Everyday Strolls

Here we are again, celebrating the birth of our wonderful country.  For me, as a citizen and a Korean War Veteran, it has always meant so very much because, being a veteran,  I believe that I can relate to all veterans - not that I had a tough a time of it as those men who fought for our freedom and survived Concord and Bunker Hill, Valley Forge, George Rogers Clark’s heroic expedition thru flooded terrain to capture Vincennes, Cowpens and Yorktown just to mention a few of the great battles which secured our freedom from Great Britain.  But I was awarded, as are all those men and women who come under enemy fire, the Combat Infantry Badge.  It is a small medal, with a replica of a Revolutionary War rifle mounted on a field of blue enamel and encircled by a silver wreath.   It is my most prized possession.

That ‘specialness’ I have always felt for the 4th of July is due, in part, to my Great-grand-father Allen Coberly - his Great-grand-father fought against the British.  Granddad, as we all called him, was born in 1858 in Bowden, West Virginia and died at the age of 92 when I was a junior in college.  He was a great storyteller and I remember well his stories of Yankee raids during the Civil War and the difficulty of living under martial law for almost four years.  But I’ll save those stories for another time.  What most fascinated me about his many conversations was his emphasis on how closely we are attached to our ancestors and to history.  He often related to me that, as a young man, he listened to the stories of old men whose fathers had fought in the Revolutionary War.  Because of him, I am just two conversations away from speaking with Revolutionary War veterans.  He made it all seem so relevant, so close to me and to him, and as a direct result of these conversations, I majored in history at West Virginia University. 

So, on this special day, I feel as though I can almost here their voices - those brave men and women who made the Fourth of July the celebration that it is of our freedom.  Remember those folks who came before us and fly an American Flag to commemorate them and their deeds.  Happy Fourth!

Flag Day is approaching and, as always, I am reminded of a unique and powerful exhibit which I visited in Flint, Michigan during the Bicentennial the summer of 1976.  I was rehearsing a play which would open in Flint and then tour the summer stock circuit.  

The exhibit contained only articles made by Native Americans celebrating the Centennial in 1876 and was scheduled for a national tour after its debut in Flint.  You entered the exhibit in one wing of the museum through a round hole in the side of a  giant, canvas teepee - it was of course treated to resemble a teepee made of buffalo hide.  Stepping through the opening, I was suddenly in a whole new world, quiet except for the sound of muffled drums and an occasional sharp cry of ‘kai, kai.‘  The walls of the museum were painted in dioramas which appeared to stretch across vast deserts to distant hills and mountains where bison grazed under the watchful eyes of mounted, Indian hunters.  In glass cases just at hip level were various items - each decorated with a tiny American flag, or the letters USA, or woven, plaited or painted red, white and blue.  I was particularly taken with a tiny pair of children’s moccasins that were beaded in strips of red, white and blue.  There were cradle boards, rifles, bows and arrows, war clubs, tomahawks, harness, tanned hides, bearskin robes, blankets, tools, many different kettles and bowls, men’s shirts and trousers, breech cloths, women’s dresses and shawls - all decorated in some way to celebrate the 100th birthday of America.  The then American flag with thirty-seven stars was depicted everywhere.  Near the end of the exhibit was a camp fire surrounded by a few small teepees representing a village - there were very lifelike figures of men, women and children scattered about and there was a faint aroma of roasting meat and the low murmur of voices with the muffled drums continuing throughout.  It was mystic, hauntingly beautiful and remains with me to this day.

All this magnificent, moving tribute from people who were driven from their lands and homes and were, at the Centennial, mostly living on reservations.  If those folks could celebrate the American Centennial then I can certainly treasure them now and celebrate Flag Day by proudly flying my American Flag and remember, too, that one of the U.S. Marines, Ira Hayes, who raised the American flag on Iwo Jima, was a Native American.  Near the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery is the memorial statue celebrating this historic flag raising and a cloth flag flies above it twenty-four hours a day by order of a presidential proclamation issued in 1961 by President Kennedy.  Long may it wave.

Grumble, grumble.  Please, someone tell me - where did this obnoxious phrase originate?  I pay for my groceries at the market, say ‘thank you’ to the checkout clerk who has just dumped my change in a clump in my hand (and whatever happened to counting out change back to a customer???  Grumble, again.)  The clerk responds, not to me but to the next customer, the wall or the room at large - ‘No problem.’  What does that mean and whatever happened to ‘thank you?’

