Mark Scheel's Blog: Musings of an Aging Author
April 25, 2024
The Inescapable Redundancy of War
It was an unthinkable gambit I along with many had hoped against hope not to see, Putin’s Hitlerian invasion, under the flimsiest pretext, of the sovereignty of Ukraine. A flagrant act introducing the consequent and ongoing destruction, dislocation and carnage of so many innocents. And for those of us who long ago saw war up close and personal, down in the mud and blood of it, that wanton scene rings all too familiar—a wicked reprise from which humanity seems unable or unwilling to loose itself. It stirs the sleeping dogs within our collective consciousness to once again rise up and rip at our souls.
The year was 1970 when I was stationed with the American Red Cross in Bangkok, Thailand, following a six-month tour of duty with the Thai Panther Division in Vietnam and just prior to a new assignment in Germany. The Red Cross mission consisted in providing on-site humanitarian support to American military personnel deployed overseas—the communication link between the troops in the field and their families back home. And I was grateful to have emerged from the combat zone unscathed. Nevertheless, as I was coming to discover, one can leave the battlefield behind, but the war will always be with you. One afternoon there in Bangkok, quite unexpectedly, I experienced once again a vivid immersion in the violent sights and sounds of Vietnam.
It was my day off, comp time after having had the after-hours duty coverage the night before, and following lunch I’d leisurely repaired to the Officers’ Club bar in the Chao Phya Hotel to relax before catching an afternoon nap. As my eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, I perceived the club was nearly empty, only one lone patron in civvies seated at the bar, and so I sauntered up and claimed a spot a stool away. As the Thai bartender poured my bourbon and Coke, I detected a glint off metal reflected in the bar mirror and quickly identified it as having come from the man seated at the bar, or rather, from a hook protruding from his right sleeve.
After a moment or two, we exchanged glances and perfunctory nods, and then one of us—I don’t remember which—offered a conversational starter with the standard “how’s it going?” And that initiated mutual introductions and some get-acquainted queries. It turned out he was a young medically retired Army vet residing in Spain and had hopped a military flight to Bangkok to sightsee. He was curious about what my Red Cross service entailed and where I’d been stationed in Vietnam. One topic led to another, and eventually he related in brutal detail about his wounding and the loss of his right hand.
He’d been a second lieutenant, a platoon leader, only in country a few weeks, when his unit underwent a nighttime assault by the NVR. He was at the forefront of the defense, M-16 in his left hand, a plastic flashlight in his right, directing return fire. Flares were up and the din of machine gun fire was deafening. Then all at once, an incoming mortar round burst just to his right, nearly on top of him. His helmet and flak jacket warded off most of the shrapnel to his head and torso, but his legs caught fragments and the flashlight shattered along with much of his right hand.
“I remember,” he said, “the surgeon working on me in the MUST area saying, ‘I’ll try to save as much of your hand as possible.’ But it was futile, not enough left. So, we decided to trade it for this.” He gestured with the steel hook, and exhibited a wry smile. And added, “This and a medical discharge, a disability check every month, and the complimentary privilege of hopping aboard a military flight anywhere in the world they fly on a space-available basis. Military standby. All courtesy of good old Uncle Sam.”
As he spoke in graphic descriptions about the night of his wounding, my own memories of other nights in Vietnam began flooding before my eyes. Playing poker with warrant officers in their hooch when a B-52 bombing strike not far away interrupted the game, shaking dirt down from the crossbeams like an earthquake. And, minutes later, a contact on the nearby berm, sounds of frantic shouting and 50-caliber tracer ricochets burning up into the sky like Roman candles. Another night when Thai guards had spotted a sapper crawling under the concertina wire in the mud cradling a charge and the next morning his boyish, bloody, naked body stretched out on the ground like a trophy coyote pelt displayed on a barbwire fence. The night a Thai ambush patrol had surprised a Viet Cong supply detail and killed all but one, my witnessing the later interrogation of the survivor—a black-cotton-clad, exhausted, dirt-smeared 14-year-old girl! Memories all tattooed onto the mind to the grave.
The young man beside me then spoke of some of the places he’d visited and the sights he’d seen—the Taj Mahal, Stonehenge, Hagia Sophia Mosque, on and on. I related to him about my pending transfer to Germany and my hope I might avail myself of seeing some of those same attractions in the coming months. He nodded and took out a matchbook from his shirt pocket, tore off the front cover and, procuring a pen from the bartender and pinning the cover to the bar with his hook, he wrote his name and address on the inside and handed it to me. “If you get down to Spain by chance,” he said, “look me up here and I’ll show you around Madrid.”
“I’ll certain do that,” I replied enthusiastically, and tucked the matchbook cover into my wallet.
At that point we finished our drinks, bid each other good-bye, and went our separate ways.
The impression he’d made with me hung in the back of my mind over the ensuing months. So on one occasion while on leave from my office in Wildflecken, Germany, and traveling by auto with a companion down through Spain, I did indeed attempt to reconnect with that young vet of the bar in the Chao Phya Hotel. We located a courtyard behind a row of shops above which an apartment matched the address he’d given me. But it was vacant. I queried an old man resting on a bench in the shade nearby, and surprisingly he spoke sufficient English to convey that, yes, he remembered the man we spoke of with the hook on his right arm. But he no longer resided there. And he didn’t know where he’d gone.
Well, I’d tried to make good on my intention, but a reunion was not to be. My companion and I moved on, just as the young vet had done, to some new location and perhaps to a new life. But he had left me pondering a philosophic question and one of balancing values.
My desire to become a writer, a novelist actually, had only deepened with the years. The opportunities that that expatriate vet possessed to vastly broaden one’s experiences, gain real-world perspective and accrue subject matter galore without financial concerns would be any aspiring writer’s dream. And the time, precious time, to devote to pursuing that cherished dream. However—would I give up my right hand to get it? And philosophically speaking, upon reflection, my answer would always have to be “never.” But the ultimate question, the one that eternally begs humanity for an answer, is quite simply, why should anyone have to do so? Especially those innocents caught in the crossfire. And why is this cycle of human tragedy, once more sadly playing out in Ukraine, so recalcitrantly impossible to break?
* * *
Adapted excerpt from the memoir manuscript Blossoms on the Vine. Initially published on Spillwords.com, 04/17/2024.
The year was 1970 when I was stationed with the American Red Cross in Bangkok, Thailand, following a six-month tour of duty with the Thai Panther Division in Vietnam and just prior to a new assignment in Germany. The Red Cross mission consisted in providing on-site humanitarian support to American military personnel deployed overseas—the communication link between the troops in the field and their families back home. And I was grateful to have emerged from the combat zone unscathed. Nevertheless, as I was coming to discover, one can leave the battlefield behind, but the war will always be with you. One afternoon there in Bangkok, quite unexpectedly, I experienced once again a vivid immersion in the violent sights and sounds of Vietnam.
It was my day off, comp time after having had the after-hours duty coverage the night before, and following lunch I’d leisurely repaired to the Officers’ Club bar in the Chao Phya Hotel to relax before catching an afternoon nap. As my eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, I perceived the club was nearly empty, only one lone patron in civvies seated at the bar, and so I sauntered up and claimed a spot a stool away. As the Thai bartender poured my bourbon and Coke, I detected a glint off metal reflected in the bar mirror and quickly identified it as having come from the man seated at the bar, or rather, from a hook protruding from his right sleeve.
After a moment or two, we exchanged glances and perfunctory nods, and then one of us—I don’t remember which—offered a conversational starter with the standard “how’s it going?” And that initiated mutual introductions and some get-acquainted queries. It turned out he was a young medically retired Army vet residing in Spain and had hopped a military flight to Bangkok to sightsee. He was curious about what my Red Cross service entailed and where I’d been stationed in Vietnam. One topic led to another, and eventually he related in brutal detail about his wounding and the loss of his right hand.
He’d been a second lieutenant, a platoon leader, only in country a few weeks, when his unit underwent a nighttime assault by the NVR. He was at the forefront of the defense, M-16 in his left hand, a plastic flashlight in his right, directing return fire. Flares were up and the din of machine gun fire was deafening. Then all at once, an incoming mortar round burst just to his right, nearly on top of him. His helmet and flak jacket warded off most of the shrapnel to his head and torso, but his legs caught fragments and the flashlight shattered along with much of his right hand.
“I remember,” he said, “the surgeon working on me in the MUST area saying, ‘I’ll try to save as much of your hand as possible.’ But it was futile, not enough left. So, we decided to trade it for this.” He gestured with the steel hook, and exhibited a wry smile. And added, “This and a medical discharge, a disability check every month, and the complimentary privilege of hopping aboard a military flight anywhere in the world they fly on a space-available basis. Military standby. All courtesy of good old Uncle Sam.”
As he spoke in graphic descriptions about the night of his wounding, my own memories of other nights in Vietnam began flooding before my eyes. Playing poker with warrant officers in their hooch when a B-52 bombing strike not far away interrupted the game, shaking dirt down from the crossbeams like an earthquake. And, minutes later, a contact on the nearby berm, sounds of frantic shouting and 50-caliber tracer ricochets burning up into the sky like Roman candles. Another night when Thai guards had spotted a sapper crawling under the concertina wire in the mud cradling a charge and the next morning his boyish, bloody, naked body stretched out on the ground like a trophy coyote pelt displayed on a barbwire fence. The night a Thai ambush patrol had surprised a Viet Cong supply detail and killed all but one, my witnessing the later interrogation of the survivor—a black-cotton-clad, exhausted, dirt-smeared 14-year-old girl! Memories all tattooed onto the mind to the grave.
The young man beside me then spoke of some of the places he’d visited and the sights he’d seen—the Taj Mahal, Stonehenge, Hagia Sophia Mosque, on and on. I related to him about my pending transfer to Germany and my hope I might avail myself of seeing some of those same attractions in the coming months. He nodded and took out a matchbook from his shirt pocket, tore off the front cover and, procuring a pen from the bartender and pinning the cover to the bar with his hook, he wrote his name and address on the inside and handed it to me. “If you get down to Spain by chance,” he said, “look me up here and I’ll show you around Madrid.”
“I’ll certain do that,” I replied enthusiastically, and tucked the matchbook cover into my wallet.
At that point we finished our drinks, bid each other good-bye, and went our separate ways.
The impression he’d made with me hung in the back of my mind over the ensuing months. So on one occasion while on leave from my office in Wildflecken, Germany, and traveling by auto with a companion down through Spain, I did indeed attempt to reconnect with that young vet of the bar in the Chao Phya Hotel. We located a courtyard behind a row of shops above which an apartment matched the address he’d given me. But it was vacant. I queried an old man resting on a bench in the shade nearby, and surprisingly he spoke sufficient English to convey that, yes, he remembered the man we spoke of with the hook on his right arm. But he no longer resided there. And he didn’t know where he’d gone.
Well, I’d tried to make good on my intention, but a reunion was not to be. My companion and I moved on, just as the young vet had done, to some new location and perhaps to a new life. But he had left me pondering a philosophic question and one of balancing values.
My desire to become a writer, a novelist actually, had only deepened with the years. The opportunities that that expatriate vet possessed to vastly broaden one’s experiences, gain real-world perspective and accrue subject matter galore without financial concerns would be any aspiring writer’s dream. And the time, precious time, to devote to pursuing that cherished dream. However—would I give up my right hand to get it? And philosophically speaking, upon reflection, my answer would always have to be “never.” But the ultimate question, the one that eternally begs humanity for an answer, is quite simply, why should anyone have to do so? Especially those innocents caught in the crossfire. And why is this cycle of human tragedy, once more sadly playing out in Ukraine, so recalcitrantly impossible to break?
* * *
Adapted excerpt from the memoir manuscript Blossoms on the Vine. Initially published on Spillwords.com, 04/17/2024.
January 14, 2024
The Threat of Technological Tyranny
Recently, following my panicked rush to a computer shop to unlock a frozen email account, a friend of mine, who just retired from his career as a computer programmer, offered me a trenchant observation. “Mark,” he declared, “we think that computers work for us, but actually, we work for them.” And to that declaration I offered my wholehearted endorsement. Certainly, that’s been my own experience.
