry of a childhood game. It had been so long since he had moved. Really moved, that is. Would anyone care? Was he even capable?
A tremor rumbled through his torso — his own faltering voice, it dawned on him, self-activated by nervous energy. And then, dazzled by shimmering beams from the east and intoxicated by the moment, he could hold back no longer. Glass clapped loudly on wood as the bottle dropped from his hand. Voice synchronized with steps in a self-absorbed fantasia. Yes, he still had it. He could still rock ’n’ roll.”
The Trouble Upstream
Home for Beaver is a wild river in Arizona, and like Ratty in Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows he can think of no better place to live than somewhere surrounded by water.
The snag is that the river seems to be drying up and someone needs to do something about it. The Trouble Upstream chronicles the adventures of Beaver and his friends Skunk and Ringtail as they trek to the river’s source in search of a solution.
In their journey they tangle with a succession of creatures native to the area — each with an impact on their mission. Pack rats, ground squirrels, a rattlesnake, javelinas, coatimundis and a Gila monster are among the more prominent characters.
As in the human world, difficult decisions have to be made and the result will not satisfy everyone. But, in fighting to preserve their homes, the creatures are surely following a justifiable precedent.
The snag is that the river seems to be drying up and someone needs to do something about it. The Trouble Upstream chronicles the adventures of Beaver and his friends Skunk and Ringtail as they trek to the river’s source in search of a solution.
In their journey they tangle with a succession of creatures native to the area — each with an impact on their mission. Pack rats, ground squirrels, a rattlesnake, javelinas, coatimundis and a Gila monster are among the more prominent characters.
As in the human world, difficult decisions have to be made and the result will not satisfy everyone. But, in fighting to preserve their homes, the creatures are surely following a justifiable precedent.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AL5RFU2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/265631
Read about Sav Scatola, who created the cover illustration, at http://www.boxy.co.uk/
Blood Brothers Of A Kind
One thing you may not read in obituaries of Native American political activist Russell Means, who died today, is that he had a ready sense of humor.
Sharing the same last name as him, I was long intrigued by the thought that in some distant way we were related. Of course it was highly unlikely. I was born and brought up in England, where my ancestors had lived for generations.
Still, when news of Russell Means and his kin filtered across the Atlantic in 1973, my relatives and I had to wonder. We did have records of an ancestor who emigrated to Wisconsin in the mid 19th century. Could there possibly be an Oglala/Lakota branch of the family?
Through 1973 we followed bulletins of the Native American confrontations at Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota with more than a passing interest. In my youthful imagination, I have to admit, I even visualized myself trekking into Russell’s encampment with fresh supplies and perhaps reinforcements from the Means’ band across the water.
Years later, having moved to Arizona, I bought Russell’s autobiography and learned how he got his last name. As so often was the case, an Indian boarding school had adapted things to make them conform. In this case, one of Russell’s forebears had had his name changed to ‘Means’ from ‘Mean To His Horses’, which in turn was a mistranslation of ‘Trains His Horses Well’. I had to concede that I had no ancestors with that handle. So much for the English connection.
Still, my speculation was good for a laugh between us when Russell signed my copy at a book signing. “To Andrew Means,” he wrote, “Thanks for being part of the Means World!”
That sentence has stayed with me. A bureaucratic name change had made me feel a bond with a man and a cause and a culture. Russell was a controversial and combative figure who was both criticized and praised. Still, he helped shape my view of life. Thanks, Russell, for being part of my world!
Sayings Say It All, Even When They’re Nonsense
My favorite memory of Star Trek may well be the “Darmok” episode featuring Captain Picard of the starship Enterprise trying to communicate with an alien called Dathon who talked only in metaphors or similes or sayings of one sort or another.
I can’t even remember the details — just that Jean-Luc had to decipher verbal images that made no literal sense, and eventually did so, thus forging contact with a hitherto unintelligible entity.
In doing so, the good captain illustrated one of the delights of language. A native speaker can talk in riddles that make perfect sense to a native listener and, at the same time, might leave many a new student of the language mystified and perplexed.
