Random Thoughts on Good Friday

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh, oh, oh oh, Sometimes it causes me to tremble
Tremble, tremble.
Where you there when they crucified my Lord?

--Traditional Spiritual

OK, everyone who knows me at all well knows that I'm a PK. What's a PK, I hear some of you ask? Well, in my experience those who are PKs and those who have a significant other who's a PK know the term. For the rest of you PK stands for Preacher's Kid. My dad was an ordained minister in what is now known as the United Methodist Church.

These days, I pay little attention to organized religion, and yet.... The Jesuits are supposed to have said "Give me a child to the age of twelve and he's mine for life." I know that I'll be a Methodist till my dying day--even if I never go through the doors of another Methodist Church.

On this Good Friday, 2009, my thoughts turn to religion, tradition and belief. This is partly due to having read Judith Warner's blog on the New York Times' website--a blog posting entitled "This I believe." If you click on the link, you can read her blog for yourself. If you don't care to do that, let me summarize it for you. Ms. Warner talks about being Jewish, celebrating the Passover with a more-or-less traditional seder, attending the Episcopal Church as a youngster, going to Easter Sunday services this year, and wondering how it all fits together and what she is passing on to her children. Read her blog and the associated comments. It's well worth your while.

My mind also has made this turn because of discussions we've had in the office the past few days. I work with two men from North Africa, a woman from the People's Republic of China, and a few assorted Americans. On my desk I have a copy of the Koran, a book by a German theologian, Rudolf Frieling--Christianity and Islam, Rafiq Zakaria's The Struggle Within Islam, and Stephen Kinzer's Crescent & Star--a history of Turkey. These are all my own books--brought to the office from my home library. I also have two books by one of our faculty members, Silent Victims and The Last Pharaoh. I've just finished editing the second edition of The Last Pharaoh, a book that sets out just how fragile peace is in contemporary Egypt, and asks pertinent questions about what will happen when Mubarak is no longer in charge.

As the US has become more and more deeply entrenched in Middle Eastern affairs, I've felt it necessary to learn as much as I can about Islam and its adherents. Nothing I've read has made me want to convert, but I have read enough to know that Islam itself is not our enemy. We are told, "In my Father's house are many mansions." I believe that at least one, or perhaps more, of those mansions is set aside for people who follow the teachings of Islam.

But Islam is not my tradition. It is not my belief, and that's what I really want to talk about. I did not attend church last night, but as a child and even into my twenties it would have been unthinkable to not go to Maundy Thursday services. In my father's church, we celebrated communion four times a year. One of those communions was on the Thursday evening of Holy Week--truly a commemoration of The Last Supper. In Methodist tradition, communion is a sacrament, The Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. It is not up to us to say who is or is not welcome at the Lord's table--all are welcome. Again, based on the way my father celebrated communion, it was a time for people to come together--to commune. In the liturgy, people would go to the altar rail, kneel together, take both the bread and the wine (Welch's Grape Juice in the Methodist church), and wait to be blessed and dismissed. A Roman Catholic friend, having attended a Methodist communion with me, said "The Catholics could sure teach you something about efficiency." I replied that from our viewpoint, efficiency was not a virtue. The moving line experience in RC or Episcopal churches has always struck me as somewhat impersonal. But then, it's not my tradition. I miss taking communion, even as I acknowledge that I don't really believe in the absolute literal truth of the crucifixion and the resurrection.

That said, even today I can recite the Apostle's Creed. It speaks to me deeply, in a figurative sense to be sure, but still. The hymns of the church remain my favorite music to play at the piano or organ, and to sing--especially in a group setting. Our Missoula Gay Men's Chorus is now preparing for the Spring 2009 concert, and one of the pieces we'll be singing is the old hymn Fairest Lord Jesus. It's a beautiful arrangement that always carries me back to Sunday School.

I miss the music. I miss communion. I miss the liturgy. But how can I faithfully fulfill the vows I took at my confirmation when I feel that the United Methodist Church views me, at best, as a second-class citizen? For thirty-seven years the United Methodist Church has been trying to come to some understanding of where, or even if, gay people belong. As long as my church cannot accept me as a child of God, then can it ever really be "my" church?

Today is Good Friday. I guess my reflections are a personal form of tenebrae. I don't cry out "My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" because I know it is not God who has turned against me. It is, rather, those people who claim to speak for Him. Sunday won't find me in church--I'm not one of those Christmas and Easter Christians. I won't be dying eggs, going to a sunrise service, or eating a baked ham. I will be reflecting on love, connections and community.

Bless you all!

The world will pardon my mush

I've got a crush on you, sweetie pie
All the day and night-time hear me sigh
I never had the least notion that
I could fall with so much emotion

Could you coo, could you care
For a cunning cottage we could share
The world will pardon my mush
cause I have got a crush, my baby, on you

--George Gershwin

NOTE PLEASE: Clicking on any photograph will open a full-screen version of that photo in a separate window. The pictures of the white Saab and of the Mustang are not full-screen.

OK, it's been two whole months plus a few days since I've posted anything here, and some people are getting worried. I got this e-mail from one of my dearest friends (you know you are, auntietoast), and that got me thinking.

E-mail post in full: OK,where are you? It's not good to disappear for months at a time you know!:-)

Yeah, I know. But after learning of Gary's death, I guess I just went even deeper into depression than normal. Normal for me, that is. That plus our financial situation has really been dragging me down, but yesterday the sun was out, the sky was blue, the temperature climbed almost to 70, and the top went down on the convertible. What can I say.

This morning the sun is out, the sky is blue, it's supposed to be another nice day, and I woke up singing--first time in a long time that that's happened. What was I singing? Gershwin, of course. "I've got a crush on you."

