Stories by
George Mercer
Some random observations for Independence Day.
A month or two ago I was riding a shuttle bus to the railroad station and at one of the stops there was a man in a wheel chair preparing to board the bus. Without a word from anyone, more than a dozen people went to action, getting up, moving to the rear, reconfiguring the seats and helping to lift the man, chair and all, onto the bus and into the right place and ultimately securing the chair in place with the appropriate safety belts -- . If there was a word spoken, I did not hear it -- except for the man in the chair saying, "Thank you."
Last week, I arrived at the same railway station about an hour and a half early and sat in the large waiting room (at the moment I can't think of a better word). As I waited for my train, I read for a while and then watched the doors where people were arriving from various trains. I watched probably several hundred people come through those two sets of doors. Of all those people, I'd estimate that 85 to 90 percent or more held a door for someone behind them. Some held the door for multiple people. Many didn't even look back over their shoulders until they felt someone else take the door. The more I watched, the more I was fascinated. The door holders came in all shapes, sizes, ages. Men and women. Little children. They were white, African-American, East Asian, South Asian, Southwest Asian, Latin American and goodness knows what else. There were turbans, hijabs, ball caps worn backwards and sideways, business suits, and pants worn down below the butt cheeks. Some were plugged in, some were talking on phones, one woman appeared to be blind. Some were in a hurry. Others quite at their leisure. Regardless, they took a moment or two to perform a simple act of courtesy for someone behind them. Obviously my survey was very unscientific, but it was quite reassuring.
I can't make this brief but if I don't try to say it, well, ....
Fifty years ago this month (February 1968) my life was on a bit of a tumble.
I'd arrived in Vietnam in April 1967. I was stationed in Di An with the Second Brigade, 1st Infantry Division. Sometime in the late summer or autumn 1967, my team was divided and I was left behind to be the brigade's public information team. I'll confess that I didn't exactly warm to the task. I did what I could, but was literally in over my head. Looking back, I'd have to admit that my situation was better than a lot of others. Most of us were in over our heads. I went on a variety of missions and tried to put out a brigade newspaper.
The worst part of my job was telling a battle-fatigued medic that he didn't have what it took to be a battalion reporter (as if I knew what that was) while he begged me not to send him back to his old job.
A couple of days before Christmas I went to Division Forward headquarters in Lai Khe for the Bob Hope Show. I was glad to be there, but I was not impressed with Mr. Hope, who I thought was nasty to his staff and kind of rude. On the way back to Di An, I watched drunken soldiers thr.owing c-ration cans at Vietnamese lining the road -- there was no question the goal was to hurt those on the receiving end of the cans.ed
Some time after Christmas I received a letter from my mother saying her mother, my grandmother, in whose house we grew up in had died. It wasn't really a surprise, she was 87 or and had been in decline for some time. My mother was quite worked up because she'd contacted the Red Cross for help telling me about the death, but she'd been told they'd only get involved in the death or parents, siblings and children. She'd explained she was only wanting help in letting me know of my grandmother's death, not assistance in bringing me home. They wouldn't talk to her. She never forgave the Red Cross.
In mid-January a friend, Duane, suggested we take a R&R trip to Hong Kong. We applied and were put on orders for (what I recall was a 5 day vacation). I remember loving Hong Kong, buying a suit and a good camera.and seeing and enjoying "The Fearless Vampire Killers" My recollection was that the movie had Chinese dubbed into it with English subtitles. It was still funny though. I celebrated my 24th birthday there.
At the end of January came the Tet Offensive when all hell broke loose. I had trouble connecting with the rest of the brigade and finally gave up. I called friends stationed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base and was told something like, "Love to talk to you George, but we're being shot at right now." The person on the other end successfully made contact with me last year after nearly fifty years. Thanks Mike. In early February, my lieutenant was killed and my sergeant wounded in a rocket attack on Lai Khe.
I made the mistake of later telling my captain that I still didn't hate the Viet Cong. I shouldn't have said it. He was very unhappy. So was I. I'll leave it at that.
Toward the end of February, I was on orders to return home on or about March 1. So was Duane. We went to the hospital to visit my wounded sergeant, Dick, and then headed to the club for a beer. While there, another PIO specialist came in with two infantry buddies of his and demanded I buy them drinks. I told them to "fuck off" and Duane and I left. Like we needed a bully.
That night we were sleeping on cots in the Division Public Information Office, when the guy I'd told to pound sand, pulled me out of my cot and started punching the crap out me, calling me a coward who had embarrassed him in front of his friends. I fought back until the other guys separated us and threw him out of the office. I was distraught and the other guys told me not to worry about it. Good luck with that.
The next morning I left on a bus for An Hoa, out-processing and a flight home. The next day, Duane and Dick caught up with me and we three flew out of Bien Hoa Airport for California. We parted company in Oakland mostly because they wanted to hurry home to their wives. Can't say as I blamed them. I was discharged on February 29 and, on my own, I decided to see San Francisco.
That night, in Frisco, I made wrong turn, had a knife pulled on me and my wallet and glasses stolen. A kindly optometrist and a glasses store replaced my glasses the next day and I decided I 'd had enough. I called home and flew to Philadelphia the next day -- the in-flight film was "Wait UNtil Dark." In Philly. I messed up my father's filming of my return by coming through the wrong door and up the wrong stairwell.
The night my mother and my aunt hosted a homecoming gathering for me. Over the next month or so I visited friends and family. .
In April MLK was murdered and all hell broke lose again. On the way back from a visit with friends in southern Maryland, I was pulled over twice (once by police and once by national guard) and searched with a gun to my back.
I won't bother describing the rest of 1968, but it wasn't a fun year.
That's the Classics Comics version.
A long-time friend said recently, "I wish I could remember things like you do." I said, "No you don't. It has it's downside."
A number of weeks ago I sat down to write a letter. I ran out of stationery. Over the ensuing weeks, I looked in every store I chanced to be shopping in for some old-fashioned writing paper. None was to be found -- anywhere. I know I could probably find some on the internet from a specialty business of some kind and have it shipped to me, but it turned into a matter of principle -- an innocent crusade..
Today, I stopped in a professional card shop -- more than a few aisles of greeting cards. I asked the clerk, if they had any writing paper. She looked at me as if I'd just been returned to earth after an alien kidnapping. She asked the other clerk. "We used to carry some, but we haven't for a while. I'm sorry" At least she didn't say "Sorry about that" -- which I hate.
How can I be the last letter writer in America. I don't do it often at all, but I didn't think I would be the last holdout. there I was asking for something no one needed anymore. Why not just ask for a buggy whip? Talk about depressed.
Then miracle or miracles, I was going through a box of other things and there was the remnants of some old stationery. It doesn't match or even Quixotically contrast with what I started the letter on, so I'll probably start over.
I guess I'm just that old.
Dang.
In the face of seemingly endless tragic and difficult news, I'll go ahead with my own personal highlights.
Sometimes good things happen and bright lights shine when you're not expecting them.
On Wednesday afternoon, walking along Baltimore's North Avenue I saw a bright light approaching me. It was my friend Madeline McConnell. I haven't seen Maddie for seems like a good long while. I didn't even know she was still in Baltimore and, there she was, smiling at me and walking toward me. We hugged, talked and laughed for a few minutes, but we were both on our way to other things and had to go our own way. I don't have words to say how happy I was to see her.
Let me add, we are more than fifty years between our ages. We met on the dance floor. She was a college student. I was an old guy. We became friends. Not too many years ago, she won a Halloween costume contest dressed as me. (That's the second time someone was George Mercer in a contest. Could be a thing...?) It was a real treat for me.
A few minutes later, I found a man playing a large (to me) conga drum. I listened for a while and when he took a short break, I played my belly and thighs -- not nearly as musical as he was, but it was my attempt at percussive music. Without looking at me or smiling, he mimicked one of my "rhythms." I tried another rhythm. He drummed it back to me. We took turns drumming, without comment. I followed one of my solos with a vocal "rap-a-tap-a-tap." He didn't look up, but said, "You cheated." We laughed, him not as much as I did. I walked on to catch my bus. He continued his drumming.
Generally speaking, when I travel anywhere I tend to take along a book (or two) and/or a magazine (or two) so I can read while waiting for my next link. Over the past months, when visiting Baltimore's Penn Station, I've usually left my reading material in my bag and concentrated on watching the people coming and going.
Back in the summer, I was sitting in the concourse. Across the way was a family. The father was sitting by himself, looking at his cell phone. The mother was with a also looking at a cell phone with her younger son, perhaps 4 or 5, paying close attention to what she was showing him. A few feet away sat an older son, maybe 8 or 10 years old, looking around watching people and generally observing. Every couple of minutes, he'd jump up and say, "Mom...." Each time she'd look up with a kind of frustration, bordering on anger. "Not now! Can't you see I'm busy?" And then she went back to the cell phone and her younger son. The father never looked up.
I've been that boy.
Eventually he gave up and started watching people. And then he realized I was watching. All of a sudden, he put on a pair of sunglasses. I could tell he was still studying his surroundings and its inhabitants. And then I realized he realized I was still watching him. He reached up and with a finger pulled his sunglasses down enough to give me the eye. He then pushed the glasses back up and went back to watching, but now he was including me in his observations. When he'd discover something or someone of particular interest he'd nod toward me and then back to whatever had caught his interest. Then back to me. Every once in a while he'd pull his glasses down to make sure I knew he was watching me. Occasionally, he'd smile, but mostly it was all deadpan. The targets of interest were usually quite worthy. Once when I missed what he was looking at he gave me a shrug like, "Why aren't you looking?" I have no idea how long this went on, but it was a pleasant enough way to spend the day.
Then came the announcement for their train. The father jumped up and started gathering everyone together. The mother took the younger boy by the hand and dragged him toward the door to the tracks. Both parents told the boy to hurry up. Just as he got to the door, he turned to me pulled his sunglasses down a tad, and then pointed at me with both hands. I pointed back as he disappeared through the door.
And then I smiled to myself. It was a fine late summer day in Penn Station.
My brothers and I started helping with the laundry probably in junior high school or earlier. We weren't allowed to wash our clothes because our washing machine was an old wringer washer and my mother thought it was too dangerous for us to use. But we hung the clothes out to dry, and later when we bought a drier, we loaded and unloaded it. We learned to iron our shirts and trousers too. It took some doing but we talked our mother out of the need to iron our underwear.
In the 1980s, I was living in a small town in rural Maryland and doing my wash at a local laundromat. As happened more often than I care to admit, I was lamenting the fact that I'd ruined another shirt by having the collar button pull off and was asking the laundromat lady if the button could be sewed back on. She said, the tear was too big, then she stared me right in the eye and said, "Always zip all zippers and unbutton all buttons. Always!" I've followed her advice very carefully over the years and the only buttons I've lost have been when I forgot to unbutton or just plain missed a buttoned button.
I still marvel at the fact that no one ever told me that before ... or after And when I've mentioned it to others, they tend to look at me in disbelief.
The laundromat lady and I became friends and we often talked about music and the people we knew in common.
Zip all zippers and unbutton all buttons. Just sayin'.
I went for an unplanned walk this morning. I was out of V8 juice and my regular dealer did not have what I needed. I went in search of an alternate connection.
