a beauty in our garden today 

Thoughts From The Ditch

Two narrow farm roads meet on the Texas flatlands and leave a triangle of grass at the intersection. But of course you aren’t allowed on the grass, and so you have to stay across the road in the weed infested ditch that is the public right of way. 150 or so campers are squeezed into the ditch, having made sure that the wheels of their vehicles are not touching the pavement. Standing motionless in the ditch you sweat more in 30 minutes than you would running 3 miles in Colorado.

Don’t step in the tall grass. That’s rattlesnake turf and they will defend it in the only way they know. Don’t put your fingers under the tarp when you lift it. The scorpions like the shade under there as much as you would, and will defend their territory as harshly as the snakes! You can’t see the bugs, but are constantly aware of their presence as you itch all over. Everyone you see is sunburned in spite of the SPF 30 they applied that morning.

Across one leg of the triangle the CNN truck sits in its own ditch waiting for history to happen. Another leg is crowded with booths occupied by groups with names like Veterans & Military Families Against the War, Veterans for Peace, The Crawford Peace House and Iraqi Veterans Against the War.

The last leg is a quarter mile long ditch that is marked with 1800 crosses, 1800 roses, 1800 names, the grief of 1800 families, all that remains of 1800 young lives. As you walk along reading the names they somehow get too blurred to read and now what you see is the names of your comrades in Vietnam that never came back. In the back of your mind you wonder if one of the pickup trucks speeding by might be occupied by some moron who will want to desecrate this memorial to our brave soldiers who willingly fought in another unjust, unwinnable war at the behest of a corrupt government. You want nothing more than 10 minutes alone with any one of the chickenhawks who sent naive, brave and patriotic men and women to fight wars of conquest in foreign jungles and deserts while the falsely brave hid behind their daddy’s connections or a carbuncle on their pompous ass. They are literally above it all as they fly overhead in their air conditioned helicopter as you stand there with the tears and sweat running together on your cheeks. Another Vietnam vet walks by and silently offers a hug.

But there is no place on earth you would rather be on this day.

On this day a tall, soft spoken middle aged woman walks along the ditch greeting everyone in her own quiet manner. She is Cindy Sheehan! Her son, Casey, was killed in Iraq thinking it was his duty to answer the call of his country. She sits on the ground, holds your hand, and falls asleep almost instantly even though she is doing a live interview on CNN in 15 minutes. Grief and great causes often combine to create supreme exhaustion.

Later she leads a candle light vigil holding the hand of an Iraq veteran imagining it is her son standing next to her. When reality intrudes once again she cannot hold back the tears, knowing she will never again hold Casey’s hand, hear his voice, or listen to his dreams. She reads a poem written by Casey’s grieving sister and now you are the one who can’t hold the tears back. How do you comfort a mother who has lost her child, and to no good purpose at all?

At the end of the day Cindy remembers to check her schedule to see if she can fulfill your dream to have her visit Denver and share her story. Her calendar is clear on October 15th and she says she will be there. You go away with the hope that everyone in Denver will connect with her like the residents of Camp Casey who came from places like Belgium, Australia and Korea. Just 9 months ago it seemed that there was no hope that our country would come to its senses. Now you know that one woman has given the world hope and you can’t help but love her for it. You wonder at how strange the world can be, and how you never know who will be that ONE PERSON who really makes the difference. Could it possibly be you?

Days later, sitting in the airport, the phone rings. It is a radio station in Colorado Springs. “Would you come on the air and tell us about Crawford and Cindy?” And of course you do, because how can you say no after witnessing her courage? And so you talk to the host and you listen to the crazy callers tell you how you are a traitor, how you are giving aid and comfort to the enemy, how you should be put up against a wall and shot. And you try to maintain your composure in the face of such hate, and mostly you do a good job, but sometimes you fall just a little. And because you are a man of conscience, it is those brief moments that you think of, and feel bad about, when your human frailty showed just a little.

And then, before you know it, you are home, with more questions than you had when you left, and no answers, or at least no good answers. And all you can do is remember Cindy, and her courage, and what she lost, and hope you can be half the person she is and live up to her example and inspire others. And make a difference! And be the change you want to see in the world!

And in the end, you do the best you can, and make peace with yourself over it!

by Tony D.

Been Busy

711 minutes of sunlight yesterday.

New PC, gone broadband & wi-fi.

Summer, summer, summer

Mukilteo Ferry 

1967 - A Week of Good Vibes

I stayed with Jeff about a week. Another good friend from high school, Bill, was there too.

Mostly what I remember was that this was a week of good food and conversation.

Jeff had something to do with water pumps for the farmers but I didn't then and don't now understand what he did.

Most memorably He took me to the butcher to buy meat. Chicken I think. Picture a nearly naked, not terribly clean man, loincloth and ragged shirt, sitting cross-legged on a table with his knife held between his toes. He drew the meat across the blade and let each slicet fall to the table (or floor). Naturally there was no refrigeration or sanitation as we know it (and in 1999 in New Delhi I again went to a butcher shop in a local market and found conditions to be much the same).

Eat your meat well done in India.

Jullundur

The distance from the border to Jullundur is only 70 miles or so. But the train from the border took several hours. Stopping in the middle of nowhere and then moving at a snails pace. It was dark when I reached this Punjabi town of several hundred thousand.

Jeff, my best buddy from high school was in the Peace Corps in Jullundur. I had his address but he didn't know that I was on the way.

I hired a cycle-rickshaw at the train station, gave the driver the address and off we went into the night. After Pakistan I was a bit freaked out about my personal safety. As we rode along I had my hand in my daypack on my knife for defense. But, we arrived at his location without incident.

All lights were off and in a cluster of small houses I had no idea where Jeff might be living. I said to the driver - 'Let's go back'. He said 'No' and persisted in looking around, knocking on a door and there was Jeff.

I don't remember but I hope that my driver got an excellet tip.

1967 Border Sweat

The next day the Dane returned with our passports and exit visas. He'd had to argue a bit but was able to get all of us certified for departure.

Now, this is June, so it is quite hot - a hundred or so. I was sweating extra as I had three things that are not allowed into India: Hashish, Gold and Indian currency. The Indian border guards asked no questions.

I was IN. June 7th, 1967

On to Jullundur!