The City on the Edge: San Francisco, April 1906

Nothing fires the imagination like the thought of time travel.  If we could only go forward; if we could only go back. But no machine yet invented can send us; no machine ever will.  But we can travel back, if only in a sense, through the magic of video. True, it's like viewing the world through a keyhole, but it's all we have and all we ever will have, and no piece of film does it better than the Miles Brothers film,  A Trip Down Market Street, which was shot just days before the great earthquake which destroyed San Francisco in April of 1906.  I invite you to view it at

                                    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEvB_ZIWtAg

Get past the commercial and begin your journey.

There's a dreamlike quality, almost a modern-day familiarity in watching these scenes.  It's 1906 and it's life as usual: Traffic is chaotic. A cop walking his beat casts a wary eye at the camera; businessmen in boiled shirts and bowler hats are everywhere; a paperboy peddles the day's news; a trolley full of sightseers crosses Market Street at an oblique angle; brass-era cars rattle past, dodging horses and wagons; the few women evident are dressed in dark, ankle-length dresses some in ostrich-plumed hats.  In the distance at the foot of Market Street is the Ferry Building--an earthquake survivor which stand majestically to this day. I could go on.

I've watched this film a hundred times, and each time I try to see more and I do see more.  It's almost like being there--you feel so close.

Near the end of the film at the Ferry Building, the cable car is turned around. Young boys jump into view and wave at the camera. They're all gone now of course, everyone is gone, lost to the earthquake, or to their years.  But they wave at us as though it is today--more than a century later.

Addendum: The last known survivor of the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 earthquake has passed away: http://www.marinij.com/obituaries/20160111/marin-resident-bill-del-monte-last-known-survivor-of-1906-quake-dies-at-109

The World and High School(s)

I was at our church for a meeting the other Sunday evening, and the guy next to me mentioned that he had lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming.  I once lived there and told him I had graduated from East High School, class of 1966.  Turns out both he and his wife were alumni. He was a couple years ahead of me, she a year behind. Hadn't known either one of them, but it was a nice contact.

Of course it sent me to the garage to haul down that extra-heavy box of annuals I keep for no good reason. Found her in the 1966 Wahina.

My high school journey was an odd one, since, owing to my dad's working for a defense contractor, I went to four of  'em in three years. Sophomore year was a split between San Lorenzo Valley, California and Andress HS, in Texas, junior was Knob Noster, Missouri, and senior year was another split, Knob Noster/Cheyenne East.  It made me stronger to do four schools, but it also stunk.  I don't even show up in the East annual, but at least my name is in the back. I think of it as a lemon/lemonade experience.

You can't appreciate how much things (read: people) change until you get out your old high school annual.   I've been privileged to find a few people from my schools with whom I was friends, but most of the people I knew in the past haven't given me a thought since the day I graduated--49 years ago today (May 20).  Even the gals I thought of as rather plain, well, they look a lot better through the lens of time.  I take that as an indicator as my being less arrogant or fearful as I was then.  I hope.  I should have been kinder, less  fearful.

When you don't stay in the town that you graduated in, and also owing to my curious streak, you give more thought to those you did know well, and are more diligent in searching out those you knew.  My good friend Berri lives in Tennessee, and in retirement shows up as an extra on the television series Memphis. Don, who was also my college roomate became an electrical engineer and now lives in a missile silo in Nebraska. A former girlfriend Susie resides in New Jersey, and there's gal in Texas I occasionally correspond with.   I could go on.

Like I said, I went to four schools in four states.  It wasn't a great way to do school, but it sure helped me to relate to people.  It was not so good because I was always the guy leaving, and when you're a teenager, being connected is very important. I'm also a "man without a country" in a school sense. There are few who remember me.  If I were to show up at a reunion at any one of those schools, it would be as a stranger among strangers.  Ah, well.

I remember when my dad went to his 50th high school reunion.  He graduated from Roosevelt High in Seattle in 1932. I remember hoping (as a guy in my mid-30's) that the old fossil would survive it.  He did, and now as I see my 50th year looming, it doesn't seem quite so daunting now as I perceived it was then.

Doubtless my kids think of me that way, though.

Why I Believe There Is a God

I believe in God.  Lots of people think those of us who are 'religious'  are that way because of superstition, or fear, or some pie-in-the-sky-all's-well-in-the-bye-and-bye belief in something beyond what we can see, like, you know, a secret friend, or an all-powerful super-hero, an Ultra-Batman who will arrive in the nick of time (or shortly thereafter) to set everything right.

