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Husband, father, grandfather, friend...a few of the roles acquired in 62 years of living.  I keep an upbeat attitude, loving humor and the singular freedom of a perfect laugh.  I don't let curmudgeons ruin my day; that only gives them power over me.  Having experienced death once, I no longer fear it, although I am still frightened by the process of dying.  I love to write because it allows me the freedom to vent those complex feelings that bounce restlessly off the walls of my mind; and express the beauty that can only be found within the human heart.

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Friday, August 18, 2017

The California Republic -- Dream vs. Reality

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

Californians -- both citizen and government -- have long boasted how economically self-sufficient their state has become, to the point where some firmly believe that California could survive quite nicely on its own, outside the United States.  That rhetoric has increased in volume since the last election.  Californians, overwhelmingly liberal Democrat in political viewpoint, are utterly unwilling to contemplate being a part of a country that had the temerity to elect a Republican, especially Donald J. Trump for whom most consider the term "buffoon" to be too high a compliment.

There have always been secession movements in this country, although most (outside the Civil War) involve splitting states, not leaving the Union.  Western Maryland, for example, is politically the photographic negative of the eastern half of the state, where the liberals in Baltimore and Annapolis run the whole state through their leftist lens.  For a few decades, there was a movement to separate northern from southern California.  But to this point in history, the only state to split apart was Virginia at the beginning of the Civil War, dividing into Confederate Virginia and Union West Virginia.

But things have become more complex since 1863.  The interweaving strands of economy and culture are far more dense today.

Consider this:  There are about 142,000 U.S. federal employees in California, all of whom would have to depart.  Also, there are better than 190,000 members of the U.S. military currently stationed in the Golden State.  Add dependents and that number could easily go as high as a three-quarters of a million.  All those people pay state and local taxes.  They buy groceries, auto parts, homes, and tickets to Disneyland, Universal Studios, Magic Mountain, and Knott's Berry Farm.  The loss of that revenue stream would be a serious blow to the economy.

The U.S. government spends about $370 billion each year in and on California; $50 billion of that by the Pentagon, who is by far the largest customer for California defense and aerospace industries.  On the debit side of the ledger, California now supports a large population of people drawing any one of a number of forms of public assistance, ranging from food stamps to college tuition.  A lot of that money comes into the state from the federal government, although the exact amount is difficult to compute from public sources.  It is fair to say that the costs of those programs might be as much as three-quarters of a billion dollars, none of which would be supported or reimbursed from the U.S. government.

California carries a lot of people on welfare roles, and those numbers for, an independent republic, are financially unsustainable.  More clearly stated, it would eventually bankrupt the California government.  Those people would have to work in some way to become taxpayers instead of tax beneficiaries.

As liberals are wont to do, they would likely put the arm on the wealthy to cover the shortfall.  But there is real danger there.  States which have chosen to treat the wealthy as economic enemies of the state have discovered that those folks, along with the large corporations, are mobile in ways foreign to the rest of us.  In 2008, Maryland enacted what was called "the millionaire's tax," targeting the wealthy.  In the ensuing years, however, those thus targeted left the state in droves, usually relocating a few miles to Virginia, taking their homes, their tax payments, their companies and the associated jobs with them.  The total impact to the state when all those elements are added together was somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or nine billion dollars.  Rich people in California are no different.  If they find themselves paying sixty cents or more for every dollar earned, they will abandon ship in the same fashion.

California still has a lot of mineral wealth within its borders.  The government might be tempted to resume mining for gold and silver, along with other less valuable elements in order to create some wealth upon which they could print currency and coinage.  The environmental damage endemic to such activities should cool the ardor of even the most passionate secessionists.

Outside of the money, there are other considerations.  If the U.S. government has to vacate California, post-secession, not only will the military members leave, they will take with them guns, ammo, HUMVEEs, tanks, aircraft, submarines, missiles, anti-missile missiles (remember Kim Jong Un is still out there) communications and surveillance equipment, and anything else not nailed down.  California will have to provide its own army, navy, marine, air force, coast guard and the Californians willing to wear the uniform.  And the money to pay for all of that.  If Californians are harboring delusions that nobody out there wishes them ill, then they need to wake up and take a good look around.  

Some other things to consider.  In a state that geologically waits to die from the next major earthquake, there would be no federal disaster aid coming in.  Major crime in California would have to be solved without the extensive resources and expertise of entities like the FBI, and there's no shortage of major crime in California.  Counter-terrorism activities, both intelligence and investigations, will have to be undertaken from local resources, without ready access to the extensive databases of the U.S. government, especially intelligence from foreign sources.

Lastly, the withdrawal of California and its 55 electoral votes would likely mean that Democrats might not win another U.S. election for the foreseeable future.  Even if the Democrats California get serious about secession, you can expect a great deal of pushback from Democrats in the other 49 states.  Also, the establishment of a liberal-minded utopia on the west coast might be well nigh irresistible to other liberals across the country.  This would create an immigration crises of another kind, and panic for the DNC as they see their voters flooding westward.

Dreams of this kind are rarely crafted in a logical, dispassionate, or pragmatic way.  One only has to look at the political dissolution that was the fate of the late and unlamented Confederate States of America to see the dangers.  But the desire to stand independent is fundamental to the American character.  Personally, I believe that the costs would far outweigh the emotional benefits of fleeing a Trump-led America.  But if that's what they wish to do, I wish them all the best.  

Just a suggestion, however.  Be ready to sow what you reap.

Monday, August 14, 2017

The End

                             The vicious cold of Bastogne          The sweltering heat of Peleliu

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Coue

"To our good and loyal subjects:  
After pondering deeply the general trends of the world 
and the actual conditions obtaining in our empire today, 
we have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation 
by resorting to an extraordinary measure.
We have ordered our Government to communicate 
to the Governments of the United States, Great Britain, China and the Soviet Union 
that our empire accepts the provisions of their joint declaration.
We charge you, Our loyal subjects, to carry out faithfully, Our will."
--Hirohito, Emperor of Japan
August 15, 1945

August 15, 1945 was an oppressively hot day in Washington, DC.  The high reached 91 degrees with the humidity of 74%.  But the heat was mostly ignored as bits and pieces of  scintillating news swirled around America's shrine city.  Finally at noon, it was announced that Emperor Hirohito had told the Japanese people that his government had accepted the terms of the Potsdam Declaration.  Although the word "surrender" was carefully avoided, the meaning was clear.  The war was finally over.

Germany had surrendered three months earlier, but even during the wild celebrations that followed, the harsh reality was never far from anyone's mind that The War was still not over.  Soldiers in Europe had begun to prepare for the grim transfer to the Pacific Theater for what seemed to be the inevitable invasion of the home islands of Japan.  It would have been a horrible fight.  Conservative estimates pegged Allied losses at roughly one million soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen.  Since the defending Japanese forces would have included old men, women and many adolescent children armed with little more than sharp sticks, Japan's losses likely would have topped 20 million people.  With the high post-war birth rate, it is possible to extrapolate that as many as 100 million people are alive today because their grandparents and great-grandparents weren't killed in that assault.