For a native speaker though, it may not even matter that a saying or a word has been botched. We know what is meant, whether it’s a malapropism or a misquotation. In fact, such mistakes make our exchanges that much more colorful — especially the vocal kind.
One example that deserves a place in linguistic history emanates from an Arizona judge who, embroiled in career setbacks some years ago, announced to the media that he had a bitter pill to carry. Of course, his plight was generally understood — just as surely as it would have been had he complained of a heavy load to swallow.
Just to show that such pronouncements are not confined to the more rough and ready Western states, I was recently in conversation with a lady in Boston, Massachusetts, who — sympathizing with an exasperating medical situation — agreed that there were too many cooks in the pot.
There certainly are times when placing a few cooks in a simmering cauldron might be a very appealing idea. A few celebrity chefs spring to mind.
But of course there was no need to dwell on this interpretation of her chosen image. We both knew exactly what she meant, and revision was not required. As she might have said, we had found ourselves between a rock and the deep blue sea. A hard place to be, as only the devil knows.
Dealing With The Unexpected
It is an extraordinary thing to have your life suddenly turned upside down.
In our case it happened with a phone call. One evening my significant other came into my home office and said: “I got the result of the CAT scan. I have cancer. I have mesothelioma.”
In that moment, everything changed. Our plans for the future. Our priorities in the present. Perhaps even our perspective on our 30 years together.
Suddenly nothing mattered more than dealing with this prognosis. This word I could hardly pronounce, that I was not even aware of a few days previously, began to envelop our world. In an unsettling parallel to her medical condition, the very name and notion of mesothelioma invaded daily routine.
Telling friends and relatives was distressing in itself. Bank balances? Credit card debts? Vacation time? Work projects? Forget it. All of it now rendered insignificant. Everything focused on deciding on the best course for treatment.
And when that resulted in a decision to opt for surgery at the International Mesothelioma Program in Boston, then there was a string of logistics to consider. Flights. Accommodation. Housesitter. What to pack. Preparations for surgery. The vagaries of insurance coverage.
My wife is a planner by instinct. She’s the one who, for years, would go to sleep each night scheming about bathroom remodeling and such. Me? I’d just hit the sack and lights out. Now I suspect we both have “mesothelioma” in our minds as we drift off, like it or not.
So we wait during “the phony war” between prognosis and surgery, going over things to do, diverting our thoughts and conversations whenever we can towards non-medical topics.
And, obedient to doctor’s advice, we take a walk every day – something our dogs and I have been trying to get my wife to do for years without much success. In fairness, she’s racked up the miles at work. Still, who’d have thought it would have taken this to get her out on the road?
* * * * *
Reflections on The Wall, Phoenix, Arizona, May 2012
In watching Roger Waters saunter across the stage during his current presentation of The Wall, perhaps the most striking thing about him is he seems so genuinely affable. Body language, facial expressions and exclamations to the audience suggest he really is pleased to be here and anxious to connect with the masses.
Quite a turn around for a performer/composer who got the idea for this iconic rock opera some 33 years ago after becoming disillusioned with the vast, impersonal, commercialized, egotistic scale experienced by major touring acts. This is a man, after all, who admits to spitting at a fan during a performance back then and who fantasized about lobbing bombs into the auditorium.
The central idea of The Wall — that of alienation, of being constrained by barriers — is permeated with nuance. It’s a psychological statement as well as a political one, sociological as well as personal. And Waters has exploited that flexibility over the years by adding elements. There’s a backdrop, for instance, of portraits and personal details from the never-ceasing roll call of victims of war. Soldiers killed in action, such as his father, are memorialized along with human rights martyrs. Local kids wearing tee shirts emblazoned with “Fear Builds Walls” troop on stage to sing one of The Wall’s perennial anthems, “We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control.” A motto-inscribed inflatable pig buzzes the floor seats, reminiscent of the one that hovered over London’s Battersea Power Station all those years ago when Waters was an integral member of Pink Floyd. Who could miss the message? War, what is it good for? And, at the root of that, restrain your socio-political minders.
