Soldiers

in the fog of war

body count

a blur

Casualties

both left and right

voices

go unheard

Winners

walk a losing path

politics

in charge

Nothing changes

nothing ends

death

— the final bard

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)

Chapter 5: God Country And Family

God, Country, and Family were the cherished priorities that people sacrificed for and the essence of what made us great as a nation. Based on a strong moral code, developed from deeply held religious and/or ethical beliefs, many Americans put their individual family’s welfare second, as they marched off to war in defense of their country.  Was there politics involved in these wars? Absolutely!  All wars are fought, at least in part, due to political differences.  Not fighting these wars, because you disagreed with the politics of the time, would have resulted in a fundamentally different America than the one we live in today — if an America at all.

From the Revolutionary War onward, men, and in many cases women, dropped their hammers and sewing needles, put down their ploughs, stabled their horses, and answered the buglers call to defend all that was dear.  They were proud and willing to do this because the bigger picture was apparent, a picture that took precedence over their own individual well being. 

Today, the bigger picture stares back at us from the mirrors we gaze into, reflecting false and hollow images of what we’ve become.  What we used to be as individuals was always reflected and then magnified in who we were as a nation, our individual strength truly manifested in our service to something greater.

                        Something Greater Than Just Ourselves

It was this belief in something greater that drove us to create the true ‘Miracles’ of the past 250 years. These Miracles of science, manufacturing, art, and technology were never seen before. They became the mainstays of American life and propelled America to its leadership position in the free world, a position we are fighting to hold onto today.  Guaranteed by our Constitution and Bill of Rights …  freedom in America was the right of each, and every, individual citizen. It was the source of our national pride, and if called upon, we would have died to defend it.

If you had talked to a man who worked on Hoover Dam, or the Great Northern Pacific Railroad, you would have heard the pride in his voice.  This pride stemmed from having been part of something so grand and something so much greater than he would have ever been able to accomplish on his own. These are just two examples of what made America great and pushed her to the forefront as the envy of all the world.

The Chinese stood shoulder to shoulder with the Irish, pick axes in their hands, as the great rails were laid down pointing westward toward new and greater prosperity.  Among the many nationalities that accomplished these great things, there were always differences and petty squabbles — and the occasional altercation … but the big picture was always in focus.  It was the big picture that they agreed upon because that’s what was most important.  The big picture would carry them together to places they could never travel to alone, and on this they always agreed.

                         The Big Picture Was Most Important 

By putting their personal disagreements aside, they moved mountains, laid rails, built bridges, and dammed rivers.  Unfortunately, many died in the building of America, but it did not stop the new volunteers from signing on.  There was something being done here that had never been done before.  Setting your past lineage, cultural differences, and religious beliefs aside, to work together on something this special, was a small price to pay.  It was a small price to pay for becoming — truly American!                                        

American, not just in name — as many are today —but American in the deepest parts of who you really were and who you wanted your children to be.  Out of this commitment came men like Nathan Hale who spoke these immortal words on September 22, 1776 …

      “I Only Regret That I Have But One Life To Lose For My Country “

Hale’s belief in the future of America was a ‘rallying cry’ uniting the strength of the individual with the purpose and collective will of the nation.

                         Where Is That Unity Of Will Today?

 

Chapter 6:  The Pot That Melted

As a young boy, I lived in a row home in a working-class neighborhood.  The smells and sounds coming from each house were different, but the laughter and good will were the same … and they were shared among all. When together at a barbecue, holiday party, or family celebration, or even while waiting for the bus to go to work, their laughter was infectious.  

Mothers walked their young children to the small parochial school that many of us attended.  As they walked together, you could hear in the intensity of the many accented languages a fervent hope. It was a hope that it would be their son or daughter who would one day grow up and be President of this great land. And if not President, someone in whom they could truly be proud, and someone who would make a difference.  They were willing to put their own personal interests aside and sacrifice for this, many doing without so that their children could have, and experience, the things that would light their way to a brighter future.

                                The Fathers Did The Same 

Every morning, after they said goodbye to their children at school, they knew they had just dropped them off at the doorway to a world that was better than any that they, or their parents, or grandparents, had known. 

Many of our parents and grandparents spoke different languages, ate different foods, and sang and danced to their own kinds of music. These differences were superficial because one thing was crystal clear growing up in my neighborhood and that was nothing … N-O-T-H-I-N-G was more important than being a good and loyal citizen to a country that had given you so much.  If you ever were caught dis-respecting the flag or your elected leaders, you could count on being reprimanded by everyone, and that reprimand would probably be delivered in five different languages.

                        But The Meaning Was Always The Same

My first grade Nun (and school principal) was Sister Rita Marie.  Sister Rita Marie saw neither the color, the nationality, nor the relative wealth of any of her students. All the good Sister saw was ‘raw possibility!’  It was the innate potential within each of her students that Sister Rita Marie first saw, and it was this potential that defined and unified us as a class as we progressed from grades 1^st through 8^th.  I’m sure it was by a great design that no Nun ever had a last name. You could only guess at her nationality if she had a name like Sister Peter Mary or Sister Clara Agnes.

