The question - as all good questions do - came straight out of a delicious and unpredictable moment: "Do you ever know for sure, I mean really for sure, that you actually killed someone in the war?"
A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed, which I expected; the nature of my father's quiet answer, I did not.
"Yes."
I looked up from my newspaper at my father, who still stared down at his breakfast plate. In the midst of the scrambled eggs and turkey bacon he searched for answers. Most likely he was simultaneously recalling and fighting away memories, wondering and going back in time.
"You did?" Mom asked.
"It's in the book," Dad replied, still looking down at his eggs.
A few years ago - after much plodding on my part - my father wrote the memoirs of his World War II experience in a now-copyrighted book which I edited on an old so-last-century word processor. It was a labor of love.
It began with a draft notice and a ride in an unheated bus to the certainty of basic training in Louisiana. Eventually there was a seasick-inducing ride across the Atlantic in troop ships that used tens of thousands of gallons of fuel for ballast, which would not have produced a good result had they taken an enemy torpedo. Eventually, England. There, the uncertainty ended with the reality of a nearby and vicious war.
Staff Sergeant Dad was a tank commander, the guy who directed the movement of travel for that machine and a bunch of other stuff that a novice like me would never understand. After weeks of more training, his unit eventually made its way over to the European mainland.
In his book were many anecdotes of army life, including an abscessed tooth, a near-plunge off the side of a mountain, a man shot through both hands and both knees while bent over huddled for warmth, and a toss by another soldier of a mostly empty and "fake" grenade that had just enough powder left in it to explode. Unexpectedly explode. Eventually the book - and the war - began to wind down.
Towards the end of the conflict, Dad's tank was part of a contingent that had German units trapped in a ravine. The enemy would not surrender, and a decision was made from upper levels of command that Allied tanks would be driven through the ravine in order to flush out the enemy. Dad's tank was among the ones given the order and, being the tank commander, he directed his driver to proceed into the ravine. Moments later, the sunken ground was cleared of the enemy. The Germans died where they were prone and hidden, also instructed and so ordered to hold their ground.
I wondered what Dad was thinking the other morning when the question was asked of him. Did he remember the sounds? The fear? Did he recall the directness of the orders in his ear? The revving of the tank engine? The feel of the unevenness beneath the tank tracks? The sight of - in his words in the book - helping his fellow soldiers clean shards of flesh out of the tank tracks while alternately stepping away to become physically ill? He remembered all of those things, most likely.
That morning, I wanted to say again to him as I've said before that it wasn't his fault. That he was just following orders, helping to rid the world of a great, incendiary evil, and, that in all such quests, the defenseless die. Dad is the most gentle-hearted man that I could know, and I know that deep down that he understands this and how war works. Does it still bother him after all these years? Sure. No one could ever erase that from their mind. He's forgiven and understood, though. I believe that it bothers him most that as he nears the end of his life, he fears that God won't understand or forgive what happened in that European ravine.
But God knows, loves, and understands gentle souls. And he knows yours, Dad. He was there in that ravine that day and He was with you in your tortured moment at the breakfast table. He is there with you in the night when those memories come. He remembers all and He forgives the gentle.
And Dad? He forgives you.
When I get really, really tired, I hallucinate. I don't mean the can't-stay-awake-during-a-movie tired, that sort of garden variety fatigue that is so common anymore amongst the general populace. I mean exhausted tired. The kind of tired where you fall asleep while stopped at a red light (have done it); where you almost literally are asleep while walking (also have done it); and, in my best personal example, where you drive off the road into a ditch at about 35 or 40 mph on a country road. I don't recommend any of these examples to anyone, but the upside to the last one? You wake up really, really quickly.
The hallucinations come in the form of thin, whispy, people-shaped blurs that dart from side to side (usually left to right, but not exclusively so) across my field of vision, causing me to jolt for a second until I realize what's happening. They're like little friends of mine who come to visit but outstay their welcome; teasing temporary lasers who draw their strength from my lack of it; and fleeting foot soldiers who draw up their own marching orders at my psychological expense. I've come to learn that "seeing things" is a common side effect of fatigue so I don't think much about it now. But when it first happened? Freaked me out.