While walking, I noticed several things. I was once again reminded about how many people do not clean up after their dog-walking and how many smokers just throw their cigarette butts on the ground. I also couldn't believe how many disposable gloves and masks I passed on my way. Folks: It doesn't do the public or you much good if after you use protective gloves or a mask you just chuck it (them) on the ground. Even I can figure that out.
On the way back to my residence a woman in a van stopped at a traffic light offered me a reusable bag to carry my score, I said thanks, but I've only a short way to go. We smiled and waved as she drove away.
I'm reminded of several stories that I've shared here before. Repeating myself has never been an overwhelming concern for me. Sorry.
When I was maybe 8 or 10 years old, we were riding with my father's parents toward the South Jersey beach of choice -- probably Stone Harbor. We were on the Buckshutem Road, near Bridgeton, NJ. I was riding shotgun and after some snack or another, I casually opened the wing vent, and tossed a napkin out the window.
Without a word, my grandfather turned that big old Packard around and drove back to my napkin. I was told by both grandparents, "We don't litter. Pick it up!" I did and placed it in a bag until it could be properly disposed of. Lesson learned.
Many years later, in the Army, we often performed what was called "police call" -- basically picking up trash. Trust me when I say that soldiers picking up trash did not treat kindly other soldiers who would just flip their cigarette for the rest of us to "police up." Smokers, as I was then, all learned to field strip a cigarette, scatter the un-smoked tobacco, and put the filter in your pocket for later disposal. It became even more important in Vietnam, when you didn't want those shooting at you to know you'd been there.
In the late 1970s I was invited to travel out to southeastern Ohio to judge some fiddle contests I did so, even though my knowledge and understanding of fiddle music was limited. It was blind judging. The judges never saw the contestants who were announced only by number. I was pleased that the fiddler I thought was best won each year I was a judge.
One year, at the after-the-festival party at a friend's home, I was talking with some musicians and I noticed an attractive young woman standing next to me -- rather close. I started talking with her and all of sudden we were holding hands, then we started a little (what the British call) snogging. It wasn't long before we were in the back yard where the moon and stars watched her have her way with me.
In the afterglow of our connection, she quietly said, "Do you know why I chose you?" Uncharacteristically wise, I said, "No." She said, "I watched you for two days. Every cigarette you smoked, you tore up the butt and put the filter in your pocket. I decided a man that thoughtful has got to be good in the sack." Once again, I was smart enough to not make a joke. I did say, "Want to do it again." She smiled and said, "No, that was just what I needed" and wandered off into the evening.
I do not tell that story to brag about a conquest. If anything, she was in charge. I tell it because it's worth knowing that if you respect nature, you might just reap some unexpected benefits.
I've often spoken of being taught a basic rock'n'roll jitterbug and slow dance box step in sixth grade gym class and how it allowed me to dance with girls even when I couldn't figure out how to talk to them. Those lessons served me well. I even won some jitterbug and twist contests in the 1960s.
Another element of learning to dance was visits by my older cousin, Lois (Lois Ann or Lisa as she later wanted to be called). She was about 10 years older than me and I thought she was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever see. She loved dancing and wanted to practice. My older brother wasn't up for it, but I was game. We jitterbugged occasionally and she taught me some good things about dancing WITH my partner.
This photo was probably taken in 1957 or thereabout. I think we were in the living room of my grandmother's house -- the house I grew up in.
I'm going to wander a bit here. It's kind of what I do. Sorry. Not sorry.
I was born in 1944. I was raised and came of age when the dominant path for raising boys was what I'll call "learn to be a little man." Boys were told early on that they had to be tough and strong and not show any weakness, never cry. never show the pain. Never admit that you're unsure of yourself -- even to yourself. Never make a mistake and if you are stupid or weak enough to make one, never admit it. Walk it off. Be a man. Even "Stop acting like a girl!"
As much as I despise Donald Trump and everything about him, there is a part of me that winces when I realize that regardless of everything else and unlike many others, he seems to have followed that path right into genuine, absolute, untreated emotional and social pathology. Never show weakness. Never admit a mistake. Never admit to failure and if you are trapped at least find a way to blame someone else.
But this is not about Donald Trump. It's about me and men in general. I don't know if it applies to men across the board, but if it doesn't, I'll apologize later for my mistake in a most unmanly way.
I believe that "be a man" pathway has caused inordinate amount of pressure and pain -- to men of all ages and of various social and economic groups. Not all men, but more than enough for me to raise my concerns.
To make matters worse, I often get upset when I see women adopt and adapt those "masculine" traits of get tough and aggressive and show no pain and never let them know you're wounded [Monty Python's "It's just a flesh wound"].
Our sports, our military, our politics, our way of loving are all tainted by the "be a man" pathway. "Soldier on!" "Grow a pair!" "Play while hurt!" "Walk it off!" "What doesn't kill us makes us strong!" "Defeat (or failure) is not an option!" "There is no substitute for victory!" "Death before dishonor!" "Don't tread on me!" "Life is tough, get tougher!" What bullshit.
Those "memes" (I've come to hate that word) often don't help, and from my perspective, often injure, wound or damage -- physically, emotionally, intellectually and socially. Often, the result is isolation, from family, friends, the community ... from the self.
I began to realize something was wrong with me by the time I'd entered high school. My guess it was just depression (I say "just" as if it's not a problem -- it is). By the time I'd failed out of my second college, I'd begun to feel like the cartoon character who walks around under a dark cloud. But the rules were "Never show it. It will only make you look bad or weak."
Oddly, Army basic training was a respite. There were specific chores and goals and limits that I recognized early on could help me keep things manageable. But at Fort Monroe, where I was kind of left alone to make it up as I went along, even supervising others, the dark cloud again took over
When I came home on leave before heading off to a journalist refresher course and then Vietnam, I brought with me some short articles and papers I'd written and some photographs I'd taken. One of those papers was a short impressionistic essay on my mental state that I'd typed up one evening in the office, As I was showing those items off to my family, one relative came across that essay and remarked, "Wow! Don't you think that's kind of whiney? That's an awful lot of 'poor little me."
To this day, I'm still shocked at that response. Being faithful to the "Be a man" path, I sucked it up and said something like, "Yeah. Probably." I assure you no one ever saw that piece of sub-par literature again. (It eventually disappeared to goodness knows where.)
In Vietnam, that testosterone-driven sense of "manliness" was mandatory (both via the chain of command and from your buddies in the swamp or jungle) and more than a few suffered from it while there and in the decades following. Never let them know you are frightened or overwhelmed or even tired. The Veterans Hospitals are filled with people from Vietnam and later military misadventures, who, desperate to adhere to the "suck it up" model, couldn't ... or could, but later suffered because of it.
I'd love to say that over the years I rose above it all. I have not -- Even with a marginal, though occasionally successful knack for self-therapy. In fact, I have too often retreated into the "Be a man" pose -- often loathing (that's probably too strong) myself privately, while pretending to the world that I'm unscathed and master of it all. For many of us, men and women, we've learned to keep it to ourselves. I am not suggesting that we should all go out onto the street corners (especially not in a time of social isolation and social distancing), and weep and moan. That would be awful and probably not help much. I dread the thought.
But I will advocate for a more humane approach to masculinity and femininity, to adulthood and genuine humanity. Emotions are real. They are essential to being human. We somehow must learn to not abuse or misuse them. I know I have to and I'm still learning ... I hope.
I have, indeed, wandered and, to be honest, I'm not sure if I've said anything worthwhile.
I've been trying to write about my Vietnam and Army experiences so many years ago To be honest, I'm not even sure why I am or to what end. At any rate, this vignette came to me last night.
In January 1967, I was sent to Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, for an 8-week refresher military journalism course prior to heading to Asia.
As part of our training, we were required to watch "escape and evasion" movies of a 1940s vintage, giving us hints on techniques to escape should we be captured. One of the techniques presented was "if captured and being marched to a new location by the enemy, stretch out the line on a curve to the enemy guards couldn't see you when you jumped out of the line." The actors portraying captured Americans would whisper, "Stretch out the line. I think I can make it." The others would stretch out the line and when not visible to the guards at the front and rear of the column, the escapee would get away. After watching several films, we were being marched back to the barracks in a column of twos. All of a sudden, we began to hear those at the end of the column whisper, "Stretch out the line. I think I can make it." We did and one-by-one and two-by-two, we'd "escape" the columns and head back to the barracks on our own.
When the column turned the corner to arrive at our barracks, there were only maybe six men (out of maybe 30) in the columns. The rest had all "escaped" and were sitting on the steps of the barracks and laughing. The sergeant who had been in charge of the "march" was embarrassed and genuinely furious. Interestingly, all the "escapees" had actually gone right back to the barracks, arriving well before what was left of the column.
We later had another marching incident.
After 8 weeks of training, our combined detachments of about 30 or so enlisted men and 20 officers were put on an airplane to begin our flight to Oakland, California, where we were to board a World War II troopship that would carry us to Vietnam.
On the journey, we had a brief stopover in St. Louis to transfer to another plane. It was maybe 6 or 7 a.m. The Major in charge began to march us in a column of twos across the tarmac. It was early and he wasn't quite tuned in - neither were we. At one point he gave an order "column half right" and then immediately corrected himself to order a "column half left." As the well-trained public information specialists we were, we all did something different. We looked like the "Keystone Cops" or a flock of chickens scrambling around. It took several minutes to get us re-formed and marching to the terminal.
I still laugh at the image
My mother learned to wear a safety belt in the 1980s because her grandchildren told her to "buckle up" every time she got in the car with them. She didn't like being told what to do by small children, but she eventually realized they were right and they were trying to help and protect her. She later laughed at her at her not liking to learn.
The same thing happened in regard to using a microwave oven -- even though she and her sister had one, they didn't use it, because (they thought) "We already have ways to cook that work just fine. What do we need another way to cook for?" That was made more difficult because microwave technology was just "too new and tech-y" and they had no real understanding of how it worked. And they'd heard stories of microwaves blowing up or catching fire.
When they finally used their microwave, my mother put a cup of water in, closed the door, pushed the right buttons and ran to join her sister hiding at the other end of the kitchen. It worked and they were able to declare victory. Again, they laughed heartily when they told the story and how they had too work up the courage to learn something new.
Among the many reasons we loved them was that they, my mother especially, enjoyed laughing at their misunderstandings and mistakes. It made life much more bearable and pleasant.
I told you that to tell you this.
In the early 1990s, I was at a square dance in southeastern Pennsylvania. In one square that night, my partner and I were the only adults in the square. Not only were the other dancers young, they were a mixed-up racial and ethnic jumble. They were laughing and talking and just interested in having a good time in a safe environment.
I commented to the woman I was dancing with how wonderful it was to see that these children had something so valuable to teach us and they were teaching us by example. Then I went on to say that I'd kind of given up hope of changing adults, but I had great hope in children like those eventually changing the world. The dance began and that ended the conversation. I thought no more about it.
The next day, I received an email from the woman I'd been dancing with. She was not happy. She'd been thinking about what I said and thought I was dead wrong. We had to work and work hard to change minds and attitudes of everyone, regardless of age, custom or habit. Racism was such an an active evil that we couldn't leave it to the children and the future. We had to confront it now!