Despite familiarity (and its transition from a Pink Floyd to a Waters production), The Wall still packs quite an impact. The best of the songs combine mesmerizing riffs, melodies, themes and catch phrases with a power and universality that make The Wall a signature work for this era. Critics may caution that its material is overly juvenile, but who among us is not influenced by childhood experiences? And how often do those authority figures of early years morph into the tyrants of adulthood?
Could this be the final outing for Waters’ rendition? No matter, one can well imagine his creation being a fixture for generations to come.
At its conclusion, the bricks that separate the audience from the musicians tumble down with symbolic finality, and Waters and his accompanists file out of sight for a well-earned rest before assaulting the next arena. The scale of the operation is indeed impressive. Quite a contrast indeed with Floyd’s early years when oily bubbles in a slide projector constituted the state-of-the-art light show.
Meanwhile, we who watch and applaud filter out to buy our $30 souvenir hats and $40 tee shirts. Underlying it all is a faint suggestion that, as in Waters’ long-ago audience-bombing fantasy, “people getting blown to bits would go absolutely wild with glee at being at the centre of all the action.”
Us and them? Maybe that’s just the human lot.
Something To Kibble About
With all the information there is about factory farming you’d think someone would have come out with dog food that is vetted for humane conditions for the creatures that provide the ingredients.
There are, of course, several vegetarian brands of kibble and cans. But even a vegan canine companion has to admit that dogs sometimes hanker for the taste and smell of meat.
Well, if they have to have flesh, at least let it be flesh that comes from an animal or fish that had a tolerable life and at death didn’t suffer more than could be avoided. OK, so I can’t say for sure what is a tolerable life. But I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve conveyor belts, force feeding, overcrowding and cages and pens too small to allow free movement.
Can I find such a food source? Without scanning the highways for road kill, it’s frustratingly hard. There are several companies that boast of “quality” ingredients, which I’m all for. Who wants their dogs to have to absorb pesticides and growth-enhancing chemicals if it can be avoided?
When it comes down to it though, every company I contacted gave “commercial farms” as the source of their ingredients. By that I assume they mean business as usual. And that’s just not good enough. If these companies put so much emphasis on treating Fido well, then how come none of them are working for better quality conditions for the other creatures that provide their livelihood?
Library Showcases Local Authors
With so much attention paid to celebrity authors, it really deserves credit when a library showcases the local talent. That’s what Lesa Holstine is doing with her Read Local series of appearances at Velma Teague library in Glendale, Arizona.
Styles and topics represented in a recent event ranged from J.J.M.Czep’s pirate adventures to Kris Tualla’s Norwegian romances. Arizona provided rich material for other local writers, including of course my memoir about Marty Robbins.
Read more about it at Lesa’s blog,
Lesa’s Book Critiques http://lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com/?spref=tw.
Let’s hope this sparks a trend.
Styles and topics represented in a recent event ranged from J.J.M.Czep’s pirate adventures to Kris Tualla’s Norwegian romances. Arizona provided rich material for other local writers, including of course my memoir about Marty Robbins.
Read more about it at Lesa’s blog,
Lesa’s Book Critiques http://lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com/?spref=tw.
Let’s hope this sparks a trend.
Coming Up With A Pink Floyd Book Cover
As an independent writer with limited financial resources and a desire to take advantage of electronic publishing, a major challenge is coming up with designs for book covers. I’ve managed OK, at least in my opinion, with some short story collections I’ve put on Kindle and Smashwords. But when it came time to publish my rock bio, A Brief History Of Pink Floyd, I was unsure how to do it without running foul of copyright laws.
I didn’t want to risk any conflicts with photographers or music business entities that might result from simply using images from the Internet or from media kits — although, come to think about it, isn’t publicity what those media kits are for anyway?
In any case, I wanted to do something a bit more challenging. The visions in my head were of iconic images from Pink Floyd’s history. The cows on the Atom Heart Mother album cover. The moon, of course, from the title track of The Dark Side Of The Moon. The strange dreamscape from the soundtrack album More, with the windmill as the one defining object.