It's hard, nigh on impossible, to stay depressed when the sun is out and the top is down. Ah, convertibles. The automotive love of my life. I've owned one or another convertible non-stop since 1980. That's when I bought the first one, a 1976 Triumph Spitfire. I still own it. It needs a complete ground up rebuild at this point, and to date I've put three times as much money into maintaining the thing as it cost me to buy it, but it's a family member now. How could I possible get rid of it?

1976 Triumph Spitfire
Badly in need of restoration
But the pizzazz is still there!

Triumph Spitfire Story: Driving in the UM Homecoming parade with a contingent of British Car Club members, I turned off Higgins onto University Avenue and headed up fraternity row toward campus. A female friend of mine, seeing me approach, ran out into the street and jumped over the side into my car--not bothering to open the door. On the next block, three different frat boys offered to trade me their pickup trucks for my chick magnet. True story.

I have to get the Spit rebuilt. I love that car, even if I have known it to literally spit fire out its tailpipe.

In the mid 1990s, one sunny March day (much like today--coming after a long, grey, cold winter), I saw two Saab convertibles sitting nose to nose with their tops down on a neighborhood used car lot. Thinking, what the hell, why not test drive one of those things, I pulled into the lot. Now understand, I've always been one of those folk who thought that Saabs were the car for people who don't like cars and I love cars, so..... But since it was sunny and Sunday (oops, that's a different song, and it wasn't Sunday), I took one of the two--the white one--out for a drive. Once back at the lot, I called my best friend and asked him to come down and talk me out of buying the beast. As he also likes cars, he told me that he was the wrong one to ask. Nevertheless, he met me at the lot, we went out for a spin and what can I say, I ended up buying the 1988 Saab 900 turbo convertible. Burgundy leather upholstery, pure white body, and all the fun Saab oddities--you have to have the transmission in reverse to take the key out--the key, which by the way is between the seats, not on the dashboard or steering column, the engine that sits under the hood backward, the fact that no other car in the world will ever be confused with a Saab. Oh yeah, I was in love.

Saab Story #1: One December night, after thirty-six hours of insomnia, I went to bed around 8:30 and died. I was awakened by my dogs jumping up and down on my chest yelling (in their doggie voices) "Someone's at the door, daddy! Someone's at the door." It was 12:30 a.m., mid-December. I threw on my robe, but didn't even bother with slippers and headed downstairs. Sure enough, there was a cute young man (19 or so) standing at the back door, with his hand bleeding all over my porch. "Do you know who owns the Explorer that I just destroyed?" he asked. "Yes, that's my Explorer," I answered. I later learned that the crash woke all my neighbors, but I was too deep in sleep to even hear it. Following the young man outside, still barefoot and still December midnight, I saw what he was too drunk to have seen. He not only totalled his daddy's pickup by slamming it into the driver's side rear fender of my Explorer, also totalling it, but he hit the SUV with enough force that he moved it six feet sideways and 10 feet forward, pushing it into the trunk of my Saab--totalling it as well. When I pointed this out to him, he sighed "I'm gonna be making license plates for a long time."

1988 Saab 900 Turbo
Taken at the I-90 Rest Area
near Superior, Montana
Before it was totalled!

In a tribute to the way Saabs are built, the guys at Evergreen Engineering (our late, lamented Saab repair shop) bought my totalled baby, and rebuilt it. A colleague here at UM bought it and is still driving it happily today.

Shortly after Gary moved to Montana to live with me in 1999, we were over in Spokane. We had been looking, half-heartedly, for a car for Gary, and driving north on Division, we spotted one. "What's that?" Gary asked. "It's a Triumph TR-7," I answered. "You don't want it." But still, how could a test drive hurt? Long story short, the TR-7 is now parked behind the house waiting for summer and a few extra bucks. Did Gary drive it much? No. Shortly after buying it, he took off one day while I was at work and drove west on I-90 to St. Regis (75 miles), east on Montana 135 to Paradise (I'm not making this up) (25 miles), further east on Montana 200 to Ravalli (40 miles), south on US 93 to Arlee (10 miles) where he stopped and called me at work. The car had white smoke billowing out from under the hood. What should he do? "Stay put," I said. "I'll come get you." But no, he decided to drive it on home (another 35 miles or so.) That was the last he drove it. Now I've driven it a bit, even taking it on one 300 mile loop (with the top down, of course), and I've never had white smoke billow up from the engine compartment. It's an interesting car, and I like it ok--with its wedge shape, its hidden headlights, and the fact that it's the ONLY TR-7 convertible I've ever seen. I'm not in love with it, but I just can't quite bring myself to sell it.

1980 Triumph TR-7
Boy is this car in need of a good cleanup

Oh and by the way, Triumphs are well named. It's a Triumph if you can keep it running. I now understand why British men spend their weekends working on their cars. You have to if you expect them to get you to work during the week.

What did Gary end up driving? A 1994 bright red Mustang convertible with a white top. Sixteen years old and that car still turns heads.

1994 Mustang Convertible
Taken at Skalkaho Falls, near Hamilton Montana
That's Gary at the driver's side door,
and our friend Pat Walton in the white shorts.

Having lost the '88 Saab, and not feeling comfortable about relying on my Triumphs, something had to give. I had to have a reliable convertible in my life. Wouldn't you know it, the same used car dealer where I bought the original Saab (and Gary's Mustang, for that matter), had a 1996 Saab 900S convertible on the lot. After taking it for a test drive, and after having Doug at Evergreen check it out, I added the baby blue beauty to my stable. That's the car I drove yesterday with the top down. I've had it several years now. It's a great car to drive the Oregon Coast. Standard 5-speed transmission, baby blue body with a dark blue top. Built in boot which covers the top when I have it stowed in the trunk. It's the most beautiful car I've ever owned.