There is also the consideration of Soviet involvement.  With Japan's society decimated and most of their homeland reduced to rubble, it would have been fairly easy for Russian troops to invade and occupy the northern islands. As documents show, this was in fact the plan of the Soviet leadership.  Japan, instead of the economic and industrial powerhouse it became, would have been reduced to another divided Cold War battleground, like Korea and Vietnam.

But the United States introduced what was at that time, the most powerful weapon ever devised: The atomic bomb.  It was a crude design, roughly cobbled together, but it made its point.  There would be no invasion.  There would be no heroic fight to defend Japan's soil.  The Japanese government's earlier announcement that "The 100 million people of Japan prefer national suicide to the ignominy of surrender" would be brought to fruition through ruin from the air.

The Imperial War Council, staffed by hard-line generals and admirals, was fully prepared to commit national suicide.  This was motivated partially by the martial spirit of Bushido, but likely by the full knowledge of their individual fates once they were arrested by the Allies.  In the Japanese tradition, the Emperor's authority was limited by the phrase, "reign, not rule" meaning that the Council ran the government, while seeking the Emperor's approval.  But after a long night session of the Council in an underground bunker sweltering in the summer heat, Hirohito took the extraordinary step of ordering the recalcitrant officers to accept surrender.

Even with the authority of the Emperor behind the decision, elements of the Japanese army in a last minute attempted coup, tried to impound the recording and stop the surrender.  But the attempts failed, and events were set in motion which would culminate in the formal ceremony aboard the Battleship Missouri on September 2nd.

It is reflective of the collective discipline endemic to Japanese culture that once the announcement was made, there was no more fighting.  There was no attempt to continue the fight guerilla-style, or secretly work to undermine the fragile peace.  For them, it was a simple proposition.  The Emperor had ordered them to lay down their arms.  And that is exactly what they did.

In the United States, it was that group which Tom Brokaw christened "The Greatest Generation" which fought that war.  But that was not the only challenge they faced during their lives.  In their past lay the economic devastation of the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl.  Either one would have been difficult, but the two events together created an unmitigated disaster.  And yet, they persevered and survived, and then pressed on to create the greatest economy in the history of the world.  World leadership was thrust upon them, and they embrace the responsibility.  That they were too slow to embrace racial equality was perhaps their only failure.

People who are alive today, particularly those of that group we call millennials, really have no grasp of reality when it comes to the events of those pivotal decades.  To most of them, hardship means not having the latest version of the iPhone©.  During the 1930's, most of their grandparents suffered a great deal of privation.  They lived in poverty, balanced on the knife edge between hunger and starvation.  Adults took any job, regardless of its presumed dignity.  When their children were hungry, dignity didn't mean a damn.  There was no social safety net at that time, so survival was up to them, and them alone.  The Roosevelt administration created entities like the WPA and the CCC to provide any kind of work to Americans.  Digging ditches, breaking rocks, hefting logs while living in crude shelters, those people were willing to do anything because they knew that all work was honorable.

In the movie "Bagger Vance," there is a conversation between Rannulph Junuh and the young boy Hardy Greaves.  Hardy had lost respect for his father because he had taken a job sweeping the streets.  Junuh set him straight:

"Your daddy is out sweeping streets because he took every last dime he had
and used it to pay up every man and woman he owed, 
and every business who worked for him.
Your daddy stared adversity in the eye
and he beat it back with a broom."

The film bombed, but the expressed sentiment remains valuable.  Too many of us have become accustomed to folding up when facing tough times, turning to the self-anesthetizing effect of alcohol and drugs to stave off the often harsh reality.  For the Greatest Generation, there was no place to run, no place to hide.  They faced the depression and fought back with all the grit they could muster.  When war came to them in 1941, they signed up by the hundreds of thousands without a second thought.  They fought in the terrible cold of European winters, and the crippling heat of Pacific islands.  Together, they turned back two powerful armies, navies, and air forces on opposite sides of the world.  At home, wives, mothers, and children did their part acceding to rationing, gathering all manner of junk that could be re-purposed into tools of war.  They lived their lives as best as they could, all the time with the dark shroud of death hovering over them, making its appearance in the form of those dreaded yellow telegrams.  Everyone was in the fight, in or out of uniform. Everyone faced the enemy with the same stiff back and defiant glare.

When I honor the victory of World War II, I honor not only those who fought, but also those who stood behind them.  In the very best kind of way, they were all unbeatable.

For almost six years, including the three years and nine months of our involvement, the world convulsed in open and wide-spread conflict.  Tens of millions died, even more permanently maimed.  Entire countries were laid waste.  But in the end, even that war ended.

Today, 72 years later, the memories of World War II have almost faded away. The stories of those heroic struggles are no longer taught in public schools.  And the veterans who fought and won that war shuffle along our streets, ignored by those who enjoy the benefits of their victory.  And their valor and sacrifice is largely forgotten.

There are so many lessons to be learned, so many stories to tell.  But they require students willing to study them, and people willing to sit down and listen.  It seems that we are a self-absorbed people with little time for such pursuits.  The world has changed, and so has the nature of war.  No longer can we point to a place on a map and say definitively "there lies the enemy."  While enemies are out there, we prefer to make political war on each other.

But for me, this day cannot pass without recognition of what happened.  Freedom and the ability to determine one's own destiny is neither free nor automatic, nor does it flow to those who sit back and idly wait.  We can learn that those things we enjoy have been guaranteed to us by the sacrifice of those who went before, and thus should be remembered and honored.  Those of the Greatest Generation, today I honor you, today I remember how you suffered and fought for those things I still take for granted.

And today, I thank you.

Friday, July 07, 2017

Signs of the Times of Yore

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

Memory is a funny thing.  Snippets from the past can lie dormant in the brain for decades until one day, quite by accident, a word, a picture, even a sound can unlock that storage and unleash a wave of sweet nostalgia.  It sneaks up on you and quite without warning transports you back to a time long ago, and almost long forgotten.

I don't have a FaceBook account myself.  I prefer to piggyback on my wife's account, mainly because it seems like too much work to set up my own.  One of the groups I (we) follow is one called "Growing up in Independence, MO."  This week, one of the members posted some pictures from the 1960's one of which was of the Mugs Up root beer stand.  Seeing the place was the key that unlocked that musty storage locker in my head.  We had a similar place much closer, a real classic of the drive-in era, called "Dog n' Suds."