Our days in Catholic School always started in front of the American Flag,with our hands over our hearts, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Religion was next and that meant studying the Baltimore Catechism. Within its pages were all the lessons that one needed to learn to live a good and upstanding life.  Sister Rita Marie never failed to end the morning’s religion class without a morality lesson, one that would apply to our real world outside of school, and one that our parents had probably learned some twenty or thirty years earlier.

                              And Often From The Same Nun

Religion class would set the tone and get our young minds right for the arithmetic, english, phonics, and civics lessons that would follow later in the day.  We didn’t always behave, but we did agree on what was right and what was wrong.  We knew this because we had a devoted teacher who not only taught these principles but lived them in front of us in her daily life.  How I wish I could have just one more morning with Sister Rita Marie and be able to ‘film’ her magic and be able to spread it over the confusion that involves much of our educational practices today.

                             I’d Also Like To Thank Her Again 

The basics were always stressed in her class over the fringy and sometimes transient occurrences that only served to mislead and confuse.  She also explained that there was a ‘nature of goodness’ that ran through all of us, and she knew that in her heart because inside we were all the same …                       

The thing that my small Catholic School (St Thomas Of Villanova) shared with my neighborhood was that it too was a ‘Melting Pot.’  It was a melting pot of the differences that only served to divide us.  We learned early and well that respect for our elders, country, and especially ourselves, was a fundamental building block for all future success.

Two plus two really was four. And if you sat up straight with good posture at your desk you would see the truth, and the truth involved knowing that lying and cheating were always wrong, no exceptions! On this we all agreed.

                                          No Exceptions!  

The moral principles we learned in school were not only necessary for us to be good citizens, but were also a great source of comfort in a world that could be confusing to a young child.  No maybe this, or maybe that, Sister Rita Marie was emphatic with her teaching, and there was something inside all of us telling ourselves that she was right.  We learned early that all of life’s actions come with consequences, and these consequences can either be good or bad depending on which path you choose.  Many a boy thought he got away with, or pulled something over on the Nun, only to have his hand slapped by her ruler as she walked down his row of desks reading from her text.  She did this normally without even looking up.

These lessons were constantly reinforced because it was upon these principles that the greatness of America and the salvation of our souls would depend.  We also learned that the seemingly little things were not always little, and what appeared big and overwhelming was often an imposter.  Most importantly, we learned that what might be impossible for us individually to accomplish, we could almost always attain together.

                                        … together!

We had no individual sports in my school, everything was as a team.  It was in the magic of playing together as a team that this message of what’s truly possible was best taught.  Sister Rita Marie constantly reminded us that there was a ‘heritage’ involved in our very existence traveling back through our parents, grandparents, and great grandparents ad infinitum.  This heritage was ours, and ours alone, and was to be respected and revered.  It could also be shared and often was. One of the boys in my class had a father who had played Major League Baseball.  Mr. Duffy shared his experiences growing up and progressing through the minor leagues and into the BIGS many times with us. We all felt connected and proud based on what he shared, and we also felt closer to each other as a result.

The worst offense you could ever commit was to bring dishonor or shame upon the reputation and good name of your family.  You might not be wealthy in a material sense, but the reputation of each family was sacred and was treated as such. What started as a concern for the reputation of your family was transferred to your friends, your team, your neighborhood, and your school.  You knew this was of value because everyone in your world from the shop keeper to the policeman reinforced it every time you saw them.   The things that were accepted, or not accepted, were either accepted by none, or accepted by all.  

       What Values Can We All Agree Upon And Hold Dear Today?

As we progressed through the grades, the differences in each of us not only faded but became integrated into everyone else.  Every kid learned at least a few words in Italian from Mr. D’Angelo, and every mother in the neighborhood wanted to be able to bake as well as Mrs. Bonds. Mrs. Bonds was French, and Mr. Bonds had met her while in the Army during WW2 when the G.I.’s liberated Paris in August of 1944.  She could bake and she could sing.  We all loved her, as she would prance around her kitchen in her fancy hand made aprons singing French folk songs. She would wink and call each of us boys or girls ‘Mon or Ma Cherie’ or ‘Mon Ami’ or ‘Mon Amie’ as the incredible smells of her baking took over the neighborhood. 

The melting pot had another advantage in that it happened without our noticing it.  We seamlessly learned at a visceral grass roots level that we were all the same.  We believed in, and wanted, the same things, and we were willing to work together to get there.  After all, with great examples to follow like Sister Rita Marie … how could we fail?

                 Where Is That Leadership And Unity Of Purpose Today? 

Chapter 1

Do we no longer share anything of value?

Chapter 2

Do we no longer value anything we share?

Chapter 3: Two Scenarios

Scenario 1 (1956): A young boy gets in trouble at school for being insolent and talking back to the teacher. The teacher punishes the boy by keeping him after school, making him clean up the classroom, and by writing ‘I must learn to be more polite and respectful’ on the blackboard 100 times.

The boy’s younger sister goes home at the regular time and tells his mother why he is still at school.

The boy leaves the school at 5:00 pm and stops in to the corner store for some penny candy. The storekeeper refuses to serve him because he heard about the boy’s behavior earlier today. The boy leaves and walks to the beginning of his street. There he is met by Mrs. Wagner who tells him she is very disappointed in what she has heard. He decides to cut through the playground and take the shortcut to his back yard.