The human body has limits, and when it is stretched past those limits bad things predictably happen. It goes without saying that President Obama is perpetually exhausted - part of the job description - but have you seen John Boehner lately? The guy is spent. Even Nancy Pelosi - awash in the perpetual creepy alertness that is her trademark - never had the obvious problem that Speaker Boehner has. People right now are making decisions about our future - important ones - while running on personal tanks that are 1/8th full.
The result of this is that decisions will be made and compromises agreed upon that will be as much about setting policy as it will be about simply doing something - anything - to end the marathon and enabling people to jump off the spinning wheel and get some rest. It's an awful way to govern.
The drooling Conservative in me rebels when I say this, but I propose that we construct a new government agency to deal with politician fatigue. The Organization Against Deathwalking In Excess (TOADIE) would watch over our elected officials, making sure that each and every one got proper rest so as to do their jobs, earn their pay, and prevent them from selling us collectively down the proverbial river. Cots could be spread out on the floor of the House - blankets for the back benchers - for designated nap time with the whole thing being telecast on CSPAN along with that dignified classical music background that they play during votes. Vegas could get involved by taking bets on who would wake up first (The early line: 8/5 on the GOP) with part of the ensuing largesse going to help pay off the national debt. Ad space could be sold on the cots and blankets. It has potential.
Exhaustion and fatigue affects us all. We don't react as well when it overtakes us and our instincts are dulled; it causes us to make hasty and wrong decisions; it forces us to forego long-term thinking in years for the short term goal of "Where can I sit down?" For all of our technological advances, being tired brings us back forthwith to the level of our cavemen ancestors: We must sleep. And nothing is right and nothing can be properly decided until we do so.
I still have a perfect memory of my father walking me hand-in-hand up to Riley Elementary School for my first day of kindergarten. Oh, this was truly back in the day: Vietnam was just getting started; Bobby and Martin were still alive; the surface of the moon was still uncluttered and pristine; Reagan, Iran, Iraq, and 9-11 were all still ghosts yet to be uncovered. During those days, the vast majority of my life was a clean slate upon which to write of my future existence. And that, besides my father's hand in mine, was probably the best part of the whole deal.
Kindergarten existed of building blocks shaped of squares, circles, rectangles and two or three ultra-desirable ones made to look like little ships; stories of the Muffin Man; Show and Tell; coloring "outside the lines" (an absolute NO-NO); Mrs. Jones and her red hair; and sawdust-covered vomit "accidents" on shiny hallway linoleum squares. It was an idyllic life, full of simplicity and youth; of big windows looking out upon Orchard Street; and of new and strange little people who were now invading - at half-day intervals - my personal space, and who, over the years, would portion themselves into three categories of my life: Forever friends; Mortal enemies; And those of the paradoxically long remembered and easily forgotten.
We were all required to bring a "blanket" to school with us, which was really nothing more than a big bath towel. Mom still has mine; it was purple. I saw it recently and my first thought was: "I laid on THAT?" To a full-grown man of fifty years, it seemed impossibly small for anything alive to have ever rested upon.
At designated times during the day - one per as I remember - we took out our blankets from three-sided storage boxes along the wall, placed them on the aforementioned linoleum floor, and lay down upon them for a few moments of "rest." I clearly remember alternately meeting the glances of my classmates - albeit from a strange angle - during this quiet time and also seeing and seemingly having my face being mere inches away from the new tennis shoes of the kid next to me.
The sunshine streamed down upon us from the north-facing windows, warming us in our silence and in our dreams. Mrs. Jones probably caught up on some paperwork or prepared the next activity during the moments of respite, and all was well. There were no worries of locked and secured doors to the school. I'm clearly positive that the side door to the classroom just a few feet away from us next to the Borax dispenser was unlocked, as were all the other school entrances. This was 1965. Other than the convoluted maze that led to Principal Dodd's office, no one thought in terms of "school security."
Now it is 2012.