As a graphic designer, I knew I couldn’t match Storm Thorgerson who, with his company Hipgnosis, did so much to imprint the visual portrayal of Pink Floyd on the popular consciousness. But perhaps I could put together a cover that would strike a chord with fans of the group.
My initial inspiration was a combination of cows, as referenced above, and the sleeve design for the album Ummagumma. Instead of portraying the four group members, as on the original Ummagumma sleeve, I’d use cows. As on the original, I’d re-arrange the cows for each of four pictures. So, just as guitarist Dave Gilmour moved from the front of the group in the main photo so that he was progressively further back in the other three, so the cows would move from front to back too.
For good measure I threw in an LP sleeve, substituting Syd Barrett for the Gigi soundtrack on the Ummagumma cover, and a glass (actually plastic) bottle as in the original.
In homage to the More cover, I set the cows against a background of rather parched landscape complete with a windmill, and then solarized everything.
The overall concept is undoubtedly better than the execution. As I said, I’m no Thorgerson. But hopefully my book cover will resonate with the group’s fans. And if all it does is generate puzzlement, well it won’t be the first time Floyd-related material has done that.
Country Music Legend Marty Robbins Remembered
Arizona-born singer-songwriter Marty Robbins is the subject of “Some Memories – Growing Up With Marty Robbins”, a childhood memoir related in part by his sister Mamie.
A new version of the book, available through Kindle and other digital platforms, adds family photos collected by Marty’s twin sister, the late Mamie Minotto, to the text of the original print edition available from Booklocker.com
Photos of Marty and Mamie, their parents and also of Marty during his service in the Navy accompany Mamie’s reminiscences about the childhood they shared in and around Phoenix, Arizona, in the 1920s and ’30s.
The book takes its title from “Some Memories Just Won’t Die,” one of Marty’s final recordings before his death from heart failure on December 8th, 1982.
Descended from Texas and Arizona cowboys and Utah Mormons on their mother’s side and Polish stock from Michigan on their father’s, Marty and Mamie spent their early years in poverty and domestic strife. What they lacked in material wealth though, they found in the riches of their desert playground.
In anecdotes about the family’s frequent moves and squalid living conditions, Mamie recalls the feisty brother who always seemed able to laugh off setbacks. There are also glimpses of Marty’s developing interest in music, from playing harmonica with his father and uncle to his first gigs as a shy sideman in a local band.
Marty moved to Nashville in the early 1950s, but he never lost his attachment to the Southwest. Stories he heard and the wild open terrain he loved inspired him to write his international hit “El Paso” and other gunfighter ballads.
In 1960, “El Paso” won him the first of two Grammy awards in the Country and Western category. The second followed 10 years later for his composition, “My Woman, My Woman, My Wife.” Among his other 18 Country chart toppers between 1956 and 1976 were “A White Sport Coat (And A Pink Carnation),” “Devil Woman” and “El Paso City.”
In addition to his music, Marty acted in television Westerns and even wrote a short Western novel, entitled “The Small Man.” His great passion outside music and family was stock car racing, and he was nationally rated as a NASCAR driver.
Sadly, Mamie passed away before this account was completed, but the adventures she shared with her brother live on in these vivid and heartfelt descriptions. Much of the material was adapted by journalist Andrew Means from interviews given to him by Mamie. Additional material came from friends and family who knew Marty in his formative years living in Glendale, serving in the Navy during World War Two, and subsequently making a name for himself on the Phoenix entertainment scene.
The 136-page print version of the book (without photos) can be ordered from Booklocker.com, priced at $12.95.
Cafe Society
CAFE SOCIETY
Course I remember him now.
Now you mention the camouflage gear. Hard to miss, weren’t he.
We’ve had our share of weirdoes in ’er, but he took the prize, he did.
How did it start? Give me a second. Let me think.
For Elderly Men With Imperfect Recall
Rejoice, like a child,
Let your laughter rumble and run wild;
Or smile as if your eyes are the bearers of light
And your thoughts launch wings on a maiden flight.