Saab Story #2: First time I took the car in for Doug to service, he entered it into his Saab computer system. Turning back to me he said, "Saab doesn't know this car is in the US." Hmmm. Turns out the car was purchased originally in Germany. Guess that's why I have a key fob that reads "SAAB International and Diplomat Sales."

What's down the road? I don't know. Every now and then a pretty car catches my eye, but truth be told, maybe I'm growing up. I like the cars I have. I like them better than anything else I see on the road, on the lots, or in the ads. I do have a dream, of course. I'd like to fly to Sweden and pick up my new convertible. Drive it south to Copenhagen, then on to Berlin, Prague, Vienna and Budapest. I'll have it shipped home and pick it up in Seattle. What will it be? Well I like the convertible hardtop Volvo C70, and I like the Saab 9-3 Aero, but GM is cutting Saab loose, and the Swedish government has said "No bailout." Oh well, I don't have any money for a new car now anyway. Guess I'll just have to dream a bit longer.

Didn't I say that my Saab is the most beautiful car I've ever owned?

1996 Saab 900S
Taken on I-5 near Weed, California
Mount Shasta in the background

Demain, dès l'aube ...

One of the first portraits I took of Gary
Skiing at Chief Joseph Pass, Montana
Winter 1999

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

--Victor Hugo

Gary, Annie Wright, and Billy the Ass
Taken at the Grubstake Restaurant
Ravalli County, Montana
May 2000

The opening lines of Camus’s book The Myth of Sisyphus state that there is only one question worth pondering—whether to commit suicide. When faced with the absurdity of life, does the rational man have any choice other than to end his own participation in the farce? Of course Camus was posing a philosophical question. Most people facing a wall, and seeing no way past, do not pose philosophical questions. When the road ahead is just too rocky to bear, when there is no end to the proverbial tunnel, let alone any light, I doubt that people reflect much on the absurdity of life.

Once when a close friend was wondering if life was worth living, I bought him a copy of Camus. I had forgotten the opening paragraph, and frankly remembered only the very end of the book. “Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux.” (We must consider Sisyphus happy.) When I reread the treatise, and saw the question Camus poses, I was aghast that I would give this book to someone actually contemplating suicide. My friend, however, saw the true message, and the crisis passed.

Suicide has been on my mind a great deal these past thirty years. When I first came out to myself as gay, I met a good number of young men who had either contemplated or attempted suicide. I heard of many more that had succeeded in killing themselves because they could not reconcile the person they knew themselves to be with the expectations of family, church, society. There may be valid reasons for killing yourself, but being gay is not one of them, I said to myself. If by being open and vocal, if by being visible as a gay man, I could prevent even one person from doing himself in, I had a duty to speak out as loudly, and as often as I could. Thus began a life of political activism.

Gary watering the dogs
(Faylene and Speedy)
With our friend, Ted Rivers
Taken at Seaside, Oregon
Spring 2000

I must admit that there have been times that I have considered the question personally. For me, always, the dilemma came back to the people who would be left behind to clean up my mess. I was especially concerned about the effect my death would have on my mother. This is not something I normally talk about, so I have no idea just how common suicidal thoughts are in the general populace. The closest I ever came was when Richard was sick and could not summon the strength to go on. A friend who knew such things suggested that 20 Tylox would be enough to allow Richard to go to sleep and not wake up. I seriously considered taking the capsules myself, for without Richard, I did not want to go on. At the last minute, I refrained, and held Richard’s hand while he swallowed the pills and went to bed. The next morning found Richard still alive, very sick, and our white bedroom carpet stained red from his vomit. His system was so used to drugs by that point, that the overdose merely made him sicker. Had I taken them, with no personal history of drug use, I surely would have died.

These days, the one thing that upsets me—the only thing that really upsets me—is finance. I have given up trying to stretch too few dollars over too many bills and have turned all such matters over to Kevin. Before I did that, however, I once again considered ending it all. It’s very hard to see any light at the end of this tunnel, even with both of us working, but with Kevin handling the checkbook and watching the mail, I can at least ignore our situation. I thank God every day that Kevin is part of my life, for without him, I fear that I would no longer be writing you all. He is my rock in these troubled times.

But what of those who have no Kevin in their lives? Those who see the bills piling up, hear the debt collectors calling, who have lost their jobs, are in the process of losing their homes, and have health concerns with the attendant expenses those bring? The ones who fear that they are not in a tunnel, rather a cave with no exit ahead?

Gary at the gates to Ashland
Lexington, Kentucky
Taken August 2000

At two o’clock this afternoon (I’m writing at just short of midnight, January 27^th, 2009), Kevin showed up at my desk with bad news. Gary Pitts, the man I lived with for nine years, from January 1999 through May 2008, had committed suicide in Denver. Many of you on my mailing list knew Gary. Most of you knew of Gary. I don’t pretend to know the demons that Gary was facing. He had had no contact with me after he left for Denver the end of May. The note he left behind cited health concerns, but mostly financial fears. He had moved to Denver talking about jobs that paid three and four times his salary in Missoula. His best friend lived in Denver and he wanted to back in a big city. I don’t believe he was ever happy in Missoula, nor do I think he ever knew just how much I loved him. The past ten hours I’ve driven Kevin crazy as I ask him over and over if he knows I love him. In Gary’s note, he asked that I not be notified, because I would become a “drama queen” about the situation. If that’s what I’m doing, I apologize. I need to come to terms with this, and the way I approach problems is by talking—or writing—about them. Gary had a much different style, and tended to keep things close to his chest. I often felt as though I was wasting his time when I would try to talk out a problem.