But that's not why I believe there is a God. There are many reasons, sound reasons to believe; here are just a few:

First, I'm unable to conclude that everything on this earth, the plants, animals, and human beings, an ecosystem which is self-perpetuating and (thankfully) difficult to destroy came about by cosmic happenstance, or fluke.  The complexity of life in its many forms precludes this notion of a self-invented ecosystem.  It's a worn argument, but even taking the example of a car, and proposing it was the product of billions of years of unassisted engineering would get you laughed out of any showroom. And life in all its forms is infinitely--infinitely--more complex.  I'm not alone in this. There's a growing movement among some scientists (and not all of them 'religious') that happenstance and evolution could not account for life as we know it. "Darwin's Black Box", written by the eminent and highly-regarded biochemist Michael Behe, sees life forms as being the result of intelligent design.  He came to his conclusion because of the demonstrable fact of  'irreducible complexity', that is, the recognition of  life forms so simple they couldn't exist if even one of their  components was removed. He concludes therefore there had to be a designer to design such  organisms; it couldn't become what it is without a designer.

Second,  I recognize that we humans are essentially evil, not essentially good. If you think we're just a bunch of sweethearts, you need to read some history.  Oh, we have our moments of good, but even those are done to promote--us.  I have friends who are not religious and they consider themselves good people, and they are within a context.  I mean, they're not criminals or rapists. They pay their taxes, they're nice to their neighbors, they live respectable lives, etc. When I tell them I'm not good, it kind of throws them.  How could I, a guy who lives a life similar to theirs, not see myself as a good person? I do all the same things outwardly they do. It doesn't compute. But underneath that veneer of  goodness I project  (in part to keep my nastiness hidden) I recognize the anger, the bitterness, and the self-centeredness that's part of my nature--and yours. I repress it, but it shows up every so often. Ever have someone cut you off on the highway, and you give them the finger?  Ever drive when you've had too much to drink? Cheat on your taxes?  Lie?  No matter how much we want to pretend we're all sunshine and happiness, we actually have a lot of evil in us, and sooner or later it shows itself.

Finally, we have no reason to exist if there is no God.  If there isn't a creator, if we're just randomly spinning around in space, if our planet is a closed system, if life is a cosmic fluke, then I have to conclude that nothing we do or have here is of any value, and without value life is meaningless.  So what if we steal from our neighbors? So what if we kill our enemy?  Without an authority higher than man himself, Hitler was as right Mother Theresa.   If you do good, it means nothing; if you do evil, it means nothing.  Life becomes a dead-end street, having no meaning beyond eating well and impressing others with what you have or have done or are able to do--all meaningless at best, anarchy at worst.

  A few years ago my wife and I flew to Washington D.C.  During the flight I looked down and I spotted a little town, probably in Kansas or somewhere, and  I started thinking about the people in that town, and how some of them were big-shot officials, and some of them were making big money on some deal or another. And I thought how proud and important they must feel, or how pleased they were with the size of their bank account. But who they were or what they did was insignificant--even from 30,000 feet up. Pinprick towns on a pinprick planet in the cold, airless, vastness of space.

It seems I've painted a picture of  hopelessness and despair. Insignificant captives on a less-than-obscure planet.  But there's great hope: Comes from God.

Next blog.

On Aging...

When you're young you seldom thing about becoming old, maybe never, but unless some event happens to interrupt our lives--we grow old.  My next birthday I'll be 67 years old, or to quote Mark Twain, "nearly so if I'm dead".  I figure I have about 14 years left, maybe not all of that in the relatively good health I now enjoy.  So I wonder, "what's ahead?"

Being older is a strange place, because I don't think of myself as old.  In spirit, within the confines of our head, most of us think of ourselves as young.  I still relate well to the younger set.  I work part-time, and most of the people I work with, better than half, are under thirty; indeed, several are under twenty five. I'm the different one, separated by age, and their attitudes towards me remind me of that always.  No unkindness, but a tacit acknowledgement of the age gap on their part.  It matters not how I perceive myself, outwardly I waste away.

Yet, do I wish to be younger?  No.  Although I am understanding my age insofar as aches and pains, I wouldn't trade my experiences, my knowledge and the portion of wisdom that I have accrued in my nearly 67 years for youth:  For what? To go through life again?  I think not.  Talking to young people is like trying to fill a wine vat with a teaspoon: You want to impart to them your knowledge, experiences, your wisdom, but you realize that most of what has been learned that's worthwhile is gained only with time.  What they learn in great part must come from their experiences. It'll happen, but there are few shortcuts.