The other day I finally ‘lost it’ a bit with an apparently young girl who responded to my questioning of my Verizon account.  As so often happens, I was having difficulty understanding her due to my acute hearing loss.  Also, it seems so many young folks mumble, or are on a speaker phone or don’t talk directly into the receiver.  At any rate, I explained that I had a hearing loss and requested that she please speak more slowly.  Her response was ‘no problem.’  That day the phrase just hit me the wrong way and I said, ‘Miss, I beg your problem but it is a very serious problem with me.‘  Again, she repeated, ‘No problem.‘  I then explained, with a bit of passion, that I was a Korean War veteran which is where my hearing loss began and that her response was discourteous to a veteran, lacked understanding of a serious problem with many seniors and was, frankly, rude.  There was a short silence from her and then she asked if I wished to speak with a supervisor.  I said ‘no’ - I didn’t want to make the occasion a mark against her performance so I simply thanked her and said I would call back another time.

Friends of mine have also complained of the over use of this awful phrase.  So, please - where did it originate and should I begin a campaign to educate the younger generation as to the inappropriate usage of this vulgar expression?  Okay, I’m kidding about the education part but am I alone in despising this phrase?  Your response will be welcomed.

Thanks a heap.

Doors can open, or close, to so many different things.  A door can shut out the cold and the rain, let in light and fresh air, protect us from intruders and the dark of night, or open to a friend or a new experience.  So it was with me and OATS.  I read of their free classes in a newspaper, journeyed to the East Village and up to the somewhat dismal, second floor of a city housing project, opened a door and discovered a small room filled with computers and other seniors and an instructor who would help me open the magic door to the Internet and a whole new world.

I love doors and they come in all sizes, shapes and of every conceivable material from shatter-proof glass, exotic fabrics, finely carved wood to a steel fire door to protect us from an inferno.  When I began to have my upstate retreat built in 1980, the first little building was a six by eight foot shed with a sloping roof.  Later that fall I had what is now the main room of my house erected with sliding, exterior glass doors.  Then, just before winter set in, I had the builder move the shed and, placing it on a foundation, attach it to my single room.  (Plumbing and electricity would have to wait three more years.)  But, wow!  I had a two-room house but the little room needed a door and so that too was put in place.  The first weekend I visited my retreat after the builder had installed the louvered door, I sat on a bar stool at my kitchen counter just gazing at it.  I now had an interior door that led to another room, and throughout the course of that evening I must have opened and closed it at least a hundred times.  Oh, how I loved the sound of that little click as the latch caught, sealing me, sometimes, in the living room and, other times, marooning me in the once-shed - now sleeping room.  Well, time has passed, over thirty years, and I now have several doors in my six-room retreat but my favorite is the little louvered one.  It means so very much to me.  It marked my progress and still serves as a reminder of the many hours of overtime and the slow building of my wonderful retreat.  It helped create a new world, a new experience for me just as OATS now has helped me enter the Internet World.

And so my love of doors continues with the wonderful world of computers.  I discover a new door every day via googling just about anything and everything.  Door after door after door.  I love them.  What is behind them?  What lies ahead for me - or for you?  So don’t be afraid - open one, you will be amazed or perhaps amused, astonished or even enlightened.  And the very anticipation makes my heart beat a little faster and my doctor tells me, at my age, this is just fine, too.

Dear Gracie!  Gracie Allen, that is, of that famous comedy team, ‘George Burns and Gracie Allen’ of vaudeville and then TV.  Towards the close of their act, Gracie would begin one of her famous tales, perhaps an incident of her cousin Bill’s sister-in-law’s neighbor’s uncle’s dog...she would go on for a bit, not getting to the dog story at all, when George would interrupt her with “Say goodnight, Gracie.”  Gracie would give that wonderful, loving, shy smile of hers and looking straight into the camera, she would sing out “Goodnight,” and then I would fall off my chair, laughing, along with most of America who would be viewing the great, comedic act of ‘Burns and Allen.’

Oh, how I miss her.  I miss them both, George and Gracie, along with Jack Benny, Martha Raye, Edgar Burgen and Charlie McCarthy, Monty Python, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, the Carol Burnett Show and everyone on it, the great Bob Hope and not to forget my favorite team when I was in knickers, Abbott and Costello.  I wrote my only fan letter in my entire life to Bob Hope.  I did not have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Hope during my Korean War tour of duty but I watched him many times on TV.  Then in the late 1960s at the height of the Vietnam War he gave a terrific performance which was taped and shown later on TV.  And it was this knock-out comedic show which prompted my fan letter.  I thanked him as a veteran and for all the wonderful performances he had given over the years for servicemen and women through too many wars.  I explained that I was not going to sign my letter of thanks because I didn’t want a reply or to possibly imply that I just wanted his autograph or a response from his staff.  My fan letter went off to Mr. Hope with no signature.  It was written from my heart.