Gary was wonderful with animals. In 1999, when we first got together, I had one MinPin, Speedy. With Gary in the house, we added Faylene, Rocky, and finally Minnie. All four loved Gary unconditionally. I used to say that should he ever leave me, all four would follow him out the gate and only Speedy would look over his shoulder to see if I was coming too. We lost Speedy in 2005. I’d never seen Gary so shaken. Faylene died early in 2008, while I was in California. When Gary told me he was leaving for Denver, I asked if he was taking Rocky and Minnie with him. Minnie, he felt, was too noisy a dog to live in an apartment, but yes, he was taking Rocky. In his note, he asked his friend to look after Rocky and find him a good home. I’ve talked with Denver’s Animal Control, and I’m hoping they’ll let me bring him back to Montana. As soon as I get the word, Kevin and I will be driving to Denver to pick up a little dog who has had too much trouble in his life.

I keep asking myself if there is anything I could have done to prevent this tragedy. But as I said above, Gary wasn’t talking to me, so I knew nothing of his troubles. I honestly believed he was living a fine life, making mucho dinero in the computer industry. That’s what he led me to believe when he left Missoula. And the fact is, there is nothing anyone can do should a loved one cut you out of his life, and keep you in the dark. What I can do is give Rocky a good home. It’s all I can do at this point.

The Restaurant Cat
Taken in Nevsehir, Cappadocia, Turkey
October 16, 2000

Victor Hugo wrote the poem I’ve quoted above when he learned of the death of his daughter. The poem has always spoken to me, and tonight it has forced its way out of my subconscious to the point where I can see the words clearly in my line of sight. My translation of the poem follows:

Tomorrow as the night shall dissipate

I’ll leave, you see, I know that you now wait.

I’ll cross the hills and forests wet with dew.

I can no longer stay away from you.

I’ll walk, my eyes fixed only on my thoughts.

Head down, back bent, hands crossed, a captive caught,

I’ll hear no sound, nor see any sight.

And day for me shall be as night.

I’ll see neither the golden evening star,

Nor sails of ships approaching from afar.

When I arrive I’ll place upon your tomb

Bouquets of green holly and heath in bloom.

One of the last portraits I took of Gary
Gary holding Minnie
Taken at our home in Missoula in 2007

All gristle, and tough as nails

“Which is better, Inglistan or Afghanistan?” Imagine yourself as an English journalist, traveling across war-torn Afghanistan in the wake of the Taliban. How do you answer the question? Christina Lamb’s 2002 book, The Sewing Circles of Herat: A Personal Voyage Through Afghanistan, is not your typical travelogue. It is, nonetheless, an extremely important book for anyone who wants to understand the quagmire we entered in October 2001 when we began our search for Osama bin Laden.

I have to admit that I knew next to nothing about Afghanistan on September 11, 2001. I consider myself a peace-loving man. I abhor war and militaristic posturing. Yet my immediate gut reaction as I watched the twin towers collapsing was “Flatten Afghanistan!” And that was before we knew that Al Qaeda was holed up in the mountains of this tragic land.

In the ensuing seven years, I have often rued my reaction, and I have taken advantage of various opportunities to learn more about the country that every major world empire has tried, unsuccessfully, to annex, beginning with Alexander the Great. Alexander went so far as to marry an Afghan princess, Roxanne, the only woman he ever married. But even Alexander could not hold this area, and his son, born to Roxanne, was killed after Alexander died. He did leave his name in the Afghan city of Kandahar.

Genghis Khan brought his army through the area we now call Afghanistan, and one of his descendents, Timur (known in the West as Tamerlane) built a dynasty centered in the region and still considered one the greatest periods of Afghan history. In the 19th Century, Queen Victoria and Tsar Nicholas sparred over the land through their armies, as the Russian Empire tried to expand toward the warm waters of the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea while Her Britannic Majesty strove to keep the jewel of the empire firmly in British hands. This led to three Anglo-Afghan wars that were disastrous for the British, and subjected the Afghan people to great hardship as well.

In the twentieth century, Afghanistan has arguably been the bloodiest place on earth—at least in terms of length of conflict. 2009 marks the thirtieth year of continuous fighting, if we date the beginning with the Soviet invasion in 1979. Christina Lamb first entered Afghanistan during the war against the Soviet invaders. Over the next twenty years, she made the acquaintance of many people now recognizable as Afghan leaders, including current President Hamid Karzai, King Zahir Shah, and a young woman who wished to be called Marri. Marri was, for lack of a better term, a pen pal, although the correspondence went only one way. Lamb had no way of writing back to the young woman whose letters had to be smuggled out of Taliban controlled Kabul.

The Sewing Circles of Herat recounts Lamb’s travels in Afghanistan, smuggled into the country from Pakistan or from Iran, in the guise of a young boy, a burqa clad woman, and even a pile of blankets and medicine in the floor of an ambulance. She visited Herat in the West, Kandahar in the South, Jalalabad in the East, and of course Kabul. The stories she tells are heartbreaking. Assassinations, murders, executions by the Russians, by various Afghan warlords, by the Taliban. People subsisting on a few pieces of unleavened bread. Roads, buildings, airports destroyed. Schools closed, libraries looted of books which are then burned. Art and historical artifacts destroyed because the ignorant tyrants in power know nothing of history and care less about anything outside their narrow view of religious life. Children’s textbooks that teach numbers by counting “One Kalashnikov, Two Grenades, Three Rifles, Four Armour-piercing bullets, Five 9mm bullets….” (p. 309)

After having read The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini’s novel of growing up in Kabul and escaping as the Soviets take over, and his second novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns which tells the story of two generations of Afghan women living through a modern hell, I was ready for something uplifting when I spied The Sewing Circles of Herat on a colleague’s desk. Instead, I spent New Year’s long weekend reading one of the most discouraging books I have ever come across.