Furthermore, at the outset and in good conscience, I have to admit that, indeed, I’m a technophobe. I hate having to adjust to computer “upgrades” or some “new-and-improved” merchandising mechanism, especially and invariably when they exhibit some confounding glitch. And I’ve never become friends with my smart phone and use it only in emergencies because it seems to think it’s smarter than I am and tries to anticipate my thought process. I resent that!
Nevertheless, on the other hand, paradoxically to be sure, I’m only alive today because of technological advances in health care. Astounding new approaches in treating atrial flutter, acute gall bladder attack and prostate cancer have kept me in the game. Yes, I do appreciate and bow to that. So, to be fair and precise, it really isn’t the whole sweep of technology that I condemn and eschew, but rather the increasingly overreliance on and the misapplication thereof that presents the real conundrum! And just for the sake of clarity and emphasis, permit me to share in graphic detail one sterling example.
A year and a half ago, my wife and I were informed by our telephone company that we’d have to switch from landline to wireless and transfer to a new provider. Well, if that’s what so-called “progress” demands, then accept it we will, I told her. But I had no forewarning at that time of the nightmare that would ensue. First, service became cut off entirely for over three weeks, and the customer service desk, being located in Colombia, South America, seemed impotent to remedy the situation. Eventually, an AT&T repairman entered the scene and provided us with a temporary number to restore functionality. Then, weeks later, a wireless provider made contact, but after extensive negotiations, they informed us we would not be able to retain our old original phone number. That was a deal breaker. And we were back to square one.
The situation involving a temporary number on the landline dragged on for months until at last another wireless provider stepped up with a new plan. We could keep our old number and pay less than half of our current monthly billing. Well, that sounded like salvation at last and we signed up right away. But, a smooth transition was not to be. First, the company inadvertently sent us two base-station boxes, necessitating the return of one. Next, the hookup failed, and—in spite of repeated numerous emails of instructions and phone calls and resets and visits to a local department store electronic wizard for advice and counsel—kept failing. After a month of frustration, a company techie called with the suggestion that we check the number on the sim card, and, lo and behold, they’d had us send back the wrong box and therefore the registration on their records didn’t match our equipment! Once that was rectified, our phone became once again operational on our old number. And we were once and for all able to disconnect from the landline and the temporary number. However, the initial billing with the new service became all fouled up and had to be sorted out and adjusted, so I’m still keeping my fingers crossed.
Now, why relate in such painstaking detail the protracted disaster of this personal telephone saga? Well, simply because it represents not the exception but rather the rule of what is becoming par for the course in our technological day-to-day experience. At a drive-thru fast-food establishment recently, the server asked me not to drive away until he’d rechecked whether the credit card took or not. Sometimes the touch screen doesn’t register, he explained, and he gets stuck with the bill. At a grocery store we frequent, we signed up for their “point-rewards” system where, after accumulating points from regular purchases, those points can be used to automatically obtain items free next store visit that we’ve selected from our computer at home. The only problem was the scanner didn’t recognize our “free” selections and the situation had to be resolved manually at customer service. Last month we encountered a problem with the hospital billing office over an appointment that had been improperly coded into their computer system and subsequently denied by our insurance. Again, human intervention had to come to the rescue and put right the error.
This proclivity for forcing more and more technological change into our lives calls to mind some old cautionary adages. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. And the popular version of Murphy’s law: if anything can go wrong, it will.
Why this human obsession with technology? Well, it seemingly expresses that adapted aphorism of Ralph Waldo Emerson that’s now stated as “build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door” combined with the truism “follow the money.” The problems arise, however, when usually the “mousetrap” is no better, only different. And additionally subject to unanticipated complications and added expense.
Were this only a matter of day-to-day annoying inconveniences, we might endure it as tolerable modernity. However, more and more the ramifications can be dire. The blinding of oncoming traffic with LED headlights. The ongoing breaching of institutional data bases, compromising critical client information. The constant scams perpetrated on email and the telephone by con artists. Ah, but it gets even worse.
This past year the TV program 60 Minutes has included segments on “fake news” and artificial intelligence. It’s now possible to fabricate video and audio of people doing and saying things they didn’t actually do or say and disseminating that widely to the public. Sorting fact from the contrived then becomes nigh on impossible. Certainly a sea of confusion during political elections. And in an interview with “the Godfather of AI,” Geoffrey Hinton, he declared that there’s no guaranteed path to safety as AI advances. It might take over humanity.
As long ago as 2009, William R. Forstchen warned in his book One Second After of the vulnerability of our computer-dependent society to an electromagnetic pulse event from either a nuclear weapon or a solar flare. An event taking down the grid and leaving virtually nothing operable—cars, computers, telephones, appliances, supply chains—thereby rendering widespread death and suffering beyond imagining.
So, it might be that the cartoonish little robed-and-bearded man holding the sign “The End Is Near” may get his day after all. What an irony that we may have advanced so far and so fast that we outpaced ourselves, bringing about a Biblical Armageddon not of clashing spears and swords but of the fatuous worship of a technological compulsion run amok.
Furthermore, at the outset and in good conscience, I have to admit that, indeed, I’m a technophobe. I hate having to adjust to computer “upgrades” or some “new-and-improved” merchandising mechanism, especially and invariably when they exhibit some confounding glitch. And I’ve never become friends with my smart phone and use it only in emergencies because it seems to think it’s smarter than I am and tries to anticipate my thought process. I resent that!
Nevertheless, on the other hand, paradoxically to be sure, I’m only alive today because of technological advances in health care. Astounding new approaches in treating atrial flutter, acute gall bladder attack and prostate cancer have kept me in the game. Yes, I do appreciate and bow to that. So, to be fair and precise, it really isn’t the whole sweep of technology that I condemn and eschew, but rather the increasingly overreliance on and the misapplication thereof that presents the real conundrum! And just for the sake of clarity and emphasis, permit me to share in graphic detail one sterling example.
A year and a half ago, my wife and I were informed by our telephone company that we’d have to switch from landline to wireless and transfer to a new provider. Well, if that’s what so-called “progress” demands, then accept it we will, I told her. But I had no forewarning at that time of the nightmare that would ensue. First, service became cut off entirely for over three weeks, and the customer service desk, being located in Colombia, South America, seemed impotent to remedy the situation. Eventually, an AT&T repairman entered the scene and provided us with a temporary number to restore functionality. Then, weeks later, a wireless provider made contact, but after extensive negotiations, they informed us we would not be able to retain our old original phone number. That was a deal breaker. And we were back to square one.
The situation involving a temporary number on the landline dragged on for months until at last another wireless provider stepped up with a new plan. We could keep our old number and pay less than half of our current monthly billing. Well, that sounded like salvation at last and we signed up right away. But, a smooth transition was not to be. First, the company inadvertently sent us two base-station boxes, necessitating the return of one. Next, the hookup failed, and—in spite of repeated numerous emails of instructions and phone calls and resets and visits to a local department store electronic wizard for advice and counsel—kept failing. After a month of frustration, a company techie called with the suggestion that we check the number on the sim card, and, lo and behold, they’d had us send back the wrong box and therefore the registration on their records didn’t match our equipment! Once that was rectified, our phone became once again operational on our old number. And we were once and for all able to disconnect from the landline and the temporary number. However, the initial billing with the new service became all fouled up and had to be sorted out and adjusted, so I’m still keeping my fingers crossed.
Now, why relate in such painstaking detail the protracted disaster of this personal telephone saga? Well, simply because it represents not the exception but rather the rule of what is becoming par for the course in our technological day-to-day experience. At a drive-thru fast-food establishment recently, the server asked me not to drive away until he’d rechecked whether the credit card took or not. Sometimes the touch screen doesn’t register, he explained, and he gets stuck with the bill. At a grocery store we frequent, we signed up for their “point-rewards” system where, after accumulating points from regular purchases, those points can be used to automatically obtain items free next store visit that we’ve selected from our computer at home. The only problem was the scanner didn’t recognize our “free” selections and the situation had to be resolved manually at customer service. Last month we encountered a problem with the hospital billing office over an appointment that had been improperly coded into their computer system and subsequently denied by our insurance. Again, human intervention had to come to the rescue and put right the error.
This proclivity for forcing more and more technological change into our lives calls to mind some old cautionary adages. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. And the popular version of Murphy’s law: if anything can go wrong, it will.
Why this human obsession with technology? Well, it seemingly expresses that adapted aphorism of Ralph Waldo Emerson that’s now stated as “build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door” combined with the truism “follow the money.” The problems arise, however, when usually the “mousetrap” is no better, only different. And additionally subject to unanticipated complications and added expense.
Were this only a matter of day-to-day annoying inconveniences, we might endure it as tolerable modernity. However, more and more the ramifications can be dire. The blinding of oncoming traffic with LED headlights. The ongoing breaching of institutional data bases, compromising critical client information. The constant scams perpetrated on email and the telephone by con artists. Ah, but it gets even worse.
This past year the TV program 60 Minutes has included segments on “fake news” and artificial intelligence. It’s now possible to fabricate video and audio of people doing and saying things they didn’t actually do or say and disseminating that widely to the public. Sorting fact from the contrived then becomes nigh on impossible. Certainly a sea of confusion during political elections. And in an interview with “the Godfather of AI,” Geoffrey Hinton, he declared that there’s no guaranteed path to safety as AI advances. It might take over humanity.
As long ago as 2009, William R. Forstchen warned in his book One Second After of the vulnerability of our computer-dependent society to an electromagnetic pulse event from either a nuclear weapon or a solar flare. An event taking down the grid and leaving virtually nothing operable—cars, computers, telephones, appliances, supply chains—thereby rendering widespread death and suffering beyond imagining.
So, it might be that the cartoonish little robed-and-bearded man holding the sign “The End Is Near” may get his day after all. What an irony that we may have advanced so far and so fast that we outpaced ourselves, bringing about a Biblical Armageddon not of clashing spears and swords but of the fatuous worship of a technological compulsion run amok.
June 27, 2023
The Human Proclivity Toward "Otherness" and Risk
We humans are restless creatures. Unlike our “so-called biological cousins” the apes, who seem content with what nature assigned them—eating, mating, sleeping and mainly just observing their bountiful surroundings—humans seem to perpetually yearn for transcending our flatlander identity. Employing our intellectual gifts for technological innovation and leverage, we endlessly strive to best the soaring eagle in the sky or the lightning-fast marlin in the sea, experiencing our world from the perspective of dissimilar species. A pursuit reminiscent of the fabled Icarus, often attended by considerable risk, which may lead to astounding glory beyond words, or to the unbearable agony of fatal failure.
Not considered at the time as attaching any significant risk, the RMS Titanic constituted the largest ship afloat on the ocean, the height of craftsmanship and luxurious comfort, when she commenced her maiden voyage on April 10, 1912. The vessel possessed advanced safety features and boasted as being “unsinkable,” a testament to man’s proud ingenuity as she glided through the undulating waves. Yet, now an ingrained event within popular cultural history and imagination, she struck an iceberg four days hence and sank, claiming over 1,500 lives, the deadliest maritime disaster involving a single ship up till then.
Or, consider, for example, the vaunted LZ-129 Hindenburg airship, the largest aircraft ever produced. A hydrogen-filled zeppelin built in Germany, it commenced commercial services in March 1936, eventually making eight round trips to South America and ten to New York City. It seemed at the time that this would become the promising future of air travel. However, on May 6, 1937, while attempting to dock at the Lakehurst Naval Air Station in New Jersey, the craft experienced an explosion in the tail section and within seconds became consumed in flames and crashed, killing 35 of the 97 passengers and crew aboard. And that also marked the death of that mode of air transport.
Fast speed ahead to the age of space exploration. It appeared after having successfully landed on the moon in 1969, humankind had pretty well conquered the challenges of spaceflight. But, as it is sometimes phrased, “pride goeth before a fall.” On January 28, 1986, the Space Shuttle Challenger, 73 seconds following lift-off, exploded, claiming the lives of all seven crew members. Cold weather conditions had caused the failure of an O-ring seal that led to hot gases escaping onto the propellant tank. A small defect and oversight leading to a catastrophic conclusion. Similarly, on February 1, 2003, the Space Shuttle Columbia, returning from a two-week mission in space, disintegrated over the southwestern United States due to a compromised thermal protection system. Once again, the lives of all seven crew members were lost. And humankind, temporarily at least, was humbled.