So...now we have today’s comedy.  Or what passes for comedy which all too often is a performance which I would be embarrassed to watch with a young child in the same room.  Nowadays, the funny folks scatter four letter words and sexual innuendoes throughout their performances.  And, frankly, they are not always funny.   Even the Press Association’s tribute to President Obama just this past week was, to me at least, often not in good taste - and, yes, not always funny.

I miss those wonderful, funny folks of the past - every single one of them so very much.  ‘Say goodnight, Gracie.’

‘Goodnight.’

The following, to the best of my memory, is an account by my Great-Aunt Milly Greenfield as told to me on a recent visit to her farm on Buffalo Creek, Randolph County, West Virginia.

“You know how it is with arthritis.  It can hit right out of the blue just something awful sometimes.  But like all trials in this life, arthritis is a challenge bestowed by God.  As we all know, the Good Lord tests each of us in our own way.  Anyway, coming out of the church after the wedding, such a pretty wedding except that dress was all wrong for a girl carrying that much weight.  Well, anyway, I didn’t think I could make it to my car but I held onto the rail along the walk - ramp really, for those poor folks in wheelchairs.   My Cousin Lilly yelled and asked me if I needed help and I said, ‘Just leave me be.  No, and hush, I don’t need no help.’  Well, right then my left knee give out.  No feeling at all in my leg all of a sudden.  I swear I couldn’t find the ground with my foot to save me.  So there I was, clutching onto that rail with one hand and my cane in the other.  Thank God for the kind folks who had the good sense to put that rail in there. 
Then, all at once, I was just lifted up, right straight up, by this young feller.  He smiled at me and I just about fell again - not ‘cause of my knee, but ‘cause his smile hit me like the power of prayer on a real good meetin’ night.  So I was kinda hanging there like a rag doll, his strong hands on my shoulders, when I heard Cousin Lily saying, ‘That’s Johnny, my son-in-law and I got another one just like him if you need more help.’  
Well, I just about fainted from embarrassment.  Lolly-gaggin‘ like a young fancy girl at this handsome fellow a-holdin‘ me up.  I sputtered some, saying I was okay and all but he insisted on helping me on over to my car and I went right ahead and let him.  Let him keep holding me up and guiding me like until I was settled into my seat.
I figured my man, Russell, he wouldn’t roll over in his grave at me letting my Cousin Lily’s son-in-law help me no matter that I so, oh, so loved the feel of his strong, young hands.
My, oh my.  Well, I do think the Good Lord understands and forgives things like that, don’t you?”
 I told her I did.

There is a beautifully appointed plaque on the building at the north west corner of 65th Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan.  It tells, succinctly and movingly, the story we all know from grade school of that great American hero, Nathan Hale.  I assume that we all remember his last words as well, “I regret that I have only one life to give for my country.”  

What many folks don’t know is that Nathan Hale was entrapped by another great American hero, Major Robert Rogers, the phenomenal ranger of the French and Indian War whose manual is still the basis for specially trained American forces such as the Green Berets and the highly skilled Navy Seals.  Due, however, to bankruptcy, some question regarding his personal loyalties that were raised by some which included those of the American leader, George Washington, and the various rivalries of commanding officers in the opposing armies, Rogers cast his loyalty with the English.  After the Battle of Long Island, which the British won, Rogers recognized Hale in a tavern, and, pretending to sympathize with the Patriots, tricked Hale into revealing his spying.  Hale was arrested by Rogers, sentenced to death by General Howe and forfeited his life in the apple orchard which at that time filled the hill that has become Third Avenue and 65th Street, Manhattan. At that time, what is now Third Avenue was the Post Road.   (You can google ‘Nathan Hale’ for a fuller account.)

I live just two blocks north, at 67th Street and Third, and so frequently pass by the historical plaque, sometimes more than once in a day.  I always note who is reading it and, time permitting, watch their reaction.  Once, last fall, I watched a solder dressed in winter uniform read the plaque.  Then the soldier stepped back a pace or two, came to attention and smartly saluted the plaque which tells the story of our Revolutionary War hero.  The young soldier then proceeded on his way along the avenue.  I think of that soldier often and pray for his safety and well being along with all our armed forces.  I also silently thank Mr. Hale.  I think of what that view must have been on that April morning in the blooming apple orchard as I gaze down busy Third Avenue.  On a good day, I can see all the way past 42nd Street. 

On Tuesday, March 9th, the Federal Communications Commission along with the Knight Foundation hosted America’s Digital Inclusion Summit in Washington, DC.  The purpose of the Summit was to present an overview of the recommendations in the FCC’s National Broadband Plan that will be delivered to Congress on March 17th.   The Plan includes information regarding how Broadband has benefited people across the country and the need for it to be expanded for everyone to access.