I've lived a lot of places, but Independence was where I've spent the most time, especially my formative years.  We moved there from Los Angeles in 1960 not too long after the building containing my Dad's office burned to the ground.  We spent the first two years in a rental house before buying a new home on Mark Avenue.  Being six at the time of our move, and eight when we got the new place, I hadn't really been old enough to have been vested in Southern California.  I do remember how hot and muggy our new home town was, compounded by the lack of air conditioning, which my Dad considered an extravagance until he finally had central air installed a few years later after the onslaught of Missouri summers conquered his fiscal stubbornness.

There were those oppressive summer evenings when we would be sitting in the living room watching TV with electric fans whirring away until Dad would decide that we needed some relief.  We'd pile into the car (which was also non-air conditioned) and drive for about 10 minutes or so before pulling into a slot under the garish yellow lights which always seemed to attract a multitude of flying insects.  A teenager would come out and take our orders, and return a few minutes later with several iced glass mugs holding that treat of treats, the Black Cow.  This was, of course, the same root beer float we could have made at home, but going out, as rare as we did that, made it special.

I always drank the root beer first, then took the long spoon and went to work on the ice cream.  The root beer would have frozen in places on the ice cream, making a delightful sweet crust, which turned the vanilla flavor into something exotically delicious.  We took our time.  After all, this was a masterpiece, and it demanded our full attention.  After finishing, we would pass out mugs forward and Dad would place them carefully on the tray hooked over the top of his partially-raised side window.  He'd then honk the horn, and the teenager would return and collect the tray.  Then we headed home.  It was still warm and humid outside, but my insides were now delightfully chilled.

My memories of driving around on a summer's evening consists of a collection of sensations, sights and sounds.  I can still hear the sound of the tires on the pavement, and the feeling of the velvety air passing outside my window.  I would stick my hand out and it would become the wing of an airplane.  By tilting it up or down slightly, I could make it "fly" through the night.  Stopping at red lights, the sounds of the night would make themselves heard.  Cicadas, crickets, tree frogs; the aahhh sound of passing cars.  And if the traffic was light enough, I could hear the sound of the relays in that big yellow box changing the traffic light from red to green.  It would be late enough for me to feel that scratchiness in my eyes, sure sign that bedtime was close at hand.  Eventually, we'd pull back into the driveway.  Dad would get out and open the garage while we piled out and went through the front door.  Inside, I could hear the deep thrumming sound of the car pulling in, and the cacophony of the garage door being pulled down and locked.  Mom would shoo me into the tub for my bath, and then after donning my pajamas, I would slide into a bed that, at least for a few moments, was cool to the touch. And as the crickets sang outside my window, I drifted away to dreamland.

I think most people my age and older, have memories of the small retail establishment that populated the town squares of most places.  Woolworth's, Kresge's, and Ben Franklin are the ones that were in my home town.  Today's collection of monster supercenters and big box warehouse stores while convenient, really don't hold a candle to the charm of the small five-and-dime.  In the business district in Independence, which everyone called "uptown" for reasons that still remain obscure, there was a collection of stores in the square around the county courthouse which was a replica of Independence Hall in Philadelphia.  Woolworth's was on one side, Ben Franklin on the other.  Kresge's was there somewhere, but time has eroded my memory of its exact location.  My mother would go on shopping trips to The Square, visiting all three stores in order to find exactly what she was looking for.  I remember Ben Franklin the most because it was the only one with wooden floors.  These were original to the building which had been put up sometime in the 19th century.  They were old, so there was a bit of a flex to them as you walked the aisles.  During the summer, the heat would release a nice woodsy smell from the floors into the air, something I always liked.  The furnishings were stubbornly ancient, but on those shelves was a huge collection of really interesting things.  The men who worked the store all wore white long-sleeved shirts and bow ties, over which hung a dark green apron.  They were always friendly, making the store for a little boy, something like home.  Afterwards, we'd walk around the square, my mom and I, passing Gateway sporting goods, the Army-Navy store, a barber shop, the ice cream parlor Velvet Freeze, where we might stop if I had been a "good boy."  I lost Mom to cancer in 1982, and now I look back and wish I had been smart enough to treasure those times.

Every other Friday evening after supper, we'd head out east on U.S. 24 to the grocery store.  The area was called Farview, and nearby was the church where my wife and I would marry some years into the future.  Lew Richards was a friend of Dad's and even though there were other stores closer to home, he made it a point to support his friends in the business community.  Lew owned US Supers, in many ways a typical grocery of the era.  Big enough to stock what we needed, small enough that you could find it all.  I had the task of turning in our soda bottles, for which I would receive the magnificent sum of fifteen cents.  For that infusion of wealth, I could buy the latest Superman comic and one of the finest treats of my childhood, a Hostess Twinkie.  Thus with both my brain and belly fed, I was a happy little boy.  One of my enduring memories was once when we stopped for just a few things and as we walked out to the car, I remember my Dad grousing about how ten dollars of groceries now fit into one bag.  Now, ten dollars of groceries might just fit into my pocket.

We didn't eat out all that much because Dad would say it was cheaper to go to the grocery store.  Scattered around town were a few privately owned drive-ins (nobody as yet did drive-throughs).  One of them was a place called "Smaks."

The hamburgers were thin, the fries greasy, and the place didn't smell all that good, but it was still good eatin' for a small boy.  Another place was HiBoys.  

Here, the food was a step up.  The burgers were all hand made, and while still thin, they arrived in a bun soaking up the most delicious grease ever.  It was here where I made my first acquaintance with a treat called "tater tots."  In the restaurant's original configuration, you parked and went up to an open air counter and ordered, hearing the hum of those bright neon lights, and again, the presence of tons of flying insects bobbing and weaving.  The food, once completed, was passed to you through a different window, and you returned to your car.  The brown bags would already be splotched with grease by the time you sat down.  One of the true tragedies of life is that things that are good for you generally taste really bad, and things that are really bad for you taste oh, so good.  That was HiBoys.  Heart attack in a bag, and I didn't care.  Still don't.

On really special occasions, particularly birthdays, we would get dressed up and go to a really special place, Stephenson's Apple Farm Restaurant. 

The Stephenson family owned large apple orchards, and the restaurant had its start in 1946, opening a small place to feed folks who came out to pick apples in their orchard.  It grew steadily, eventually growing into a 350-seat institution that still brings fond memories.  Going in the front door, you checked in at the old wooded desk.  Nearby, a wooden cask of apple juice sat with a stack of small paper cups.  You could drink all you want while you waited for your table, and to this day, I've never tasted any sweeter apple juice.  We would be taken back into the dimly lit dining rooms, all smelling deliciously of any variety of the magnificent dishes on their menu.  Once seated, they would bring out little bowls of water with pieces of lemon.  We would use them to clean our hands, wiping them dry on the thick cotton napkins.  Opening the fare was the potato soup, a thick and filling piece of heaven.  Then the main course, for me, the most tender brisket ever sharing the plate with the smoothest mashed potatoes and gravy that ever existed on this planet, paired with a small pewter cup of green rice casserole.  When all that was done, then came the crowning glory of the meal, a serving of apple fritters and ice cream, and I could have made a meal out of just that.  If you looked up "scrumptious" in the dictionary, all you'd need for a definition was a picture of those fritters.  It was an expensive evening, which is why we only went occasionally, but for me, it was the best way to top off a birthday.  When the place closed in 2007, I understand that many people wanted to declare a day of mourning.