As of this writing, another tragic outcome to man’s exploratory quests has just occurred, ironically coming back full circle to a connection with that ill-fated Titanic disaster. On June 18, 2023, a submersible named Titan, carrying five people, commenced an expedition to descend into the oceanic depths and view the wreckage of the Titanic. Although 13 prior dives had been successful, 1 hour and 45 minutes into this one, it suffered a disastrous implosion, sacrificing the lives of all aboard. Once more nature had reminded us, we’re Homo sapiens, not fish nor fowl.
Nevertheless, it should be noted, as headline-grabbing as these technological catastrophes have always been, their statistical significance pales in comparison to the violence and death humankind exacts intentionally upon itself. Both historically and present-day. For instance, according to a 2011 report by the Robert Schuman European Centre, more than 9.7 million military personnel were killed during World War I. And presently the ongoing war in Ukraine has, according to April 2023 estimates, claimed approximately 60,000 combat fatalities. (That’s in little more than one year of engagement.)
So, what are we to make of the ceaseless discontent of this being we call human? With the curiosity of a feline and the fierceness of a shark accompanied by the propensity for continuously “pushing the envelope” of the possible, where exactly does its nature fall on reality’s continuum? Those hands and brain that can paint a Sistine Chapel or sculpt the Pietà, can also construct an atom bomb. Should we simply express awe and gratitude for the cancer-curing miracles effected through a man-made radiation apparatus while ignoring the incoming rocket explosions outside the hospital walls? Or, must we persist in appealing to “A Higher Power” for answers, offering our petitions before a Wailing Wall? If there were one more ingredient to be prayerfully added to humanity’s mix, it would seem to be the thing most lacking on the broader scale of humankind. Wisdom.
[The factual statistics and details of this article were obtained from Wikipedia and Britannica.]
Not considered at the time as attaching any significant risk, the RMS Titanic constituted the largest ship afloat on the ocean, the height of craftsmanship and luxurious comfort, when she commenced her maiden voyage on April 10, 1912. The vessel possessed advanced safety features and boasted as being “unsinkable,” a testament to man’s proud ingenuity as she glided through the undulating waves. Yet, now an ingrained event within popular cultural history and imagination, she struck an iceberg four days hence and sank, claiming over 1,500 lives, the deadliest maritime disaster involving a single ship up till then.
Or, consider, for example, the vaunted LZ-129 Hindenburg airship, the largest aircraft ever produced. A hydrogen-filled zeppelin built in Germany, it commenced commercial services in March 1936, eventually making eight round trips to South America and ten to New York City. It seemed at the time that this would become the promising future of air travel. However, on May 6, 1937, while attempting to dock at the Lakehurst Naval Air Station in New Jersey, the craft experienced an explosion in the tail section and within seconds became consumed in flames and crashed, killing 35 of the 97 passengers and crew aboard. And that also marked the death of that mode of air transport.
Fast speed ahead to the age of space exploration. It appeared after having successfully landed on the moon in 1969, humankind had pretty well conquered the challenges of spaceflight. But, as it is sometimes phrased, “pride goeth before a fall.” On January 28, 1986, the Space Shuttle Challenger, 73 seconds following lift-off, exploded, claiming the lives of all seven crew members. Cold weather conditions had caused the failure of an O-ring seal that led to hot gases escaping onto the propellant tank. A small defect and oversight leading to a catastrophic conclusion. Similarly, on February 1, 2003, the Space Shuttle Columbia, returning from a two-week mission in space, disintegrated over the southwestern United States due to a compromised thermal protection system. Once again, the lives of all seven crew members were lost. And humankind, temporarily at least, was humbled.
As of this writing, another tragic outcome to man’s exploratory quests has just occurred, ironically coming back full circle to a connection with that ill-fated Titanic disaster. On June 18, 2023, a submersible named Titan, carrying five people, commenced an expedition to descend into the oceanic depths and view the wreckage of the Titanic. Although 13 prior dives had been successful, 1 hour and 45 minutes into this one, it suffered a disastrous implosion, sacrificing the lives of all aboard. Once more nature had reminded us, we’re Homo sapiens, not fish nor fowl.
Nevertheless, it should be noted, as headline-grabbing as these technological catastrophes have always been, their statistical significance pales in comparison to the violence and death humankind exacts intentionally upon itself. Both historically and present-day. For instance, according to a 2011 report by the Robert Schuman European Centre, more than 9.7 million military personnel were killed during World War I. And presently the ongoing war in Ukraine has, according to April 2023 estimates, claimed approximately 60,000 combat fatalities. (That’s in little more than one year of engagement.)
So, what are we to make of the ceaseless discontent of this being we call human? With the curiosity of a feline and the fierceness of a shark accompanied by the propensity for continuously “pushing the envelope” of the possible, where exactly does its nature fall on reality’s continuum? Those hands and brain that can paint a Sistine Chapel or sculpt the Pietà, can also construct an atom bomb. Should we simply express awe and gratitude for the cancer-curing miracles effected through a man-made radiation apparatus while ignoring the incoming rocket explosions outside the hospital walls? Or, must we persist in appealing to “A Higher Power” for answers, offering our petitions before a Wailing Wall? If there were one more ingredient to be prayerfully added to humanity’s mix, it would seem to be the thing most lacking on the broader scale of humankind. Wisdom.
[The factual statistics and details of this article were obtained from Wikipedia and Britannica.]
April 1, 2022
How the Novel The Potter's Wheel Came to Be
The year was 1967 when I graduated from the University of Kansas, didn’t pass the military draft physical, ran out of money job-hunting in Denver and “crashed” on an old college chum working in a funeral home near San Francisco. When the owner of the funeral home insisted I wasn’t welcome to freeload there, I hopped a bus to LA and landed in Hollywood, securing a menial job in a low-rent hotel chain. That was the beginning of a summer of exuberant adventure amid the now historically famous “summer of love,” an experience that gifted me the grist for a novel, but also almost cost me my life.
In 1975, following my service with the American Red Cross overseas, I’d returned home to Emporia, Kansas, to assist with the care of my ailing mother, and decided then was the time to commence writing that novel. I titled it The Potter’s Wheel, taken from a shop of the same name I’d frequented on Hollywood Boulevard during that California odyssey after college. I enrolled in literature and writing classes at what is now Emporia State University, was granted a teaching assistantship and began the novel manuscript as an independent study in graduate school. The director of my project was an English professor named Green D. Wyrick, a knowledgeable fellow who had two novels himself in rough draft, but was also an incorrigible alcoholic. Thus, by happenstance, I became acquainted with some colorful members of the local AA group, one being Fr. John Kumli, an amazingly accomplished “priest poet” and master of the sonnet sequence. Over time we formed a writers’ critique group, providing helpful insight during my novel’s revision process as well as life anecdotes for my future literary material.
I had populated my manuscript with many characters drawn from actual persons I’d encountered in Hollywood’s street scene: a true femme fatale, a draft-dodging night wander, a free-living libertine pottery student, a barren “mother earth” figure. All woven into a midwestern youth’s struggles coming of age in an alien world far removed from his rural roots. And some elements of the plot were spun from actual events I’d undergone, such as barely avoiding being shot in the head when viewing a street riot from my hotel window.
Following the completion of the first draft of the novel, which had been done mostly during one college semester, Professor Wyrick and I had decided the voice needed refining and so began a four-year endeavor to virtually translate my main character’s telling into a more stylistic midwestern vernacular as well as flesh out some parts of the narrative. Fortunately I was housesitting for a journalist friend at the time, and therefore could manage living frugally, akin to the starving artist stereotype.
The first forays into marketing the novel brought encouraging responses and almost an acceptance by Bantam. But, as they say, no cigar. And over time the opportunities seem to diminish. I moved to Kansas City and secured a position as a library information specialist and began associating with other writers in the area. The novel then became shifted to a back shelf as I pursued other writing interests. It was when I claimed early retirement from the library and spent one winter “snowbirding” in Boulder City, Nevada, in 1999, that I took up the novel once more and decided to make one further major revision. It had been written from the beginning in the first-person point of view; I decided to convert the entire narrative into third-person limited. And, indeed, that seemed to snap the work into a far more pleasing aesthetic distance. So, upon my return to Kansas City, I began attempting to market the novel once more.
Years passed while I engaged in numerous activities with the writing community, but without any discernable progress in placing The Potter’s Wheel with a publisher. I had already published four other books (a scholarly monograph, a co-authored memoir, a co-op-published fiction/poetry collection and a blog series) when finally, by the grace of the angels, I obtained an agent, Stephanie Hansen of Metamorphosis Literary Agency, who brokered two more books—a novella and a poetry collection—into print. And then another miraculous circumstance came about.
I saw an announcement on LinkedIn about a blog site titled The Writers Journey Blog sponsored by Elaine Marie Carnegie-Padgett. I commented below her post, she and I connected, she accepted an essay about my career for a guest blog post. That, in turn, through her introduction, led to a sprawling new network of writers associated with a site called Sweetycat Press Facebook Group sponsored by the esteemed story writer Steven Carr. He accepted my application for membership there, and my writing began appearing in numerous anthologies and reference works he edited and produced. It soon came to my attention that a number of writers in the group had had books published by a press in the UK named Clarendon House Publications, founded by the writer and educator Grant Hudson. I researched it and queried Mr. Hudson. He invited me to submit information about my novel into the house application form, which was quite thorough and detailed, for a rigorous vetting and appraisal. I did so, and, lo and behold, it passed muster and Grant agreed to read the manuscript and thereafter offered me publication! I was nearly numb with amazement that, after over 40 years of rejections, my beloved tale of sixties Hollywood and the farm youth caught up in its frenetic life stream had found a home! I contacted Stephanie to handle the contract arrangements and it was a done deal. The Potter’s Wheel launched the end of last August.
Now, in conclusion, I’d like to offer an observation for any aspiring writers about the literary scene today, and how it’s changed since the advent of the internet and POD publishing. It would seem we now find a bifurcated world with books and writers and the 4,000 new titles appearing daily. Some lucky few inhabit the rarefied air of The New York Times Book Review, major New York publishing houses, New York agents and publicists and, with their MFAs and some literary award or other, are profiled in Poets & Writers Magazine. Then there are those who have studied the craft, joined critique groups, honed their efforts and persevered to produce comparable work to that found on the “best seller lists,” but never got that lucky break to hit the big time and gain national exposure. It is for them that heroes like Elaine Marie Carnegie-Padgett, Steven Carr and Grant Hudson have stepped forward to permit those struggling aspirants a deserved little taste of publication heaven. And they have more of my admiration and respect than I can put into words!
I am honored and delighted that Grant Hudson has profiled my writing career in Clarendon House Publication’s Inner Circle Writers’ Magazine and featured my photo on the cover as well as details within about The Potter’s Wheel. The links to order the magazine and the book are:
https://www.clarendonhousebooks.com/m...
https://www.clarendonhousebooks.com/m...
Initially appeared on The Writers Journey Blog.
In 1975, following my service with the American Red Cross overseas, I’d returned home to Emporia, Kansas, to assist with the care of my ailing mother, and decided then was the time to commence writing that novel. I titled it The Potter’s Wheel, taken from a shop of the same name I’d frequented on Hollywood Boulevard during that California odyssey after college. I enrolled in literature and writing classes at what is now Emporia State University, was granted a teaching assistantship and began the novel manuscript as an independent study in graduate school. The director of my project was an English professor named Green D. Wyrick, a knowledgeable fellow who had two novels himself in rough draft, but was also an incorrigible alcoholic. Thus, by happenstance, I became acquainted with some colorful members of the local AA group, one being Fr. John Kumli, an amazingly accomplished “priest poet” and master of the sonnet sequence. Over time we formed a writers’ critique group, providing helpful insight during my novel’s revision process as well as life anecdotes for my future literary material.