The school shooting in Connecticut is just the most recent in a long string of tragedies in what should be places of memories and learning. Students in our nation's schools now learn about things like "lock downs" and "evacuation drills" alongside math and reading and history. It is a completely different world from 1965, and not just in our nation's schools. Something has been unleashed somewhere, and it has nothing to do with politics. A darkened hand and a flipped switch and willing minds are all it takes, and the abyss opens and beckons. And some walk towards it and enter.
So I remember the purple blanket and the warming sunshine and the peace in the room. There were no thoughts of what evil may lay outside waiting to come inside. All was peace and newness and the promise of a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow...
In his song "No Man's Land" on the fine album "River Of Dreams", Billy Joel wrote these words: "I see these children with their boredom and their vacant stares/God help us all if we're to blame for their unanswered prayers."
Amen to that, Billy. Amen to that.
She was a classmate of mine.
We were side by side in the senior yearbook, that juxtaposition purely due to the alphabetical closeness of our last names and not because we were close friends. Truth is, I barely knew her.
To me, she was Regina Rap. We shared the same stomping grounds of northeast Lincoln, Nebraska, certainly crossed paths in the hallways of Lincoln Northeast High School many times, and became Rockets for life because as it is said, "Once A Rocket, Always A Rocket." We probably sat close at pep rallies, relatively close at places like Seacrest Field and Pershing Auditorium, and passed each other while cruising "O" on the weekends. Acquaintances, friends, classmates, dancing around the periphery of each other while barely knowing that the other even existed.
After graduation on a stormy May night, Gina and me and the rest of our class went our separate ways, scattering to the Midwest wind like so many pieces of naive multi-colored confetti. Further education followed for some; the military for others; marriage and/or work for more.
Gina found her way into her music, becoming a talented singer and songwriter. That love would eventually shape and determine her destiny.
On October 17, 2000, Gina (then Gina Bos) left home for an open mic performance at Duggan's Pub just south of downtown Lincoln. She left the bar shortly before close and was last seen walking to her car with her guitar.
At that point - and to this day - she has vanished without a trace. The next morning, police found her car in the spot she had left it outside Duggan's. The trunk was ajar; her guitar inside. She was gone. Authorities believe they know who is responsible for her disappearance, but cannot prove it.
Her sister Janell, also a singer-songwriter, within the last few years has started the Squeaky Wheel tour, a world-wide event consisting of hundreds of musical artists that came together to promote and shed light on the plight of missing persons. (Janell's song "October 17th" that chronicles the cause can be seen here). It usually begins on that same date and ends on Bos' birthday, November 4th. At a recent concert in Lincoln where Janell performed, the 2010 missing person case of Peru State College (NE) student Tyler Thomas was profiled which shows that this problem continues over the years and across the generations. To date, over 1,000 missing persons profiled by the GINA: For Missing Persons FOUNDation have been located.
To her credit Janell has turned her sister's plight into a positive, spreading the word of Gina's disappearance and that of so many others with the hope of bringing them home and finally finding resolution for all involved. For my part, I write this post to do my part to make sure she is not forgotten and to ask that all who read this take a look at this page to familiarize yourself with Gina's characteristics with the hope that someone, somewhere might know something and tell about it.
As I go back and read the first sentence, I realize that I used the past tense to describe my relationship with Gina. Gina? You'll always be my classmate. And the people who love you - and a stranger beside you in a faded, nicked-up yearbook - will never give up hope that you will one day be found safe.
Everyone has things that fascinate them. It might be a hobby, a sports team, a celebrity or something completely transparent and fleeting. Do I have mine? Sure. I'm a well-known Kansas City Royals fan since the mid 70's, still being able to recite the starting lineup of that era and most of the starting pitchers and bullpen. Do I love my Diet Mountain Dew? Yep. And do I play the lottery once in a while when it gets up there? Sure. Have I ever won? No. And the certain proof of that?
I'm sitting here writing this.
In typical overkill fashion, I get fascinated about things that fascinate me and the random order in which they happen in my life. Yesterday morning during my usual scouring of YouTube for interesting and obscure stuff, I somehow stumbled on videos of evangelist Billy Graham. (I think I started out by looking at an old Association clip, and from that went to Nebraska football highlights, and from that...) Doesn't matter.