As he crosses the basketball court, which backs up to the fence separating his back yard from the park, Mr. Johnson, the custodian, shouts out to him and asks him to stop. “I can’t believe what I heard from the other boys about your behavior at school today, and I’m very disappointed in you. You’re better than that and you know it. Don’t come back to the playground until you’ve learned how to act right.”

Finally, he climbs over the chain link fence to his backyard. It is here that his mother sees him for the first time, and he can tell she has been crying. “How can you shame me like this when we’ve worked so hard to raise you in the right way? Your grandmother left earlier and even she doesn’t want to speak to you, and you know you’re her favorite — go straight to your room.”

At last, his father comes home and is appraised of what happened earlier today. He walks into the boy’s room and asks him if there’s anything he has to say for himself? Wisely, the boy says no. With that, the father ’grounds’ the boy, taking away all privileges for an entire month. He also tells the boy he will continue to stay after school, and clean the classroom, until the teacher says he’s learned his lesson. The parents then call the teacher at home to apologize for the boy’s actions.

The next day, both parents take the boy to school and make him apologize to the teacher in front of the entire class.

This behavior is never repeated by the young boy, and he becomes a model of what respect for authority and right thinking should be.

Scenario 2 (2024): A young boy gets in trouble at school for being insolent and talking back to the teacher. The teacher tries to discipline the boy, but he just laughs and walks away. The teacher follows the young boy to the entrance of the school, as he continues to laugh at her remonstrations while trying to make fun of her for doing her job.

Without permission, the boy leaves school early.

On the way home he stops at the convenience store and, while the clerk isn’t looking, slips 2 candy bars under his coat and sneakily walks out. Two high school kids in a car stop him at the entrance to the playground and say, “shouldn’t you be in school?” When he tells the two what the teacher did, they both just laugh and say: “Yeah, she’s still the same $#@%^&*$% that she was when we had her 4 years ago.”

The high school kids should have been in school too …

Then the boy enters the gates of the playground near his house. Three other boys, truant from a local parochial school, are hiding behind the equipment building, smoking cigarettes, and listening to their I-Pods. When he tells them what happened at school they say: ‘Yeah, all teachers are pains in the butt. They don’t know how to do anything but boss us around. My parents said if they were any good, they’d all get real jobs.”

The boy climbs the fence and enters his back door. Both parents are working, so he takes the candy bars out and starts playing video games as he eats them. His mother gets home first at 5:30 and then his father at 6:00. Neither even asks him how school went that day. He knows he can’t go back until he tells them, so as they are both catching up on their emails he starts his tale.

Only halfway into his story, his mother says: “She raised her voice and yelled at you?” His father then says: “I’ll have her job for that!” They immediately call the principal of the school demanding the teacher be reprimanded and even threatening legal action if something is not done. After hanging up, they start phoning other parents soliciting support against the teacher and the school.

They demand to speak at the next PTA meeting lambasting the unfortunate teacher for trying to do the right thing. The teacher is put on probation for ‘action causing the boy to leave school’ and reprimanded formally by the superintendent. The teacher decides that enough is enough, and this is her last year trying to teach young people not only academics — but manners and respect.

Another Great Educator Is Lost

The boy goes on to become a recurring problem ultimately ending up in juvenile hall.

Where are the common values, and moral structure, that as a country we used to share? Where is the support for doing the right thing because it’s the right thing to do? Where are the keepers of the lost moral code that made our country great?

Where you ask? They are lost and absorbed in the division that self-interest has created. GONE — and the greatness that real community and shared values could provide — are gone with them.

Distance is shared
by those striving to be close
Valuing each other
sharing each other’s pain

Chapter 4: Time and Distance

What separates the two scenarios in the previous chapter are time and distance. We say them so often, and so often together, but are they really connected? Is the first scenario only separated from the second by time and half a century? Or is it something much more sinister and more difficult to deal with when recognized?

Some things once lost are maybe impossible to re-attain.

Do we no longer share anything of value?
Do we no longer value anything we share?

In our nation, and within the American culture, I may look different than you. My skin may be light while yours is dark. My ancestors may have come from Europe and yours from China. My religion may be Christian while yours is not, but together over the last 200 years we have created the world’s greatest economy, defeated the most evil totalitarian dictators, and created an educational system that has produced doctors and architects, artists and engineers, that have changed the very surface and fabric of our world …

And All Mostly For The Better

We did these great things because we did them in concert. We were a nation that was pulling together, having put our differences aside, for a goal we shared and the common good. We all believed in the accepted moral code, and we didn’t need to quote the Ten Commandments or the Torah to make it work. It was ingrained deeply inside of us. We didn’t need legislation to enforce our behavior. Our actions came from a court of a much higher order.

That All Seems To Be Changing

Now, instead of finding more ways to unify ourselves, we spend our efforts building ever more fences that serve to divide. We have formalized these divisions and given them names. We are divided racially, culturally, intellectually, politically, sexually, and maybe what’s most insidious, economically. The America that was the great ‘melting pot’ of our differences has turned into a great magnifying glass — enlarging and enhancing what can only serve to keep us apart.