I had populated my manuscript with many characters drawn from actual persons I’d encountered in Hollywood’s street scene: a true femme fatale, a draft-dodging night wander, a free-living libertine pottery student, a barren “mother earth” figure. All woven into a midwestern youth’s struggles coming of age in an alien world far removed from his rural roots. And some elements of the plot were spun from actual events I’d undergone, such as barely avoiding being shot in the head when viewing a street riot from my hotel window.
Following the completion of the first draft of the novel, which had been done mostly during one college semester, Professor Wyrick and I had decided the voice needed refining and so began a four-year endeavor to virtually translate my main character’s telling into a more stylistic midwestern vernacular as well as flesh out some parts of the narrative. Fortunately I was housesitting for a journalist friend at the time, and therefore could manage living frugally, akin to the starving artist stereotype.
The first forays into marketing the novel brought encouraging responses and almost an acceptance by Bantam. But, as they say, no cigar. And over time the opportunities seem to diminish. I moved to Kansas City and secured a position as a library information specialist and began associating with other writers in the area. The novel then became shifted to a back shelf as I pursued other writing interests. It was when I claimed early retirement from the library and spent one winter “snowbirding” in Boulder City, Nevada, in 1999, that I took up the novel once more and decided to make one further major revision. It had been written from the beginning in the first-person point of view; I decided to convert the entire narrative into third-person limited. And, indeed, that seemed to snap the work into a far more pleasing aesthetic distance. So, upon my return to Kansas City, I began attempting to market the novel once more.
Years passed while I engaged in numerous activities with the writing community, but without any discernable progress in placing The Potter’s Wheel with a publisher. I had already published four other books (a scholarly monograph, a co-authored memoir, a co-op-published fiction/poetry collection and a blog series) when finally, by the grace of the angels, I obtained an agent, Stephanie Hansen of Metamorphosis Literary Agency, who brokered two more books—a novella and a poetry collection—into print. And then another miraculous circumstance came about.
I saw an announcement on LinkedIn about a blog site titled The Writers Journey Blog sponsored by Elaine Marie Carnegie-Padgett. I commented below her post, she and I connected, she accepted an essay about my career for a guest blog post. That, in turn, through her introduction, led to a sprawling new network of writers associated with a site called Sweetycat Press Facebook Group sponsored by the esteemed story writer Steven Carr. He accepted my application for membership there, and my writing began appearing in numerous anthologies and reference works he edited and produced. It soon came to my attention that a number of writers in the group had had books published by a press in the UK named Clarendon House Publications, founded by the writer and educator Grant Hudson. I researched it and queried Mr. Hudson. He invited me to submit information about my novel into the house application form, which was quite thorough and detailed, for a rigorous vetting and appraisal. I did so, and, lo and behold, it passed muster and Grant agreed to read the manuscript and thereafter offered me publication! I was nearly numb with amazement that, after over 40 years of rejections, my beloved tale of sixties Hollywood and the farm youth caught up in its frenetic life stream had found a home! I contacted Stephanie to handle the contract arrangements and it was a done deal. The Potter’s Wheel launched the end of last August.
Now, in conclusion, I’d like to offer an observation for any aspiring writers about the literary scene today, and how it’s changed since the advent of the internet and POD publishing. It would seem we now find a bifurcated world with books and writers and the 4,000 new titles appearing daily. Some lucky few inhabit the rarefied air of The New York Times Book Review, major New York publishing houses, New York agents and publicists and, with their MFAs and some literary award or other, are profiled in Poets & Writers Magazine. Then there are those who have studied the craft, joined critique groups, honed their efforts and persevered to produce comparable work to that found on the “best seller lists,” but never got that lucky break to hit the big time and gain national exposure. It is for them that heroes like Elaine Marie Carnegie-Padgett, Steven Carr and Grant Hudson have stepped forward to permit those struggling aspirants a deserved little taste of publication heaven. And they have more of my admiration and respect than I can put into words!
I am honored and delighted that Grant Hudson has profiled my writing career in Clarendon House Publication’s Inner Circle Writers’ Magazine and featured my photo on the cover as well as details within about The Potter’s Wheel. The links to order the magazine and the book are:
https://www.clarendonhousebooks.com/m...
https://www.clarendonhousebooks.com/m...
Initially appeared on The Writers Journey Blog.
March 9, 2022
The Musket by the Chimney: The Bond of Family Heritage
Both branches of my family tree display a hefty German extraction—the Scheels on my father’s side and the Hundertmarks on my mother’s. With having just a little Scotch-Irish mixed in for good measure, I grew up proudly embracing my Teutonic heritage. Germans were respected for their industrious work ethic, and that certainly described my extended family. The Scheels were farmers and the Hundertmarks general store proprietors. And they were also known for their loyal patriotism toward their adopted country. The two-family lines had immigrated to the United States seeking fresh opportunities, unfortunately only to be swept up into the American Civil War. Both my great grandfathers served as infantrymen fighting on the side of the Union Army. They each survived severe wounds in battle, completing their service at the end of the war with honor.
I was born in the midst of World War II, and as a young boy I was regaled by the war stories told by veterans hired to work on my father’s farm. The husband of one of my mother’s college-era friends had been a chaplain in the European Theater and gave me a souvenir German ammunition belt and Wehrmacht ski-troop mittens. So, soldiers and war naturally became subjects of immense fascination for me.
The Hundertmarks were a prominent family in the small town of Lincoln, Kansas, and in my youth, we frequently traveled from our farm near Emporia to go visit there. The early-twentieth-century house my grandfather George Hundertmark had built consisted of four bedrooms upstairs and a full basement and a huge attic that intrigued me to no end. My mother had been a history teacher before marrying my father, and loads of her books from that time were shelved in that attic. I loved browsing over some of the tomes that contained photos from World War I. And poking around among the old clothing on hangers, digging through the steamer trunks, puzzling over odd pieces of furniture. A sword bayonet of mysterious origin hung from one rafter. Various men’s hats gathered dust on a hat rack. And that’s where I first encountered, of all things, a Ouija board. But the greatest find came a little later, in the middle of my adolescence.
Grandfather Hundertmark had passed away, and my mother and I were visiting my grandmother one following summer. I’d slipped off after breakfast once again to rummage around in the attic. I remember how I’d knelt down to slide a box out of the way beside the brick chimney to explore what was behind it. The dim light seeping into the shadows fell on what appeared to be the butt of a rifle. What in the world is this, I wondered! I moved the boxes further, and sure enough, there rested a rifle propped against the bricks. I lifted it from the cobwebs and carried it to the attic window to see more clearly. Lo and behold, I recognized it as a military muzzleloader with the leather sling still intact. And in the wooden stock were carved the initials HH—obviously for “Henry Hundertmark,” my great grandfather! I identified it right away from his portrait hanging on the living room wall showing him dressed in his uniform with that musket at his side. I’d happened onto a long-forgotten, but priceless, family treasure!
Well, my grandmother without hesitation gifted it to me, and I returned home from that trip absolutely in seventh heaven. And my obliging mother allowed me to mount it above the china cabinet in our dining room. I’d become quite familiar over the years with the legendary stories about my great grandfather’s war exploits, but now I had the prized artifact to accompany them. And to entertain curious guests in our home.
“He was wounded at the battle of Vicksburg,” I would explain. “He’d fired at the enemy and was behind a tree reloading when a Johnny Reb spotted his head leaning forward and fired a musket ball into the top of his skull. He came to later and was unsure whether he was now in rebel territory or still on Union ground. He crawled into the bushes, nearly blinded by blood trickling into his eyes, and hid until he was discovered by Union forces and taken to a field hospital.”
My grandmother had more than once related how, in his latter days, it amused him to invite visitors to lay a finger into the groove across the top of his head. He always displayed a mischievous sense of humor and was, indeed, she attested, quite the raconteur.
“He loved to recount,” I’d tell the listeners, “how once when visiting relatives back in Indiana, he joined a group of old veterans sitting in the shade on the courthouse lawn reliving their battlefield experiences. He took his turn contributing one of his favorite stories about how he’d fired his last shot and run out of powder and before he could acquire another supply, he heard voices coming from the nearby brush. He cocked the musket and shouted if there were rebs hiding, to come out with hands up! Two young Confederate troops then emerged and sheepishly surrendered. Henry laughed how he’d taken them prisoner bluffing with an empty weapon. One of the men in the circle abruptly declared, ‘By heaven, Henry, that was me you took prisoner! If we’d known your musket was spent, we’d have taken you prisoner!’” Apocryphal? Perhaps. But it did make a fine tale.
He was mustered out after the war and acquired farmland under the Homestead Act of 1862 near Lincoln and introduced the Hundertmark family lineage there. His son George later established the Hundertmark general store on main street.
Then there was the anecdote told by grandfather George how he and his brothers, just for a lark, went hunting once with Henry’s musket. They flushed two pheasants from the weeds and the birds in flight circled around crossing past one another and the brother with the musket fired and got them both with the same shot.
Nevertheless, with time’s passage, the distractions of adulthood and the passing from the scene of the Hundertmark clan, I eventually felt it best that I donate Henry’s musket to the Lincoln County Kansas Historical Museum. It resides there now along with his military portrait. And along with his grave in the local cemetery with the stone marker depicting a Civil War soldier bearing a flag with the inscription below reading:
Stranger pause as you pass by.
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you will be.
Prepare for death, and follow me.
Some years ago, when vacationing through the South with friends, I visited the battlefield at Vicksburg. It was nearly dusk when we arrived, and there hovered a silent, palpable pall across the landscape, as if many souls still lingered there lamenting their demise. I thought of my great grandfather and his wounding, and although I’d never known him in the flesh, I could almost sense his presence beside me. “Well,” I whispered, “Henry Hundertmark, you old soldier. Thank you for your service. And thank you, kind sir, for having given me the foundation for a life.”
Initially published on Spillwords.com, 02/28/2022
I was born in the midst of World War II, and as a young boy I was regaled by the war stories told by veterans hired to work on my father’s farm. The husband of one of my mother’s college-era friends had been a chaplain in the European Theater and gave me a souvenir German ammunition belt and Wehrmacht ski-troop mittens. So, soldiers and war naturally became subjects of immense fascination for me.
The Hundertmarks were a prominent family in the small town of Lincoln, Kansas, and in my youth, we frequently traveled from our farm near Emporia to go visit there. The early-twentieth-century house my grandfather George Hundertmark had built consisted of four bedrooms upstairs and a full basement and a huge attic that intrigued me to no end. My mother had been a history teacher before marrying my father, and loads of her books from that time were shelved in that attic. I loved browsing over some of the tomes that contained photos from World War I. And poking around among the old clothing on hangers, digging through the steamer trunks, puzzling over odd pieces of furniture. A sword bayonet of mysterious origin hung from one rafter. Various men’s hats gathered dust on a hat rack. And that’s where I first encountered, of all things, a Ouija board. But the greatest find came a little later, in the middle of my adolescence.
Grandfather Hundertmark had passed away, and my mother and I were visiting my grandmother one following summer. I’d slipped off after breakfast once again to rummage around in the attic. I remember how I’d knelt down to slide a box out of the way beside the brick chimney to explore what was behind it. The dim light seeping into the shadows fell on what appeared to be the butt of a rifle. What in the world is this, I wondered! I moved the boxes further, and sure enough, there rested a rifle propped against the bricks. I lifted it from the cobwebs and carried it to the attic window to see more clearly. Lo and behold, I recognized it as a military muzzleloader with the leather sling still intact. And in the wooden stock were carved the initials HH—obviously for “Henry Hundertmark,” my great grandfather! I identified it right away from his portrait hanging on the living room wall showing him dressed in his uniform with that musket at his side. I’d happened onto a long-forgotten, but priceless, family treasure!
Well, my grandmother without hesitation gifted it to me, and I returned home from that trip absolutely in seventh heaven. And my obliging mother allowed me to mount it above the china cabinet in our dining room. I’d become quite familiar over the years with the legendary stories about my great grandfather’s war exploits, but now I had the prized artifact to accompany them. And to entertain curious guests in our home.
“He was wounded at the battle of Vicksburg,” I would explain. “He’d fired at the enemy and was behind a tree reloading when a Johnny Reb spotted his head leaning forward and fired a musket ball into the top of his skull. He came to later and was unsure whether he was now in rebel territory or still on Union ground. He crawled into the bushes, nearly blinded by blood trickling into his eyes, and hid until he was discovered by Union forces and taken to a field hospital.”