Dr. Graham - along with comedian/actor Robin Williams - are probably the only two people who when I see them on television I'll always stop what I'm doing and see what they're saying. Both have "it", that indescribable something that's given to few people. Dr. Graham's amazing speaking ability and powerful presence allows him to reach the masses with his message in a way that I'd submit no other modern human being has ever had. I remember watching him on the old televised crusades and being totally mesmerized. He preaches the word of God but never - at least to me - comes across as "preachy." Powerful. Intense. But it seems like he holds just enough back to make you go the final step to the message rather than completely dragging you to it. It's a subtle difference, but it's one that makes ALL the difference.
Now to the cupcakes. The Hostess Corporation recently announced that it will cease production of its line of snacks, including the legendary white squiggle-topped cupcakes, which I remember taking to grade school in my metal Batman lunchbox along with my thermos of milk and my spam sandwich. I have a different kind of obsession with these than I do of Dr. Graham. This is more of an instinctive love of mine, borne out of the Bavarian in me whose genetics calls out to me to like baked things. Sweet things. So it's not really my fault, you see. Standing in the snack aisle of the grocery store the other night in front of the white squiggled boxes, well, I was not in control. Of course I had to buy some. My verdict: The competitor's version (since the Hostess' were of course long gone) was OK. Sort of metallic-tasting in a way. But...a chocolate cupcake is a chocolate cupcake: Even when you screw them up, they're still pretty good.
Lotteries are a lot like cupcakes: You know they're not good for you, but you can't resist them. I bought a ticket like a great many people did the other night for the $580 million dollar jackpot but like I said, I didn't win. My attitude is this: Someone has to eventually, and sometimes you have to stand still and let destiny and fate find you. You have to give it a chance or being the impatient lot that it is, fate will move on to someone else. People coast to coast - and several who were in line with me - bought tickets and cozied up in their own little way to Ms. Fate, hoping that they could still tempt her. There was a herd mentality going on, a group obsession with the art of the impossible and hoping that for once basic rules of mathematics and chance didn't apply to our lives. For some people in Missouri and Arizona those rules didn't apply; for the vast, vast majority of course they did.
So we have three kinds of obsession; three kinds of suspension of reason; and three kinds of a mental fog that we float upon to places that calm and more sensible weather would never take us. One, we become spell-caught by a fellow human being who has seen things the normal person has not and has the ability to describe it to the masses; two, we are rapt in wonder by a sweet-soaked gem wrapped in the cloak of a basic human need; and three, we are enthralled by - while being caught up in mob group-think - the chance to climb the Impossible Mountain just as our ancestors did when staring off at peaks in the distance. In each case, we really can't help it.
Nor do we want to.
I had a conversation yesterday with my first cousin's daughter-in-law. Elizabeth Frerichs - is as I like to describe her - my cousin-in-law, although that tortured genealogical term of mine is probably not even remotely accurate in describing our relation. Second cousin-in-law? Second cousin-in-law once removed? I don't know. But I do know that we're lucky to now call her "family."
Liz has recently had a book published, thus revealing a great talent and an interest in the subject of writing that I had previously been unaware of. "Tales From A Spacious Place" is a series of seven short stories Liz uses to explore the cramped doorways God uses to bring us out into a spacious place. I've read the first chapter and it makes one want to read more. I've ordered it through Amazon, and I've been promised an autograph from the author when I can get it to her.
During our talk, Liz mentioned how glad she was to see that others besides immediate family were interested in her accomplishment. When she said that, it reminded me so much of the little bits of encouragement that seemed to pop up at just the right times in my own writing "career" - nondescript that it is - giving me tiny boosts to my confidence just when I needed them.
Back in high school, I wrote some kind of paper on the JFK assassination which Mrs. Schumann thought was pretty well done. That gave me confidence. At the University of Nebraska, I did well in three composition courses. More confidence. Later on, I was able to write for a local paper. Being accepted for that? More self-belief.