Your history remains within,
Stirs and dances couched in mystic skin;
Give it life; the past requires no burial dirge,
Treat it fondly, let memories surge.
Age brings change,
There’s no denial, but nothing’s strange
In Nature’s brown and drooping phase;
Observe the leaves, gilded in their final days,
They flutter free from trees’ embrace,
Save their best in tint and grace.
Time may carve its name
In wrinkled flesh and stooping frame,
But deeper yet a beacon still may burn
That tells of passions and hopes that yearn
For inner flame to fire the heart’s display,
With chance for each, as darkness turns to day.
And always in mind keep
The knowledge that it’s not that great a leap
To go from twenty, in our world, or even ten
To the venerable age of elderly men;
What you recall is not an exam;
It’s a treasure, a resource in the life of a man.
© A.L.Means
Proclaiming Politicians, And The People They Represent
We hear a lot about dictatorship these days, and indeed we always need to be mindful of the difference between tyranny and democracy. We’re fortunate to be in a country that still has that choice.
One of the differences is that dictatorships are known to reach decisions in secret and without consulting the people they claim to represent. Democracies, on the other hand, are obliged to govern in the open and to take notice of the opinions of their constituents.
So it distressed me to be told recently that Arizona State Legislature had issued a proclamation supporting Israel in that country’s current conflict with Hamas. According to media reports, the legislature’s vote was in secret, so most of us do not know how our representatives voted or what opinions they might have expressed. It was simply a done deal. Arizona supports Israel, like it or not.
Most Arizonans, I am sure, were horrified by the October 7th assault on Israel by Hamas. I would guess that the majority would condemn that attack and oppose Hamas’ objectives, if not its very existence. Naturally, we feel anguish at the suffering of Israeli victims and hostages.
But, as our legislators were no doubt aware, Israel’s response has led to the death of thousands of children in Gaza, the annihilation of families, and obliteration of homes and community resources. In short, media reports tell us, Gaza itself has been reduced to a wasteland.
Whether or not adult Gazans should accept some responsibility for the existence of Hamas, their babies and infants must be beyond blame. As such, surely they deserve a mention in Arizona’s proclamation.
The population of this state continues to diversify, and opinions on this and other topics span a spectrum of thought. Our legislators were callous and wrong to ignore that diversity. Their proclamation should have been a more generous reflection of who Arizonans are.
Nikki Haley And The Lost Cause
Let me state unequivocally that I am against slavery and racism, I support in most instances efforts to further civil and human rights, and I am not a supporter of Nikki Haley.
However, although I do not claim to be an expert on the subject, it does seem to me that our understanding of history suffers when we see events in simplistic terms. Haley may have committed a political blunder at a recent campaign stop when she avoided naming slavery as the cause of the American Civil War. But surely, in context, the slide towards armed conflict was more complicated than that.
Driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virgina a few years ago, I was struck by the apparent isolation of the area’s 19th century residents. As in other remote areas in the South, I doubt that many of them had any personal contact with slaves. Their prime motivation if they supported the Confederacy—and not all did—was to protect homes, their often-isolated way of life and a set of values that in essence went back to post-revolutionary times and the differing philosophies of Jefferson and Hamilton (refer to Ron Chernow’s biography, Alexander Hamilton, for more on that).
When Robert E. Lee declined the invitation to command the Union forces at the start of the war, he is reputed to have said that his first allegiance was to his home state of Virginia. I suspect that many others who fought for secession were stirred by a similar allegiance to home ground.
Does this mean that slavery played no part? Of course not. No doubt vested interests manipulated popular opinion on the states rights issue in order to protect their commitment to slavery. Even in the North, abolitionists struggled for mainstream approval. Black recruits to the Union ranks had to wait until late in the war before they earned the respect from their white comrades that they deserved. And I can certainly appreciate that slavery must have been the issue uppermost in the minds of those African Americans who had access to news of events.
When we look at the past, let us be thankful that those blood-soaked battlefields produced some good. The abolition of slavery is a reason to be glad, despite the progress on equality still to be made. Even so, to an extent, the reduction of 19th century events to a single motivation does a disservice to the thousands, on both sides, who struggled for an honorable outcome.