My grandmother had more than once related how, in his latter days, it amused him to invite visitors to lay a finger into the groove across the top of his head. He always displayed a mischievous sense of humor and was, indeed, she attested, quite the raconteur.
“He loved to recount,” I’d tell the listeners, “how once when visiting relatives back in Indiana, he joined a group of old veterans sitting in the shade on the courthouse lawn reliving their battlefield experiences. He took his turn contributing one of his favorite stories about how he’d fired his last shot and run out of powder and before he could acquire another supply, he heard voices coming from the nearby brush. He cocked the musket and shouted if there were rebs hiding, to come out with hands up! Two young Confederate troops then emerged and sheepishly surrendered. Henry laughed how he’d taken them prisoner bluffing with an empty weapon. One of the men in the circle abruptly declared, ‘By heaven, Henry, that was me you took prisoner! If we’d known your musket was spent, we’d have taken you prisoner!’” Apocryphal? Perhaps. But it did make a fine tale.
He was mustered out after the war and acquired farmland under the Homestead Act of 1862 near Lincoln and introduced the Hundertmark family lineage there. His son George later established the Hundertmark general store on main street.
Then there was the anecdote told by grandfather George how he and his brothers, just for a lark, went hunting once with Henry’s musket. They flushed two pheasants from the weeds and the birds in flight circled around crossing past one another and the brother with the musket fired and got them both with the same shot.
Nevertheless, with time’s passage, the distractions of adulthood and the passing from the scene of the Hundertmark clan, I eventually felt it best that I donate Henry’s musket to the Lincoln County Kansas Historical Museum. It resides there now along with his military portrait. And along with his grave in the local cemetery with the stone marker depicting a Civil War soldier bearing a flag with the inscription below reading:
Stranger pause as you pass by.
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you will be.
Prepare for death, and follow me.
Some years ago, when vacationing through the South with friends, I visited the battlefield at Vicksburg. It was nearly dusk when we arrived, and there hovered a silent, palpable pall across the landscape, as if many souls still lingered there lamenting their demise. I thought of my great grandfather and his wounding, and although I’d never known him in the flesh, I could almost sense his presence beside me. “Well,” I whispered, “Henry Hundertmark, you old soldier. Thank you for your service. And thank you, kind sir, for having given me the foundation for a life.”
Initially published on Spillwords.com, 02/28/2022
March 23, 2021
Why We Came and What We Do
The lockdowns and social distancing over the past many months, compliments of the COVID-19 pandemic and government edict, have provided humankind with ample opportunities for self-reflection and periods of “what’s-it-all-about-Alfie” ruminations. Kind of like, why are we here and what’s the point of it all when a microscopic “bug” can bring all purposive activity to a standstill? It certainly sent me to the book shelves and my computer, dusting off old copies of my college philosophy textbooks and surfing the internet for theological postings. And that led to some far-ranging speculation.
I revisited David Hume’s 1779 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion in which his speaker Demea asserts to his fellow debaters Philo and Cleanthes:
To which Philo responds:
Well, if that was the 18th century view, it would seem to me, judging by the context of the present times, things have only gotten worse! The 19th and 20th centuries were one long series of ghastly, merciless warfare. And the 21st has begun with the vast suffering on a global scale appearing only to escalate. So where might one turn for some counter assessment, or at least a rational explanation offered in a more positive light?
I remembered C. S. Lewis aspired to make the case for a just and loving God’s existence in spite of His earthly creation’s prevalence of misery in the book The Problem of Pain, so I retrieved the slim volume and began thumbing the pages. For Lewis, God’s attributes of omniscience, omnibenevolence and omnipotence pose no contradiction with the suffering experienced by humanity. One might say he sees pain as God’s “guardrails” to shepherd us in maintaining the straight path of God’s way. One of the best known quotes from the work declares, “We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” Furthermore, Lewis sees pain as one of the means of refining our human character. And that reminded me of Mother Teresa and Catholic doctrine—that suffering purifies and brings wisdom to the soul of the sufferer.
Well, casting the inquiry more deeply into that spiritual and religious framework, the books Life after Life by Raymond Moody and Journey of Souls: Case Studies of Life Between Lives by Michael Newton came to mind. Moody convincingly establishes that the soul survives the demise of the body; however, Newton goes much further. He describes a realm where the disembodied soul exists between lives (yes, he makes reincarnation sound plausible) and actually participates in selecting the next physical life to be experienced, that selection process depending upon what further wisdom and enlightenment that particular soul is seeking so as to advance spiritually. The soul, then, is actually responsible itself, in conjunction with “Divine guidance,” for choosing the difficulties to be faced in the next life. And that takes us to the “bottom line,” of sorts.
If “the other side” is an ambience of peace, harmony and clusters of souls lovingly interacting and studying together, such as Newton depicts, then why should one expect the physical world to be the same? What would be the point of incarnating here to gain knowledge? As a guru once opined when a friend of mine asked whether hell existed, “Just where do you think you are now?” Indeed, what aspect of life doesn’t involve some form of challenge, conflict or competition? A writer of fiction learns early on that regardless of masterful descriptions and colorful characters, the core component of the craft is conflict. If there is no conflict, there is no story. Yes, art imitates life. And, admittedly, it is through struggle, mistakes and competition that we learn.
Looking about, we witness existence pretty much, if not more so, as Hume described it—life feeding upon life, constant ongoing struggles and competition from sport and commerce to war among nations. The battle of the sexes. The political grasping for power. And in literature it’s been observed that basically three categories of conflict exist: man against nature, man against man, man against himself. Yes, it all revolves around conflict.
So, it would seem to make more sense to embrace our conflicts and battle them through, gleaning whatever lessons we may take away, knowing in the end we’ll depart, as it is often phrased, “to a far better place.” The universe appears designed on a foundation of oppositions, not on universal brotherly collaboration. Apparently that’s left to “heaven.” Perhaps a philosophy such as Buddhism with an emphasis on the avoidance of suffering may actually have it all backwards. The practitioners just might be missing the whole rationale for their coming here. And the souls of those adherents may risk facing quite a series of “do-overs”! At least, since pain is one mandatory part to the picture, that might be one comforting way to think of it.
I revisited David Hume’s 1779 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion in which his speaker Demea asserts to his fellow debaters Philo and Cleanthes:
The whole Earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and polluted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures. Necessity, hunger, want stimulate the strong and courageous; fear, anxiety, terror agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent; weakness, impotence, distress attend each stage of that life, and it is, at last, finished in agony and horror.
To which Philo responds:
This very society by which we surmount … wild beasts , our natural enemies, what new enemies does it not raise to us? What woe and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, war, calumny, treachery, fraud—by these they mutually torment each other, and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed were it not for the dread of still greater ills which must attend their separation.
Well, if that was the 18th century view, it would seem to me, judging by the context of the present times, things have only gotten worse! The 19th and 20th centuries were one long series of ghastly, merciless warfare. And the 21st has begun with the vast suffering on a global scale appearing only to escalate. So where might one turn for some counter assessment, or at least a rational explanation offered in a more positive light?
I remembered C. S. Lewis aspired to make the case for a just and loving God’s existence in spite of His earthly creation’s prevalence of misery in the book The Problem of Pain, so I retrieved the slim volume and began thumbing the pages. For Lewis, God’s attributes of omniscience, omnibenevolence and omnipotence pose no contradiction with the suffering experienced by humanity. One might say he sees pain as God’s “guardrails” to shepherd us in maintaining the straight path of God’s way. One of the best known quotes from the work declares, “We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” Furthermore, Lewis sees pain as one of the means of refining our human character. And that reminded me of Mother Teresa and Catholic doctrine—that suffering purifies and brings wisdom to the soul of the sufferer.
Well, casting the inquiry more deeply into that spiritual and religious framework, the books Life after Life by Raymond Moody and Journey of Souls: Case Studies of Life Between Lives by Michael Newton came to mind. Moody convincingly establishes that the soul survives the demise of the body; however, Newton goes much further. He describes a realm where the disembodied soul exists between lives (yes, he makes reincarnation sound plausible) and actually participates in selecting the next physical life to be experienced, that selection process depending upon what further wisdom and enlightenment that particular soul is seeking so as to advance spiritually. The soul, then, is actually responsible itself, in conjunction with “Divine guidance,” for choosing the difficulties to be faced in the next life. And that takes us to the “bottom line,” of sorts.
If “the other side” is an ambience of peace, harmony and clusters of souls lovingly interacting and studying together, such as Newton depicts, then why should one expect the physical world to be the same? What would be the point of incarnating here to gain knowledge? As a guru once opined when a friend of mine asked whether hell existed, “Just where do you think you are now?” Indeed, what aspect of life doesn’t involve some form of challenge, conflict or competition? A writer of fiction learns early on that regardless of masterful descriptions and colorful characters, the core component of the craft is conflict. If there is no conflict, there is no story. Yes, art imitates life. And, admittedly, it is through struggle, mistakes and competition that we learn.
Looking about, we witness existence pretty much, if not more so, as Hume described it—life feeding upon life, constant ongoing struggles and competition from sport and commerce to war among nations. The battle of the sexes. The political grasping for power. And in literature it’s been observed that basically three categories of conflict exist: man against nature, man against man, man against himself. Yes, it all revolves around conflict.
So, it would seem to make more sense to embrace our conflicts and battle them through, gleaning whatever lessons we may take away, knowing in the end we’ll depart, as it is often phrased, “to a far better place.” The universe appears designed on a foundation of oppositions, not on universal brotherly collaboration. Apparently that’s left to “heaven.” Perhaps a philosophy such as Buddhism with an emphasis on the avoidance of suffering may actually have it all backwards. The practitioners just might be missing the whole rationale for their coming here. And the souls of those adherents may risk facing quite a series of “do-overs”! At least, since pain is one mandatory part to the picture, that might be one comforting way to think of it.
December 29, 2020
The King of Lost Causes
On a gray, chilly November morning, I attended the graveside funeral for my friend Don Follmer—91 years of age at his passing—and delivered a short eulogy and poetry recitation. The service included a flag-folding ceremony with troops attired in their dress blues. Seeing the rows and rows of white grave markers spread over the green hills of the Leavenworth National Cemetery tugged at my heart, and I couldn’t help but contemplate sadly the blood sacrifice of so many in evidence there.
I served in the Red Cross in Vietnam; however, that having been in a civilian capacity, I’ll merit no folded flag nor interment with the troops I was sent to aid. I’ll simply be put to rest in the cemetery in my hometown of Emporia beside the graves of my parents, Dale and Ethyle, and baby sister, Marianna Leigh. Amid the soil and grass of my earliest earthly beginnings.
Driving home and assailed with these somber thoughts, I was nudged into considering what headstone should I myself choose? What epitaph might best encapsulate my time spent on this material plane? Well, I did come up with one serious possibility, but I’ll not reveal it here. However, another candidate crossed my mind that, while being most appropriate, could be considered a tad too self-deprecating and tongue-in-cheek for eternity. And that inscription would be: “The King of Lost Causes.” One might even contend that, looking back over my life’s path, I would seem to have had a knack for backing the “noble losers.”
The first such instance might be seen as my aforementioned deployment to Vietnam. At the time, I accepted the premise that we were battling a communist threat and even voted for Barry Goldwater. Not having passed the draft physical for military service, I volunteered as a Red Cross worker to help support troop morale and assist in some small way toward securing victory. Of course, we know how that eventually turned out, both for Goldwater and America.
Having saved a little nest egg while overseas, I began trying, over the ensuing years, to multiply my net worth with private placement investments: a supper club in Germany, a mobile auto service in Texas, a new security firm in California, and a shopper-paper company in Georgia. Each involved, for differing reasons, a certain “altruistic” appeal to me. However, all would go belly-up, my stake along with them. Even a couple of trading software programs I purchased to recoup my losses went belly-up also. Investing simply wasn’t my forte.