There are so many other memories, nearly all of them while making sweet sense to me would probably be boring to you.  But we all carry these memories inside.  They slumber in our brain waiting for that moment of unintentional stimulus when they will be awakened and will take us back to the past, a time that was always simpler, always nicer, and sadly, forever beyond reach.

But it was our life. And that is always something to be remembered.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

Giving Our Best to America

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

"America was not built on fear.
America was built on courage, on imagination, 
and an unbeatable determination to do the job at hand."
--Harry S. Truman

Every summer, Americans take a day off in July.  Businesses and government offices are closed, people flock to the grocers and the warehouse stores and lay in supplies from a case of burgers to tents, sleeping bags, and the other accoutrements of camping.  But whatever we do during the day, as the sun goes down through that universally warm and humid atmosphere, we gather in places great and small and wait with great anticipation for the night sky to explode in that cacophony of bright lights and booming sounds that are fireworks.

As far as I can tell, this custom was born on the long night of September 14, 1814.  British gunboats, in an attempt to take Baltimore harbor, shelled the keystone of that harbor's defense, Ft. McHenry for 27 hours.  When dawn broke on September 15, a huge American flag fluttered above the fort, stating without equivocation that it was still in American hands.

Out in the harbor on a truce ship, an American lawyer, Francis Scott Key, witnessed the bombardment and that breathless moment when the site of the Stars and Stripes pierced the fog and smoke.  Inspired, Key wrote the first words of a poem which would eventually become our national anthem.  Since then, on the evening of July 4th, skies across our country have been lit up with fantastic displays, emulating that long bombardment.  The thing I find most remarkable is that during that time, we all sit together without enmity and celebrate being Americans.

That transient moment of unity is, like so many other things, a facade.  As soon as the fireworks stop and the lights come up, we will go back to just being us.

It's hard to imagine an era when Americans have been as deeply divided as now.  I used to look at the example of other countries and opine, "Well, at least we're not shooting each other over politics."  The assault at the baseball field in Alexandria, Virginia in June was (and let's be frank) a political act undertaken by someone who had been seduced by hateful speech.  Was he crazy?  He certainly wasn't in a good frame of mind.  But there are a lot of others like him out there, balanced on the knife-edge between rationality and insanity who only need a bit of a nudge to fall on the side of violence.

Clearly, in the aftermath, there was a need to "tone down the rhetoric," to return some semblance of respectful discourse.  But across social media, and increasingly in the words and tone of the powerful, the hate, instead of being ratcheted down, exploded.  Some were glad the Congressmen were shot; others demanded that more of "them" should be gunned down.  Horrified, I began to wonder if I had just witnessed the first shot of America's second -- and last -- Civil War.

"Some of us grew up in households, for example, 
hearing that America is always right and never makes a mistake in the world. 
Others of us grew up in families that were so critical of America 
that the country was always described as a bully or an oppressor. 
In both cases, if we want to grow up to be free, 
we will have to unlearn the simple half-truths we were taught 
and develop the discernment to decide for ourselves.
 Always praising America is not patriotism. It is idolatry. 
But always criticizing America is not patriotism, either. It is ingratitude. 
The former is blind to America's faults; 
the latter is blind to America's virtues."
-Mark Gerzon

Humans have a sometimes regrettable characteristic of blindly following leaders.  This is probably a reflection of our desire to avoid blame or responsibility; if things go south, it will be someone else's fault.  Part of that desire involves accepting without question the statements leaders make.  Politicians and pundits are no different regardless of which side of the aisle upon which they stand.  If not held accountable to the truth by their constituents and supporters, they will lie -- with ease and without conscience.  In that context, followers are little better than lemmings, willing to walk off a cliff just because the person in front led them there.

The really sad part about that scenario is the certainty that the leader who took people over that cliff will only blame the Other Side.

“First, we are a nation of different races, nationalities, and ethnic groups. 
This brings us to the second commonality… we are all Americans. 
Yes, we fuss, we have differences of opinions, but we are all Americans. 
The third and most important commonality is the fact that we all bleed red. 
We are humankind. 
These are the bonds that unite us and make us better human beings.” 
--James Morris Robinson

We have a choice.  We can continue to blindly follow people who are making millions of dollars to keep us angry at each other.  Or, we can think independently.  We can demand proof, real proof, for what we are told.  We can think for ourselves; we can speak for ourselves; we can act for ourselves.  Or perhaps more importantly, we can think, speak, and act for each other.

One of the most amazing thing about Americans is that we are at our core, a compassionate people.  It is in our nature to drop what we are doing and lend a hand to someone in trouble.  And that troubled person does not need to be another American.  Whenever a disaster happens someplace on this planet, someone will park an empty semi trailer outside a WalMart or someplace similar, and Americans, most of whom are enduring financial struggles of their own, will fill that trailer with relief supplies.  The government doesn't issue an order.  We just do it.  That compassion for each other, and for the rest of the world is common to Americans of all walks of life.  It is one of the things that has defined us as a nation.

It is perhaps ironic that in these contentious times, the things that can unite us are those positives that have become second nature.  Beyond compassion, there is confidence.  We rarely believe anything is really impossible.  We are creative.  If we don't have to tools to address a problem, we just invent new ones.  We are a courageous people, not just those in uniform, but those who undertake the social issues that need to be addressed.  That willingness to stand tall and strong against the strong current of despair ensures that necessary change can be not just possible, but inevitable.  None of us are native to this place.  Those we call Native Americans are the descendents of those who came to this continent across the Bering land bridge.  Our ancestors were all immigrants in the truest sense of the word.  If we were to focus on those things, perhaps we could find that unity that has proven to be so elusive.  But I think we have fallen in love with hating each other, and that dark emotion is, regrettably, what dominates our thinking.

Gene Scheer wrote a song for the Ken Burns documentary "The War" about World War II, and was given voice by Norah Jones.  It was entitled "An American Anthem" and is a heartfelt expression of what is, or what should be important on the anniversary day of our country's birth.  Listen to the song; read the words.

"All we've been given 
By those who came before 
The dream of a nation 
Where freedom would endure
The work and prayers of centuries 
Have brought us to this day 
What shall be our legacy? 
What will our children say?

Let them say of me
I was one who believed
In sharing the blessings I received
Let me know in my heart
When my days are through
America, America
I gave my best to you."

I hope that all of us take these words to heart, that we will choose unity over division; understanding and tolerance over judgement and hate.  On this July 4th, let us give our best to America.