Alberto Ibarguen, CEO of the Knight Foundation, gave the welcome and opening remarks and introduced the vibrant, young Chairman of the FCC, Julius Genachowski.  Other speakers included four members of Congress,  Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, Shaun Donovan, various officers of the FCC and five people from across the country that have benefited from broadband.  I was one of the five having been suggested by Tom Kamber, our leader of OATS.

It was an exhilarating experience to be part of such company and the honor of representing OATS.  Dr. Kamber was much in evidence and kept busy responding to the many questions regarding OATS.  Renee Martinez was present at the tabling event which accompanied the Summit with information as well as demonstrating with video the work being done by OATS.

The Newseum, yes, a museum dedicated to news, and a gift of the Knight Foundation, is a new, spectacular space in NW Washington on Pennsylvania Avenue.  “Its unique architectural features a 74-foot-high marble engraving of the First Amendment and an immense front wall of glass through which passers-by can watch the museum fulfill its mission of providing a forum where the media and the public can gain a better understanding of each other.”

It is all chrome, glass, steel and muted shades of blue which made me feel as though I was floating in the clouds.

In a way, I guess I was,  with all the energy, the extraordinary participants and the lofty idea of the possibility of making Broadband available to everyone across the country.

[I WILL BE AWAY UNTIL APRIL 1ST AND WILL CONTINUE WITH MORE ON THE WASHINGTON SUMMIT]

I have never liked the word ‘no’ and so, when it is absolutely essential that it be used, I try to soften it with a compliment before it is uttered.  That is due to the teaching of my father.  As he said to me on many occasions when I was growing up, ‘The word holds no promise.  And promise is what keeps me going most of the time.’  (This from a man who was physically challenged with the loss of his right arm as a teenager.)

But there are times in an extreme situation when the use of the word is essential.  It can be as simple as telling oneself not to indulge in another cup or coffee, glass of wine or one more serving of French Fries.  It can be as serious as being cut off in traffic by a cell phone user careening through a red light.  And so, ‘no’ is just about the only alternative, screamed at full volume at the offending driver.  The urge to run them down, however, remains.

But there are times when I have to use the word to protect myself.  Gone are the days when I helped, so it seemed, every friend I ever had to move to yet another apartment.  I was called upon because I have always kept a car here in the city.  But no more.  I am too old and the traffic is too much for me to handle.  And there are times when I use the word to protect myself from a simple thing such as boring company.  And then the more serious circumstances that to help someone in whatever way is simply beyond my physical capabilities.  So I use the word ‘no’ to protect myself.  Selfish?  Indeed so.  But my own sanity and health now take top priority as I have grown older.  So I refuse to forward e-mails that promise me a ‘reward’ if I just ‘keep it going.‘   Punching delete gives me great satisfaction!  Even as a long-time volunteer, there are times now when I simply have to say ‘no.’  To soften the refusal, I have been known to go to great lengths to explain just why I am ‘withholding my consent.‘  At times, the art of being a bore can work in one’s favor.  Trust me.

On my way home to tune in to the Winter Olympics this afternoon, I had just alighted from the crosstown bus, one step at a time, and was inching across the icy sidewalk when my cane slipped and took on a life of its own, skittering away to finally come to rest in a snow bank.  Flailing about, slipping and sliding, I attempted to retrieve it.  Thankfully, a very kind young lady, blonde and extremely attractive, came to my rescue.  She not only held my hand until I retrieved my cane but insisted on assisting me to my apartment building a half block down the street.  Grateful, you bet.  I have promised myself to cease forwarding ‘dumb blonde’ jokes  on the Internet.

You must know that the Olympics started over three thousand years ago in Greece.  The first Olympics had only one event, a sprint, but other events were slowly added until today we celebrate two Olympics, summer and winter, one event every two years which include dozens of different competitions.  So, safely seated in my wing chair, slippered and sipping a glass of wine, I tuned into the Winter Olympics, grateful to be home.  Watching the young, young folks engaged in all their death defying feats I cheered them all - male and female and no matter what their country of origin.  Well, I did cheer a bit harder for those from the USA, but all of the contestants - so full of life, so gifted, so hard working - I, for one, proud of each and every one of them.

But for me, this winter with all the difficult weather, in spite of my growing difficulty in walking and the necessary cutting back on my physical activities, I am enjoying the Olympics more than ever before.  Just the fact that I have escaped a serious fall and am in good health is reason enough to celebrate.  But I watch the competitions with great joy and such happy remembrances of my own amateur swimming competitions as a Boy Scout, my failed attempts at basketball and the disappointing realization that I would never, ever weigh enough to play football.  But I can view the Olympics and I can write about them.  Hallelujah!!  Who says growing older can’t have its own special moments?  And right now, my moment is relishing the Winter Olympics in Vancouver.