My point is this: Encourage people along your way in life. The smallest of kind words towards a person can have amazing benefits if given at the right time. Praise them in their work, hobbies, the things they like to do, and their dreams. Be open to this habit and let fate and the cosmic tumblers put the people who need those boosts directly in your path. Because that will happen. Fate brings people together who need to be brought together, and then at that point they help each other to levels that by themselves they would never have reached.
As I re-read that, it sounds completely condescending towards Liz and that's the last thing I've meant to express. She has already achieved more as a writer than I probably ever will. I was just relating and comparing my own experiences with hers, in that the right amount of someone taking time to care and comment on the product of one's talents and the residue of one's life can be amazingly powerful if delivered and received at the right moment.
So Liz? Keep writing. Keep dreaming. Write like no one is reading and dance like no one is watching. You - as we all do - have something to say. Believe in the power of words.
Am I the only one who thinks everything is so....average?
We've ceded space exploration to the Chinese. We worship pop stars who possess marginal talent. What's left of our auto industry - once the envy of the world - turns out product that consumers are leery of. People with paper-thin resumes reach pinnacles of power. I mean, really: Nancy Pelosi was once third in line to the presidency.
I rest my case.
Oh, we have devices up the yimmer that can tell us where we are, where we need to go, how much it will cost when we get there, and who will be waiting for us, but is that progress? Or is this just a shiny technologially-dipped veneer that is pulled down all around us like a microchipped opiate for the masses, calming, soothing, and entertaining us while we all kill off time until we pass on? Where are the great challenges for our society? Where are the committed goals?
I'd submit that the greatest challenge and goal facing us and our leaders in Washington these days is getting out of debt. It's a noble quest, but not exactly JFK committing us "before the decade is out" to going to the moon. Setting a national goal - if they're serious about it and I'm not so sure they are - of erasing the national debt is a little like falling asleep, letting the pigs run out of the pen, organizing a search party to find them and then then taking credit for rounding them back up. All it is is just getting credit for a lot of after-the-fact ambition.
Maybe we've become so self-centered as a society that large goals to be met as a collective group are almost instinctively rejected. If it can't be done quickly, conveniently, and, more importantly, as an individual, it's not to be embraced. The flag waver in me thinks that we could meet a great challenge, such as another major war in which shared sacrifice was a necessity and not just given lip service as it is now with the ongoing war in Afghanistan and the recently completed one in Iraq. We "hire" out our fighting forces and the financial costs of war(s) is largely paid for someplace down the road with the vast majority of the people feeling no sacrifice. Everything has been made too easy for us, and we've become soft. And because of that I'm not sure we're capable anymore of anything great. I hope I'm wrong.
So where are we to find the great challenges of the future? Where can we go to shed our average nature? A trip to Mars? We're broke, and besides the great space race of the 60's was fueled in great part by trying to beat the Soviets there; now, there is no such rival to spur us on and without it, I think you'd have a hard time rallying the populace behind such a quest. Ending world hunger? Too pie in the sky, and besides a great portion of that problem lies with the starving citizens' own governments and not as to the availability of food. World peace? Another big sky pie, and I'm convinced that it will never happen without some sort of Divine Intervention. It's not in man's nature to make permanent peace with itself.
So are we destined to just sink deeper and deeper into a morass of so-so? As our lives become personally easier, do we have the desire to sacrifice even a part of that for a collective accomplishment? Have we become too selfish? Do our leaders recongize this and are electorally reluctant to rock the Boat of Comfort?
We're flailing as a country. We wander from day to day much as our cavemen ancestors did, killing enough Mastadon and gathering enough stream water to survive yet another day, but without any real plan to get to a point where another mandatory daily kill is not vital to our continued survival. Maybe it has always been like that; I don't know. But as a human race, I sense there is more out there for us if we look for it. Another reason, another purpose, another big mountain to climb.
And we will be average no more.
I have an unique proposal: Let's eliminate the holiday called Thanksgiving.
Yeah, yeah. But I'm actually partially serious.