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

The Sonora, and its Siren Call

Giant Saguaro Cactus,
The symbol of the Sonora Desert

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

Since coming here with my Dad in my youth, I have long had an affection for the desert southwest.  To me, it has always been a land without limits; a wide open sky surrounded by a horizon that seems to go on forever.  The land is  mostly flat, but dotted by mountains that seem to spring up suddenly from the desert floor, some of which have been sculpted over the centuries into strange and inscrutable shapes.

It's tempting to call this land "empty." There are none of the thick hardwood forests of the northeast, or the streams and rivers of the midwest.  Birdsong, the joyous soundtrack of any woodland hike, won't be found here in abundance.  In my hikes thus far, the only birds I've heard have been the squawking cry of the huge Chihuahuan Raven and the somber, sad plaint of the mourning dove.  But the land teems with life.  You have to know where to look.

Twenty to Forty million years ago, the Sonora Desert was a hotbed of volcanic activity.  The land holds that memory in the form of several giant caldera and signs of lava flows.  Then the drift of continental plates began to stretch and pull the region apart.  The crust crumbled into the the sudden uplifted mountains and hills that remain today.  Mountains bordering what is now the desert, uplifted high enough to cut off the flow of moisture from the Pacific Ocean.  The land dried out and plantlife over time adapted to the new climate. The air sinks into the desert basin, compressing and heating.  Unrelieved by moisture, the heat in this region can reach into the 120-degree range, as it did last week.  But nature is adaptive, and in the hot sands, plants such as the Giant Saguaro and the Organ Pipe cacti flourish.  Sagebrush (not related to the herb sage in any way) also covers the ground.  Rather than being empty, the land is full of animal life.  Coyotes, chipmunks, jackrabbits, javelina, rattlesnakes, Gila Monsters all live in the desert.  In addition the smaller critters, seemingly dozens of types of flies, spiders (especially the black widow and tarantula), scorpions reside here as well.  The large number of venomous creatures will demand close attention of the terrain by human hikers.

This is a harsh land, not for those of weak constitutions.  The heat during the summer months, and the epic thunderstorms and flash floods that occur during the July monsoon pose dangers to people.  The land doesn't absorb much moisture, so when it rains, just about all the water becomes runoff.  Dry gullies can become raging torrents.  Streets and roads can become flooded in a matter of minutes.  Early settlers understood this, and the descriptive names like Skull Valley, Rough Rock, Tombstone, and Bitter Springs tell a history of their own.

Perhaps that is part of the fascination I have for this area.  I am challenged by the land, and yet entranced by the beauty that can be found here, admittedly in the eye of this beholder.  During the day, the direct sunlight bakes the countryside.  But as the sun sinks into the dusk of evening, something marvelous happens.  The light, filtered through the dust on the horizon, paints the landscape with a myriad of colors, subtle, ever-shifting, short-lived. As the shadows creep down the sides of the mountains, they become textured and alive.  The sky goes from blue to azure, to purple, colors that catch the eye and calm the spirit.  Once the sun goes down, the sky comes alive, lit by the glow of tens of thousands of stars you won't be able to see anywhere else.  The dry air makes viewing these heavenly lights spectacular whether using a telescope, binoculars, or just your eyes. When the moon rises, its silvery light bathes the land, giving it a radiant beauty that can't be found anywhere else.

I have developed a solid affection for Arizona, not just the desert, but also the forested mountains to the north and east.  In the northwest, the Colorado River has carved an immense gash in the ground, a place of awesome beauty we know as the Grand Canyon.  There are communities here, large ones like Phoenix and Tucson, and small ones that line what was once Route 66, with populations of less than 100, hanging on with an admirable tenaciousness.  But it is the wide open spaces in between which remind you that this is an ancient land.  Where we humans are only visitors, a flash of light on a millennia-old living canvas.  The land was here before us, and the land will outlive us all.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

The Wild, Wild West of Cinema

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

I grew up watching the west.  Not so much the actual place, although I did travel there with my father several times.  No, this was the west that was shown to me through the magic of films and television.  It was a land of cruel, if antiseptic violence, but a place where heroes could be found, and where right almost always triumphed.

It was not a day for the faint of heart.  The temperatures were well into triple digits, and some 6 visitors had already been taken away for medical treatment by the time we arrived.  After being cautioned to "water up frequently" by our guide, Sheriff Jack, we headed through the gates and into the past.

In 1939, Columbia Studios needed a set for their upcoming movie "Arizona."  Not finding a suitable location in Southern California, they traveled to Tucson, Arizona.  Already a place where several films had been done, the flat desert, relieved by the sudden uplift of isolated mountains, and decorated by sage brush and giant Saguaro cacti was a filmmaker's delight.  The company decided on a site just west of the Tucson Mountains off a winding dirt road which had serviced camps of the Civilian Conservation Corps, and a tuberculosis preventorium.  In a month, the company sunk a well, built a power plant, and constructed an exact replica of Tucson, circa 1862.  When filming was completed in June, the movie folks packed up and went back to Hollywood, leaving the set to become a ghost town.  Then, in 1946, the Junior Chamber of Commerce opened the set on weekends, setting up some concessions, and put on some recreations.  Some people did come, braving the 10 miles of twisting, dusty dirt road to arrive 100 years in the past.  During their tenancy, the JayCees made some rough repairs to the building and managed to sub-lease the set for the production of 22 movies.  Each production added new buildings and renovated old ones, according to their needs.

In 1959, a Kansas City promoter and entrepreneur name Robert Shelton assumed the lease and turned what was called "Old Tucson" into a tourist destination.  The dusty streets were lined with restaurants and stores, and Shelton added realistic gunfight shows.  Old Tucson in short order became the most visited tourist site in Arizona, after the Grand Canyon.  Shelton was a born salesman, and that talent, plus his contacts in Hollywood, brought the filming of some 112 movies, 48 TV shows, and also a lot of commercials.  Another set town, named "Mescal," a remote set 30 miles out into the trackless desert was also built.  While Old Tucson remains open to the public, Mescal is only accessible by special invitation.

Monday, June 12, 2017

The Rock of Aging

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

Past a certain age in life, the number of obligations begin to shrink in number, creating, or I should say, recreating moments of spontaneity.  Such a thing happened Sunday when, quite by accident, we discovered that Chicago and the Doobie Brothers, two rock bands who had largely shaped my adolescence, were in Phoenix for a one-night show.  It was so spontaneous that I bought the tickets on my phone standing in the parking lot. 