Do I fear death?  No, but I do fear dying, but only because of the spectre of suffering.   Behind me as I write is a large photo of my dad dated May 6th 1938, leaning casually on his Nash roadster, a youth of 25 years. In his last years, he suffered  a series of small strokes which slowly robbed him of his life and vitality. He who was intelligent and humorous became helpless and unable to care for himself. For some time I went twice a day to his apartment, got him out of bed and cleaned and dressed him, and took his soiled bed linen and washed it.  It was a burden, yet I treasure the memory. I wonder:  Will my children be so honored?  In some ways, I hope so. In others, no.

Certainly 2014 was the year I came to realize that I really don't have all that I had in youth, that the body deteriorates.  My strength has deteriorated to the point I can't "whip my weight in wildcats" any more, and a younger assailant may well take me down, unless I'm willing to cheat  (and I am!).  I realize that I'm perhaps (and this is harder to admit) not as quick mentally as I once was.

2014 was a wake-up call in other ways as well.  My sister died, my wife's uncle died and her oldest sister died. We're entering the age of funerals and memorials, Those are the 'awards ceremonies' we will likely be attending in the coming years. I haven't lost any of my close friends yet, but that's around the corner as well-- unless of course my close friends lose me first.  Old people talk about their aches, pains, and medical problems. When I was young, I wondered why, but now as I've reached that age, now I know why they talked about them so much:  First, health and maintaining it becomes a priority, an always in-your-face situation, and second, everyone of my age has health problems. It's just the way it is.

I looked at google earth the other night, thought I would try to find something worthwhile to discover or research.  As I zoomed in from, I don't know, five thousand miles above the earth to near where we live, it left me with this uncomfortable feeling of how small I am, something less than a pinprick on a pinprick in this universe.  Reminded me of the time we flew to Washington D.C.. As I looked out the window from thirty thousand feet, I saw this little town, maybe in Indiana or Kansas somewhere with its grid of streets, and I thought to myself that somewhere in that little knot of civilization, there was someone who took great pride in being one of the leading citizens, on how he or she had had his or her way with the city council, or maybe had swung some big real estate deal.  But even from a mere 30,000 feet their accomplishments became insignificant.  "For what shall it profit a man...?".

As I grow older I find I don't crave material possessions--as much.  The urge to get stuff is still there, but the breadth of the desire is narrower.  I've gone through the motorcycle phase; the old car phase; the fast car phase, even the big house phase, and probably a few other phases I can't recall.  But those things just don't mean as much as they once did. I've realized that much of what I bought and did were done for the approval of others.  I remember an old woman I used to see driving around our neighborhood in a Cadillac sedan, when Cadillacs were still huge.  Her hair was carefully coiffured, the car was large and immaculate, and she practically sat sideways in the drivers seat facing the window so everyone could see her.  I don't want to be remembered like that.

Another poignant remembrance was a visit to an elderly couple who lived in a large, wonderful home in a very affluent area near us.  They were both in ill health. He said to me, "All our lives we worked hard so we could have these nice things, and now we are too old and sick to enjoy them."  I hope he didn't exit this world with that lament, that his life came to mean more than the sum of his possessions, and his big house.

As you grow older your focus changes, you shift gears (downshift, that is).  My interest in stuff has lessened, and my interest in people has blossomed.  We have good friends in prison, and we visit them monthly;  I have a homeless friend, "Bible Mike", whom I see from time to time and help out, give him money, sometimes clothes, and once even a bicycle.  And I see others and have a greater compassion for them, even people I don't know well, like my co-workers.  I have a son and a daughter, and we are learning to be better parents, in-laws, and grandparents.  You never stop learning with those titles.

The saying is, "Time flies when you're having fun." To which I would add, "...and when you're not".  I wouldn't trade my experiences, especially in retrospect.   Life is short when viewed from the far end.  Making good use of it is more than being young and having good times.  All experiences in life are (or should be) important for what they teach.  I would argue that looking back is as valuable as looking forward. To be young again?  Nah.  First, it's not possible; second, I'd have to run the Gauntlet of Life all over again, and third, who needs it?  I've already been here.

There Are Certain Things......

There are certain things, actions, or events which threaten to upset the equilibrium of the universe. Occasionally they are seen in real time, and they are the most threatening.

Take for instance people who drive their cars with their doggy in their lap.  Just the other day I was driving home from my psychiatrist. Our meeting had resulted in a breakthrough in dealing with my anger and phobias, when I spied this SUV with a dog's head stuck out the driver's window.