It's already basically the National Speed Bump Holiday. Now, we can't even wait for it to pass before the stores fly open their doors to begin hawking their wares to an eager public. The turkey has barely settled and people can't wait to go trample senior citizens to get to an on-sale TV? If you step over a fallen member of the Greatest Generation to get back to electronics before your neighbor gets there then you are a painfully disgusting human being.
I'd suggest changing the date of Thanksgiving to say a week earlier but since that would be shredding a precedent set by President Lincoln in the midst of the Civil War no less, I'll pass. Not that it would matter to a great many Americans, since saving a bunch on stuff that'll one day end up in the landfill is more important than keeping sacred a day to remember and be thankful for the things we already have and not the things that we do not yet have. There's a crazy logic at work here.
We are now engaged (paraphrasing the aforementioned Lincoln) in a great game of capitalistic leapfrog. Merchants once opened at "normal" hours on "Black Friday" but soon it was five or six in the morning of that day, then three or four and soon at the stroke of midnight. Now stores - most notably Wal-Mart - opened at 8:00 pm on Thanksgiving day to get a jump on things; their employees, having to give up their holiday, are understandably upset. This, in turn, lead some other stores to do the same this year and that will increase in number in the years to come. Where does it end?
Equally as guilty as the stores in this madness are the consumers. One can hardly entirely blame merchants for - gasp! - making it easier to take people's money. The other day I heard a woman interviewed who said she wanted "more flexible" hours to do holiday shopping. More flexible than what? They're already erasing Thanksgiving hour by hour. A person can buy online 24/7 and can literally stand in the middle of their backyard with iphone in hand and get a deal on bath towels. How much easier and around the clock can it get?
Another thing: They call it Black Friday because that's the day that stores hope to have enough sales to go into "the black" financially for the year. If merchants both big and small depend on one day for their short and long term survival, one has to wonder what kind of shaky house of cards the entire system of ours really is. It's probably damn shaky.
As for me, I'll never participate in Black Friday. I just think that it's this microcosm - and if that monstrosity has it's way, a macrocosm - that describes, shows, and brings out the worst in us. On one day, we fight our fellow humans over temporary things; shove them out of the way for fleeting pleasure; and form into mobs, disrespect authority, step on the weak, and what might be the biggest sin of all, we find it all perfectly socially acceptable. And then for the next month or so, we all sing about peace on earth and good will towards our fellow man in some sort of economic self-cleansing.
So the people who maced the security guards will - if they have any decency left - feel guilty for a bit, I suppose. But when the demons come in the night carrying the memories of fighting one's brother or sister for material posessions, they'll have the comfort of knowing they can flip on the flat screen to help make all those inconvenient things go far, far away.
Me? I'm staying home.
A nineteen year old man died this past Saturday in my mom's hometown.
But I bet you didn't hear about it.
It's not like a ton of news comes out of Deshler, Nebraska, truth be told. Occasionally the local high school produces a team that makes it to state competition but that's about it, really. Not long ago Reinke Manufacturing built a world-famous headquarters and manufacturing base for farmland irrigation and certainly that was a big deal. Life in a small town is what it is: Quiet.
Mom subscribes to the hometown paper there: The Deshler Rustler. It arrives through the mail at her home every Thursday and I'll always flip through it. I don't read it cover to cover, but I do like to sort of keep up on things there. One can read up on the local police happenings, consisting mostly of speeders but occasionally including - gasp! - a writer of bad checks. One weekly column looks back at "Pages Of The Past" revisiting the same time frame from 10, 20, 30 years ago and so forth. The menus for the local senior centers are dutifully noted and recorded - tater tots being a staple - and the winners of the local football contest are also announced. It's typical small town stuff.
The same names keep popping up though, and over time you start to get to know them like family. One local high school girl who was talented enough to make it to the state track meet recently lost her mother, and you couldn't help but feel sad for her above and beyond that no one so young should have that happen. I felt like I knew her and her family after reading about her athletic exploits over the years.
Taylor Horsechief was one of those people.