And yet…. And yet… There is a sense of hope here as well. It is absolutely astounding what human beings can endure and still survive. It is positively heart-warming what people will do to guard and preserve beauty in the most violent times. And the hospitality of the Afghan people—people who have absolutely nothing, but will stop you on the street insisting that you join them for lunch or dinner. People who live by a code that says once you have opened your home to a guest, it is your responsibility to guard that guest against all others, even if the guest turns out to have harmed your family.

Lamb’s book gives a frank and disturbing look at Afghan history, culture and current events. It does not paint a pretty picture. It will raise many questions in your mind and, if you’re at all like me, will make you wonder if there is any hope for this beautiful and desperate land.

“Which is better, Inglistan or Afghanistan?” Lamb’s diplomatic answer should serve as an object lesson for all of us who would understand the world we live in.

“The question came again and the guard who had asked it had a jagged scar on his right cheek pulling down his eye.

“’Well, Afghanistan is very beautiful and the people are very hospitable. You have beautiful mountains. Also the weather is very nice. But, England has roads, electricity, schools, hospitals, libraries, running water, trains, lots of food….’

“The mujahid looked unimpressed. ‘And how much fighting do you have in Inglistan?’

“’Well, we don’t really. I mean we had a civil war but that was more than 350 years ago and since then people in England have pretty much lived together peacefully.’

“’What if someone was to steal your husband’s gun? By Allah, then he would fight!’

…

“‘He doesn’t have a gun.’

“The men looked shocked, shaking their heads and repeating ‘no gun’ to each other. They all had standard-issue Kalashnikovs slung across their shoulders and wide belts of brass bullets on their waists except for one with a Russian army cap and a loopy grin who was carrying a hand-held rocket-launcher, which to my horror he kept dropping on the ground.

“’How does he protect you then?’ asked the grinning man.

“’I don’t need protecting,’ I replied, trying to look fierce.” (pp 182-183)

The average life expectancy in Afghanistan is 44 years. For the past thirty years, the country has been at war. These people have known nothing else in their entire lifetime but killing, bombs, destruction, death. Where and how do we start to create peace, let alone democracy in such a setting?

I highly recommend the three books shown below, Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns, and, of course, Christina Lamb’s The Sewing Circles of Herat.











By the way, the title of this post comes from a statement made by Roger Roy, an Orlando Sentinel reporter living with the US Military in Afghanistan. He was speaking of Afghan children in his November 1st, 2005 post which can be found here.

Langläufer leben länger

Interstate 90, Exit 104
Missoula's Main Downtown Exit
1/2 mile from our home
Taken 1-3-09 through the windshield

It doesn't show signs of stopping,
And I've bought some corn for popping,
The lights are turned way down low,
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
--Sammy Cahn

NOTE: All photos can be seen full screen by double clicking on them. The complete set of photos I took on this outing can be seen on my Picasa web gallery. All pictures and links open in a new window.

This winter may be headed for the records as one of the “worst” in recent history. So far, here in Montana’s “banana belt” we’ve had over a week with sub-zero temperatures and wind chills down to 40 below or lower. We’ve had snow that has fallen for days on end, and we’ve seen one storm front pass through and move on only to be replaced by a new storm front.

Regular readers will recall my December post about getting caught on Lookout Pass behind a jack-knifed semi, or my report of our excursion to put a ham radio antenna up on top of a mountain where we were caught in a blizzard on Labor Day. But please don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. As long as I’m not spending every free minute shoveling the stuff, I like the snow. I like the way the hills and mountains around town gleam white in the sun. I like sitting in the hot tub while the snow falls on my head and shoulders. I love watching the dogs bounce through the drifts in the yard. Well, Minnie bounces, seemingly oblivious to the cold and wet. Gypsy is a true California Girl, in the best Beach Boys’ fashion, and she tends to venture out as little as possible this time of year.

But the real joy of the season, for me, comes when I strap two long, thin strips of wood onto my feet and take off cross-country skiing. I understand that there are places in this country where “skiing” means being towed around some body of water behind a boat or jet ski. And I know as well that there are those whose idea of skiing involves paying exorbitant amounts of money to ride some contraption up a mountain then schuss back to the bottom, only to get in line for another ride up, ad nauseam. The skiing I prefer doesn’t require any motive power than my own heart, lungs and legs, no ropes, chairs, boats, lifts, or fancy clothing. A turtleneck, jeans, jacket, scarf, gloves and boots, and I’m all set. Oh, if the snow is deep I may well strap a pair of gaiters round my pant cuffs to keep them dry, but that’s as fancy as it gets.

My move back to Montana in January 1975 coincided with one of the snowiest winters we’ve seen in these parts. The first weekend I was back, I headed into Missoula and spent a little over $100 at the Trailhead, Missoula’s premier outdoors store at the time. For my C-note, I got a pair of boots, a pair of bamboo ski poles that I still use, thirty-three years later, and a beautiful pair of narrow, blue Kongsberg skis from Norway. I called them my Norwegian Wood. I left the skis on the front porch of the cabin and was out skiing every day from January into April, a minimum of three miles a day of cross-country skiing. I was twenty-five years old and in the best shape of my life. The Germans have a saying, “Langläufer leben länger” which means, “cross-country skiers live longer.” As I know a number of western Montanans who have skied into tree wells and died, I won’t swear to the accuracy of the statement, but I can’t think of a better form of aerobic exercise.

Heading up Spring Gulch Trail
Rattlesnake Recreation Area
Taken 1-3-09 near Missoula, Montana

We’ve had very few winters as snow-bound as the winter of 1975, but I’ve made it a point to get out as much as I can when the ground is white and the sky is blue. There are two areas on the edge of Missoula where you can ski for miles, Pattee Canyon, south and east of the University campus, and the Rattlesnake Recreation Area, north of town and the entrance to the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area. There have been days when you could ski down the city streets, and I’ve skied to work numerous times in the past. New Year’s Day, I strapped on my Bushwackers, wider skis that do not require waxing and are wonderful for questionable conditions, and I skied down the street to pick up the bike path that fronts the railroad tracks three blocks from home.