Of course she was right, but (there's always a but...) I hadn't been talking about not working to change stuck-in-the-mud attitudes, beliefs, customs and habits. I merely was saying that learning from the children who seemed to know instinctively how to love, like, help and enjoy each other without the B.S. of previous generations was the path to a better future.
When I think of my exchange with her, I almost always jump to my mother and the safety belts and microwave. If people are convinced that what they have works well enough for them and for the world around them there is no urgency to change, there is little need or requirement to adapt a new technology or behavior or attitude or belief or habit.
It's all the more difficult because people also don't like being told they are wrong or that their parents are wrong or that a chosen and cherished authority may be wrong.
So much of our nation and the world is broken. They have been broken for a long, long time and it is so difficult and uncomfortable to change or learn something new or, worse, un-learn something we're comfortable with. But our world needs repair. Our nation needs fixing and renewal. And there is so much work to be done. And only so much of that work can be done by governments or institutions or, most importantly, by others. There is much in our culture that we can draw on to assist, but we are also going to have to step out of our comfort zones, our customs, attitudes and habits. All of us and not just the children. All of us.
Buckle up!
In the run up to Father's Day, I thought I'd share this story.
In the mid-1980s, I was romantically involved with a woman with 7-year old son (names withheld to protect the innocent). As I tend to do, I tried to treat the boy as if he was my own. It was fun. We enjoyed each other's company.
My partner and I took her son on a Brandywne Friends of Old Time Music train ride and picnic -- we used to have them in those days. While picnicking, I had to use the port-a-pot. As there was a line, I decided the woods would do just fine. As I headed off into the woods, the boy asked where I was going, I said I had to pee. He asked if he could come along. I said sure and away we went into the woods.
When we were far enough into the woods, I found a likely spot, said, "This will do" and went about my business. The boy decided he had to go too and there we stood side-by-side micturating. And then I realized he was so happy to be there with me doing male-bonding stuff in the woods that he had turned to face me and was grinning up at me. At that point I realized he was (as the late Gamble Rogers would say) "irrigating my trousers." I quietly said, "Please face away from me when peeing." When he figured out what I was telling him, he did so. We finished out business, zipped up and headed back to the picnic. At least one of us was rather damp. When his mother saw us, she noticed the dampness on my right trouser leg immediately. "What happened to you?" I simply said, "It's kind of hard to explain" and left it at that.
Several months later, the mother and I severed our rather stormy relationship. I'm sure the boy has grown up to be a fine young man and is probably a good parent. I hope he remembers this incident with a smile and a laugh.
An aside:
I was just reminded of a moment from my Vietnam misadventure many years ago.
A soldier had come into our office to deliver some photographs and, talking with my sergeant, started waxing poetically about how well some Vietnamese people spoke English.
"Some of them Vietnam people talk English really good!" he said.
My sergeant quickly glanced in my direction and without a smile said, "They sure do. Some of them talk English even gooder than some Americans."
The visitor agreed with gusto.
I had to get up and go outside to keep from losing it altogether.
I've been cooped up too long.
I went to Bel Air, MD, Monday. Among other delights, I had an Einstein Brothers sesame seed bagel - a rare treat. Then I stopped in the local Barnes and Noble.
I then decided to visit the Sprouts farm market nearby. As I was carrying my goodies to the market, two young women walked in front me to shop in a tea shop. One was complaining about a guy who apparently had made unwanted advances. The other woman asked, "Was he cute?" "Oh, he was okay, but he was old -- probably 24." I laughed and said "I hate those guys too." They looked at me as if I'd just coughed on them I quickly apologized and kept on moving.
After I shopped at the Sprouts store, I sat on a bench outside reading one of the books I bought at B&N. A woman came up asked if she could sit down. I put down my book and moved my bags. She took a good look at my book, which is about women's orgasms. She said, somewhat huffily, "Why are you reading that trash?" I thought her question was rather forward. I responded, "Well, I look at it as a kind of continuing education. I don't often have the opportunity to do my part these days, but it probably pays to stay current. You just never know when you're going to be asked to assist." She was not amused and, like the song says, "Got up and walked away."
It took forever for my cab to get there. As luck would have it, my driver was a kind of combination of James Joyce and William Faulkner. Most of you know something about my propensity to talk. I can't help myself. I swear, I was not able to get a word in for 20 miles. I didn't mind. He was pleasant enough, but by the end of the trip I knew where his grandmother lived, all about his acid reflux condition, and the fact at his mother had been one of the first customers when the Arctic Circle opened in 1972. Oh, yeah I also about his honeymoon.
As i exited cab, he grabbed my hand to shake it. Now I have to quarantine all over again.
Thanks!
My mother, Betty Devine Mercer and her twin sister, Peggy Devine Brown, were born on September 1, 1917. They were born at home with doctor in attendance. My mother was born first. Shortly after her birth, my grandmother started to get out of bed. The doctor said, "Where are you going, Carolean?" Carolean said. "There's a lot to be done. I better get to it" or something like that. The doctor said, "Get back on the bed. You're going to have another baby." She did and she did. And so the adventure began.
The twins were together until my mother got married (I think in 1938 -- but I'm not good on specifics). They were adventurous and sometimes mischievous. Sometimes they bickered (Oh! how they bickered), but they were very much aware of their bond, They moved back together in 1965, when my aunt was recently widowed and had a teenage son. Pete was already in the Army. I had just joined the Army. In little more than 7 months, To would be married. The togetherness had its bumps, but they found ways to make it work. My aunt and our cousin, my mother, my grandmother, and a maniacal Dalmation. Over the years, Tom and I came and went as life and necessity required. So did our cousin, Bob.
Betty and Peggy died in March 1993 on the same day in bedrooms next to each other. Timing being essential, my mother died first. And after the "Storm of the century," they were buried together with more than two feet of snow surrounding the grave. As it was my aunt's plot, she insisted that she be on top. Mom's response, was, "I don't care. I just don't want to be left on the front step."
Looking back, there aren't enough words to talk about them. They both believed that kindness and generosity, helping and hard work, laughter and tears were essential to life. They were so very different from each other, but in the long run, that didn't make a whole lot of difference.
They are missed ... but what a gift
----Thinking about the twins. My mother was divorced by 1947 -- a single mother with three rapscallions to make life so much easier. She discovered by 1950 that she could not take care of her family and still live on the farm -- no matter how much of the fields were least to neighbors. In October 1950 we moved in with my mother's mother in the row house my mother had grown up in. In, I think 1976, I received my first "Dear George" letter from my father -- not my first "Dear George" letter, just the first one from my father. He decided in, I think, 1987, that he wanted to be closer to his grandchildren, demanded a divorce from my stepmother, and moved back to Delaware.
Shortly after his return, I was visiting Betty and Peggy for dinner or maybe just to visit. Peggy absolutely hated my father. She asked, "What in the world would make Bob Mercer want to come back to Delaware?" she asked. Sometimes my mouth goes faster than my brain. I said, "I don't know how to explain this, but I think he just realized he'd married the wrong twin and came back here to be close to you!" Mom literally spit her food out laughing. Peggy became as torqued up as I'd ever seen her. "That son of a bitch. I dare him to ever come knocking at my door. I'll kill him. That son of bitch. I'll get a knife or a gun or maybe just strangle him." It went on for several minutes. Mom turned to me and said, "Why do you do this to her?" I couldn't answer. Mom tried to calm her, "Sis! He made that up. He's joking. He's not coming to see you." Finally, Peggy calmed down. But every once in a while, you could hear her say, not quite under her breath, "That son of a bitch. I dare him."
Sometimes, I'm just not a nice person.
Sometimes small conversations turnout to be memorable.
It was a long time ago and one of my closest friends was soon to get married. I was going to be in the wedding party. The groom's parents wanted to have a small informal party to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. The party took place in a rural setting. There were the groom and his family, the bride, and some of her family, and a number of friends.
It was a jovial and all-around delightful party. I was engaged in a pleasant conversation with the groom's mother. We'd been friends for some time. Let's just say she was a live wire. She was smart and quick. There were times I just couldn't keep up.
At one point she said how happy she was that her son had finally found a "nice girl" to marry When I asked exactly what that meant, she said, "Well, he's had his chance to sow some wild oats and now he's found a girl who is chaste. I avoided any mention of the bride. I asked, "Are you saying that men should go out and learn what it's all about sexually and then find an innocent girl to spend the rest of their lives with - practicing what they've learned with all those "not-so-nice girls?" "She said, "yes." I should have left it alone, but those of you who know me, know how impossible that would have been for me. "So, guys should just go out and have as much sex as possible until they learn enough to get married?" Again she agreed. "I just can't accept that. I guess you'd think it odd that I have spent the night in bed with several different women and not had sex with them." "That can't be true." "Well, it is." And then, just as the room got almost absolutely silent, she said, "What are you, queer? I believe I heard a number of gasps. I answered meekly, "No I'm not" or something like that. I may have said something else, but I can't remember. It took a few seconds, but conversations started again. I don't think "Mom" and I were the only nervous people in the room.
The party regained momentum and as near as I can tell, everyone had a good time. The groom and I are still very close friends. "Mom" and I remained friends for the rest of her long and rather adventurous life. I enjoyed a number of animated conversations with her and I hope she enjoyed my end. But that particular conversation never came up again.
Like I said, it was a long time ago
Some of you know that I sometimes have to fight depression - with varying degrees of success. The song that follows was an attempt to fight back. I'm not sure why, but I felt a need to share.
I have written some songs. I do not believe I am "humble-bragging" when I say that although I've written some songs, I don't think of myself as a songwriter. I number among my friends folks who are real (often) professional songwriters. I am not in their league and there is no other way to say that and still be honest. Some of what I've written can stand beside some of their songs. Others can't. I can live with that.
In my never-endingly incomplete song collection this is in the "Fragments, False Starts, Failures, Incompletes and Ideas" section. It's there because I've never felt comfortable with it. I've killed and resurrected this song oh so-o-o-o many times. The killings last longer than the resurrections. I truly believe its biggest problem is over-reach, trying to do/say too much, but ... This is one of the two versions that my cluttered brain can locate. I prefer this one. The song had its germination in Edgar Lee Masters, "Spoon River Anthology" in the poem "Lucinda Matlock" which ends with:
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you --- It takes life to love Life.Which I adapted for the refrain:
"When things get to where you cannot take them, Then maybe it's just time to give. You've got to live life to love life. You've got to love life to live."Alas, I am no Edgar Lee Masters. Hell, I'm not even a Henry Gibson. The last verse is a "steal" from a speech made by the late Ben Hooks (1995-2010), former Executive Director of the NAACP. I heard the speech on radio and was so impressed I wrote to Mr. Hooks for a copy.