People don’t change that much. Today we also face dilemmas arising from conflict and tribalism. May history grant us a sympathetic and fair understanding.
Incidentally, Haley’s explanation of the cause of the civil war, that it was about “freedoms and what people could and couldn’t do,” seems on the mark to me, although perhaps not exactly how she intended. It took the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863 to address that, and we’ve been pursuing a more perfect union ever since.
The End Of Fiction As We Know It?
The state of Arizona recently passed a law making it a felony to possess sex dolls modeled on children. Protecting minors from sexual predation is, of course, essential to the values of most of us. But the implications of this law are worth more consideration than they appear to have received from the state legislature or governor.
At a time when it’s hard to keep pace with technology—hard even to know what to believe about the latest revelations, the interface between reality and imagination is increasingly blurred.
For generations, humans have been free to use their imaginations without much fear of penalty, safe from consequences unless they acted upon their inner visions.
In the case of fiction, our minds have wandered without restraint into a world of pretend. Suppose I were a warrior or an ancient goddess or even a wronged nobody. How I would punish those opposed to me. As a child I cheerfully gunned down a legion of baddies in my playtime without reproof. And as an adult, how many times have I visualized what I would do to this or that screen or literary villain.
But what if a synthetic facsimile of that bully or that femme fatale takes tangible form? Are they things or are they something more? Can I smash them to pieces or molest them as I would any other possession or, as with the child sex dolls, are there legal and moral considerations? Could it be that there are psychological ramifications for human aggressors willing to assault an entity that looks and acts exactly like a human but isn’t?
Of course, we are already familiar with surrogates depicted on various screens, whether human actors or computer concocted entities. But technology will surely give us much more tactile power at some future date to star in our own private dramas in which androids or holograms or some other creation will be summoned by a human, rather like a genie of old, and used or abused as that human sees fit. Who will protect the child dolls then?
As a writer of fiction currently working on a story about androids, I think we are entering legal and communal territory we cannot yet fully appreciate. My fictitious androids are adult in appearance, and submit themselves to whatever uses their human companions dream up. But will that be an innocent enough viewpoint in the future? Will AI hit back at robot abusers? Will rights activists find a new cause in fembotphilia or fembotphobia? Will human moral distaste prevail? Or ultimately, will the courts have to decide what, in this changing world, can be safely transferred from imagination to an increasingly hard-to-define reality?
One More Casualty Of War
Among the many calamities inflicted by the Russian invasion of Ukraine is a downgrading of other issues and concerns. That’s understandable, of course. World security is at stake.
But while our focus is fixed on the suffering of the Ukrainian people, the USA’s border wall seems to be making a comeback. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s bad news for several reasons. Trump’s vision of a humungous rampart from sea to shining sea fits neatly into his overall predilection for despotism.
It’s not that security is a bad idea, or that there are not appropriate places along the southern frontier for barriers. But does that have to manifest itself as an instrument of intractable division? Does it have to divide cultures and communities, and separate birds and mammals from the habitat they need in order to flourish? And does the border country have to have such an ugly scar inflicted on it?
When the Biden Administration took over the White House, a halt was called to construction of the wall. It was a moment of optimism for many who had voted for a change of regime. Perhaps, it was felt, a country with such technological capability could find better ways to guard access.
But now, with talk on the federal level of resuming work on the wall and border state governors apparently keen to build their own barricades, bulldozers may be back in business. At the very least, if more physical construction is the future, possibly it could be done with more aesthetic consideration. Aren’t there architects and artists who could improve upon the eyesore with which we are now confronted? I fear that such a notion will be yet one more casualty of Putin’s acquisitive and ruthless nature. And in that he may have at least one domestic ally.
Letter From London
If you want to hear a national anthem bellowed with gusto, there is no better place for it than a sports event. With the Olympics still in the offing, there may be plenty of chances to exercise vocal cords later. But on the cusp of June and July, the singing in Europe is all about the continent’s international soccer championship.