Following early retirement from my library employment, I was persuaded to join the FairTax movement and assist with their promotional materials. The advantages of replacing the income tax system with a simple national sales tax were numerous and logically convincing; however, not so to the Washington establishment and political elites who game the present system to their advantage. We FairTaxers marched in parades, protested on April tax-filing day, held informational seminars for the public and lobbied politicians. Nevertheless, over time our best efforts diminished to insignificance.
At about that same period, the controversy over education and evolutionary theory erupted in Kansas. In preparing an article for The Kansas City Star paper, I studied the issue on both sides and was drawn into the intelligent design movement. It became abundantly clear to me that the ID group had the far better argument. I attended their conferences, met most of the prominent leaders and authors, and read their books. I had high hopes the American education system was on the road to a great renewal. But, entrenched academe dug in its heels and that was not to be. The folly of Darwinism (some would term it the “atheist’s creation myth”) still rules the day and dominates the minds of our students.
The familiarity with ID theory, however, led me to another association of great promise and compassionate human progress—the followers of the spiritual guru Fethullan Gũlen ( the Turkish version of Mahatma Gandhi) and their Institute of Interfaith Dialog. Intelligent design is a given in Turkish society, and thereby I made many Turkish friends, toured Turkey to write a travelogue and delivered a paper at a Muslim conference in Rotterdam. Their dedication to interfaith understanding, education, improved healthcare and community solidarity stood beyond inspiring. However, with the coming of the Erdoğan regime and an attempted coup, the movement was crushed and is now only a shadow of its former influence.
Perhaps the greatest disillusionment of all pertains directly to the political realm. Some years ago while wintering in Nevada, I made the internet acquaintance, through a mutual friend, of the libertarian luminary Richard Boddie. He generously schooled me on the fundamentals of libertarianism and why it should be the natural choice for the peoples of a nation founded on the constitutional principles unique to America. Human freedom and individual dignity. It wasn’t my first encounter with that vision, but Richard was most persuasive. I came to embrace that wisdom and even once voted for Ron Paul for president. Nevertheless, with the arrival of the 2020 political campaigns and election, it’s now beyond dispute that a majority of the electorate has been seduced by the siren song of socialism and even Marxism, the utter antithesis of liberty—ironically the very thing over 58,000 American soldiers gave their lives fighting against in Vietnam. So, we’ve come full circle. And lost.
Nevertheless, on the personal side and philosophically speaking, I’d say on balance I’ve had a pretty good life. I was lucky in family, lucky in love and lucky in friendships. I traveled a good part of the world and pursued four fulfilling professions: social work, teaching, librarianship and writing. And on numerous occasions, more than my share, I’ve cheated death. So, really, what’s there for me to complain about? With shoulders thrown back and a smile on my face, I’ll proudly accept the title for all time: “The King of Lost Causes.”
I served in the Red Cross in Vietnam; however, that having been in a civilian capacity, I’ll merit no folded flag nor interment with the troops I was sent to aid. I’ll simply be put to rest in the cemetery in my hometown of Emporia beside the graves of my parents, Dale and Ethyle, and baby sister, Marianna Leigh. Amid the soil and grass of my earliest earthly beginnings.
Driving home and assailed with these somber thoughts, I was nudged into considering what headstone should I myself choose? What epitaph might best encapsulate my time spent on this material plane? Well, I did come up with one serious possibility, but I’ll not reveal it here. However, another candidate crossed my mind that, while being most appropriate, could be considered a tad too self-deprecating and tongue-in-cheek for eternity. And that inscription would be: “The King of Lost Causes.” One might even contend that, looking back over my life’s path, I would seem to have had a knack for backing the “noble losers.”
The first such instance might be seen as my aforementioned deployment to Vietnam. At the time, I accepted the premise that we were battling a communist threat and even voted for Barry Goldwater. Not having passed the draft physical for military service, I volunteered as a Red Cross worker to help support troop morale and assist in some small way toward securing victory. Of course, we know how that eventually turned out, both for Goldwater and America.
Having saved a little nest egg while overseas, I began trying, over the ensuing years, to multiply my net worth with private placement investments: a supper club in Germany, a mobile auto service in Texas, a new security firm in California, and a shopper-paper company in Georgia. Each involved, for differing reasons, a certain “altruistic” appeal to me. However, all would go belly-up, my stake along with them. Even a couple of trading software programs I purchased to recoup my losses went belly-up also. Investing simply wasn’t my forte.
Following early retirement from my library employment, I was persuaded to join the FairTax movement and assist with their promotional materials. The advantages of replacing the income tax system with a simple national sales tax were numerous and logically convincing; however, not so to the Washington establishment and political elites who game the present system to their advantage. We FairTaxers marched in parades, protested on April tax-filing day, held informational seminars for the public and lobbied politicians. Nevertheless, over time our best efforts diminished to insignificance.
At about that same period, the controversy over education and evolutionary theory erupted in Kansas. In preparing an article for The Kansas City Star paper, I studied the issue on both sides and was drawn into the intelligent design movement. It became abundantly clear to me that the ID group had the far better argument. I attended their conferences, met most of the prominent leaders and authors, and read their books. I had high hopes the American education system was on the road to a great renewal. But, entrenched academe dug in its heels and that was not to be. The folly of Darwinism (some would term it the “atheist’s creation myth”) still rules the day and dominates the minds of our students.
The familiarity with ID theory, however, led me to another association of great promise and compassionate human progress—the followers of the spiritual guru Fethullan Gũlen ( the Turkish version of Mahatma Gandhi) and their Institute of Interfaith Dialog. Intelligent design is a given in Turkish society, and thereby I made many Turkish friends, toured Turkey to write a travelogue and delivered a paper at a Muslim conference in Rotterdam. Their dedication to interfaith understanding, education, improved healthcare and community solidarity stood beyond inspiring. However, with the coming of the Erdoğan regime and an attempted coup, the movement was crushed and is now only a shadow of its former influence.
Perhaps the greatest disillusionment of all pertains directly to the political realm. Some years ago while wintering in Nevada, I made the internet acquaintance, through a mutual friend, of the libertarian luminary Richard Boddie. He generously schooled me on the fundamentals of libertarianism and why it should be the natural choice for the peoples of a nation founded on the constitutional principles unique to America. Human freedom and individual dignity. It wasn’t my first encounter with that vision, but Richard was most persuasive. I came to embrace that wisdom and even once voted for Ron Paul for president. Nevertheless, with the arrival of the 2020 political campaigns and election, it’s now beyond dispute that a majority of the electorate has been seduced by the siren song of socialism and even Marxism, the utter antithesis of liberty—ironically the very thing over 58,000 American soldiers gave their lives fighting against in Vietnam. So, we’ve come full circle. And lost.
Nevertheless, on the personal side and philosophically speaking, I’d say on balance I’ve had a pretty good life. I was lucky in family, lucky in love and lucky in friendships. I traveled a good part of the world and pursued four fulfilling professions: social work, teaching, librarianship and writing. And on numerous occasions, more than my share, I’ve cheated death. So, really, what’s there for me to complain about? With shoulders thrown back and a smile on my face, I’ll proudly accept the title for all time: “The King of Lost Causes.”
October 27, 2020
A Black Mother, Her Babies and America
Originally posted on the Scriggler site 12/07/2016. Although the Wendy's breakfast bunch is no more, and the interviewee no longer works there, I thought the topic in today's racially charged climate deserves reposting. I would hope more would be moved to adopt this young woman's mature attitude.
As most of my readers know by now, my favorite haunt for a frugal breakfast and stimulating conversation is the local Wendy’s restaurant. Walk in most days and you’ll be greeted at the counter by a captivating black female with meticulously braided hair piled high above her Wendy’s visor, a velvety-soft and flawless complexion and a warm wide smile to die for. That would be shapely 25-year-old Athena, mother of two baby girls—”Thickness” and “Itty Bitty”—born little more than a year-and-a-half apart, the youngest now just over three months old.
Curious about my blogging, which occasionally has featured some older Wendy’s regulars and their idiosyncratic take on life and culture, Athena flattered me by buying a copy of my new book, The Pebble: Life, Love, Politics and Geezer Wisdom, a compilation of three years of blog posts. Well, that constituted a bonding of sorts, and so, following the tumultuous past year of political and social upheaval, I asked Athena if she’d like to be featured in a post detailing her perspective as an African-American mother on what world her girls will inherit. And she agreed.
At a mutually convenient time, we met at Wendy’s for a sit-down discussion and real get-acquainted conversation—a kind of “busman’s holiday” for her. The topics ranged over attitudes, insights and biographical details, many of which proved for me not only surprising but also unique. I never would have guessed, for example, Athena has been a champion boxer! Or that a prized dream of hers is to relocate to New Orleans someday.
Athena was born in Kansas City, Missouri, but moved with her mother and sister (three years younger) just after the tragedy of 9/11 to join her mother’s new husband in Chicago. That city required some adjusting to, she explained, bigger and frenetically more bustling, unbelievably colder in winter. It was there, following an altercation at school, she was “therapeutically” (and ironically) enrolled in a pugilistic activity program for “at-risk” youth. Although not actually fitting the category of a “troubled youth,” she adjusted to the circumstance and developed a love for the sport and continued on with it, attaining a high level of proficiency. Following the breakup of her mother’s marriage, she returned to the Kansas City area with her stepfather and his girlfriend, found a love interest of her own (a handsome Creole from New Orleans) and began bringing a new generation into the world.
I began the questioning segment of our talk by noting that none of the Wendy’s employees at our location had joined the fifteen-dollar-an-hour wage protest and rallies. What did she think of that? We have families to support and don’t have time for that, she said, but she did feel they needed and deserved a raise. We work hard for our money, she declared, but, nevertheless, fifteen dollars is asking too much. She explained she makes $8.50 per hour, and perhaps a raise of $1.50, making a wage of ten dollars, would be fair. Interesting. (She’d obviously studied economics along the way.)
Next, I put the hard question on the table—looking ahead, what did she think would be the greatest obstacle her girls will face growing toward maturity? Her response was firm and with an air of passion. “Racism,” she declared. She went on, however, to expand that answer in a way I didn’t anticipate. People want to put down people not like them, she said, and I don’t just mean whites toward blacks. I mean black against brown. Brown against Asian. Blacks toward whites. Everybody judging people they don’t know. But people are all just people, trying to live their lives. And she uttered a simple but most profound observation: “People need to stop being dumb.” Then she nailed it down with a real clincher: “Love knows no race.”
Athena went on to elaborate more fully on her background. My mother, she said, was okay financially. We always lived in a white, or at least mixed, neighborhood. I’m so thankful for that, although some blacks put me down saying I don’t really belong. Huh, belong to what? All the time, she continued, I get messages from old Chicago acquaintances on Facebook telling of friends and relatives being shot and killed. It’s heartbreaking. I’m so glad to be gone from there.
I then asked her what is the most important thing she’d wish her children to have. Again, her answer surprised me a little. I want my children to have a happy home life like we had, she replied. My sister and I were well provided for. Holidays were beautiful. Actually, we were spoiled. I want my children to feel happy and secure.
When I asked about her preference for schooling, she unequivocally declared a preference for choice and/or private systems. They just need to make it affordable, she said. Today public school districts are getting “lazy” in how they deal with students, she further opined. They were more personally involved with individual students during my school days. She added that she’d attended Johnson County Community College for two years before starting her family, having contemplated eventually majoring in early childhood education. So that was an area of special interest to her.
What about church, I queried, does your family attend one? She frowned. No, we don’t. Not now. When we were with my mother, we did. In providing a good moral grounding for the girls, I suggested, might that not be helpful? Yes, she agreed, nodding. I’ll have to give that some thought.
Finally, I brought up that other big sobering question: “What do you see as the greatest threat to your girls?” She had a ready answer: “I don’t want them to get pregnant young. I want them to reach adulthood as young women with options. I want them to have the opportunity for a full, happy life.”
We didn’t broach the topic of politics—that’s a worn-out subject at present from which we all need a respite. And seeing the values Athena embraces, it also seemed irrelevant. But I concluded by expressing my gratitude to her as well as the other Wendy’s servers who humor our little group of retiree regulars with such consideration, indulgence and respect. That’s why this restaurant has become so special to so many.