I MET AN OLD WOMAN (IT TAKES LIFE TO LOVE LIFE) by George Mercer
I met an old woman, all worn and bent, Who'd lived through the hardest of times. She'd buried a husband, lost children too, And lived through depression and war She tended her garden and kept to her chores And she sang her way through each day. She talked of the laughter and love that had brightened her path And looked toward what the next had in store. When things get to where you cannot take them, Then maybe it's just time to give. You've got to live life to love life. You've got to love life to live. "I cannot bear young people like you, Who talk only of saddened despair. You know nothing of life, 'cause you're unwilling to live. Your failures are all that you see. You think the world should play by your rules, As if there were no other dreams. And that's selfish and cruel and thoughtless and small, And will keep you from being the one you want to be." When things get to where you cannot take them, Then maybe it's just time to give. You've got to live life to love life. You've got to love life to live. You owe all you are to the trials and sufferings of Those who have gone on before Both the good and the bad and those in between Have made the world where you live So indebt those who follow as you're indebted to others And share the best that you have; And learn how to love, to sing and to laugh, But mostly learn how to give. When things get to where you cannot take them, Then maybe it's just time to give. You've got to live life to love life. You've got to love life to live. You've got to live life to love life. You've got to love life to live.
I think it was late December or very early January. How can the memory be that foggy from just a few weeks ago? I'd gone to Bel Air for an appointment and some shopping and was waiting for the last bus back to Aberdeen -- sitting by myself in the bus shelter at the Harford Mall. It promised to be a long wait (more than an hour but I was too tired to do much else) as Harford County had cut back on its transit services for health, safety and financial reasons.
While I sat I wondered how lower income people were affected by the reduced bus schedule. "How do they get to work? Or home again? Or shop? Or get to doctor's appointments?" Taxi rides may cost $20-$30 or more. Whereas the bus might be as little as a dollar or two (or less if you're a senior citizen),
As I sat and mused, two people approached -- a man and a woman. They knew each other but did not appear to be a couple. We were all masked, We spoke, but I left them to their very loud conversation, even though one or the other occasionally would turn to me for affirmation or who knows what. As it turned out they were both smokers and both lit up almost immediately. Dang!
I considered asking them to not smoke, but instead just looked at the nearby restaurant as a refuge. As long as I was going to have a wait, why not get a sandwich? So I gathered my "stuff". got up and walked into the restaurant. I was all but empty. I asked the server if I could sit next to a window so I could watch for the bus. He sat me in at a table with a perfect view of the bus shelter. I ordered and went about reading one of the magazines I'd purchased.
After I ate, I spoke for a while with a man who had come in about his weekly pool "league." I assumed he took it seriously as he had his own pool cue, I then returned to the bus shelter, where the couple was still talking and smoking. They were both complaining about the restrictions being forced on them by the pandemic. I'm not sure why, but they began to direct their comments toward me.
I thought I could get away by being non-committal. That didn't work. I finally said, "Well. it sure is a mess, and, sorry to say, it really didn't have to be this way. A lot of bad decisions were made and there was far too little government action." Oops. That just drew me further into the conversation.
The man said, "Well, you can't blame Trump. He didn't cause the virus." "You're right. He didn't, but he's the president. He has enormous resources available and he did almost nothing to slow down the spread of the disease." "That's not true." "You don't have to agree with me, but in my view he was the one person who could have done more ... and he didn't! I knew this was going to be a problem as early as some time in January and I'm a nobody. He had access to all sorts of information that you and I don't have and he did nothing." "Well, the Democrats were absorbing all of attention with all the impeachment crap." "That may be, but he's the President. He swore an oath to 'promote the general welfare' and ignored it. He ran for office, telling us all that he wanted to do the job of president. Regardless of what the Democrats were doing, he was obligated to do the job he asked for. Heck, even Nixon and Clinton (both of whom I didn't like), worked while they were being impeached. If he didn't want to do the job, all he had to do was resign. I'm sure Mike Pence would have been happy to take over."
There was some mumbling and grumbling, but the subject changed. Then the bus was there. We boarded. I thought I sat far enough away to be ignored, but as is my habit, I was wrong. The man even moved to get closer to me. I pretended to read.
Eventually the woman got off the bus and the man turned his attention to me. I let him control the conversation. I know it's hard to believe I was quiet, but I was. It didn't work.
He started talking about his daughter, a teenager, and how, even though he didn't want to, he was going to have to lower the boom on her. She talked back too much and he wasn't going to take it. I said, "She's a teenager. That's kind of what many of them do. It's a way of telling their parents they have wants and desires and dreams of their own." "I'm a Christian and I'm raising her to be a Christian. And I expect her to follow the rules." "Is she in trouble a lot?" "No! She's a pretty good kid. She gets good grades and never is in trouble." "But she talks back to you." "Yeah, she has to learn." "I'm sure she does, but didn't you just tell me she's a good girl, who does well in school? Is she a problem around the house? Does she go out carousing?" "Oh, no! She's does all her chores and gets her work done. She reads a lot." "But she talks back." "Yeah. And I don't like it."
"Okay, she's your daughter and this is none of my business, but you just told me she does well in school, helps around the house and, generally, is a good girl." "Yes." "Why not give her a break? Reward her for being a good student and helping and not getting in trouble by giving her a little slack. She sound like a really good normal teenager." "Well, I'm raising her to be a good Christian." "And it sounds like you've done a good job with that. Give her some credit for the good things she does. Pat her on the back and hug her for doing a great job. She'll probably do even better. Talking back is annoying, but she sounds pretty great to me."
"Yeah, she is. I'm proud of her." "Well, you can tell her you don't like her backtalk, but it sounds to me like she's turning out to be quite a fine person. Tell her that too. A lot."
"Well, maybe ...." "Sorry, this is my stop. You take care and tell your daughter she's great. Give her a hug from me." "Yeah! Bye. Nice talking with you." "You too. Stay healthy!"
I thanked the bus driver, who nodded and smiles and out the door and up the hill I went.
Life's like that sometimes. At least mine is.
Watching all the precautions - National Guard, barriers, fences, etc, - taken after January 6 and up to and beyond the Inauguration, my mind automatically drifted back to the summer of 1954 when my mother loaded the three rapscallions (aged 13, 10, and 8, into our Dodge or Plymouth or whatever it was, and took us to our nation's capitol. I don't suppose I should be surprised, but what a different world it was.
We stayed in the Blackstone Hotel in a room with two beds. We walked to and into the Capitol building, ate in one of the dining room-cafeterias, and visited our U.S. Representative, a one-term Republican, Herb Warburton -- who my mother had gone to school with. I remember him being very nice, but more importantly he showed us a baseball that had been autographed by all (or almost all) the 1950 Phillies Whiz Kids! We sat in the galley and watched a very boring session of one of the houses of Congress.
I'm not quite sure how she managed it, but we got tickets for a tour of the White House. You could do that in those days. I couldn't believe we were walking around the President's House. We also visited the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials and the Washington Monument. We took an elevator up and loved the view. Then my older brother decided he was going to walk down. I started to follow, but didn't last long. My fears of heights and enclosure made quick work of my adventure and I went back up to take the elevator with the others. We then had to wait on a park bench for Pete to complete the descent. He was exhausted but overjoyed that he'd made it.
We ate breakfast at a (I think) White Castle. I remember joking about the fact that Tom and I were picky eaters, but Pete was like a human vacuum cleaner finishing what we didn't eat.
We had such a good time we lobbied our mother to go back the next year. It didn't cross my mind until many years later that it may have put a financial squeeze on her secretary's salary. Maybe she got help from my father's parents, who were very generous for those kind of things.
We went back the next summer, staying in a motel along Route 50 in (I think) Arlington.
I can't remember which year it was for each visit, but we also went to the Supreme Court Building, Library of Congress, Ford's Theater, Arlington National Cemetery (second year) and Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Mount Vernon (second year), the Smithsonian Institute, Museum of Natural History, the National Zoo, walked on the Mall and other sites.
One year we went to a movie theater and saw a double feature: "Them!" and "Creature with the Atom Brain." I liked them both and have actually seen them both several times since. One is much better than the other.
Not every one likes Washington. I love it. There have been times I tried to get jobs there (and times I turned down jobs there, because I couldn't imagine working there on the income offered). Some 30 years later visiting Washington for a number of Smithsonian Festivals, I felt the same magical attraction. I certainly have fond memories of the city, its environs and all the things that captured my brain so many years ago.
It's a shame that time and events have made it so much more difficult to enjoy the way we did.
Some of the local young people (well, younger than I am), have taken to a kind of hearty party in the local gazebo on pleasant evenings. Alcohol (and who knows what else) is involved. When I pass by, one or more of them yells, "Howdy old timer, how are you tonight?" I was saying "Okay enough" and continued walking. The other night, I stopped and said, "Eh? Whatcha Say?" "Howdy, old timer, how are you?"
I decided to pull out my best Walter Brennan imitation. I shook my fist at them and yelled back, "Dagnabbit! Ya young whippersnappers! Hangin' out and up to no good! Chances are, you're up there and chewin' gum, drinkin' sody pop and other stuff and, lord knows what other kind of no good you're up to! Probably usin' tobacco and other substances. You're up to no good, I tell ya." I shake my fist at them again, grumble inarticulately, and shuffle away. They all laugh. What's up with that? It's like a ritual or something.
It probably would have been in the early 1980s, though I don't exactly remember. One afternoon, I stopped in at my mother and aunt's house for a visit. While waiting for them to answer the doorbell., I started reading a card that had been wedged between the storm door and the jamb.
The card was a right-wing political message explaining why America did not need an Equal Rights Amendment. As part of the message it explained that the ERA was unnecessary because the U.S. already had a variety of other laws that solved an allegedly non-existent problem: Various Civil Rights laws from previous decades, the Voting Rights Act, even the 19th Amendment.
By the time the twins answered the door, I was lit up as only I can get. By the time I reached the dining room I was on full blast -- using what my mother called "all the words rather colorfully." My aunt asked why I was so angry. I showed her the card. She again asked why I was so angry. I then told them that, "Every damned law these jerks say makes the ERA unnecessary they not only voted against, They actually said that all those laws were unnecessary too.. What bullshit!!!!
Anyone who knows me even a little knows that when I get started, I'm not easy to stop. I eventually ran out of steam.
I tell this story, not to show how radical or liberal I am. There are those who would suggest I'm not radical or liberal enough. And, of course, those who think I'm some kind of Trotskyite subversive just asking for an axe to the head. Take your pick.
I tell the story, because even 40 years later the bastards are still using the same strategy, the same line of bullshit. The same, "We don't need it because we already have enough laws protecting citizens" -- while at the same time pushing cookie-cutter legislations in almost every state that is designed solely to make sure those of us who are not them remain second class citizens.
And I'm still p-o'd! I hope you are too.
EXAMPLE:
George Mercer
June 27, 2017
From 1988 into the mid-1990s, I wrote an occasional commentary column for the APG News under the label :"Out of My Mind." I was fortunate to have a series of editors and a boss who permitted and encouraged my verbal wanderings. I ran across this meandering today.
Music, friendship make the good life
by George Mercer, May 4, 1994
It's late, after midnight. I'm somewhere in Chester County, Pa.
Seated on two small benches in the middle of the living room, a fiddler and a banjo player begin playing. The tune is an Irish one. I don't know the name, but I first heard it sung in Gaelic some 30 years ago. The players call it "The Rose Tree", but I won't find that out until later. For now, it's just an Irish-sounding tune.