The old rivalry between England and Germany erupted recently to accompany a knock-out game at Wembley, England’s sanctuary for the sport. Attendance was limited by Covid restrictions. But still the anthems rang out. God Save The Queen resonated through players’ hearts as well as through streets and pubs across the land.
The rendition is a ritual, and the devotion to the monarch’s welfare may not stand the sober light of the aftermath – albeit England did win this one. Still, it’s a measure of just how integral the Queen is to the national fabric. With that may be the reflection that the monarchy has not always enjoyed praise, even on its home turf. Republican sentiment has a long history in Britain, reinforced by royalty’s own shortcomings at times. Monarchs have been less than conscientious, and even derelict, and faraway colonists weren’t the only ones to take offense.
Considering the inception of the United States, there is perhaps no greater anomaly in the country’s history than the fascination, and even admiration, that so many Americans have for British royalty.
The reasons for that may differ from one person or generation to the next. The few remaining who lived through the global war years of the mid 20th century may pin its origins to King George’s struggle with his unsought-after elevation to monarchy, and the visits paid by King and his Queen, Mary, to bombed-out victims of the London Blitz.
And of course, more recently, the rise and fall of Princess Diana will probably retain its film-star proportions for decades to come. The fairytale marriage to Prince Charles. The tragic car crash in Paris. The consequences still resonate in the family and far beyond.
Through much of that time, the Queen has been the figurehead for country and its associated commonwealth of nations – most, but not all, being former colonies. For close to 70 years, she has been flying the flag – until not so long ago with her consort Prince Philip at her side, or hovering in the background at least. State visits, ribbon cutting, charity appearances, official occasions. It is a job unmatched in its duration and demands, and the Queen has been devoted to it beyond most of our imaginations or expectations.
In today’s London, the strength of that sentiment is hard to surmise. Multiple national origins are evident on the city’s streets, judging by the umpteen languages spoken to a daily dress code resplendent with the color and style of various hitherto foreign fields. But, come game time, there was briefly no doubt. As the soccer final approached, tee shirts and banners proclaimed a theme that seemed to unite disparate backgrounds. European soccer’s ultimate honor was “coming home” to what many native fans regard as the sport’s country of origin.
Regardless of who scored the winning goals – England or Italy – there were few English dissenters when it came to voicing the national anthem. How that ardor for national identity relates to the monarchy in the future will be interesting to see. Perhaps that was a thought in Prince William’s mind as he stood among the fans at Wembley cheering on his team.
A Bison Hunt at the Grand Canyon
Camping on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon a couple of summers ago, my first sight on entering the park was of a mother bison and her offspring. It was an exhilarating confirmation that here was a place where wild things were free to roam.
Later this year, so I’ve read, the National Park Service is planning a bison hunt in the park. Officials don’t like to call it a hunt, but it seems to amount to the same thing. The plan, as understand it, is for a couple of hundred bison to be shot.
The authorities say that the bison are an introduced species to the park and that they are damaging its natural environment. Contraception and sterilization have been used in similar circumstances elsewhere, but have been rejected in this case.
I’m quite willing to accept the need to reduce bison numbers, but for me there will be a psychological cost to this method of achieving it. Never again will I regard the National Park as the sanctuary for wild life that it has been. Whether I can enjoy any future visit with that in mind, I don’t know.
A Passion Worth Pursuing
Two vacationers go missing in an island boating incident, in this new release from eXtasy Books. But wait, there was a third, whose fate is not yet known. Was there foul play? Their friends set out to discover the truth. It’s not what they expected—but then, on an island like this, the truth never is.
When two vacationers are reported missing in a sailing accident at a Mediterranean island, their four friends back in London decide to investigate.
Questions begin with the fact that there were originally three vacationers—Reynard, Klara and Anton. So which two are missing? Was it a tragic drowning or something sinister?
As told by the unnamed fourth member of the friends’ group, this is a light-hearted and amorous odyssey featuring Roderick, Greta, and Diane as they go in search of answers. Each has theories about what happened, drawn from past romantic attachments with the missing and fond reminiscing.