He made a splash or two with the Deshler High School basketball team, not being by any means a star but making varsity, playing, and scoring a few points. His name is also a memorable one, so it easily caught my eye when I saw it in the headline in the local paper. Taylor had been found early last Saturday morning at the base of the still-standing water tower that belonged to the old Deshler Broom Factory. Presumably, he had climbed atop of it and jumped to his death.
Why? Was he despondent? Done with life? Broken heart? Fearful of the future or, worse yet, fearful that he had none? Did he stare off towards the west over fields that my mother walked across heading for school all those years ago? Did he stare up at Orion hanging in the western sky and contemplate the figure of the ancient hunter just prior taking his final step towards eternity? What were his thoughts? Who knows.
The first published Rustler post incident arrived at Mom's home just yesterday, and I expected a large story on the suicide. There was barely a ten paragraph story on it and even at that it was combined with a story of another man who had been found dead in his Deshler home at roughly the same time, but not related to in the sense that foul play was not suspected in either case. Were they trying to hide this story as to not mess up the idea of perfect small town life? Too early after the finding of the body? I expected more of a tribute to one of the city's youth is all, something even remotely hard-hitting as to youth suicide. I expected something....else.
So one of our youngsters is gone. Another gunshot, another drug overdose, another leap, another finding, more questions. Taylor will be buried in the small cemetery next to Highway 136, probably not far from my maternal grandmother and within an easy walk of the broom factory and the old tower. There he will rest in the shadow of ancient cottonwoods, and the stress of four unforgiving and beautiful Nebraska seasons will impose their will upon his stone.
And: Just across Highway 136 and not far from Taylor's grave is a sign that points visitors towards Main Street. It is in the form of a huge metallic broom with the words "Welcome To Deshler" on it, and it points towards the old and ancient water tower, a tower with yet one more story to tell.
I hate cannibalizing old blog and column ideas. Really, I do. But this one has stuck in my sizable craw for some time now.
Why are we in such a big hurry with everything?
Anyone who has seen even a bit of the things I've written lately knows how I hate the idea of early voting, for a myriad of reasons none of which I'll recount here mostly because everyone is tired of hearing about it from me. To me, the evils and missteps that spring from the "convenience" of it far outweigh any benefits gained from increased participation. And this has nothing to do with voter suppression or disenfranchisement or any one of a hundred two dollar words someone with a healthy social conscience and an equally big chip on their shoulder can come up with. It's about.... Oh, sorry. I'm at it again...
I first wrote about the ever-increasing speed of our world in this column I penned a couple years back during a temporary gig with the Lincoln Journal-Star. Our children are sped through life with things like pre-pre-pre school, never having the chance to enjoy the innocence of life as a child but instead forced to limber up and jump on a societal treadmill of our creation. I cringe when I see shows like Toddlers and Tiaras which, if it doesn't already, will soon violate innumerable child labor laws mostly because someone will be watching it, finally come to their senses, and lawyer up.
This is not, however, necessarily an indictment of only voting laws or parents no matter how target-rich those particular environments are. The idea of quicker being better is something that has permeated every part of our lives. Fast food. Instant win lottery tickets. Accelerated college degrees. Early high school graduation. Express lanes at the grocery store. Pre-packaged food. Microblogs like Twitter. Remote controls. And on and on.
Is it all about convenience or is there something else at work here, some sort of hidden under-the-radar evolutionary process going on that we'll never notice until we all end up one day with hairy elbows to go along with our winged feet and surly dispositions with it all happening so gradually that no one has noticed the change? When we were cavemen and women, our lives boiled down to basically three things: Food, shelter, and mating. Simple survival - both short term and long - kept us occupied and completely captured our attention, for if we strayed and lost our concentration, we died out.
Life has now become so easy that our minds - being the natural explorers they are - turn towards the next thing mostly out of sheer boredom. We've developed a cerebral speed dial setting that's instinctive now. And we pass it down to our children as sort of an involuntary spasm, feeling that if it's instinctive and good for us then it is good for them as well. I'm not so sure.