The second generation Italian-American bricklayer, who couldn’t sign up for World War 2 fast enough, is replaced in many instances today by someone who feels all service to their country is an inconvenience at best, and wasted time at worst. The great neighborhoods and playgrounds that brought us together when young have been replaced by pockets of isolated self-interest where America, and its freedoms, are just a tool used to achieve a narrow and self-serving agenda.

Much of this we have brought upon ourselves by electing officials more concerned with being politically correct than doing what’s right. This has undermined the very bedrock of America itself. We have been ‘lulled to sleep’ by the symptomatic curing of these populist falsehoods, while the underlying disease plaguing our great nation is allowed to fester and grow.

The ‘Me Too’ or ‘I’ generation is becoming the victim of its own false ideology, drowning in an egomaniacal sea of despair. This manifests itself in the social and medical ailments of the last 50 years. From ADHD, obesity, nervous anxiety disorders, and possibly autism, our nation suffers from a stigma of its own making. The growth of professions like Psychiatry and Law are examples of how insular we’ve become and how intent we are at getting ‘our bigger piece of the pie’ at any cost. ‘Shrink’ visits, and litigation, seem to be the new badges of honor in a country that has lost its way.

Maybe it’s a good thing that wars are not fought conventionally anymore. A high ranking Major General was recently quoted as saying that he didn’t think we could fight a war like World War 2 today. He didn’t believe enough men could put their personal agendas aside and agree to fight for a common cause. The meaning of the word common has come to mean something undesirable and to be avoided.

This same country, America, is passing laws to protect those living here illegally, while some of those who proudly served in her defense go hungry, homeless, and destitute. I believe it should be mandatory that to hold public office you must first serve in the military or some form of public service. Then you will have an appreciation for the many who have sacrificed while asking for nothing in return. Many Veteran’s Groups come together today, not to be honored as they should, but rather to share their struggles in a world that seems to have lost interest in them and the great sacrifices that they made.

This Was Not Always The Case

Today, America competes internationally with countries like India and China that have much more homogenous cultures and seem much better at pulling together to reach a common end by thinking along the same lines. I travel to these countries, and people there seem to have discovered what we have forgotten. They know that two working in harmony can accomplish more than two working on their own, and that two plus two ‘together’ equals more than four.

When People Come Together, The Whole Really Is
Greater Than The Sum Of Its Parts

Thinking along the same lines has nothing to do with a loss of personal or intellectual freedom. It has to do with the affirmation that we can accomplish much more together than we can on our own. It also means we are stronger when we come together. This is true both economically, socially, and culturally.

There have been some great quarterbacks, who turned mediocre overnight, when they lost either a great running back or wide receiver. Staring into the eyes of those other 10 men in the huddle is one of the great examples of what can be accomplished when all think with like minds. In that huddle are men of all races, religions, and ethnicities, but they put those differences aside for 60 minutes to accomplish their goal.

As A Country, We Should Do The Same

The play that is called in the huddle is not to benefit just one player, it’s to benefit the whole team. They either win or lose together based on the value system or game plan that they all agree upon. It’s a simplistic analogy, but it’s magic and it works.

A ‘Call To Arms’ used to be enough for most men to lay aside personal interests and put their country first. Today, during most times of crises, there are opinion polls, with spin doctors and talking heads, on the various TV cable news shows, telling you what to think or maybe reinforcing what you want to hear based on your personal agenda. You can usually find exactly what you want to hear if you pick the ‘right’ channel out of the dozens available. The news doesn’t get read anymore, but rather interpreted and spun, and both political parties are guilty of its manipulation.

And We’re All The Worse For It

The basic tenets of right and wrong do not change. What they apply to does, but the principles do not. They form the platform that a democratic society is built upon. If we can’t de-factionalize and de-polarize ourselves from this mess we’ve gotten into, how can we take the next steps forward to better ourselves collectively and become more than we currently are?

And so it goes

from cradle to grave

From baby’s wail

to funeral laid

 

We reason, ponder,

dissent, and cry

As time repeats

and years go by

 

Sages offer

their grand excuse

In what’s left wanting

to feed the muse

 

But one thing’s certain

to never change

Death recycles

— the same old game

 

(The New Room: May, 2024)

 

 

Poison Ivy

 

Academia …

cesspool

of deception

harbinger

— of lies

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024) 

 

 

Occam’s Edge

 

Plurality

without necessity

— pandering time

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024) 

 

 

The Right Fork

 

Newness …

birth mother

to anticipation

 

(From ‘Calling Me Home:’ May, 2024)  

 

 

 

Time,

 a slave

to importance

when

all respect for it

— is gone

 

(From ‘Calling Me Home’: May, 2024)

Day #10: Williams To Las Vegas

I knew the next morning the ride back to Las Vegas was going to be flat and uninteresting. The short detour (spur) I took at Seligman, onto old Rt.#66, provided little in the way of anything new.  After a week at life’s summit, a higher power was letting me down gently — to return to a world of greater relativity where all answers would appear obvious — and where the important questions would hide in my memory.  The old stretch of Rt. #66 was a desperate attempt to hang onto what the 1950’s romanticized, and then lost.  It stood as a carnival sideshow to what was happening in the big tent out on Rt.#40, which ran parallel to Rt. #66, just twenty miles to the south.