For teenagers and young adults, music, as much as any other thing, provides not only entertainment, but a soundtrack through which our lives are expressed.  I turned twelve in 1967, which meant that my brain was filled with the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, and yes, Elvis.  As the decade turned over into the 70’s, the music took a much harder edge.  The Beatles were now four separate acts.  The Stones, Zeppelin, Deep Purple and the Grateful Dead.  Pop now achieved its divorce from rock n’ roll with the Jacksons, Elton John, Neil Diamond, and the Supremes.  Folk emerged from the Village coffee houses and we heard Gordon Lightfoot, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Simon & Garfunkle, and Joni Mitchell.  Motown surged with muscular authority with James Brown, Aretha Franklin, Gladys and the Pips, and Wilson Pickett.  American radio stations blasted listeners with all those formats, a kind of electronic cross-culturalism.

I had several favorite acts, and a ton of favorite songs.  But around 1970, two bands emerged for me. 
In 1969 San Jose, California, survivors of a band called Moby Grape formed a new group that would eventually evolve into the Doobie Brothers.  By 1972, they were charting nationally. Their unique sound pushed through the background noise and captured my attention.  I remember when Cheryl was pregnant with our son, I would put a Doobies record on and place the headphones on her belly, hoping to entertain that developing fetus.  Oddly, after he was born, he never liked either band.
About that same time, another band came out of Chicago, originally called “The Big Thing” and “Chicago Transit Authority” until threatened legal action by that city’s mass transit bureaucracy force a shortening of the name to simply “Chicago.”  They were a rock band with horns, a trombone, sax, and trumpet, that brought a bright, brassy sound to the radio.  I was a brass player, so naturally they appealed to me.  Those two bands were at the top of my charts from adolescence through almost early middle age.  I had gone to see Chicago when they were touring with the Beach Boys round 1975, but hadn’t been back since.  I had never seen the Doobies on stage.  So it was with great anticipation that we entered Ak Chin Pavilion that evening.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

In the Presence of the Past

The Ruins at Casa Grande

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

"The ascendance over men's minds of the ruins of the stupendous past,
the past of history, legend, and myth, 
at once factual and fantastic, is half-mystical in basis.
The intoxication is not the romantic melancholy 
engendered by broken towers and moldered stones.
It is the soaring of the imagination into the high empyrean
where huge episodes are tangled with myths and dreams;
it is the stunning impact of world history on its amazed heirs."
--Rose Macaulay

I have my life long been fascinated by the past.  Whether a stack of newspapers from World War II America or a stunning Mayan temple in Mexico, history speaks to me in a way nothing else does.  Today was our first completely free day since coming to Arizona and we set out early to do some exploring.  Our first stop was a set of ruins, the last remnants of a culture of native Americans that thrived for about 1,150 years before fading from history around 1400 CE. 

The site is located outside of Coolidge, Arizona, about 20 miles from the city of Casa Grande.  It consists of the remains of what are likely residential structures surrounding a massive structure that the Spaniards called "Casa Grande," or Big House.

The civilization responsible for this impressive construction were the last of the hunter-gatherers that settled in the Gila River Valley around 300 CE.  Their specialty was agriculture, an amazing undertaking in the Sonoran Desert.  To bring water to their crops, they hand-dug some 220 miles of canals.  The culture, originally called "Hohokam" and now referred to as "Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples," thrived for over 1,100 years before fading away around 1400.  The cause for the collapse and dispersion vary -- some say a breakdown of civil authority or internal or external conflict.  But the likeliest explanation is that they were victims of their own success.  At their height, some 2,000 souls lived in the communities along the canals.  It is highly possible that the population increased beyond the land's ability to support.  This is partially supported by the thought that the civilization Balkanized -- broke into smaller groups.  It is surmised that this culture were the forebears of the Pima and Tohono O'odham cultures.

Thursday, June 08, 2017

Where We Are, Who We Are, What We Are

From Pinterest.com

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

Every part of the country – heck, every part of the world has its particular charms and curses.  These are things like weather, geography, traffic, etc…  More often than not, they are the things that a particular area is best known for, or reputed to be.  Those elements even have a way of shaping the people who live there.  The northeast and mountain west have their long and blizzardy winters.  The southeast has hurricanes, and they along with the rest of the south and much of the Midwest are burdened with impossibly hot and humid summers, and tornados to boot. California has earthquakes, and under a National Park in Montana and Wyoming there lies slumbering a super volcano that, if awoken, would likely end civilization as we know it.

Each of those regional challenges creates a bit of a swagger among those who have to face them, although that doesn’t necessarily make them completely tough.  I’ve known several New Englanders who on one hand brag about surviving a winter nor’easter, only to wilt completely on what passes for a reasonably normal summers day in Phoenix or Las Vegas.

Still, we like to think that living in proximity to nature’s examples of bad temper does make us stronger in some ways, even speciously.  Coloradans like to think that the privilege of staring up at those snow-capped peaks every day makes them naturally superior to ordinary mortals.  Hawaiians feel the same way about “their” ocean.  I grew up in Missouri, which is not really known for much.  But I’ll never forget the reaction of a visitor from Korea on a drive from St. Louis to Liberal, Kansas.  She was struck speechless as we spent hour upon hour driving through productive farmland, crops stretching to the horizon, so different from her native land.  At one point she whispered, “No wonder you Americans can feed the world.”  But despite my momentary bump of national pride, I reminded myself that Americans don’t know what it’s like to live within range of 20,000 artillery guns owned by a leader whose rationality is suspect.

Friday, June 02, 2017

The Dream, and Living It

Appalachian Trail, Virginia

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

It's early.  The night has just given way to a grey, overcast dawn.  It had been raining when we arrived the night before, not a heavy downpour, but that kind of steady, patient fall that always seems to murmur, "Relax. I'm gonna be here awhile."

We had come east from Colorado to spend a few days with family, the part of which we left behind when that heavy steel door marked "retirement" closed behind me with that heavy, hollow boom of finality.  My wife is what is called a travel nurse, a contractor working 13-week assignments before moving on to the next one.  The stay is Colorado is done.  Now, we will head for a town south of Phoenix to endure the brutal heat of an Arizona summer.  We don't know what experiences lie in wait, though admittedly, that is part of the adventure.

My life long, I've always been anchored by the idea of "home."  In my case, a structure wherein resided my family; where I could relax and be myself.  Where I felt safe. It was a place to leave, and a place to which to return, a place I could say I was from.  But within me has always been a restless streak; a strange desire to live on the road, going where my whims directed, staying only as long as I wanted to, and hitting the road again.  It's a life that has fascinated me; to drift along from place to place, the only direction given by the capricious winds.  In my mind's eye, we did this on the back of a horse, or a motorcycle, loping along through plain, prairie, and desert.  That romantic tableau only somewhat altered to the comforts of an SUV, the wilderness trails swapped for highway asphalt.