I'm not an animal hater.  As we all know, there are a lot of dogs out there that should be driving the cars instead of people.

The driver is--almost without exception--middle- or upper-middle class, in an upscale car or SUV.  The dog is typically named Princesss or Tifffanee, or a similar gutless name. The dog eats better food than anyone in a rotting third-world nation, and lives in a nice upper-middle-class home.  No drafty doghouse for our Tifffanee.  Awwwww......

The canines fit a profile too: Small and professionally groomed, white or light brown, and always with a ribbon or two tied around their neck. How about a dog sweater for the dear one!? Another thing:  The beloved one is likely smarter than the driver. Hey, who's the one being chauffeured?

Really, do we love our dogs so much they have to be in our laps at all speeds up to 70 miles per hour?  I love my kids, but when they were little I put them in the rear seat, well restrained.

When I got home I made an emergency appointment with my shrink.

Friends in Prison Part 2: What Life is Like Inside, and What Should be Done to Make Prisons Work Better

Having friends in prison has made me rethink what prisons are and what we use them for. Of course prisoners have virtually no freedom, and that's part of their appeal, that is, to keep these individuals away from society at large.  What is life like on the inside?  Even little things are big deals. Again, pseudonyms are used in this account.

It's said a man's home is his castle, but that doesn't apply to a prisoner, or even his or her own body.  As I mentioned in part one, Ron's cell was tossed because I inadvertently walked through a metal detector with my cell phone on, so they went looking for lists of phone numbers in his cell.  Cells are routinely inspected for contraband.  Contraband can be cell phones,colored pencils, tattoo paraphernalia, drug paraphernalia, alcohol, needles, pornography, or any number of other items.  No sexual materials or literature of any kind are allowed, not even the swimsuit issue of  Sports Illustrated. Suggestive movies or television are forbidden.  There are consequences for having contraband, and these infractions earn you 'tickets'. Disobedience to an officer is another path to a ticket, and enough tickets can add up to a loss of privileges, time in solitary, or even more prison time if you don't wise up. A search of the person or his living space can occur at any time.

Ron told me that some months ago their unit was locked down with no notice, and everyone was sent to their cells. Then they were called out by face-covered dressed-in-black guards. Inmates had their hands tied behind their backs with zip ties (locking plastic straps) and made to sit cross-legged on the floor with their faces down.  They were shouted at and threatened continually while their cells were turned inside out.  When some complained of discomfort they were hit.  After an hour and a half  they were released, but left in the dark as to the what had caused this event.  Several of the inmates filed complaints about their mistreatment. The result was a ticket for disobedience to an officer.

Tina told my wife about her first ticket.  She had arrived at the prison as a new inmate, and when she awoke in the morning she did her toilet duties.  Immediately afterward, she was summoned for a drug test. Because she wasn't able to pee, she was awarded a ticket, and a loss of privileges. In prison no reason is a good reason.

Mailing items to inmates can be difficult.  Just before Christmas last year I sent some books to Ron from Amazon.com. They were sent back because (this is my understand) although Amazon sends such items via the U.S. Postal Service, when they get jammed up, (as during holidays), the postal service will subcontract package deliveries to to outfits like FedEx.  However, shippers like FedEx won't deliver to a post office box, and since both Ron and Tina's prisons are post office addresses, the items were returned.

The correctional officers are a subset of people on the outside, which makes sense, since they are a part of the outside crowd.  They go home every night, just like the rest of us.  Some exert more power than they should, either because they can or because they operate with a cold heart. From my admittedly limited observation I would say the hard-nose types are the exception.  Most of them are regular people, just doing a job, albeit one with many of society's worst.  There's more of a rapport between the officers and the prisoners than one might think. Ron's unit is quite relaxed, and though structured, the relationship between guard and inmate seems respectful. That's not the case in units that hold violent offenders. Of course, I am speaking in general terms, and one bad correctional officer can poison the well for all of them.

There are two dress codes in prison.  The one for the inmates is: Orange--orange shirts, orange pants, no belts.  People coming to visit are welcome to wear anything they want except for anything the officers object to.  My wife visiting the women's prison has been turned away for wearing a knit top  (no way revealing), too low a neckline (must cover shoulders), and having clothes in an inappropriate color (passed the first time, not the second). Underwire bras are a cause for rejection because they set off the metal detectors.   I've been rejected for wearing off-white shorts (too close to the guard's khaki uniforms). No glasses except prescription.  I could go on for ever. Arguing with prison officials is of no value and should be avoided.