As I got back on #I40 at Kingman, the cutoff to Rt.#93 approached on my right.  This was the road to Las Vegas, and it signaled that in less than 100 miles my current adventure would end.  In an oxymoronic defiance of logic, the higher in elevation I got, the hotter it became.  Las Vegas drew heat to itself in a big-bang tribute to all that was divergent in the human spirit.  It tried to confuse with its ‘Light-Show’ what its true emptiness contained.  Were it not for its great location, I would bypass it forever.  The temperature was now 104,’ as I spotted the Joshua Tree Forest in the distant Northeast.

I passed through Boulder City in the severe mid-day heat and began looking for a gas stop with a do-it-yourself wash bay.  I spotted one on the other side of the highway just past Hoover Dam and got off the interstate and made a left at the bottom of the ramp. In thirty more seconds, I was parked at the ‘Ultra-Wash’ in the second bay from the left.  I needed to get the ‘road-dirt’ off the bike before turning it in, hoping, that as I did, no precious memories would wash away. I loaded the automated machine with quarters and watched ten days of well-earned highway patina flow into the drain.

The Dirt Was Gone, The Bill Was Paid, But The Memories Remain

It took only fifteen minutes to wash the bike and fill it up with gas. In twenty more, I had circled the beltway around Las Vegas on Rt.#I15 North and was back at the bike rental agency.  It was after four in the afternoon as Stefan opened the big overhead door, and I pulled the Goldwing inside.  They closed for the day at six, which had given me plenty of time to get back. It took less than a half hour to unpack the bike, change out of my riding gear in the agency washroom, and call a cab to take me to McCarran Airport.

The Goldwing looked sad, among the other bikes, where it would wait for another out of town rider to again set it free.  I understood the feeling but could not share in its mourning — I had a flight to catch. My separation anxiety was growing intense, and I had to leave, and leave quickly, before it got any worse.

As I walked out to my arriving cab, Stefan said to me in his best Austrian accent: “Wow, you averaged almost 500 miles a day.  Most people only do half of that.”  I smiled back, acknowledging what he said, while I reminded myself again that it was never about the mileage … only the miles!

The cab driver who picked me up at the bike rental agency was a pleasant surprise.  His name was Ari. He was an Israeli, a romantic traveler, and he had been living in Las Vegas for over twenty-two years.  He was divorced with one son and had lived through all the changes that Las Vegas had been through during that time.  He, like myself, was nostalgic for what once was here — and would never be again.

When I told him where I was from, he became very animated and said: “I just returned from a road-trip back East.”  He said it was his first trip to the eastern part of the U.S., and it totally changed him.  He made it as far as Easton Pennsylvania, which was only ninety minutes north of where I lived in suburban Philadelphia.  He told me that some of his boyhood friends lived in Easton, and that their homes were right along the banks of the great Delaware River.  They had rafted and tubed the river the whole week he was there, and he told me that he still couldn’t get over the rolling hills and dense forests that lined both sides of its banks.

Majestic in its own right — the Delaware River paled in comparison to the things I had seen. That being said, Ari felt about the East the way I had always thought of the West.  Amazing that a realization of contrasts, and a coming together of two spirits, could have happened in the span of a twenty-minute cab ride.  Time really was a slave to importance when all respect for it was gone.      

Ari told me he saw things along the Delaware that were beyond his belief. With the passion of his words, he reconnected the spiritual bond between what I had left 10 days ago and what I was taking home with me today.  As I thanked him, and got out of the cab, I reminded him that within three hours of Las Vegas there were things to see that would change his life again and not conflict at all with what he had seen in the East.  He thanked me, as I paid him, and said that he did have a trip planned to the Grand Canyon for late September and then on to 4-Corners and Durango Colorado.  The return trip to Vegas would be through Monument Valley and Northern Arizona, passing through both Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park,before heading back south on Interstate #15.

I told him to stop in at the San Juan Café, when in Monument Valley, and say hi to Sam.  Tell him I continued to keep him in my daily Rosary and thought of him often. The smell of his frybread, and the wisdom of his eyes, occupied a permanent place inside me. Ari helped me get my bags to the curb, as he wished me a safe trip on returning home.

His words “returning home,” weighed heavy on me, as I exited the cab and gave my bags to the skycap.  They stayed heavy inside me, as I went through security and proceeded to my gate.  When I dropped my helmet and carryon, and sat down inside gate #15, I started to wonder … what did “returning home,” after all these years of travel, really mean?

‘Returning home’ no longer seemed related to any one place. It was more about the spaces inside of me that had increased in size. ‘Returning home’ allowed me to clearly go back inside myself and see what had always been covered in fog.  Upon reflection, the trip out and the trip back were interdependent realizations of the same thing. Neither existed without the other — they were two halves of the same whole.

  ‘The Road Back’ Always Delivered Best What ‘The Road Out’

                                     Searched For Longest  

Whenever I tried to live my life in either one direction or the other, I was reminded by their connected wisdom that to see clearly, I had to be the product of both.

                               Going Out, Coming Back

                        Becoming What Was Meant To Be

                       Traveling Far — Returning home

                       Together In The Lessons Learned

The places I left, and the ones I was headed toward, took me far beyond the contradiction’s that had kept me prisoner.  As they opened a new awareness inside of me, I saw things that had happened in the past, and things still to come — all in the perpetual present. Where I had been blind to parts of myself distant and unconnected, there was a new image that I had been unable to believe in before.