Despite this wild urging, my life has always been framed by a safe predictability.  While the long-term future remained ever fuzzy, the short-term view seemed to provide a clear path and a life anchored by a career, a home, bills -- the dragging anchor of obligation.  While stultifyingly mundane, that structure gave me a sense of security to those passing moments we all know as the "now."  The environment in which we now find ourselves is completely different.  A lot of hard work and sacrifice has eliminated almost all of our debt.  We now enjoy that wonderful sense of freedom of not being weighed down, or even smothered, being forced to delay or even abandon dreams to the steel cage of revolving payments.  In that process, we've learned how to say "no" to ourselves, trying to limit our possessions to what can fit in the back of the vehicle.

Thursday, June 01, 2017

Where Dawn's Early Light Illuminated a Nation

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

The morning rain had given way to a light mist and a warm, palpable humidity, an unfamiliar sensation after bone-dry Colorado.  Leaving the glass and steel towers of downtown Baltimore behind, we carefully drove between two brick pillars that separated the rough industrial infrastructure of the port from the red brick and deep green grass of the grounds of Fort McHenry.  

The War of 1812 is probably, along with Korea, the least known and understood of America's historical conflicts.  The seeds of war were sown at first in the Chesapeake-Leopard Affair.  On June 22, 1807, the British warship HMS Leopard encountered and hailed the American frigate USS Chesapeake in the waters off Norfolk, Virginia.  A British officer boarded and presented Captain James Barron with a warrant for British deserters.  Captain Barron refused the warrant and sent the officer back to the Leopard.  The situation quickly escalated when Leopard opened fire on the Chesapeake. The American ship had just put to sea prepared for a long voyage and her decks were cluttered with freight, and her guns unloaded.  In response to the barrage, Chesapeake managed only one return shot.  With his ship damaged and dead and wounded among his crew, Captain Barron struck his colors and surrendered.  The British removed four crewmen from the Chesapeake, one of whom was eventually hanged.  Captain Barron, upon his return to port, was court-martialed.  

The news was received in America with indignation and fury.  The systematic impressment of American merchant sailors, many in US territorial waters by the British added fuel to the growing fire.  Also, the British were materially supporting the effort of a coalition of Native American tribes to control what was then called  the Northwest Territories (modern-day Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and part of Minnesota), which resulted in numerous clashes along the disputed border.  Adding to all this was the persistent clamor among American politicians for annexation of British Canada and Spanish Florida.  While this was all a big deal in the U.S., Britain was largely unaware of the deteriorating situation in her former colonies, being neck-deep in yet another continental war with France.  So it was with a great deal of surprise when on June 18, 1812, President James Madison asked congress for a declaration of war.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Where I Want to Live

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

I want to live in a place where people wake up with the promise that as long as they draw breath, they can make a difference, if not in the whole world, at least their corner of it.

I want to live in a place where friending someone is done over a back fence or a cup of coffee, and not over an artificial electronic network.

I want to live in a place where a conversation consists of more than 140 characters.

I want to live in a place where a smartphone or tablet is a tool, not a way of life.

I want to live in a place where the television is reserved for those times when the weather is too inclement to go visit the neighbors.

I want to live in a place where people watch out for each other, rather than investigate each other.

I want to live in a place where people know their neighborhood, and their neighbors, better than the back of their hand.

I want to live in a place where government knows that the people are their bosses -- not the other way around.

I want to live in a place where people know, and kids learn that the decision to solve one's own problems is the hallmark of being an adult.

I want to live in a place where people know that the most common source of one's difficulties is not government or society, but that familiar face in the mirror.

I want to live in a place where people realize that no matter how fervent their views, there exists the possibility that they may be wrong.

I want to live in a place where debate is a respectful, meaningful process and not a weapon of war.

I want to live in a place where people are kind to each other, for no other reason than "just because."

I want to live in a place where differing opinions don't automatically mean we should hate each other.

I want to live in a place where people are grateful for what they have, not envious of what they lack.

I want to live in a place where people can sing the national anthem loudly and proudly without one shred of self-consciousness or judgement.

I want to live in a place where people prove their discipleship, not by words, but by their everyday actions.  Especially when they think no one's looking.

I want to live in a place where people recognize that a diverse community is a human community.

I want to live in a place where wealth is an opportunity to give back, and poverty is not an invitation to give up.

I want to live in a place where people know that politicians and pundits, if not held accountable for the truth by their own followers, will lie with ease and without conscience.

I want to live in a place where people do the hard, time-consuming job of research to form their own opinions, rather than mindlessly parrot the statements of their leaders.

I want to live in a place where people respect each other's journey, and don't judge the destination.

I know in my heart that somewhere, such a place exists.

Which is why I wait with great anticipation for interstellar travel.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Another Birthday...

Yeah, I feel like this sometimes...

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

A few days from today, the anniversary date of my arrival in this world will arrive.  This has always provoked a time of deep thought about where I am, where I've been, and most importantly, where I'm going.  I think that's a common thing among adults, especially as those years begin to pile up.  

I've discovered that there are three phases of attitude towards birthdays:

(1) Celebration
(2) Denial
(3) Acceptance

These phases are tied to whatever age we find ourselves.  The Celebration phase is strictly for the young.  At that point, we are happy that for at least one day, it's all about us.  We get gifts, a sugary treat (or several), and a measure of indulgence from others.  We get excited and happy, and it's usually a day to be remembered, at least until the next one rolls around.

I see this phase lasting up until about the early 30's.  By then, we begin to notice the subtle signs of age creeping up.  A slight loss of energy.  Maybe we don't have the stamina we used to have.  Getting out of bed in the mornings becomes a bit more of a chore.  And where we used to burn the midnight oil with relative impunity, now it's much harder to stay up late, and especially wake up the next morning.  It's no coincidence that this is when most of us are neck deep in raising children and pursuing our careers.  As a result, we have very little time that really belongs to us alone.  Also, we begin to sense the passage of time.  We can see the years behind us, and are beginning to realize that the years yet to come will not be the carefree devil-may-care ones that we might have wanted them to be.

This is when the Denial phase begins to ooze into our thinking.  We know that we are getting older, and we don't want to get older.  As we move into our 40's this becomes especially acute.  We begin to review our life, and seeing only missed opportunities, or chances that we didn't take that we should have.  Our conversations with ourselves more and more start with the words "If only..."  Into our mid and late 40's is when our little birds begin to flee the nest, and we discover that the thing which consumed almost every minute of 20 or 25 years of life is suddenly gone.  Those times of fun and chaos are gone, and we are left with a silent, empty house, and a phone that now never rings often enough.  If we have done our jobs as parents, then we have bequeathed to the world fully-formed adults, capable of standing on their own two feet, and making their own way through life without subsidy from us or the government.  But in that success we also mourn the idea that suddenly we aren't needed anymore.

Sunday, May 07, 2017

The Search for "Home"

Oakwood Homes, Inc.

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

One of the major steps in a relocation is finding a place to live.  Our situation is more than a little fluid, since I'm retired and Cheryl is a Travel Nurse, working a series of 13-week contracts in a variety of locations.  