Friday morning we woke to rain, and by noon the temperature was nearly 40 degrees in town. The snow started melting, and melting fast. I spent most of the day putting together and mounting an exhibition of my photography which will hang through the month of January in the Western Montana Gay and Lesbian Community Center. With twenty-two of my photographs framed and on display, this is the largest show I’ve had to date. It is largely the same show I had in Crescent City back in 2007, but at the last minute I decided I had to include some of portraits I’ve taken of various Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence from Eureka and the Russian River areas of California.

When I returned to the Center at 5 for the First Friday Art Walk, the temperature had begun to drop and the wet sidewalks and streets were turning to ice rinks. I was surprised at the number of people who braved the elements to visit the exhibit, but there was no where near the visitors from past openings. Between the weather and the fact that First Friday was the day after New Years, I’m not disappointed with the turn out.

Saturday dawned bright and clear, and Kevin surprised me by asking if I wanted to go skiing. Kevin is not a skinny-skis person, and his previous experience involved down-hill skiing or going on search and rescue missions on a snowmobile. Still, I was pleased that he’d ask, and was quickly ready to drag the equipment out of the shed and into the Expedition.

Kevin "Boy, is this hard work"
Spring Gulch Trail
Rattlesnake Recreation Area
Taken 1-3-09 near Missoula Montana

We headed up the Rattlesnake, as in my experience, it’s the most forgiving area nearby for new skiers. Of course, I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, so I have a tendency to forget just how awkward it can be trying to maneuver over snow pack and ice with seven feet of two inch wide wood or plastic strips fixed to your feet. Still, Kevin was game, and only fell three times getting out of the parking lot.

The Rattlesnake is one of Missoula’s favorite playgrounds, and the parking lot was full when we arrived. This meant that the trails were also filled with people of all ages walking or skiing. I didn’t see anyone on snow shoes this trip, but I have in the past. Most people were skiing in pairs or as groups of four, and we passed more than a few families with small children struggling to master the skills necessary to stay upright. My own parents were avid outdoors enthusiasts, but they were more attuned to summer and fall activities—hiking, fishing and hunting. Both my parents loved roller skating, and I had my first pair of roller skates before I could walk, but neither parent skied, so this was not something I grew up with. I wish I had. I do have a picture my father took of mother holding me up while roller skating, and we saw that scene repeated several times yesterday with parents and small children on skis.

When I first started skiing, I bought a book called The Cross-Country Skier’s Bible. It was great fun, but not a terribly good instruction manual, as I recall. I do remember reading somewhere that “if you can walk, you can cross-country ski.” In fact the writer continued, “Oh hell! If you can shuffle you can cross-country ski.” It’s not quite that simple, but almost. As long as you don’t mind shuffling with seven foot long, two inch wide boards on your feet. I keep mentioning the long, skinny nature of cross-country skis because it is the distinguishing feature of the sport.

I’m sure it was in the “Bible” that I read about the author’s adventure beginning to ski in Yosemite National Park. After two days of lessons, the man took out one morning on his own. Skiing up a narrow mountain trail, he eventually realized he was going to have to go back down the mountain. On the way back down, he noted that he was picking up quite a bit of speed and there appeared to be a tree right in the middle of the trail ahead of him. Trying desperately to remember what he had been taught about stopping, he couldn’t come up with anything. Finally, choosing discretion over valor, he fell down rather than run into the tree. Back in Yosemite Valley, he looked up his teacher and explaining what had happened on the trail, he said “I can’t remember how you told us to stop.” The ski instructor looked at the ground, cleared his throat a few times and mumbled “There’s no way to stop on cross-country skis.”

Kevin "How do I slow these things down?"
Spring Gulch Road
Rattlesnake Recreation Area
Taken 1-3-09 near Missoula, Montana

Kevin found this out personally. He kept trying to make his skinny skis behave the way downhill skis do. Downhill skis have metal edges on them that allow you to turn the ski on its side and cut into the snow or ice. Cross-country skis have no such edge. Downhill skis are wide, allowing you to angle them into what is called the snowplow position which, theoretically at least, slows you down. You can snowplow with cross-country skis, but the effect is neither as immediate nor as effective as with downhill skis. None of Kevin’s skiing experience prepared him for this lack of control.

Still, he was brave and agreed with me when I suggested climbing the trail that runs on the south side of Spring Gulch with the intent of skiing back down the road on the north side. I let him take the lead, in effect letting him set the pace. This also allowed me to stop periodically and pull my Nikon Coolpix L3 out of my parka pocket and capture some of the scenery. I kept hearing comments floating back on the breeze. “This is hard work.” “This is too much work.” “Ow,” as he fell yet again. But he kept getting back up and pressing on. I was so proud of him.

At mile 1.3, roughly half way up to the place where the trail and road merge, there is a bridge across Spring Gulch, and Kevin felt he’d worked hard enough getting that far. We crossed the gulch (one of the two places I fell), and started down the road. I prefer going up the trail and coming down the road because on the road there’s a little more room for error. The trail is one set of ski tracks wide, and winds among the trees and shrubs. I have skied down the trail, but you have to be on your guard the whole time, and frankly, I don’t find that much fun. I really didn’t want to be responsible for Kevin skiing into a tree. The problem with skiing down the road is that the snow tends to be skimpier and more prone to icing over. Still, I’ll take that route by preference. The Spring Gulch loop is my favorite local run, and had we gone all the way to where the trails merge, we’d have skied close to six miles. As it were, we covered between three and three and a half including the run from/to the parking lot.