They opened inside of me unlimited possibility and the realization that I would never be alone. As I rode along their great mystery, I no longer felt separated from all that I had been before or from that which I would forever become.

I was transformed in their eternal presence, while they appeared to others who traveled only on their surface, as just — A Road.

 

 

                                            Epilogue

At night, I would lie in bed and think about the path that led through the woods behind my house.  Little did I know, the dirt trail through the oaks and pines, and then to the creek beyond, would become much more than it first appeared.

It opened up much more than a young boy’s access to the creeks and ponds.  It created an awareness that is still being shaped today.  In its many forms and variations, it became the guiding light of my delivery, and through all the years, and all the miles, remained steadfast in its calling.  In the messages hidden within its direction, it gave me back to myself, and on days when I wasn’t sure of which way to go … I just went.

‘The Road’ was that one last place that never abandoned me. At the worst of times, I packed up the bike and headed out in search of answers. Finally, at the end of a long and lonely road, where two directions turned into one, I found what I had lost.

‘The Road’ has always been there for me … waiting. Waiting to take me one more place and one more place again. It’s allowed me to see the very thing that made all the rest of it possible, as it reopened a new and special place inside of me —never visible before.

‘The Road’ never threatened with either timetable or denied access. It is, as it has always been, as it was in the beginning, and will forever be.

                 Pray God, Let Me Go Down One More ‘Road’

 

 

 

Kurt Philip Behm

August 28^th, 2011

Day #9: Grand Canyon to Williams Arizona (p.m.)

The East Entrance to the Canyon had always been my least favorite way to enter the Park. I usually arrived by the elevated and back canyon road from Flagstaff known as Arizona Rt.# 64.  Alpine and rural, it was more than a mile up in the clouds. Today though, I had no other choice and would enter the park from the lowest depths of a barren landscape.  It was dusty and hot (106’) when I passed the old Cameron Trading Post just before the Park’s entrance.  I turned onto the park road and looked high up into the distance before me. The greatest sight visible anywhere on earth, and the standard bearer of all God’s creation, was just beyond my reach — but it wouldn’t be for long!

I climbed the twenty-six miles toward the rim, and as the temperature dropped, my spirit soared.  The memory of Sam was now a spiritual bead on my Rosary to be remembered in my thoughts and prayed for every day. I saw two great hawks soaring overhead.  They were not moving their wings and remained motionless as they went higher.  I knew they were caught in the great updraft of something whose true height could not be measured and whose depths would never be fully explored. 

The Comfort Zone Of Relative Size And Dimension Was About To Disappear

At the top, I saw at least 100 cars parked along the canyon’s edge.  This marked the first series of rims and lookout points for what no first visitor was ever ready to see.  As I searched for a place to park the bike, the returning vision of something I had never been able to explain rushed out and overtook me again. 

I knew, after so many visits, you never looked into the Grand Canyon without permission. The only way to truly see what your eyes were about to embrace was to accept the changes happening inside of you as you stood in her presence. The Canyon took hold of all searchers and played with their sight while making it her own.  Finally, she gave back to the lucky few a new vision of themselves, affirming those things that they had up until now denied.

It was a mid-August day, and I had never been here during the height of tourist season.  As I walked to the Canyon’s edge, I had to weave through the packed in crowd of European and Asian tourists lining the rail. Looking off into her distance, a blessed transformance emptied my soul. It created space for what I was hoping to take with me, and with each visit I knew the cost increased. Each time I left, there would be an even greater part of myself left behind — a part that would call out when my confusion returned.  The Great Canyon cared not about reasons or circumstance, she stood only as she is, a GIANT, isolated from all ordinary things, a connective force that allowed us to dream beyond ourselves … and to eventually see.  

It led you beyond what you thought yourself capable of before.  And without guidepost or roadmap, it brought you only and exactly to where you most needed to go.  The Great Canyon began where your imagination ended and, by looking into her depths, you were at once changed and transformed.  Transformation being measured by what you left behind.

The Great Canyon neither pretended to know what you know nor portended your future. Timeless and unchallenged, she stood guard over all that is. Your questions here were but echoes from a distant memory.  It was, the one spot on earth, where you stood and heard the answers returned to you for what they were — disturbing reminders that much of your life had been spent in denial.  

She neither blessed nor forgave, and her message spoke only of today. Whether you looked one time or stared into her unending depths forever, she treated you the same.  All meaning was derived from what she taught and the immediacy of how that made you feel.

Like two things that must be shaken together to be truly mixed, the Grand Canyon joined your mind and spirit in a cocktail that intoxicated your soul. She inebriated your entire being.  Yes, she was that big and more.  To say otherwise only reinforced what you still needed to know.  She continually poured all that she was, and is, into everything that you were not. Like the arid canyons and valleys that were overflowing with her waters, our spirits hoped to become a small tributary into what she had become.  

Becoming was all that mattered in the Canyon, yesterday and tomorrow were for those already dead inside.  I looked up again and saw the Great Hawk. Its wings were tucked back in dive position, and it was headed toward its destiny in the Colorado River below.  All of life’s summation was contained within its dive, and all that would ever matter in my own life was contained in the connection I felt.