There are about 20 of us crowded into a farm house. Most of us have just come from a square dance, the type of community dance where ages, tastes and pedigree have no bearing.
At the dance, I'd been impressed with the mix of people -- aged 6 to 60, pre-driving age teenagers, small children and grandparents, grunge, post-hippie and preppy, blue- and white-collar, single, married and other. The band and caller were excellent and nary a dance passed without the entire floor being filled with smiling faces and happy feet. Many of the dancers were musicians in their own right and after restoring the hall to its uninhabited state, they've gather for some late night picking, listening and general camaraderie.
On the couch, one couple is reviewing another's vacation pictures. Some of the children have disappeared upstairs for coloring books and games. A few of the children have requested, no, demanded, that they be allowed to stay downstairs. At a table, three women are looking at a magazine or catalog or something. A few people are nibbling on snacks, and drinking a beer or iced tea. Most are just talking.
A second fiddler, then a third, join the players. Then a guitarist and a banjo-ukulele player join in. The next tune is "The Turkey Shag." Then "Turkey in the Corncrib." Between tunes introductions are made. Someone says, "It's a good night for 'turkey tunes.'"
The aroma of a baking cherry pie escapes from the kitchen. And in the corner a young mother, who earlier had danced with a not-so-small child on her hip, now appears to be dozing. She's smiling and her head moves almost imperceptibly to the music.
A man who I'd shared a stage with 20 years ago offers me his guitar and pulls out a fiddle. "You should always have your instrument with you. You never know when we might start playing." I recognize some of the tunes. Others are as new as tomorrow to me. I don't quite make all the chord changes, so I'm grateful there is another guitar player for me to watch.
There are now six fiddlers and people are arriving and leaving.
During a break in the music, slices of cherry pie are distributed.
"It's Amish. My neighbor gave it to me," says a voice from the kitchen.
Some of the children from upstairs have come down for pie. They quietly get into chairs and listen to the almost seamless tapestry of tunes.
As "The Arkansas Traveler" begins, I pause to think how fortunate I am. My world is not perfect. It's not even close. Still, it is filled with music and art and literature and history and nature and food and, especially, people. It has its share of pleasures, horrors, absurdities and tragedies, and general ups and downs.
I don't expect other people to be overcome the way I am when I hear Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony", Miles Davis' "So What!", or an old fiddle tune like "Ragtime Annie", but I hope they do have their own special treats that quicken their pulse. I don't expect everyone to share my exhilaration when listening to Puccini or watching basketball or eating apple pie, but I am saddened by the thought that there are people whose life circumstances are not a whole lot different than mine, who have not learned that life requires living and not a whole lot else.
I am, indeed, fortunate. In fact, at this late date I think my greatest regret at being single at age 50 is that I often feel frustrated that I am not sharing these joys with someone else.
As I look around the room, a new tune begins -- "The Fiddler's Reel." The young mother is now standing in another corner dancing a lazy clog dance. A child stands near her feet imitating her. It's not a bad imitation. The mother smiles down and pats the child's head. I don't know if it's her child. I guess it doesn't make any difference.
It's now well after 2 a.m.. I'm very tired and my fingers hurt. I give back the guitar, thank the host, say farewells to those who are still awake. On the porch, I listen to the strains of "Ragtime Annie" and then turn to my car.
As I pull out of the long driveway and try to figure out which direction home is, I smile to myself. Yes, I am very fortunate. Every once in a while I forget and become absorbed in the physical, emotional and social aches and pains that come with being 50, neurotic and alive in the last years of a lame duck century. It's good to be reminded of the pleasures, great and small. I start to whistle "The Rose Tree" and turn toward home.
Postscript 2017 -- This was a long time ago. It was shortly before I dove full speed ahead into music and dance. A few years later, I was fortunate enough to become a partner in a romantic relationship where my partner and her children embraced many of my obsessions and although the relationship ended more than a decade ago, I am still close to the children (now very much adults) and friendly with my former partner. Shortly after this column, I stopped writing them -- in part because my job changed and I was just too busy and I discovered my columns were becoming more strident and I didn't want to share that stridency with readers. I'm now a good bit older than 50 and somewhat worse for the wear, but I still believe life requires that we live it actively. And if we get close to that we have accomplished something of value.
Thanks.
We have put people on the moon, successfully transplanted hearts, and produced plastics that will last a gazillion years. There is no need for me to ever iron again. If a garment label says "Wash and Wear" or "Permanent Press," I'm assuming it's permanent press and wash and wear. If something requires special care, I take it to a professional. I owned and used an iron for many years. It got lost in one of the many many shuffles. Hooray!
My mother taught us how to wash and dry clothes ... and how to iron them. She (and her mother) still did the bulk of it, but we were required to help or do it ourselves. One day we realized she was ironing underwear. When I asked who would actually see our neatly ironed underwear, she paused and then shrugged. That was the end of underwear ironing in our family. Let that be a lesson to you.
Communication is a lot more difficult than most of us let on or understand. First, and perhaps most important, the bedrock of communication is listening. That being said, clarity of expression is also essential. Here's a good/bad example of how things can go sideways.
In 2010 (or was it 2009), the building where our office was located was scheduled to be torn down. (It needed to go.) Where to put us? The decision was made to locate us in the Garrison Headquarters Building on the second floor. Although the space allocated for my team proved in many ways to be inadequate or inappropriate (it separated us from each other and was not conducive to team-work and while it gave me more immediate access to the.command group, it also gave the commander more immediate access to me and my staff -- which from my perspective was disastrous.) But things happen and my team had been bounced around more than a few times according to the whims of planners and decisions-makers -- usually with little consideration for what it took for us to do our jobs successfully (more on that some other time). As usual we made do with our circumstance and location.
When I say we were on the second floor, it was a way up...many steps from the parking lot to our new home. There was an elevator, which I chose to ignore and which, Unfortunately, I also encouraged my staff to ignore as well. I honestly thought we'd all be better off walking up those long stairs. Little did I realize that I had phrased my suggestion carelessly and my team had interpreted what I'd said as a directive to not use the elevator.
While I was pleased that we all usually walked up the steps, little did I know that my team considered it, I'm not sure what word to use, a burden. One day one of the gang made a casual remark about me forcing them to trudge up and down the steps. I couldn't believe that I, a professional communicator, had bungled such a simple thing. I still can't believe it. Sometimes we just don't pay enough attention to what we say and how we say it. I'm still embarrassed.
Back in the late 1980s, I'd been in my new job as a Army public affairs specialist for a few months when some of the women in the office approached me and asked me if I'd mind taking a sex survey they'd found in a magazine. I agreed.
Among the questions I remember answering was "How do you rate yourself as a lover?" I answered, "There are those I've enjoyed more."
They also asked, "How often do you have sex?" I started counting on my fingers and when I reached 8 or 9, I asked, "Does this have to be with other people?"
I was told I was never going to be asked to participate in a survey again.. I don't remember the rest of the questions or my answers.
I mentioned the other day interviewing for a Planned Parenthood job in 1971. I was interviewed by a committee. I don't remember how many people sitting at a long table. At one point the county welfare director asked me, "What is your ambition?" I was stumped.
"I'm not sure I have an ambition," I said -- playing for time. You could see the welfare dude sitting straight up ready to write me off. He asked me to explain.
"Well, I guess my ambition is to have a job I can do well, that pays me enough money so that I can pay my bills and afford my life. I want a job where I feel like I'm doing something worth doing and that leaves me with enough time and energy at the end of the day to live the rest of my life. I think that's enough. If by ambition you mean do I want your job in five years, well, I guess I don't have that kind of ambition. I'm sorry." The welfare guy squirmed. My future boss said, "Good answer. Any other questions." There were none.
The next day I was invited to the agency's office for a second interview and my future boss started the interview with, "That was a really good answer to the ambition question."
Thank goodness he asked me to explain. Looking back, that was always been my occupational ambition. Short of becoming a benevolent dictator or philosopher king ... And I never really wanted those positions anyway.
Tales from the bachelor life.
I believe I've told this before. It landed in my brain again yesterday while shopping in a hardware store.
I lived in Arden, Delaware, from January 1976-September 1978. I'm not quite sure who was responsible, but the house I lived in was surrounded by wonderful plants. There were at least seven wildflower patches, a flowery trellis and the back yard was surrounded by alternating red and white azalea bushes. The roadside was festooned with forsythia and firethorn. There was a magnolia, dogwood, a maple or two, a red maple, pachysandra and day lilies, a rhododendron, and other assorted greenery. Adding to the wonderful vegetative chaos, I planted a number of rose bushes (the terrorists of the plant world), and a vegetable garden,
I really made the effort to keep up the splendor. On weekdays, I'd come home from work, have a beer or two and spend the evenings tending to the flora. During baseball season I'd listen to Phillies' games.
It became apparent that my vegetable garden attracted the attention of a variety of avian other visitors, feasting on the bounty I had hoped to save for myself, my family and friends. I was annoyed.
One day I made a scarecrow. I took some old, worn clothes and stuffed them with leaves and such. I hung it from a pole and it swayed in the breeze. It helped.
In those days, I drank a good bit of beer and one summer evening after consuming a tad more than I should have, I came home, parked my car and started to go into the house. As I was unlocking my back door, I was surprised when I detected a movement over my shoulder. It was my scarecrow buddy. You've heard tell of a heart wanting to leap out of its body. That was me. I was lucky my bejabbers were the only things that were scared out of me. I sobered up immediately and within a few moments was able to laugh at my sudden fright. That being said, going to sleep took a little more concentration than usual.
In 1978, I left Arden to attend graduate school. On several occasions in the 1980s, after I moved to Maryland, I did a little gardening -- for food and decoration, but eventually moved on to other things.
I never made another scarecrow though.
Sometimes funny things from the past pop into my mind.
In the early 1990s, the "boss" decided (rightly) that the members of the office staff should rotate from team to team periodically to learn as much as possible about what the entire office did. I was moved to the media relations team. I should explain that my fellow team members were probably the most creatively funny people I'd ever work with. They also were very, very good at their jobs. Our team leader was John. He knew his job and could be counted to find something funny in most situations. The other members of the team were Karen and Lynn. They both number among the smartest, quickest and most outrageously funny people I've ever known, To his credit, the "boss" pretty much left us to out jobs and even took more than little mocking abuse from us. Not so the office supervisor, who always seemed curiously out of place.
One day I got a speeding ticket on post -- actually a warning. But I knew my supervisor would be notified. On returning to the office, I walked in and told him he'd be getting notified of my infraction. He smiled and gave me a mini-lecture on how proud he was of me and my adult approach to my offense. A week or so later, after the leadership team had finished their periodic weekly meeting, the supervisor walked over to me desk, winked at me and said, "Watch how I handle this. It's a teaching moment." He had the letter telling him officially that I'd been warned about speeding.