It was a stunningly beautiful day, as I hope you can see in the pictures I’ve chosen to display here. The complete photographic record of our day is on Picasa, and you can click here to access those photos. In a few I have tried to remove the blue cast from the shadowed snow, but I found in so doing, I also removed the blue from the sky. If you go to the Picasa site, click on F11 to see the slideshow in full screen mode.

One of the things I love about cross-country skiing is the way you glide through the woods with only the whoosh of your skis for sound. I have been skiing with two different friends who felt they had to fill the silence with talk, and I have to admit that I’ve never asked those friends to accompany me a second time. I love being out by myself, but as I get older, I no longer feel that it is wise to take off for a day in possibly adverse conditions without someone along, as the Scots say, in case. Yesterday, the only person I saw skiing alone, was not really alone. She came skiing down the trail completely engrossed in a conversation on her cell phone. Brave new world, indeed.

I’m looking forward to lots more ski trips, including a few to some of my favorite places, Lolo Pass on the Montana/Idaho border (US Highway 12), St. Joseph Pass (Montana highway 43, just above the Montana/Idaho border on US 93), and Mount Haggin between the communities of Anaconda and Wise River, Montana. Lolo Pass is 45 miles from Missoula, and St. Joseph Pass and Mount Haggin are roughly 100 miles from home, albeit in different directions. I won’t be carrying the D80 with me, but the Coolpix takes fine pictures and fits in my jacket pocket. I’ll keep you informed.

Rattlesnake Creek (formerly Missoula's main water source)
Taken 1-3-09 near Missoula, Montana

BLOCKED!

Jack-knifed tractor/trailer rig
Montana Interstate 90, Mile 6
Taken 11/22/08

Runaway! I'm a goin' down down down...
Runaway! dangerous curves all around...
If I'll get out of this truck alive
Well there's one thing for sure
I ain't a gonna drive this big ole truck no more!

--Red Simpson, "Runaway Truck"

It has now been well over a month since I last posted my writing to this site. There are many reasons (or excuses) for this, but let’s turn to the always popular “writer’s block.” Of course there are just as many ways to be blocked as there are reasons/excuses. So let’s, for the time being, look at some of the blocks I’ve been facing.

The first has to do with the housing market in California. When I put Mother’s house on the market ten months ago, I expected it to sell in short order. I would then take the money gained from the sale, pay off my debt, and build my retirement home/guest ranch on the land I own in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. For some reason unknown to me, the real estate market dried up in California. In the seven months I had the house listed, I got one serious offer. I made a counter-offer which the buyer accepted, and sat back to wait for the sale to close. One of the provisions I had placed in my counter-offer was that the sale was to close ASAP and no later than 30 days after signing the agreement. Thirty days came and went, and the sale did not close. In an effort to move things along, Kevin and I drove to California where we met with the title company personnel, the realtor, and where we rented a large U-Haul truck to move the furnishings out of the house, giving the new buyer immediate access to the house when the sale finally closed. Of course, renting the truck and paying for the gas to drive it back to Missoula added to our indebtedness, but with the sale imminent, this would not be a problem. Six weeks after we signed the buy-sell agreement, the buyer backed out. That was also the only legitimate offer I was given on the house. Blocked!

Saved by the guard rail
Taken 11/22/08

Seven months after listing the house for sale, I removed it from the market. It was becoming obvious that there was little to no movement in real estate sales in Del Norte County, and why should my situation be any different. At this point, I contracted with a property management firm in Crescent City to find a renter and manage the property in my absence. I was concerned about the house sitting empty and also with the on-going expenses I was incurring (taxes, water and electricity) while the house was neither giving me shelter nor providing any income. The property management firm told me repeatedly that people were viewing the house, but no one wanted to rent it. When I asked “why?” the response was “the house is too old.” Now something is terribly wrong when a lovely 1950s ranch style house in good shape with a large, fenced, landscaped yard is “too old” for people to rent. The only option, other than updating the bathroom and making substantial renovations, was to drop the monthly rent. Once I lowered that from $1,100 to $900 a month, the place rented quickly.

I have to admit that I was of two minds about selling the place—a fact that undoubtedly contributed to the lack of interest amongst prospective buyers. I like the large yard. I love the four producing apple trees. I like the fact that the house is three miles from the nearest beach and less than ten miles from the redwood forests. All in all, the house would be a lovely retirement home for Kevin and me. My hope now is that I can keep the house rented until either the sale market improves or Kevin and I are able to retire there. Mind you, I’ve received only one full-month rental check to date, and those funds were spoken for before they ever appeared in my bank account—Del Norte County Taxes, Suburban Propane’s tank rental, water and power bills, etc. In the future, however, the rental income should be a major help with our finances.

Torn up by the guard rail
(Haz Mat was called as gas tank was destroyed)
Taken 11/22/08

Then there’s the job market. Missoula, indeed Montana as a whole, is not a place where jobs are abundant. Kevin and I have both been looking for work since we returned to Missoula in May. Most of the applications I’ve turned in have brought “thanks but no thanks” letters in return. That is if they got any response at all. I’m amazed, and a bit dismayed, at the number of employers who put out job announcements, but don’t have the decency to reply to applicants.

There was one job announcement that really caught my eye, with the position closing in mid-September. The job was a clerical position with a brand-new program at The University of Montana. One of the few initiatives I admire to come out of the Bush Administration is an effort to train our military personnel in the language and culture of the various areas critical to national security. Accordingly, this program is called the Defense Critical Language and Culture program. At The University of Montana, the program is administered by the Maureen and Mike Mansfield Foundation and currently the program offers language classes in Chinese and Arabic. With my own interest in language and literature, this program immediately appealed to me, and I made sure my application was in by the deadline. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Mind you, I didn’t just sit around wishin’ and hopin’, I kept putting out job applications and kept getting back those “thanks but no thanks” letters, if I got anything back at all. Blocked!