No one wants to give up their convenience, myself included. But there will come a day when things are so easy for us that we'll lose our edge and become soft to the ways of survival and, instead of feeling the need to chase down the wildebeest we will find that the wildebeest - having been patient and at the same time keeping it's instinctive edge - is now tracking us.
I stood in the open learning center of the elementary school with several others as we awaited our turn to vote. There was a man who either had just gotten off work or was headed there; two well-dressed women in power suits; an elderly couple; a mother with a fussy child; and me, taking time out from a week of vacation to do my simple duty of standing in public amongst my peers to record my choice of how this experiment in democracy should be run. It was in no way a sacrifice for any of us to do this act; on the contrary, it was a great honor and a greater privilege for which many men and women have have given their lives to protect and promote.
The polling station was so busy that the poor station worker who was explaining "how" the ballot worked was doubling and tripling us up to cut down on the number of times she had to explain the darkening of ovals, the perils of "over voting," and the popular adage of "If you make a mistake, don't 'X' it out but bring it back and get a new ballot." This speech was the same one they give every year and I suppose it's necessary, but I sort of tuned it out after a few words.
I glanced over at the far wall and saw a tall, dark-haired woman leading a group of what were probably third graders. The well-formed line hugged the wall as they made their way across my field of view from right to left. The woman stopped at the door of a classroom with the name "Mrs. Simms" on the entrance, spun on her heel and faced the children. After a slight pause, the children filed into the classroom one by one.
At the very back of the line, I noticed a slightly built girl with piercing blue eyes. She was fascinated with the group of strangers who were milling around in her school, never taking her eyes off of us and running her small hand along the wall to guide her while she looked elsewhere. As her part of the line reached the classroom door and Mrs. Simms, the little girl stopped, seemingly pointed right at me, and whispered something to her teacher. The woman leaned down, spoke gently to the girl and placing a hand on the back of her head, guided her into the room. The woman stepped inside and the door closed.
The poll worker finished her instructions and handed us the ballots. As I stood blackening ovals and reading over the proposed constitutional amendments. I wondered about what the teacher said to the little girl. To be quiet? To move along? No. There was something more in the glance, the words, the touch.
I imagined the scene that was taking place inside the classroom. In my mind's eye I saw the teacher in front of the group, taking time to tell of little "Anne's" question. Anne had simply wondered what I -this stranger - was doing there, and she asked her teacher to explain. After a second's thought, Mrs. Simms pulled up a stool, sat and explained.
"Class? Anne has asked a very good question. Did you see all those people out in the learning area? You did? Good. Do you remember how the other day we talked a little about Election Day and what citizens do on that day? Well, today is that day. People that live close by have come here today to decide who they want their president to be. It's a great honor and privilege that grown-ups are able to do."
A small boy in the front row raised his hand. "Will we be able to do that someday?"
"Yes, Jason. When you get older, though. It's important that we all do our part to decide things." Throughout the room, small heads nodded. Mrs. Simms smiled.
I inserted my ballot back in the cardboard sleeve, turned and walked towards the poll worker. She took it from me and I watched as the marked white sheet slipped into the locked box. I took my "I Voted" sticker and walked towards the door and exited into the crisp afternoon.
I had accomplished much this day. I had exercised the most precious right given to a citizen of this great democracy: The ones that would lead me had heard my voice. They would know - if even in an small way - that I exist and that they cannot entirely discount me. And, most of all, I had given hope and set an example to a young child, and, by extension, to a group of children, that great and responsible things lay ahead for them. They had seen adults doing adult things, great and important things. And they had seen them in person, up and close, which made it real to them. Their teacher had not waved a mailed-in ballot in front of them in an effort to explain voting, or moved a cursor on a screen to point to a place where a choice could be made in the most sterile of ways. No. They had seen people making an effort. They had seen people taking time out of their day to purposely gather in person to determine their own fate. They had found the time to set an example for the future, up close and in person. They had made it so the Anne's and Jason's would remember. Always remember.
I've been able to cast many votes in my time, but the one in the clean-smelling school filled with innocence, resolve, purpose, and impressionable wide-eyed children is without doubt the most important one ever. Because I not only helped shape the present, but the future as well.