He called John over to my desk, handed him the letter, told him that I'd told him in advance that he'd be getting the letter and said "What do you think?" "John grinned and said, as if he was a nun punishing a 6th grader, "George, you've been a bad boy. You'll have to be punished. Put out your hand. He then picked up a ruler and smacked the back of my hand. The smack was about as light as it could be and I giggled. He smacked my hand a few times more, until finally, the supervisor interrupted him and said, "No! I want to give him credit for telling me he made a mistake," John just stayed in character and smacked my hand again. "We all make mistakes, but you have to learn." By this time I was laughing out loud. So was John. The supervisor was not accepting the joke. He took the letter back and said very directly, "George, you deserve credit for owning up to your mistake." He turned and walked away miffed. I was laughing uncontrollably and John was just beginning to figure out that he'd misjudged the mood. We laughed for long enough that the other members of the team asked us what was going on.
In fact, when I thought of this incident this afternoon, I started laughing all over again. I probably always will. As we go through life, it is indeed a wonderful thing to be surrounded by people who can make us smile and laugh -- even in dubious circumstances.
I worked for the Army for more than 30 years. (I also worked for the VA for 3 years. I worked for the state of Delaware for nearly 5 years and a private agency dependent on government grants for two years -- but I only have so much time and space, so I'll stick to the Feds). During those years, I found almost all my co-workers to be intelligent, decent, hard-working, honest, thoughtful, dedicated, problem-solving workers. As a Fed I worked with public affairs professionals, environmental professionals, scientists, auditors, logisticians, lawyers, doctors, nurses, medical techniciansand pharmacists, emergency responders scientists, police officers, firefighters, naturalists, resource managers, chaplains, EEO professionals, maintenance folks, recreation and welfare professionals, intelligence and security specialists, commanders, administrators, clerical staff of all kinds, cooks and bottle-washers, mechanics, planners audio-visual specialists, computer hardware and software specialists, postal workers, mathematicians and statisticians, musicians, soldiers, sailors, marines, coast guard and members of the air force. They were all over the map politically and philosophically -- conservative, liberal, socialist (me), libertarian, authoritarian, uncommitted. They were Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Shinto, Wiccans, Unitarians, Atheists, Agnostics, secularists, a Jain or two, some polytheists and and a few who didn't care at all.
While there was occasional waste, it certainly was no worse than what I saw in private industry and commerce -- where there seemed to be little thought for the customer, the general public, the earth or the future . Indeed, I saw much more waste coming from efficiency experts and bean-counters who regularly insisted on making government "more like a business."
There is hardly a day that goes by that I don't reflect on how fortunate I was (am) to have worked with so many people who were dedicated to applying their work lives to fulfilling the promise of the Preamble to the Constitution for all Americans.
So many real public servants. I'm grateful
It is real easy to kick "Bureaucrats." It is rarely a worthy kick.
In late February or early March 1988, I began a new job in the Aberdeen Proving Ground Pubic Affairs Office. When I arrived I was ushered into the new boss' office - he'd arrived two weeks before me. He asked what I was going to be doing. I told him I had no idea, but I didn't want to work on the newspaper. A few hours later, I took my place as a reporter on the newspaper. As I found my journalistic footing, it turned out to be a good thing. I'd forgotten I knew how to write at least a little bit and soon was doing very well at it. Among my chores was to write occasional commentaries - sometimes on assignment. Sometimes as I chose. The other day, while trying to make my way through the clutter that is my life, I came across a collection of these commentaries that were always printed under the heading of "Out of my head". I'll be sharing a few of them as time goes on.
Steal some pleasure from nature (March 16, 1989)
I had to laugh.
I was on my way into the Quarterly Prayer Breakfast, walking alongside two young soldiers. All of a sudden, one of the soldiers bolted, ran a few steps and slid gracefully across a patch of lawn glazed with ice.
No sooner had he jolted back onto the pavement than his friend followed suit. Had I not been carrying a camera, I would have joined them. The lure of sliding on ice is almost overwhelming, even for a 45-year old, pseudo-matuure man who is out of shape.
On the way back to my car I watched three officers traverse the iced grassy plot with the same youthful exuberance. Although they looked over their shoulders when they completed their slide, apparently wondering if anyone important had seen them. Or maybe they were just looking back to see if it was safe to do it again.
Walking to my office a few minutes later, I caught myself walking through the parking lot in such a way so that I could crack some of the ice. This is an activity I catch myself doing regularly, When I see ice I have an uncontrollable urge to walk on it, just to hear it crack. I suspect I'm not alone. Just as the sliding soldiers were not alone. Most of us are prone to snatch a moment of pleasure from nature when we can - putting our hand out a window in a moving car to feel it pummeled by the wind, letting our fingers cut the water while riding in a boat, skipping stones across water,
Perhaps it is a remnant of our youth that serves to remind us that we are part of the world, that nature is indeed our mother. And our father. Maybe it's just a piece of resident immaturity that most of us are lucky enough to be able to cling to. Whatever its origin, it is a precious thing - a joy and sense of wonder.
It is a joy, I think, we share with other animals. Now this is my opinion; I have no scientific documents to back it up, but I believe that anyone who has watched a mockingbird or a jay screeching on a fence post or a gull on a pier has watched more than a mere declaration of territoriality, more than a mating call or a warning of danger. While all those things may be important, I will always believe that birds, like people, sometimes just make noise because they enjoy hearing themselves, just because they can.
I watched this "pleasure principle" in action this past week over by Spesutie Narrows. On a particularly blustery morning, far too cold for just "hanging out" (even for a bird), a group of 10, or so, gulls took turns getting into position to ride gusts of wind up and then backward across the causeway. The drafts would push them backward some 30 or 40 yards until the birds would drop down and fly with some difficulty back to the area where the wind would again pick them up. There they would hover low over the bay until their turn came to ride the drafts. It appeared to me that these birds could have flown in any number of directions at any time. A number of them did. But these just waited, stretched out their wings and went along for the ride, in the same way those soldiers took advantage of the moment to steal more pleasure from nature by sliding on the ice.
Long live such stolen moments. If this be immaturity, long may it thrive. May we all enjoy it for a long time to come. I know that I intend to.
I took myself out to dinner this evening. It was more than pleasant enough. I read, watched a little basketball on television and when my server approached me after I was done, she said, "Someone else has paid your bill. Thank you and have a good rest of your evening." Generally speaking, I don't look any kind of horse in the mouth -- especially a gift horse. So I thanked my server and asked her to thank my benefactor(s). Only when I got ready leave did I realize that without a bill to pay with my credit card, I had no way to leave a gratuity. I was perplexed and without a solution. I literally have no idea why someone helped me. For a moment I thought is was because my extreme good looks and delightful personality, but it only took a moment for me to get that thought out of my head.
What made the whole chain of events even more confusing was that this was the third time in about two months this has happened. I literally have no idea who my benefactor(s) may be, All I can do is, as they say, "pay it forward" and attempt to be deserving of being a giver.
From my perspective , it is necessary to try to understand that I do not accept or believe in concepts like "karma" or "what goes around, comes around" or "a gift of grace" or any such thing. Things do not happen for a purpose. Things happen for reasons ... and those are entirely different concepts. In terms of the universe itself, it's busy doing gazillions of other things, incredibly large and infinitesimally small. We're not important enough -- individually, collectively, culturally or as a species or planet to warrant being singled out.. We just aren't. The universe has other things to do.. On a cosmic scale, we need to get over ourselves.
On that cosmic scale, perhaps, the fact that we're insignificant confers a kind of casual universal grace rooted in the idea that the universe cares not a whit about our successes or failures. And that leads us to not being indifferent in the same way the universe is indifferent to us. We have to create and drive our own self-made purpose based on our humanity or we just merely struggle hopelessly with no sense of direction, past, present or future.
That's all, perhaps, too philosophical on a Saturday night in late February, but that's what happens when people help me.
Have a good tonight and tomorrow and try to be worth of being a giver.
When I saw Peggy Seeger at the Mainstay in Rock Hall, MD, last week she read this poem by Galway Kinnell. I thought is quite nice. I guess it's a poem. I mean Kinnell is a poet.
We're all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you've been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there's no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn't until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems-the ones that make you truly who you are-that we're ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you're looking for. You're looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person-someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, "This is the problem I want to have."
I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way. Let our scars fall in love.
We grew up playing board games, card games and putting together puzzles. We were still playing them into the early 1980s. I often miss those days - especially now when getting together has become all but impossible.
In the early 1970s in New Concord, OH, my friend, Cheri, taught us a game she called "The Dictionary Game." It was later formalized and commercialized as "Balderdash." At least I think it was.
The basics of the game were simple enough. Use a good dictionary (We always used "Mrs. Byrne's Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure and Preposterous Words" compiled by Josefa Heifetz Byrne.). Each person gets a turn to be "it". "It" finds a word they think will stump the others. The person tells the group what the word is without giving the definition. Then the people who are not "it" all write down a possible "made up" definition and they turn in their definitions to the person who is "it", who has written down the real definition. Then each definition, including the real one, is read to the group and each player votes for the definition they think is correct. If you guess the real definition, you get a point. You get a point for each person who votes for your definition. The person who is "it" gets points for everyone who guesses wrong. When everyone has had a turn to be "it", the points are tallied and a winner declared.
I remember one friend who didn't want to play because he thought the other players were smarter than him and then he found out that often simple definitions were better than complex ones. Something as simple as "a Central American warbler known for it's bright orange plumage" could very easily be a winner.
One time in the mid-1970s, we were all gathered at Trish's parents home in Dover, DE. The whole family played, though my aunt never did quite understand the rules and kept lobbying players to vote for her definition. Then everything went downhill quickly.
Tom was it. He chose the word, "bistery." I have to confess that to this day I have no idea what a bistery is. As Tom was reading the collected definitions, he came to one written by his brother-in-law, Paul. He must have tried to read it five times, but repeatedly broke down laughing. Paul's definition was thus: "Bistery: a large ceremonial bidet used by the Vestal Virgins in ancient Rome." It just got sillier and sillier. My aunt kept asking what a bidet was. Each time she asked, we lost control all over again. Finally John Robert Mcgonegal was able to say, "In Europe, it's used to wash your socks." At that point it was all over. I was on the floor laughing so hard I was farting. Peg kept asking "What's a bidet?" Every time we got calmed down, someone would start laughing and it, in effect, ended the game.
To this day, probably 45 years later, if one of us mentions "bistery" the laughing starts all over again.
I truly miss the board games, social games, the puzzles and the bonding that took place over and over again.
Maybe this period of social isolation will help bring some of it back
I went out this morning to see what I could find. I'm beginning to feel like I'm the subject of an anthropologist's documentary of the hunter/gatherers of the Kalahari.
"Here we see the hunter after miles of walking enter a store in search of a jar of dill pickles. Oh! He has found what appears to be the last jar. Now, with victory in his eyes, he approaches the checkout counter.
On a whim, he says to the counter person, "I guess it's a stretch to ask if you have any alcohol." She looks at him warily, "Are you a diabetic?" "I am." She looks both ways, then reaches down under the counter, looks both ways again and pulls out a lone bottle of alcohol. "This is the last one. I've been saving it for a diabetic. Don't waste it. We don't have any idea when we'll get more."
The hunter pays for his purchases -- dill pickles and alcohol. And quietly, yet triumphantly, makes his way out of the store and heads home to his base camp.
While walking, he wonders, "Should I use it or maybe just put it on the shelf like a trophy?" He decides the alcohol was sold to him in good faith. He owes it to her to use it..