We parted with a hug. And walking away, I kept hearing in my ears her two words “dumb” and “love.” A long time ago a man we came to know as Jesus Christ issued the same advice about “love.” More recently a luminary named John Lennon said the same thing. And now a black mother serving me burgers over a fast-food counter offers the identical wisdom. Well, to my mind the only question remaining now is, why is the rest of humanity so slow catching on? Hmmmm. Just dumb!
As most of my readers know by now, my favorite haunt for a frugal breakfast and stimulating conversation is the local Wendy’s restaurant. Walk in most days and you’ll be greeted at the counter by a captivating black female with meticulously braided hair piled high above her Wendy’s visor, a velvety-soft and flawless complexion and a warm wide smile to die for. That would be shapely 25-year-old Athena, mother of two baby girls—”Thickness” and “Itty Bitty”—born little more than a year-and-a-half apart, the youngest now just over three months old.
Curious about my blogging, which occasionally has featured some older Wendy’s regulars and their idiosyncratic take on life and culture, Athena flattered me by buying a copy of my new book, The Pebble: Life, Love, Politics and Geezer Wisdom, a compilation of three years of blog posts. Well, that constituted a bonding of sorts, and so, following the tumultuous past year of political and social upheaval, I asked Athena if she’d like to be featured in a post detailing her perspective as an African-American mother on what world her girls will inherit. And she agreed.
At a mutually convenient time, we met at Wendy’s for a sit-down discussion and real get-acquainted conversation—a kind of “busman’s holiday” for her. The topics ranged over attitudes, insights and biographical details, many of which proved for me not only surprising but also unique. I never would have guessed, for example, Athena has been a champion boxer! Or that a prized dream of hers is to relocate to New Orleans someday.
Athena was born in Kansas City, Missouri, but moved with her mother and sister (three years younger) just after the tragedy of 9/11 to join her mother’s new husband in Chicago. That city required some adjusting to, she explained, bigger and frenetically more bustling, unbelievably colder in winter. It was there, following an altercation at school, she was “therapeutically” (and ironically) enrolled in a pugilistic activity program for “at-risk” youth. Although not actually fitting the category of a “troubled youth,” she adjusted to the circumstance and developed a love for the sport and continued on with it, attaining a high level of proficiency. Following the breakup of her mother’s marriage, she returned to the Kansas City area with her stepfather and his girlfriend, found a love interest of her own (a handsome Creole from New Orleans) and began bringing a new generation into the world.
I began the questioning segment of our talk by noting that none of the Wendy’s employees at our location had joined the fifteen-dollar-an-hour wage protest and rallies. What did she think of that? We have families to support and don’t have time for that, she said, but she did feel they needed and deserved a raise. We work hard for our money, she declared, but, nevertheless, fifteen dollars is asking too much. She explained she makes $8.50 per hour, and perhaps a raise of $1.50, making a wage of ten dollars, would be fair. Interesting. (She’d obviously studied economics along the way.)
Next, I put the hard question on the table—looking ahead, what did she think would be the greatest obstacle her girls will face growing toward maturity? Her response was firm and with an air of passion. “Racism,” she declared. She went on, however, to expand that answer in a way I didn’t anticipate. People want to put down people not like them, she said, and I don’t just mean whites toward blacks. I mean black against brown. Brown against Asian. Blacks toward whites. Everybody judging people they don’t know. But people are all just people, trying to live their lives. And she uttered a simple but most profound observation: “People need to stop being dumb.” Then she nailed it down with a real clincher: “Love knows no race.”
Athena went on to elaborate more fully on her background. My mother, she said, was okay financially. We always lived in a white, or at least mixed, neighborhood. I’m so thankful for that, although some blacks put me down saying I don’t really belong. Huh, belong to what? All the time, she continued, I get messages from old Chicago acquaintances on Facebook telling of friends and relatives being shot and killed. It’s heartbreaking. I’m so glad to be gone from there.
I then asked her what is the most important thing she’d wish her children to have. Again, her answer surprised me a little. I want my children to have a happy home life like we had, she replied. My sister and I were well provided for. Holidays were beautiful. Actually, we were spoiled. I want my children to feel happy and secure.
When I asked about her preference for schooling, she unequivocally declared a preference for choice and/or private systems. They just need to make it affordable, she said. Today public school districts are getting “lazy” in how they deal with students, she further opined. They were more personally involved with individual students during my school days. She added that she’d attended Johnson County Community College for two years before starting her family, having contemplated eventually majoring in early childhood education. So that was an area of special interest to her.
What about church, I queried, does your family attend one? She frowned. No, we don’t. Not now. When we were with my mother, we did. In providing a good moral grounding for the girls, I suggested, might that not be helpful? Yes, she agreed, nodding. I’ll have to give that some thought.
Finally, I brought up that other big sobering question: “What do you see as the greatest threat to your girls?” She had a ready answer: “I don’t want them to get pregnant young. I want them to reach adulthood as young women with options. I want them to have the opportunity for a full, happy life.”
We didn’t broach the topic of politics—that’s a worn-out subject at present from which we all need a respite. And seeing the values Athena embraces, it also seemed irrelevant. But I concluded by expressing my gratitude to her as well as the other Wendy’s servers who humor our little group of retiree regulars with such consideration, indulgence and respect. That’s why this restaurant has become so special to so many.
We parted with a hug. And walking away, I kept hearing in my ears her two words “dumb” and “love.” A long time ago a man we came to know as Jesus Christ issued the same advice about “love.” More recently a luminary named John Lennon said the same thing. And now a black mother serving me burgers over a fast-food counter offers the identical wisdom. Well, to my mind the only question remaining now is, why is the rest of humanity so slow catching on? Hmmmm. Just dumb!
October 17, 2020
The Spider and the Ant
“There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
--Albert Einstein
The other evening as I descended the front-porch steps to belatedly retrieve that day’s newspaper off the lawn, I glimpsed in the dim dusk a huge spider web splendiferously constituted above the hedge. What halted me in my tracks was the inexplicable “engineering feat” it displayed. The web itself was higher than my head, anchored to a bush limb the other side of the walk and to the hedge below; however, the top had to be supported from an oak branch about 20 feet above, and the right side attached horizontally to the hedge across the driveway, another 20 feet away. Wow, I thought to myself, how did that spider accomplish that? Spiders don’t have wings! And what a delicate, geometric design! Why, that looks almost miraculous!
Standing by the web in a state of bemused awe, I thought of the classic Walt Whitman poem “A Noiseless Patient Spider.” Whitman must have witnessed and felt something similar when he penned the lines: “Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,/[the spider] launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,/Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.” Yes, the lines succeeding those do reveal a theme of detached, human aloneness and “soul searching”; however, another theme seems apropos to me as well—the recognition of one of nature’s creature’s dogged and brave persistence and self-reliance. A sense of determined hope driving an architectural endeavor. And the unquestioning trust in one’s own ability. Indeed, a thing of wondrous beauty.
Returning back inside the sanctuary of our abode, I recalled that morning witnessing another of nature’s phenomenon. After a hurried breakfast, I’d carelessly left some honeyed crumbs on the kitchen counter, and before long a caravan of ants had formed to transport them to their colony. I’d snatched up a sponge and swiped them up and flushed them posthaste down the kitchen sink. Nevertheless, I paused to muse how ants function as a gigantic single unit, each worker ant indistinguishable from another and, except for the queen, expendable. All actions and endeavors directed toward a single goal, the common good of the colony. So I hastily bused the countertop clean, knowing if I didn’t there’d soon be another “cadre” of workers arriving to replace those sacrificed.
Immersed as we are within the inescapable election-year context of warring political factions, I later pondered whether an instructive parallel might exist between them and the behavior of the aforementioned arthropods. Certainly, some politicians have been accused of possessing no greater intelligence than that of a bug. But how do their constituents sort themselves out into one category or another?
It would seem that the conservative/libertarian contingent most mimics the attributes of the spider. Like with the spider, the age-old descriptive phrase “rugged individualism” would certainly apply. And the entrepreneurial spirit appears to inhere in both. It even calls to mind Ayn Rand’s novels, doesn’t it. Both work to accumulate their own future’s security. Not to mention their shared concept of a “free market,” although the flies might perceive that differently! The occupational approach of both—capitalism—embodies the miracle of Adam Smith’s “the invisible hand.”
Nevertheless, on the other hand, the ant and the advocate for socialism share the legacy of Karl Marx. All the workers are of equal status (irrespective of their job description) and remain so, only the queen (or the politically powerful) benefiting the most from the workers’ labor. It’s interesting that some ants even fall under the definition of “slave” as well as “zombies.” As alluded to earlier, all the labor is undertaken for the benefit of the colony as a whole. All worker ants are totally replaceable, but the queen can survive for many years. And, interestingly enough, both ants and varieties of socialism can be found just about everywhere on the planet.
Perhaps it’s a testament to the falling out of favor of the emphasis on teaching history and entomology that so many of the youth today are attracted to socialism. Is it the siren song of “equality”? The false promise of eternal “security”? Or the seductive lure of “fairness” and “social justice” for all? Otherwise it would be rather hard to explain their attraction to imitating an ant hill. But, the naiveté of youth is difficult to explain under the best of circumstances.
In 1961, President John F. Kennedy declared during his inaugural address, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country." That’s one of the most revered political statements in history and one of the least properly understood. It’s actually an affirmation of socialism. It would have been far better advice had he candidly opined, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for yourself.” But, of course, that would have required stepping out of the role of the politician.
Oh, callow youth! First seek ye courage. And experiential wisdom. Then be a spider! And expect the miraculous.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
--Albert Einstein
The other evening as I descended the front-porch steps to belatedly retrieve that day’s newspaper off the lawn, I glimpsed in the dim dusk a huge spider web splendiferously constituted above the hedge. What halted me in my tracks was the inexplicable “engineering feat” it displayed. The web itself was higher than my head, anchored to a bush limb the other side of the walk and to the hedge below; however, the top had to be supported from an oak branch about 20 feet above, and the right side attached horizontally to the hedge across the driveway, another 20 feet away. Wow, I thought to myself, how did that spider accomplish that? Spiders don’t have wings! And what a delicate, geometric design! Why, that looks almost miraculous!
Standing by the web in a state of bemused awe, I thought of the classic Walt Whitman poem “A Noiseless Patient Spider.” Whitman must have witnessed and felt something similar when he penned the lines: “Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,/[the spider] launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,/Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.” Yes, the lines succeeding those do reveal a theme of detached, human aloneness and “soul searching”; however, another theme seems apropos to me as well—the recognition of one of nature’s creature’s dogged and brave persistence and self-reliance. A sense of determined hope driving an architectural endeavor. And the unquestioning trust in one’s own ability. Indeed, a thing of wondrous beauty.
Returning back inside the sanctuary of our abode, I recalled that morning witnessing another of nature’s phenomenon. After a hurried breakfast, I’d carelessly left some honeyed crumbs on the kitchen counter, and before long a caravan of ants had formed to transport them to their colony. I’d snatched up a sponge and swiped them up and flushed them posthaste down the kitchen sink. Nevertheless, I paused to muse how ants function as a gigantic single unit, each worker ant indistinguishable from another and, except for the queen, expendable. All actions and endeavors directed toward a single goal, the common good of the colony. So I hastily bused the countertop clean, knowing if I didn’t there’d soon be another “cadre” of workers arriving to replace those sacrificed.
Immersed as we are within the inescapable election-year context of warring political factions, I later pondered whether an instructive parallel might exist between them and the behavior of the aforementioned arthropods. Certainly, some politicians have been accused of possessing no greater intelligence than that of a bug. But how do their constituents sort themselves out into one category or another?
It would seem that the conservative/libertarian contingent most mimics the attributes of the spider. Like with the spider, the age-old descriptive phrase “rugged individualism” would certainly apply. And the entrepreneurial spirit appears to inhere in both. It even calls to mind Ayn Rand’s novels, doesn’t it. Both work to accumulate their own future’s security. Not to mention their shared concept of a “free market,” although the flies might perceive that differently! The occupational approach of both—capitalism—embodies the miracle of Adam Smith’s “the invisible hand.”