Medical treatment (or lack of) leaves much to be desired.  In the book Slumber Party from Hell, author Sue Ellen Allen recounts how her roommate suffered and complained of terrible pain to the officers and the medical staff, only to be repeatedly rejected and sent back to her cell.  She died of breast cancer within weeks.  Ron told me of an inmate who complained of chest pains and shortness of breath. The officers were were called and dithered about, and finally sent him to a unit with a working EKG machine.  The medical staff determined it wasn't a heart attack and sent him back to his unit.  Later that day, he again complained of chest pains, but since the medical team had already gone home, he was told he would have to wait until morning.  Around 4:30 a.m. an inmate found him on the floor of a toilet stall.  He died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital.

There are two recent books on life inside a prison, both by women who have served time.  Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman is a memoir about her time in the federal correctional institute in Danbury Connecticut (read the book, don't bother with the television series).  The other, less known but an excellent read, is the aforementioned Slumber Party from Hell  in which Sue Ellen recounts her six-year stretch in the women's prison in Goodyear, Arizona (Perryville).  Both books are a worthy read and give a glimpse into the frustrations of the incarcerated.

So what's the point of all of this?  Hey, I'm a conservative Republican, and I'm not soft on crime. I believe in long sentences for violent offenders, and for that crowd I'm not big on 'second chances'. I also believe the death penalty, properly applied, is of great value. In fact I would argue that it be expanded to include those found guilty of rape. But I especially believe that right is right and wrong is wrong, and after having read the books and heard the stories, I know there needs to be reform in our prison system.  In their present configuration, prisons breed hopelessness and despair, and in the long term that is neither good for the inmate or society.

Prison should do what they are presently not doing: Allow for prisoners to be rehabilitated and make restitution.  Therefore, I propose the following reforms:

--Prisoners should have access to proper medical care, not band-aid service.

--Punishment to fit the crime, i.e., non-violent or white-collar criminals should be given shorter in-house sentences and then be returned to society with appropriate electronic monitoring restraints and be made to make restitution to their victims.  This will allow those who have abilities to be useful to society and be far less disruptive to the families of both the offender and his or her victims.

 --Find businesses in the community who are willing to hire those who are newly released, along with perhaps a subsidy or a tax break, so these people aren't turned loose with no place to go.

--Prisoners must be allowed to have computer time and be able to access appropriate internet services.  Of course, inappropriate sites would be blocked.  By allowing inmates such access, they will be much more able to fit into the world they are returning to.  Many prisons lack any computer access for inmates.  Yes, this might be difficult, but it can be done.

--Education is a must, and inmates should be allowed to take mail-order or computer courses from colleges and universities or trade schools.

--A mandatory savings account for all prisoners, taken as a percentage of what they earn or are given while in prison.  I propose this not only for short-sentence people but also for long term.  A large number of freed inmates end up back inside because they leave prison nearly broke; they have little choice except to violate. This gives the prisoner a leg up on his or her return to society. If an inmate dies while inside, the money could be given to a relative, a victim, or a charity.

Prisons are a fact of life in every country in the world. They probably work as well or better in the United States as anywhere, but even here they are far from perfect--or even good.  I am a big proponent of  'better and cheaper.'  I believe we can do better and cheaper with our prison population.  It will be a win for  the people who have served their time, and it will also be a win for society.  It's worth a try.

Epitaphs

My wife's oldest sister died last week.  Janice had a stroke on Saturday and by Wednesday she was gone.  It was a shock.  She will be greatly missed by our family.

When my mom died in 1999, I decided to say some appropriate things at the graveside service.  For inspiration I visited the cemetery where she would be buried.  It was and is rather unkempt, weedy and overgrown--the kind of cemetery I prefer. Kind of a back-to-nature place.

While walking among the monuments I noticed the gravestone of a young boy. He had died in the 1880's at around 10 years old.  It didn't say how he lost his life, but many of the young were taken by disease in those days.

In my mind's eye I could see a line of carriages coming up the dusty road led by the horse-drawn hearse. I saw the mourners dressed in black gathered at the tomb saying their goodbyes. I could see it.  And then it was 1999 again.

Inscribed on the granite was the boy's name and his dates, and beneath them was inscribed the promise for which those of us who believe await:  "Safe in the Arms of Jesus".  

That child is over 125 years gone, but that hope and that promise remains to this day for those of us who know Christ.