As he enters the base camp, he looks both ways to make sure he hasn't been followed by bandits or scavengers. In our final glimpse we watch him wish he'd stopped for some French fries. Then we hear him whisper, "No, I'm trying to behave myself."
Roll the credits.
When I lived in Ohio in the early 1970s, I had a friend who worked for a while in a baby bottle nipple factory. She brought home a sheet of rejected nipples and I suggested that they should be framed and used as a contemporary art wall hanging. In December 1973 I moved back to Wilmington, Delaware, where I'd grown up.
A month or two later I received a package in the mail and when I opened it there was a sheet of baby bottle nipples -- 30" x 30". Apparently it had been a reject. When I had money and thought it through I bought a frame to mount the sheet of nipples on and dutifully hung the "art" on the wall at the head of my bed. It was lovely (It was the 70s!). It was great fun inviting women to come back to my apartment or house with a "come on" like, "Want to come back to my place and admire my nipples?" Now that I think about it, that explains far too much about my sex life in those days. I'm a slow learner. Fortunately, after several years the nipples wilted and I had to replace them with other art. But the damage had been done.I believe I've told this story before. A post about Army tanks made me think of it
Back about 1988, I was asked to interview NFL and Philadelphia Eagles legend Irv Cross -- then working as a television football guy.. He was visiting the Army Ordnance Museum, then at Aberdeen Proving Ground, to do a television story on the Washington football team signing NFL All-Pro free agent linebacker Wilbur Marshall. The idea was that Marshall was one of the game's best defensive players and they wanted to use an army tank as background for the story. As a lifelong Eagles fan I was excited. I approached Cross at the museum and he happily accepted being interviewed. When I finished, I stuck around just to watch a pro at work.
As luck would have it the first tank the producers chose for a prop was a World War II German tank. I explained this to a producer and they stopped the filming to move to another tank. Without much thought they chose a nearby tank and I was forced to explain that it was a captured Russian tank. They then asked me to choose an American tank, which I did and things went very well, After the "shoot" Cross and I spoke for a while and the whole team thanked me for my help.
Trust me, I'm no expert on tanks of any kind, but I knew where to look for the identifying plaques. The film crew just wanted to film Cross with the tank while the light still held out. Somewhere I have a photo of me interviewing Irv Cross. I'll have to see if I can find it.
Sometime around 1975 the agency I worked for decided there had been too many auto accidents involving state-owned vehicles and all employees were required to take a Defensive Driving course.
The instructor started off the class saying, "Two drivers arrive at a two way stop sign at exactly the same moment. Who has the right of way?" Everyone answered, "The driver on the right has the right of way." "Wrong," the instructor said and repeated the question. The answers were the same and his response was the same. And he repeated and we repeated. And finally he said loud and clear. "No one has the right of way until the other person gives it to him. It doesn't matter what the "Rules of the Road" say, no one has the right of way unless the other person gives it to him."
Rules are rules. Tradition is tradition. Habit is habit. But unless you make some kind of eye contact or gesture, it is a bad habit to assume the other driver is going to respect your right of way. It is a dangerous habit. One that can get you or someone you love killed. Or that could lead you to harm someone else. Having the right of way is meaningless unless both of you agree.
Because of my annoying habit of making leaps of logic and good old free association, my mind went haywire. I realized that just about every human social interaction involves explicit or implicit social agreements. For example, when you and I are face to face, we have an explicit or implicit agreement to not punch each other in the face. If one of us breaks that agreement or even threatens to break it then there is a social breakdown that could lead to a fight or worse -- a war. At the very least the punchee is going to resent trhe puncher. This is not a Rousseauian "social contract." It is basic human interaction and in some ways life is all about making those agreements, living by them, using them, honestly trying to make them work, and even exploiting or abusing them. Those implicit and explicit agreements have to be made peacefully or otherwise, but they do have to be made.
It also struck me that rights become rights only when someone gives those rights to others or someone forces someone who is denying those rights to other persons or groups to grant them the said rights. They are the two options. Give others the rights or they will attempt to take them whether you like it or not.
Unfortunately, people with a right often are hesitant to grant the same right to others. I won't try to explain why that is, but it is. I'll merely say that history tells us that people without a right or rights usually have to force others to agree to let them have that right or those rights. And it usually is a struggle -- a struggle that causes hard feelings all around. Often we get over it, but it takes time and the will to grow, change and heal.
I believe that as we make our way along the path of history one of the things we strive for is to make those implicit and explicit social agreements with less struggle than we did a moment ago or a century ago or millennia ago. Several years ago a friend pointed out to me that my argument implies rational, thoughtful behavior by both parties and humanity is notoriously irrational and often less than enlightened, progressive or even thoughtful. He, of course, is right and I was and am challenged to find an acceptable response to his caveat. Here is is.
You are right. We are notoriously irrational and often less than enlightened, progressive or even thoughtful, but we have one thing in our favor: We can learn. It often is a struggle, but we can and sometimes do learn. Learning is by no means an exclusively human trait, but it is an absolute requirement for our survival. It is an absolute requirement for us to thrive. If we can't or won't learn surviving and thriving may very well be beyond or capabilities. And with the possibility of learning comes the possibility of hope. And that too may be a requirement.
This is a "glomming together" of some FB comments with additions.
I worked for the Army for about 30 years. I was not very high on the food chain, but still interacted regularly with colonels and general officers. One of the things I learned early was pay attention when your inspectors general, auditors, accountants, lawyers, security and law enforcement teams, various counselors and even (especially) public affairs officers raise issues of concern. Major portions of their jobs are to keep you out of trouble. We received briefings regularly from various military and civilian officers on the importance of doing the right thing and, more importantly, doing the right things. (I even delivered a number of those warnings myself.) And we were responsible for passing those messages to our teams.
There are no real excuses for government agencies and institutions not knowing what is acceptable and is not. And that applies to all levels: The White House, the Congress, the courts, various departments. This also applies to state and local governments.
There is a tendency in any number of groups to "protect their own." While that may be a general human trait -- for better or worse -- it tends to invite all sorts of corrupt and less than "open" practices. Those tendencies often lead to coverups and, well, bullshit. As an Army bureaucrat for 30 years, I learned early that when you inspectors general, auditors, accountants, lawyers, law enforcement and public affairs officers raise issues pay attention. Their jobs are, in part, to keep you and your institution out of trouble. Any good leader knows that part of the job is taking care of your employees, but they should also know that "taking care" is not license to "protect your own" at the risk of flaunting institutional ethics and good practices. When that happens you leave yourself open to injuring or destroying institutional and personal credibility and damaging the institution's ability to do what it is supposed to do. We've seen it for centuries. The idea that because you have what you think are essential missions everything else can be sacrificed is dangerous. It is dangerous on both the right and left wings and the so-called center. It is dangerous at every level from the most wealthy and powerful to kids on the corner or in the park.
We've seen it before. I'm not going to name all the scandals in my lifetime, but almost anyone who has been awake since 1960 can give examples.
This is not the first time the Secret Service has "protected its own" and jeopardized their mission in doing so. There are dangers in such "protections."
Just saying....
"Rights" are never "natural," God-given, or inevitable. They most certainly are not "inalienable." Rights (all rights) are either granted or, more often, won -- usually the result of personal or group struggle. They also can be lost, stolen, eroded or merely set aside when no one is looking or thinking about them. Rights must be protected.
A case can be made that rights are real only as specified, implied, verified, and enforced by a state, polity, institution, organization or group and, therefore, are specific to that state, etc. Being a member of a social club gives me certain rights within the club, or, perhaps, within the boundaries established by the institution granting that club the right to govern itself internally This calls into question the concept of "universal" or "human rights." Is there a state, etc., that can and will verify and enforce those rights?
The idea of the rights (in any kind of setting) of one individual or group being more important or above another is wrong and must be guarded against. That does not mean rights cannot or should not be adjusted to help the disadvantaged, disenfranchised, or those who have previously been denied. There is a real difference between equality and equity. We should learn that difference.
In the early 1990s my friend and (then) boss, Gary Holloway, sent me to a day-long training workshop called "How to Deal with difficult People." The workshop had a tremendous impact on me, on how I saw myself and others at work and how I saw myself and others away from work. Among the ideas conveyed by the wonderful trainer, were the following:
We're all difficult people. A difficult person is just someone with different priorities on his or her mind. Indeed, to others you may be a difficult person. Don't forget that. You are the only person in the world who really cares if you are "right." (Not if you are good or do the right thing, but if you are right.) Insisting on being right is a surefire way to push you toward bad mental health, ruined relationships, and a poisoned social environment. It is almost never worth all that. Life is tough enough. Why make it more difficult? Most people don't expect you to agree with them or solve their problem, but they do expect you to listen, honestly listen. Even if they don't. And the easiest way to disarm a difficult person is really listen to them. Do your best to be an active listener. Pay attention. People really do notice. You can't control what other people say or do. You can attempt to control how you respond to them. You don't have to take emotional or verbal abuse, but you owe it to yourself to be the best person you can be -- regardless of the other person's behavior. Don't be afraid to apologize. Don't be afraid to admit a mistake or misunderstanding. Most personal interactions are not about winning. Please and thank you count too. I've never perfected any of those things, maybe not even come close, but I often think back to how fortunate I was to have been in that class that day. Thanks.I think I've told this before. It happens.
During the summer of 1970, I stayed in my college town, eventually working as a house painter. Some friends, including the one that hired me to paint were living in a professor's home for the summer. One of my co-residents was D. We'd been friends for a while. On occasion, D would come into my room while I was sleeping, turn on my desk lamp and stand there waiting for me to wake up. When I did, he would ask me questions -- often philosophical, political or social. After I answered, he'd say, "Thanks", turn off the light and go back to his room. It would happen several times a week. I honestly was fascinated by the process. He wanted to know or understand something. I'd do my best to explain what I knew and that was that. Some time the following January on a cold, snowy night, I was sitting in the student center with Joanne B drinking coffee and just talking. We were the only customers there. All of a sudden the door at the end of the room opened and in strode D. With very long strides, he approached our table. Without much greeting, he said, "I'm sorry." I replied, "For what?" "I haven't been a very good friend lately. We haven't seen each other or talked or anything." I thought for a moment and said (hoping to say the right thing), "D. Sometimes being a good friend means we don't have to see each other or hang out or do anything special. We pick it up when we can. We can just be good friends and that's enough." He stood there, looked at me for a very long moment, looked at Joanne, said, "Hi," turned to me and said, "Oh, okay, thanks, we'll talk some other time." Then he turned and strode those very long strides and went back out into the winter night. Joanne looked puzzled. "What just happened?" I thought for a second and laughed. "I think D just learned something about friendship." We talked for a while longer and then we went our separate ways into the snowy night. I last saw D at a reunion, probably 30 years ago or so. We spend some time talking and then he went on to another friend. It's not much of a story, but. . .In 1966, When I was stationed at Fort Monroe, Virginia, each enlisted soldier was allotted a bed, two wall lockers and a foot locker. That was it. Your storage capability was almost entirely limited to your military issue. Private/civilian items were supposed to be stored in the company storeroom which was not accessible by most of us most of the time. We didn't like it.