Nevertheless, on the other hand, the ant and the advocate for socialism share the legacy of Karl Marx. All the workers are of equal status (irrespective of their job description) and remain so, only the queen (or the politically powerful) benefiting the most from the workers’ labor. It’s interesting that some ants even fall under the definition of “slave” as well as “zombies.” As alluded to earlier, all the labor is undertaken for the benefit of the colony as a whole. All worker ants are totally replaceable, but the queen can survive for many years. And, interestingly enough, both ants and varieties of socialism can be found just about everywhere on the planet.
Perhaps it’s a testament to the falling out of favor of the emphasis on teaching history and entomology that so many of the youth today are attracted to socialism. Is it the siren song of “equality”? The false promise of eternal “security”? Or the seductive lure of “fairness” and “social justice” for all? Otherwise it would be rather hard to explain their attraction to imitating an ant hill. But, the naiveté of youth is difficult to explain under the best of circumstances.
In 1961, President John F. Kennedy declared during his inaugural address, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country." That’s one of the most revered political statements in history and one of the least properly understood. It’s actually an affirmation of socialism. It would have been far better advice had he candidly opined, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for yourself.” But, of course, that would have required stepping out of the role of the politician.
Oh, callow youth! First seek ye courage. And experiential wisdom. Then be a spider! And expect the miraculous.
August 16, 2020
Maureen Carroll Interviews Mark Scheel about Poetry Collection
STAR CHASER
Poetry by Mark Scheel
Photo Illustrations by Joseph Maino
Star Chaser is available in hardcover with dust jacket, eBook, and paperback.
Anamcara Press proudly announces the release of
STAR CHASER
29 July 2020
https://anamcara-press.com/product/st...
MAUREEN CARROLL INTERVIEWS MARK SCHEEL
Today we’re talking to the poet Mark Scheel about his new poetry collection Star Chaser from Anamcara Press, to launch 29 July.
Maureen Carroll: Welcome, Mark. I’m delighted we could make arrangements to do this interview. I think there’s loads to talk about in this new collection.
Mark Scheel: Thank you, Maureen. I truly appreciate the opportunity to get the word out.
M C: You’ve published poetry widely in many journals and e-zines for years. And won some awards. Is Star Chaser your first poetry book publication?
M S: Not exactly. Actually, considering all genres, this will be my sixth book. Earlier I published A Backward View, which was poetry and short stories. And then a blog series titled The Pebble, which contained a smattering of poetry. But Star Chaser is all poetry with photo illustrations by my photographer friend Joseph Maino. And may I say I think he did a superb job capturing the spirit of the poems and extending their thematic implications beautifully.
M C: I love the illustrations! Did you collaborate on the shots, or give him free rein?
M S: Pretty much left it to his discretion. I showed him which poems I felt worked best to illustrate. And to leave out human models as much as possible. I wanted to go with the symbolism of objects arranged artistically. And he ran with it from there.
M C: You mention symbolism. The title seems to convey a good bit. Can you explain its significance?
M S: Well, it has several levels. Years ago The Kansas City Star had a feature in the Sunday book section called Poet’s Corner. I felt challenged to get a poem placed there and wrote a number with that aim. Hence, the expression “star chaser.” Also, there’s a legend related in the front matter of the book that tells of a goddess in the heavens chasing stars. I compare the aspiration of that goddess to that of poets in general—star chasers. (Laughter.)
M C: Yes, I was quite taken by that legend. It’s enchanting. Now, the book is divided into three sections. “Yesterday,” “Today” and “Tomorrow.” Why so?
M S: The poems, when I began organizing them as a group for a collection, sorted themselves out that way, so to speak. They were written over several years. Some dealt with current events. Others with childhood memories. Some looking ahead to the challenges of aging. So the sense of time perspective seemed a logical approach. The complete manuscript itself circulated several years before it was picked up, so some of the “today” poems actually relate to events in the past. Such as 9/11. However, the sentiment still holds current relevancy. Again, such as war in the Middle East.
M C: Indeed. A number of the poems dealt with warfare. Didn’t you serve in Vietnam? Were some of the poems based on your own experiences?
M S: Yes, I did serve in Vietnam, in 1969; however, I was with the American Red Cross. Not the military per se. But, yes, I was very close to it all and the war imagery does partly come out of that. Especially the poem “Soldier’s Christmas.” That was eventually published in The Kansas City Star’s Poet’s Corner. So was the poem “Coming Home from Iraq.” The photo illustration included the jungle fatigues and boots I wore in Vietnam.
M C: The mood of the poems, as well as their style, seems to vary greatly. I really enjoyed the humor in “Capital Gains,” as well as the outhouse illustration. (Laughs.)
M S: As far as humor, I think my favorite is “Dandelion Sutra.” It’s a send-up of Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra,” of course, with the added fun of setting it in my old hometown of Emporia. Although there’s an underlying sense of the lighthearted in other poems, like the fellow contemplating the odd irony of sleeping as if in a coffin in a fishing cabin. Or the young student wandering into a cat house. But as to the style, I certainly did employ great variations according to what I felt expressed the particular subject of each poem the best. One is even a twist on the sonnet. And prose poetry is in there also. Even haiku.
M C: Some of the poems dealing with romantic themes were quite touching. The one about the gardener and his wife was very moving.
M S: Thank you. That’s special to me also. It was published in The Midwest Quarterly years ago. A couple years back I ran into the editor by chance at a writers’ convention and he brought up his memory of that poem to me and how much it imprinted on his emotions. I was surprised and most gratified.
M C: Now, a general question or two. Although your focus in recent years seems to be on essays and fiction, I know your interest in poetry goes back a ways. When did you first begin writing poetry?
M S: Well, my first serious efforts came after I got back from overseas and began taking writing classes at Emporia State. That was in 1976. The only creative writing class open that first semester was poetry, so I took it and got the bug then. I found much of the discipline and sense of rhythm applied well to the writing of fiction too. And the mainstay devices like metaphor, simile and so on. I began then writing my first novel. But I kept writing poetry on the side when the muse dictated it. The writer James Dickey, whom I was fortunate to meet at a reading, advised me writing poetry strengthened one’s fiction. He was right.
M C: Have you written any new poetry since Star Chaser went to press?
M S: As a matter of fact, I just composed a new one for a new anthology slated to come out next year. Some poems come easy and some require a great deal of editing and revision and polishing. This latest was a hard one.
M C: Finally, what would you hope the reader of this collection comes away with? What do you hope it conveys?
M S: I think the variety is sufficient for any reader to find something that speaks especially to him or her. Probably several pieces. I think the young reader will be informed how things once were. The older reader will identify with how it is now. I would hope all come away with a deeper connectedness to the possibilities of life. Perhaps that sounds a bit grandiose. But that would be my wish.
M C: That works for me. May that wish come true! Thank you, Mark.
M S: Your time is much appreciated, Maureen. Thank you.
Poetry by Mark Scheel
Photo Illustrations by Joseph Maino
Star Chaser is available in hardcover with dust jacket, eBook, and paperback.
Anamcara Press proudly announces the release of
STAR CHASER
29 July 2020
https://anamcara-press.com/product/st...
MAUREEN CARROLL INTERVIEWS MARK SCHEEL
Today we’re talking to the poet Mark Scheel about his new poetry collection Star Chaser from Anamcara Press, to launch 29 July.
Maureen Carroll: Welcome, Mark. I’m delighted we could make arrangements to do this interview. I think there’s loads to talk about in this new collection.
Mark Scheel: Thank you, Maureen. I truly appreciate the opportunity to get the word out.
M C: You’ve published poetry widely in many journals and e-zines for years. And won some awards. Is Star Chaser your first poetry book publication?
M S: Not exactly. Actually, considering all genres, this will be my sixth book. Earlier I published A Backward View, which was poetry and short stories. And then a blog series titled The Pebble, which contained a smattering of poetry. But Star Chaser is all poetry with photo illustrations by my photographer friend Joseph Maino. And may I say I think he did a superb job capturing the spirit of the poems and extending their thematic implications beautifully.
M C: I love the illustrations! Did you collaborate on the shots, or give him free rein?
M S: Pretty much left it to his discretion. I showed him which poems I felt worked best to illustrate. And to leave out human models as much as possible. I wanted to go with the symbolism of objects arranged artistically. And he ran with it from there.
M C: You mention symbolism. The title seems to convey a good bit. Can you explain its significance?
M S: Well, it has several levels. Years ago The Kansas City Star had a feature in the Sunday book section called Poet’s Corner. I felt challenged to get a poem placed there and wrote a number with that aim. Hence, the expression “star chaser.” Also, there’s a legend related in the front matter of the book that tells of a goddess in the heavens chasing stars. I compare the aspiration of that goddess to that of poets in general—star chasers. (Laughter.)
M C: Yes, I was quite taken by that legend. It’s enchanting. Now, the book is divided into three sections. “Yesterday,” “Today” and “Tomorrow.” Why so?
M S: The poems, when I began organizing them as a group for a collection, sorted themselves out that way, so to speak. They were written over several years. Some dealt with current events. Others with childhood memories. Some looking ahead to the challenges of aging. So the sense of time perspective seemed a logical approach. The complete manuscript itself circulated several years before it was picked up, so some of the “today” poems actually relate to events in the past. Such as 9/11. However, the sentiment still holds current relevancy. Again, such as war in the Middle East.
M C: Indeed. A number of the poems dealt with warfare. Didn’t you serve in Vietnam? Were some of the poems based on your own experiences?
M S: Yes, I did serve in Vietnam, in 1969; however, I was with the American Red Cross. Not the military per se. But, yes, I was very close to it all and the war imagery does partly come out of that. Especially the poem “Soldier’s Christmas.” That was eventually published in The Kansas City Star’s Poet’s Corner. So was the poem “Coming Home from Iraq.” The photo illustration included the jungle fatigues and boots I wore in Vietnam.
M C: The mood of the poems, as well as their style, seems to vary greatly. I really enjoyed the humor in “Capital Gains,” as well as the outhouse illustration. (Laughs.)
M S: As far as humor, I think my favorite is “Dandelion Sutra.” It’s a send-up of Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra,” of course, with the added fun of setting it in my old hometown of Emporia. Although there’s an underlying sense of the lighthearted in other poems, like the fellow contemplating the odd irony of sleeping as if in a coffin in a fishing cabin. Or the young student wandering into a cat house. But as to the style, I certainly did employ great variations according to what I felt expressed the particular subject of each poem the best. One is even a twist on the sonnet. And prose poetry is in there also. Even haiku.
M C: Some of the poems dealing with romantic themes were quite touching. The one about the gardener and his wife was very moving.
M S: Thank you. That’s special to me also. It was published in The Midwest Quarterly years ago. A couple years back I ran into the editor by chance at a writers’ convention and he brought up his memory of that poem to me and how much it imprinted on his emotions. I was surprised and most gratified.
M C: Now, a general question or two. Although your focus in recent years seems to be on essays and fiction, I know your interest in poetry goes back a ways. When did you first begin writing poetry?
M S: Well, my first serious efforts came after I got back from overseas and began taking writing classes at Emporia State. That was in 1976. The only creative writing class open that first semester was poetry, so I took it and got the bug then. I found much of the discipline and sense of rhythm applied well to the writing of fiction too. And the mainstay devices like metaphor, simile and so on. I began then writing my first novel. But I kept writing poetry on the side when the muse dictated it. The writer James Dickey, whom I was fortunate to meet at a reading, advised me writing poetry strengthened one’s fiction. He was right.
M C: Have you written any new poetry since Star Chaser went to press?
M S: As a matter of fact, I just composed a new one for a new anthology slated to come out next year. Some poems come easy and some require a great deal of editing and revision and polishing. This latest was a hard one.
M C: Finally, what would you hope the reader of this collection comes away with? What do you hope it conveys?
M S: I think the variety is sufficient for any reader to find something that speaks especially to him or her. Probably several pieces. I think the young reader will be informed how things once were. The older reader will identify with how it is now. I would hope all come away with a deeper connectedness to the possibilities of life. Perhaps that sounds a bit grandiose. But that would be my wish.
M C: That works for me. May that wish come true! Thank you, Mark.
M S: Your time is much appreciated, Maureen. Thank you.
Musings of an Aging Author
Random observations and commentary on writing and the literary scene within the context of current events and modern thought.
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