Part of the adventure of being a Travel Nurse, or Traveller, is the excitement of going to a completely different place for each new assignment.  Since we haven't really decided where to live yet, that's an important opportunity. Visiting someplace for a few days doesn't really provide the best perspective. Living there for a period of time, however, gives you a chance to "try it on for size."  You not only see the front parlor of the community, but also the dirty basement, allowing you to make an informed decision.

For us, the list of possibilities is long and varied, driven by factors such as economics, proximity to grandkids, and available activities.  Included on our roster are places like Las Vegas, Denver or Colorado Springs, Kansas City, Amarillo or Lubbock, Seattle, Honolulu, Phoenix, and Provo, Utah.  Yes, their all decidedly on the western side of the country. We had our fill of the east after 12 years of high costs and ridiculous traffic and now yearn for more agreeable surroundings.  Each place on the list has its own set of charms and flaws, and some are more affordable than others.  But the most important factor is that indescribable and unquantifiable sense of "home."

Home is not so much a place as a feeling.  It embodies all the positives of safety, privacy, comfort, and sense of ownership (even a rental).  And family.  For so many, "home" is a place of memories.

I've lived in a lot of places, but there have only been one or two that met that nebulous definition.  On the road for so much of my life, when people ask me where home is, I simply reply, "Wherever the motorcycle's parked."

In the four months that we've been in Colorado, it has begun to grow on us.  The hardest part was acclimating to the altitude after living at sea level.  When we first got here, going up a flight of stairs was exhausting.  Now, we're finding it much easier to get around without wheezing and whoofing.  Lately, we've begun to explore the possibility of settling here.  The drawback, something that lies at the very heart of our considerations, is cost.  Denver and its surrounding areas have been defined as a "hot market" for real estate.  That's never good news for buyers.  The houses are uniformly expensive and selling rapidly, even though hundreds more are being built every month.  And prices continue to rise.  In January, we looked at a particular new home, but couldn't pull the trigger.  Last week, we discovered that same home had increased some $40,000 in price since then.

Wednesday, May 03, 2017

Altitude and Attitude

Aurora Reservoir Trail, Arapahoe County, Colorado

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

It's been about four months since we quit Northern Virginia for Colorado, embarking on the latest chapter of our life.  The first month here was rough for me.  I was trying to get used to the idea that I had no job to go to while mourning the end of my career.  I finally decided that I could no longer sit around feeling sorry for myself and turning my back firmly on the past, began to look resolutely towards the future.

There were a few things that I embraced towards that change in perspective.  One was my grandchildren.  They are fascinating little people, and a joy to be around.  Having pulled myself out of my funk, I really began to enjoy being with them.  Another thing was the completion of my first novel, Tales of Barely, Missouri, (available on Amazon Kindle for $2.99).  This was, as I noted in my last post, a real turning point for me.  I had proven to myself that there was something I could accomplish outside of my former life.  The early reviews are very good, and I hope that those who decide to spend the money find as much enjoyment reading the book as I had in the writing thereof.

The third thing was a continuation of the activity I had been doing back east, walking and hiking.  

Here in suburban Denver, every community it seems has a plethora of trails for walking/running/biking, most multiple miles in length. Some, like the Smoky Hill and the Piney Creek harken back to the time when this area was all open prairie, and those trails were the immigrant highways by which thousands traveled westward.  My only beef was the term "trails," which as an experienced hiker I took to mean dirt paths.  Alas, practicality has prevailed and these "trails" are actually concrete sidewalks. For dirt trails, one has to go westward into the foothills of the Rockies.

One of the things I learned very quickly was the significant difference in the oxygen content of the atmosphere here in the Mile High City versus the coastal Appalachians of Virginia.  There, I hiked roughly 200 miles of the Appalachian Trail through Virginia.  The highest ridge I had to climb topped out at about 3,500 feet.  Just walking on a sidewalk along Colfax Avenue here in Denver puts you about 2,000 feet higher up.  

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

My First Book, and the World Created Therein

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey

"Writing a story about a place 
calls that world into existence."
--Alan McCluskey

About six years ago while crawling through the impossible traffic that inundates the Washington DC metro area, I allowed my mind to wander a bit.  In that short-lived ramble, an idea came to me as a sort of a formless, nascent presence.  Over the next few months, I allowed that idea to toss about my mind, kind of like a sock in a dryer.  Eventually, the idea took a more substantial form from which a myriad of possibilities sprung.  About nine months later, I sat down at my computer and began to give life to those possibilities.  Five years hence, that promising genesis has grown into that most difficult of enterprises:  My first book.

This past week, after two months of invaluable therapy provided by my editor, the incomparable Dr. Gayle Herde, this long-awaited accomplishment went live on Amazon Kindle, under the title "Tales of Barely, Missouri."

In my late professional life, a big part of my job as an intelligence analyst was taking a simple idea and shepherding it from birth through analysis to completion.  It always felt like an accomplishment, particularly since the subject matter was always excruciatingly difficult.  But this was different.  This was personal.

Monday, March 13, 2017

The Last Real Team

Eric Hosmer's mad...no, insane dash home
and what was the penultimate moment of the 2015 World Series.
© 2015 Newsday

Copyright © 2017
by Ralph F. Couey
Written content only.

It was magic.  There's no other way to describe that moment on a cool November night in New York City when Wade Davis blew a third strike past the buckling knees of the Mets' Wilmer Flores.  The Royals, after coming so close the year before, and coming so far from the previous 30 years, had been crowned baseball's World Champions.

To say that the win produced a cascade of celebration would be to labor in understatement.  While Kansas City rocked in joyous emotions, it was remarkable to observe that this midwestern metropolis wasn't the only place where the cheers could be heard.  This team, marked by such pluck, courage, and unity, had earned a following across the nation, and across the world.  Everyone remembers the Korean superfan and Seoul-mate Sungwoo Lee who expressed such a deep long distance ardor, that he was actually flown to Kansas City for a visit.  That summer, my wife and I were in France, and during that whole visit, my Royals cap inspired a host of smiles and spontaneous conversation from Parisians.  

It isn't hard to discover why that team was so popular.  Their youth, unity, that never-say-die attitude were all elements to that wide acclaim.  But I think the thing that really got to people was that these guys were having fun!  Baseball was still a game to them, and behind those infectious grins everyone could see the 9-year-old that still lived within.

2016 was a disappointment, but understandable.  Any team in any sport that parks five all-stars on the disabled list for extended periods of time is going to suffer.  But that passion never left them.  Alex Gordon's wrist certainly bothered him more than that titular Sgt. Rock would ever admit.  And close to the end of the season, it was painful to watch Lorenzo Cain try to swing a bat with one hand.  But through the swarm of injuries, that desire, that love of the game never wavered.  Even though they missed the playoffs, to Royals Nation, they were still our champions.