I stopped at ten different rims that afternoon, but one would have been enough. What stared back at me never changed until everything inside of me was again new. My first look into the eyes of my Spiritual Mother 30 years ago, and the one again today, released me from ever having to be in only one place. She called to me in the most distant reaches of my isolation and reminded me that whenever lonely or confused, with her — I would always have a home.

There was never a way to come ‘to terms’ or to ‘make peace’ with what the Canyon taught. The very best you could hope for was to live unguarded and within the message of her timeless beauty. Within your spiritual awakening there would be found an eternal connection, and in the release that it brought you … you could make peace with yourself.  

There were no rooms, either inside or outside the park, as I passed by Canyon Village. I gladly bypassed the tourist frenzy that happened at both sunset and sunrise and pointed the bike further South.  I did not resent or begrudge the tourists for what they did or for what they thought they wanted.  I just needed to be alone with my mother, but for today that might have to wait.  As I left the Park, I spotted the long gravel road that was used only by the park service. It was open and still had not been paved.  I turned left and traveled its half-mile length to a virgin rim which faced off to the East. I had worried, when coming up from Cameron, that it might no longer be accessible.  It was here that I had always been able to talk to my mother alone, and the place where her voice had always been loudest and strong.

  As She Sensed My Approach, The Ancient Memories Returned 

It was a private access road, and by design was restricted to all trespassers like me. My mother had called loudest to me from here, and I liked thinking of this place as hers and mine alone. After less than five minutes in her presence, two hikers came out of the bushes saying: “WOW, the view is really spectacular from here.”  I realized at that moment that the concept of ownership was still one of my many faults and one that I had to work on if I was ever to become totally free.  I shared my mother with the two German hikers, as we celebrated in communal reverence an unspoken reflection.

An hour later, and having made two new friends, I was again on my way. I eased the bike down the old service road and made the left turn onto Rt.#64 toward Flagstaff.  From this spot on the Canyon’s Far South Rim, I had only eighty more miles to go.  In her neither giving nor taking away, my mother had put me at rest about Sam. As she said goodbye she left me with the words: “Your sympathy will never change what only your empathy can set free.”  

I exited the Park in a southerly direction and saw no other people.  The only sound I heard was my mother’s heartbeat. It was from the current she carried deeply inside of her so far below.  I thanked her again for having kept me close and reminded her of how much my father loved her. By returning me to her this week, he reaffirmed his deepest feelings.  And from the High Northern Regions that fed her each spring, he stood forever vigilant and on-guard. She smiled back at me from her great distance and expressed with her silence the things that only he could hear and the things that a son, no matter how dutiful, could never truly understand.  

The high pines that lined this back road out of the Canyon made it one of my favorite rides.  It was getting to be late afternoon, as I rolled past the cattle herds and cut timber that filled this high mountain plateau. Most would never associate this landscape with Arizona, as it more resembled Idaho or Northwestern Colorado. This part of the Great Canyon State was atypical of what you expected and special unto itself.  In thirty miles, I came to a major fork in the road.  To the left was Flagstaff, but to the right was Williams.  Both towns sat on Interstate Rt.#40, but Williams was closer, and since I had never spent the night there before, I took the fork to the right. 

 Newness Was Always Birth Mother To My Anticipation

In a long hour I was in Williams. It was one of the old original stops along the Mother Road. At one time, Rt#66 was the main artery East and West across America.  It was along its corridor, and before the interstate highway system was built, that the great motorized migrations of Detroit iron began. Williams was still trying to eke out a living based on the myth of the old road, and a resurgence and hunger for 1950’s glory kept the tourists coming … especially those fifty and older. It was quaint and touristy, but then it always had been. It was also mostly authentic and looked just as it had when the autos were carbureted, the air-conditioner was a hand crank on the inside of the car’s door, and families were large.

After I circled the town twice on its two parallel (and 1-way) main roads, hunger overtook me, and I was in search of good food.  I was lucky enough to get the last room at the Red Garter Inn where I parked the motorcycle for the night.  After a quick fresh up in the bathroom, I left my helmet on the bedside table and hung my Kevlar riding jacket on the back of the closet door.  I was still in the lower half of my riding suit, with my boots on, as I headed into town.  It was something that I had learned years ago and was now a rule that I carefully observed. Staying in my riding suit prompted conversations with strangers and other motorcyclists that would never have happened otherwise.  Tonight turned out to be no exception.

It Also Allowed Me To Travel Out From Pennsylvania With Only One Small Bag

As I walked up a side street from my hotel into town, I heard one of the two things I was looking for, ‘Live Music.’ The guitar player was halfway through ‘Gentle On My Mind,’ by the great Mississippi River banjo player, John Hartford.  Most people thought Glenn Campbell had written the song on his famous Ovation 12-string guitar. He did have a big hit with it back in the 60’s, but it was actually written by John Hartford and a song that I had always loved.  As I followed my ears, the guitar player morphed right into the great instrumental, ‘Classical Gas,’ by Mason Williams.  By now I could see the café/restaurant at the next corner, and from all outward appearances, it was everything I had hoped for.