Their voyage of discovery leads to island exploration and a climactic bacchanal in an old fortress. Could jealousy be a motive in the disappearance, as Roderick suspects? Has Anton, the youthful initiate into romance, rejected the advances of his two more experienced companions? Or does the island have still more to reveal?
Available as an ebook or in print from eXstasy Books and major retailers:
A Passion Worth Pursuing (extasybooks.com)
Amazon.com: A.L. Means: Books, Biography, Blog, Audiobooks, Kindle
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Marty Robbins Celebration
Celebrate #Country singer #MartyRobbins birthday anniversary at Sunnyslope, #Arizona, Historical Society, 9:30 am Thursday (Sep 26), with live music plus #book signing by Andrew Means for the memoir, Some Memories – Growing Up With Marty Robbins (as remembered by Marty’s twin sister).
The Pros and Cons of Citizenship
It may be early to prepare for the election after this one, but that’s what I’m doing.
You see, I have a wisecrack that’s been in storage for a while now.
Recently I applied for citizenship and so, assuming I’m accepted—sometime in the new year, I’m guessing—here’s how the wisecrack will go.
“Citizenship has its drawback. Every election up until now, I tell people: ‘Don’t blame me, I can’t vote.’ Now I can’t say that anymore.”
OK, not much of a wisecrack. In fact, considering how abrasive this presidential election has been, not much of a laughing matter altogether.
Citizenship will make me an American, confirming the home I already have here. How I vote will paint me as a certain kind of American. The chances are whatever kind I am will almost surely identify me as a pariah, if not an outright enemy, to a sizeable portion of the nation. Whether blue or red, or even green, I’m going to encounter a continual stream of opinion about why my chosen color beckons towards national ruin. To some, I will almost inevitably be tarred a traitor even before I cast a vote.
As many of us recognize, it will be a gargantuan task for the political hierarchy, and for us all, to overcome these divisions. An emphasis on bedrock values is where I would begin. In a country that prizes values, what about a focus on civil debate, empathy, a hearing for the calmly-stated opinions of those with whom we disagree, an effort to put ourselves in others’ shoes? To differ is certainly part of human nature. To differ with grace and consideration stems, I think, from communal behavior and no doubt from habits learned early in life.
My path towards becoming a certain kind of American seems to me to have been too often decided for me. Let’s start with being a Baby Boomer. Who seriously believes that all people born within certain years, all Baby Boomers, or all yet-to-come Generation Zs, are or will be of the same mind? We may have aspects in common, but as many differences. Ask Hillary and Donald.
And then there are the political tags. Liberal or conservative, never the twain shall meet we’re led to assume. Yet, how many of us cross the lines on an almost daily basis. I support less government, but only to the extent that it still addresses the complexity of modern life. Jefferson, Madison and their peers laid out fine principles, but they could hardly be expected to foresee climate change and techno developments. Oh dear, I suppose that’s going to offend constitutionalists. I’ll be labeled as the kind of American who besmirches the legacy of the founding fathers.
Sometimes it’s hard to decide exactly where an issue fits on the political scale. For instance, I advocate conserving trees. Does that mean I am a liberal subscribing to the insidious threat of environmentalism, or am I conservatively supporting the most precious resource of any nation—its geography? Say what you like about history. Without geography, there’s nothing.
Then there’s defense. There’s a divisive topic I am going to be wary of discussing with people I don’t know well. I am in favor of transferring as much as practical of the world’s nuclear weapons budget to programs that actually make sense. In fact, I’d like to tune in to a political debate in which a candidate treats that as a serious priority. Once again, am I a liberal for wanting to liberate ridiculous funding or a conservative for wanting to conserve life, liberty and the pursuit happiness in a world in which those aspirations are often underfinanced?
And so, as I wait for my date with the Department of Homeland Security, I have much to consider in addition to the usual questions about whom senators represent, what the supreme law of the land is etc., etc. One thing I do know though. Once I take that oath, no one will be able to say with any credibility: “Go back to where you came from.”
Even when they don’t like my wisecracks.
meansal 