My buddies and I got the idea that when one of our fellows from our squad room moved on either home or to another duty station we would make up a name and use our fictional comrade's lockers to store our extra stuff. Shortly thereafter someone moved on and we created Private Israel Wachowski. We made sure we had two wall lockers that looked locked, but opened when you yanked hard enough on the handle. In went baseball gloves, footballs, overcoats, civilian clothes, sneakers and other paraphernalia. We made up a bed for Wachowski and always kept it perfect. During periodic inspections Wachowski's area was always STRACed up. In each inspection, the company commander or first sergeant or someone would ask where is Private Wachowski and one of us would answer "He's on duty today, Sir!" Sometimes we'd fill in details as to where the private was assigned and what work he was doing. As long as we kept his areas spic and span and his lockers locked things went well. Not even our squad sergeant questioned Wachowski's existence or absence. When my friend Frank was due to be discharged, he was standing for his last inspection. After the obligatory, "He's on duty," the commander started to make his way out of the squad room when Frank got his attention. "Sir! Do you want to see something funny?" "What would that be Specialist Abbruzzese?" "Sir! Yank real hard on the handle of Private Wachowski's wall locker." The captain did and after two or three tugs, the door flew open and all sorts of things tumbled out of the locker. We couldn't control ourselves, though we certainly tried. We didn't want to embarrass the commander or any of the NCOs, but we did have what we thought was a collective sense of humor. The captain turned to Frank, "I assume Private Wachowski doesn't exist." "No sir!" Frank smiled almost with a shout. "He's never existed, has he?" Again, "No Sir!" The captain tried to hold back a smile and simply said, "Get this cleaned up and be very careful." "Yes Sir!" all of the culprits said together. As soon the commander and First Sergeant left the squad room, our squad sergeant came back in, the very picture of apoplexy. He demanded we get rid of our extra stuff and turn in the extra lockers. We did. Although it was only a matter of days before other lockers and a bed were chosen and a new character invented. Shortly thereafter I came down on orders for Vietnam and was off for adventures far less amusing. Private Israel Wachowski, Wherever you are, I owe you.From January 2020 when my brother was in the hospital having his knee rebuilt.
Weird things happen to me. I've kind of abbreviated the story to a more manageable size. Sorry. There I was in the day surgery waiting room. A woman sitting near me all of a sudden asks me a question: "Isn't it just terrible these shootings -- especially in churches? My goodness, people just going there to pray and some fool stands up and starts shooting." And then she goes on. "I blame this on the way we raise our children. Nobody is allowed to discipline their children anymore. We should be able to knock some sense into their heads." I try not to engage in that particular conversation. "Well, it is terrible." She goes on, "And stopping people from praying in school! No wonder children turn out wrong!" I say to myself, "Why me?" I try to evade her points by agreeing that it's terrible. "My, my! I disciplined my children. We didn't have any of that." And then goes onto tell me about her children and grandchildren. Those who have done well and those who have not. I'm civil, but kind of non-committal. "This here is my 9-year old grandson. I'm raising him, because his mother has problems. We're here today because she had surgery." My sister-in-law feels my pain and tried to redirect the conversation. The grandson bounces from chair to chair, begging for attention and asking if he can take a candy cane off the nearby Christmas tree. She says no. I get up go over to the tree and get candy for the grandson and another boy sitting nearby. That seals the deal. The boy now wants to show me his violent video game. The woman keeps talking about her children and grandchildren and life in general. The volunteer at the desk stands up and says he is required to go off duty after a certain period of time, so he is leaving. If the phone rings, answer it. And he walks out. We all kind of look at each other. After awhile, the phone rings and people look at me like I'm supposed to answer it. I do. "This is nurse so-and-so. Is the XXX family there?" I call out the name. No one answers. I tell that to the nurse on the other end and she says okay and hangs up. A little bit later the phone rings again. Another family is being sent for. This time when I call the name, a few people get up and I tell them what room to go to. I then decide to sit at the volunteer's desk. When the phone rings, I answer it saying, "This is George Mercer. I'm not a volunteer but how can I help you? Most of the calls are from nurses looking for family members after a completed surgery. I'm getting kind of good at it. I also start dispensing candy canes to various people and acting like I'm in charge. Then my brother's surgeon walks, asks why I'm at the desk, tells my sister-in-law the surgery went well and asks her to get my brother's leg stabilizer and take it to his room. Shortly after she and the doctor leave, I receive a call asking for my sister-in-law and I explain that she's gone to get the stabilizer and will be delivering it to post-surgery. The nurse says thanks and then asks "Has the doctor already been there?" "Yes, and he left me in charge." "Okay." I dispense some more candy canes. The grandson has now moved a chair over to my volunteer desk so he can show me videos on his cell phone. They're awful. Finally I get up and announce that I have to go off-duty because they're waiting for me in post-surgery, There are more stories there, but they'll have to wait. (At one point I was dancing with nurses and technicians in the post-surgery waiting room. Don't ask.) Weird things happen to me, but I ended up with a pocketful of candy canes. I ate them.Fun with languages -- Part the first
I am not multi-lingual. I have the distinction of failing the same Spanish class in two different colleges. I didn't even have to buy a second book! Had it not been for my friendship with David Taylor, I probably would not have passed the language requirement at Muskingum College. Oddly enough, I will occasionally pick up a Spanish language book or magazine just to see how far I can get. My success has been limited, but I still try. When I got out of the Army in 1968, Wilmington had an adult singles thing going on that sponsored periodic dances for adult singles. While I had difficulty conversing with women in a manner I thought was appropriate, I could dance. At the first one of those dances I attended (at the Odd Fellows Hall somewhere out around 30th and Market Streets), I spied a beautiful young woman and asked her to dance. After the first dance -- a "fast" dance -- the next song was slow. I asked her to dance again and she smiled and agreed. We exchanged names and then I asked her where she was from. She barked at me, "Why?" Oh I don't know. Just conversation. Are you from Wilmington or New Castle or Newark? I didn't mean to pry. "Oh, I live in the suburbs in an apartment with my parents and brother." Great. Why is that a problem? "Well, I'm from Cuba and so many people keep asking me if I'm Japanese and I'm tired of it." Oh. From Cuba, huh? You speak Espanol." [Yes, I was a dumbass even then.] "Yes. You speak Spanish?" Well, not really. "Go ahead say something in Spanish." She repeated her request several times. The song was ending and I was embarrassed. I finally said: arroz con pollo. She grinned and said, "Wow, Rice with chicken. You're a romantic." We went out for several months. Until I went away to college and she soon broke up with me. The romance was probably doomed anyway. I was still trying to get a focus on adult male-female relationships and that would take a while longer. Still it's a good story. I tell it often. Fun with languages -- Part the second In the early 1960s I became a "folkie." I tried learning as many songs as I could from the then prominent "folk song as popular entertainment" world. The Weavers, Pete Seeger, Kingston Trio, Limeliters, Peter, Paul & Mary, Theodore Bikel and many of the now lesser known entertainers of the era all contributed to my repertoire.. One of joys of participating in that was the unspoken rule that we folkies had to know at least a few songs in other languages if we were to have any credibility at all. I learned more than a few -- all phonetically which led to pretty good pronunciation. I still sing many of those songs and there are a number of stories about how those songs have helped me to mix with all sorts of people. I stop at Dunkin Donuts more often than I should. Most of the DD stores in my area are run and staffed by people from India -- specifically Gujarat in Western India (up near Pakistan). They are friendly and always pleasant with me and in one store have even nicknamed me "daddoo" which they tell me is "grandfather." It could mean "jerk who pretends to be our friend" but I'll take grandfather. The other day one of the men was singing and when I asked about the song, he tried to teach it to me. It didn't work, but I dragged up a song (in Hindi I think) that I'd learned from a Weavers recording many years ago: Ragaputi. As I made my way through the first phrase, he started singing along. As I proceeded, he all of a sudden stopped me. Then he called over other workers and asked me to start again. I did. And there I was leading a song from India with workers in a donut shop. When I finished what I knew. They wanted to teach me more -- but there were other customers. I don't know if I should have been, but I was quite pleased with myself as I walked out into the rain.I'm slowly but surely removing myself from any post that insists I share it. If I like something I'll share it, but I'm not taking directions from someone I don't know, even it comes via someone I know and like - even if I like the post's message. I sometimes forget and slip, but I'm working on it. Life has enough challenges without taking directions from some unknown post.
I had to take my car in for a major repair today. It was going to be a while, so I took a walk and as I hadn't eaten I decided to stop into a "fast food" place for some late brunch. I decided on the more inexpensive "fast food" place because it was across the street from the auto maintenance store and I had no idea what the repairs were going to cost me. Every penny counts. While waiting for my meal, I noticed the man in front of me. He was large and was wearing a sports-style cap that identified him as a (past) member of the "82nd Airborne." He had spilled some ketchup on the floor and now was hard at work cleaning up his mess -- from the floor and the condiment counter. As he straightened up I said, "You can tell a soldier. Or at least an old one." He burst out laughing. "I made the mess. Someone is going to have to clean it up anyway. Why not me?" As we laughed and talked we started telling stories -- something I do on occasion.
At one point I said. "When I was in the Army 50 years ago they taught us to "field strip" our cigarettes. Years later I'd watch soldiers on police call flick their cigarettes to the ground -- knowing that in a couple of minutes they'd have to be picking up their butts and those others had "flicked" on the ground. I don't get it." He said, "They don't teach 'em that anymore. They just throw 'em down." Therein lies a tale. One I probably shouldn't tell. In 1976-1977, my friend David Taylor managed to snag me some gigs as a judge at the fiddle contest at the Zane's Trace celebration in Zanesville, OH. Forgetting for the moment that neither then nor now was I particularly qualified to judge fiddle contests, this "gig" led to several adventures. The night after the contest David and his wife had a party for friends and musicians and hangers on. I was standing in the dining room talking to someone when all of a sudden I was standing next to an attractive blonde. She joined the conversation and soon it was just me and her. The conversation proceeded more rapidly than almost any other I'd ever been party to, and within a few minutes we were in the backyard getting grass stains and enjoying each other's company. Breathlessly lying there in the afterglow, she asked, "Do you know why I chose you? " I wanted to say rugged manliness, but thought better of it -- as if I'd thought at all up to that point. "I watched you all day at the contest. Every time you smoked a cigarette, you tore it apart, scattered the remaining tobacco, and put the filter in your pocket." I glibly said, "Uh huh." "And I just figured a man that thoughtful about the environment has to be a pretty good roll in the hay." I was smart enough to not ask how I measured up. It pays to take care of our earth. It was the seventies. What can I say?
Coda
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2023 Sep 22
Sad news.
Steven D Epstein reported:
"George Mercer has passed away. He recently was struck by a
motorcycle (while a pedestrian) and was in rehab. I do not know if
that had anything to do with it but it certainly wasn't helpful."
-
George Mercer's Celebration of Life
Event by
Lauren Novello Mercer
and
Trish Mercer
Timothy's Riverfront Grill.
"Please join us in celebrating George's life. RSVP by Thursday,
October 26th. Hawaiian shirts are encouraged!
- Photos on a poster at Contrastock 2023:
- November 2, 2019, story of Jennie
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