It Was Called Pancho McGillicuddys, And The Food Smelled As Good As The Music Sounded

The waitress seated me at an outside table with a view of the street.  I was less than thirty feet from where the guitar player sat, as he started to play the great Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg song — ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow.’  This is the greatest American song ever written, and he performed it well.  Upon finishing, he took a break, and the waitress came back for my order.  The quesadilla combo, refried beans, and local micro-brew, sounded perfect, as the sun disappeared behind me and off to my left. The last table was being seated, as the gas lights came on that lined the streets, and darkness became a backdrop to a magical sky.    

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this hungry.  The waitress brought my food as the guitar player returned.  The first song of his new set was ‘Fire And Rain,’ by James Taylor, which is my favorite song of all time. I knew at that moment, that on this night, and in this town, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  I decided to give my mind the night off and just go with the music.  If you’re ever in Williams, and in need of a travel break, I can’t recommend McGillicuddys highly enough. 

Sometimes, Like Tonight, The ‘Road’ Presents You With A Special Gift

A big smile was permanently implanted on my face, as a family of four came in and was seated at the table to my left.  It was a father and mother in their late forties, and two teenaged boys. The father was wearing a lacrosse t-shirt from a school I didn’t recognize, so when he looked over and smiled, I said, “Nice to see a Lacrosse shirt so far from home.” He answered: “We’re from Portsmouth Virginia and out here on vacation, I played at Woodberry-Forest, and both boys now play at their respective schools.”

He then said, “So what are you riding?” The boots and the riding pants were a dead giveaway, as the guitar player started ‘Cheeseburger In Paradise’ by Jimmy Buffett.  He was sure it was a Harley, as I explained I was riding a Honda Goldwing. I told him that after 40 years of riding, the Goldwing was the best touring bike that God, or any engineer, had ever made.  As I explained to him the benefits of shaft drive over a belt or chain, his eyes widened, as he finally grasped where my travels had taken me during the past ten days.

“You went from Vegas to the Canadian border and then south to Arizona, all in a long week?”  Yes, I answered him, and every mile was a joy to ride. I wish there had been more time because then I could have gone further north, maybe even to Alaska.  At this point his wife’s eyes glassed over, as women’s often do, when mentally picturing their own husbands riding a motorcycle. They often saw only the danger and not the thrill and joy of riding to new places.  It was a shame, but it was a reality and a major hurdle that most men had to get over at home when they made the decision to ride later in life.

We continued to talk while they ate, and I came to find out that their oldest son’s high school coach had been a teammate of my sons when he was in high school. They were both on a team that had won the Pennsylvania State Lacrosse Championship back in 2000. Sometimes, the very best things in life also had the smallest following.  Small, in terms of the numbers they produced, but large in the effects that their participation created.  Both long-distance motorcycle touring and lacrosse had been two of those special things in my life.  They created a spiritual and permanent bond between all those who had either played or ridden together and resulted in lifelong friendships that are cherished to this day.

On 9/11, Almost 100 Of Our Beloved Lacrosse Alumni Lost Their Lives

His wife then asked me where my son had gone to high school.  “Haverford School,” I told her.  She brightened up immediately and said, “I went to Haverford College which is right next door.”  “Amazing,” I said, “how small the world really is.”  She then wanted to know what the college lacrosse recruiting process was like during the third year of high school. I was glad to share with both her and her husband what my son and I had gone through only ten years ago.  That small world we rediscovered through our common experience continued to get smaller throughout the evening. We continued to share more of where our lives had taken us and, in being together in this remote spot along old Highway Rt. #66, we grew bigger inside.

As the waitress passed my table again, I realized that I had already had one beer too many and was enjoying myself entirely too much.  I said goodbye to my new friends and started the walk back to my hotel glad that I didn’t have to get back on the motorcycle again tonight. After four beers, I knew that I would never try to ride, but the removal of temptation went a long way.

Sleep came easy on that night, and I did not dream —the effects of having lived beyond what on most days I only hoped for.  I thought to myself while still awake in the darkened room, with only the light from the train-yard filtering through my window, how truly lucky I was … even if everything ended tonight.  

Just then, the high-pitched whistle of a distant train approaching Williams, came through my wall.  It was a fitting exclamation point to another day beyond all planning and another example of why without a fixed itinerary, I continued to ride.  Just before sleep, the immortal words of Crazy Horse and the Oglala people flashed before my eyes. “HOKA HEY’, it is a good day to die.”  The Lakota knew that a good day to die was an even better one to live, and on this incredible day that ended in Williams Arizona, so did I.

My Prayer That Night Was To Avoid All Future Mediocrity, As The Back-Half Of My Life Continued To Unfold 

Authors Note:

These chapters became longer as the sweetness of the days they told of increased.  Each one built upon the other until blockages were unstopped — with all knowledge running back to its source.  

If true

that old age

is but a bad habit …

 what can youth become

 

_____

 

Divorcing passion

from intellect

Two orphans

created

Homeless together

— inside of one soul

 

_____

 

If you want

to be free

First

be a prisoner

A captive

of prescience

An inmate

— of self

 

——-

 

Contradiction …

a privilege of freedom

 

——–

 

Knowledge is a prison

— and freedom its bars

 

——–

 

The pedantic

philosopher

Indistinguishable

— from the fool

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)

 

 

 

If Poetry’s a hobby

your muse is entropic

Fading and dying

— as silence awaits

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)