Backing West on the East-bound side
(Kevin is in the center in the gray)
Taken 11/22/08

Finally, at Kevin’s suggestion, I applied at Directv for a position in customer service. This is work that I did at Essen Communications for five years. Directv has a call center here in Missoula where they employ some 1600 people. I jumped through the various hoops that the company has in place, was interviewed, and offered a position. In fact, at the time I was interviewed by Directv, I had two other interviews as well, including one for the UM program I wanted so badly. My experience with UM hiring is such that I felt I could not count on the job coming through, so when Directv told me to come to work on November 10th, I went.

Those folks hired by Directv go through a six-week long training program where they are trained in the corporate philosophy as well as the mechanics of satellite television. The training is well thought out and executed, and as it turned out, one of the two trainers was a fellow I have known for several years (and a reader of this blog). I became increasingly uncomfortable sitting through the paid training knowing that should the University offer me a position, I would take it. I was preparing myself to be the best customer service rep I could be, but in my heart I knew it would be just a job. Should the University position come through, I’d be back doing something near and dear to my heart—working much more closely to my own vocation. And still I waited. I was working at last, and drawing a paycheck, but I still felt blocked!

Meanwhile, nothing was working for Kevin either. He had been hired as a driver for a construction company up in Seeley Lake, about 60 miles from home, but the stress of driving heavy equipment on narrow mountain roads caused his Crohn’s Disease to flare up, and he had to let the job go. He continued working toward getting his phone business up and running, but even that seemed somehow blocked.

And all the while we watched the national economy collapse. Cold comfort when you can see your home being taken away from you, but at least it wasn’t just us.

But when you find your way blocked, either remove the obstacle or turn around. There has to be some way to move on. And that we have done. As of December 1st, I am a full-time employee of The University of Montana, working with wonderful people in the Defense Critical Language and Culture Program. The house in California has been rented and the first full month rent check is in my bank account. The income streams still are not enough to cover all the monthly expenses, so Kevin and I are finding ways to economize. I feel it’s only a matter of time till his business is profitable, and when that happens, we should be able to breathe again.

I’m back singing with the Missoula Gay Men’s Chorus, and we just had a wonderful Christmas Concert that sold out and left our audience happy—or at least so they told us. The cold weather is only now showing up in Missoula where we still have no snow on the ground and day time highs are in the mid forties. But all that’s supposed to change tonight. The forecast calls for three to five inches of snow with blizzard like conditions by morning and wind chill temperatures of 20 to 30 below zero. The highs forecast for next week are in the single digits and the lows are as low as 15 to 20 below without taking the wind into account.

The pictures accompanying this post are from a trip that Kevin and I tried to take to Coeur d’Alene Idaho toward the end of November. We got up bright and early Saturday morning as we needed to be in Coeur d’Alene by 9:30 and it’s a three-hour drive under good conditions. We hit snow and ice about seventy-five miles west of Missoula, and at one hundred miles west we found ourselves quite literally blocked. The tractor-trailer rig pictured here was being driven by a Russian immigrant living in Seattle and not used to winter mountain driving. Hitting a patch of ice, he braked the cab, but his trailer continued sliding forward, dragging the tractor backwards over the guard rail. Actually, the guard rail was what saved the driver, for his rig hung up on it and did not fall off the slope on the side of the highway.

We were one of the first vehicles to come upon the jack-knifed truck, and Kevin’s police training came in handy. In this canyon, five miles from the Montana/Idaho state line on Interstate 90, no cell phone service was available. Kevin checked on the tractor and driver, then got on his ham radio to summon help. The repeaters back into Montana were not in range, so our call went out to a ham operator in Spokane, Washington. Kevin asked him to call the Washington State Patrol and tell them that there was a problem in Montana. They would patch the call through to the Montana Highway Patrol who would eventually arrive on the scene (one and a half hours later). Because the jack-knifed rig was completely blocking both west-bound lanes of the highway, traffic backed up for several miles. Fortunately, no one was injured in this incident, but the Highway Patrol Woman could not stay with us as an injury accident had occurred just ten miles back from us and she needed to deal with that situation. All told, we sat on the highway for three hours before the wrecking crew was able to clear one lane. One of the snow plows had to back up the east-bound lanes to get beyond our accident so as to plow the snow off the west bound lanes so that traffic could move forward.

Traffic is beginning to back up
(6 miles of backed up traffic before MHP closed the highway)
Taken 11/22/08

We missed our meeting, of course, and as soon as we were able to move on, we took the next exit and returned to Missoula. West bound traffic was blocked for six miles, and would have been hung up even further along had not the Highway Patrol closed the Interstate at the last off-ramp before the accident. We were lucky. As I said, no one was injured in the incident. We missed a meeting, but other people waiting in line were trying to attend games in Spokane, or catch planes out of Spokane, and they made it to neither. What can I say, they were blocked!

With Love and Concern

Yesterday, Sunday, November 2^nd, 2008, I received an e-mail from my second cousin Pat, with a series of statements taken from Barak Obama’s books. These isolated statements, taken out of context, were selected to show that Obama hates white people and supports Muslims, with the implication being that he supports terrorists and opposes decent, God-fearing Americans. Unfortunately, I reacted in anger and sent off an email telling Pat that I was ashamed that she was a member of my family. I deeply regret this. Fortunately, Pat did not allow me to close the door completely, and responded with an e-mail telling me that she didn’t mean for me to get that particular e-mail, and that she herself, when she gets something she disagrees with, simply deletes it and keeps quiet. What follows is my response to her. I’m copying all of you on this because I truly fear for our country and I’ve been fighting with myself for over a month now as to whether I should post such an overtly political blog. With what I’ve seen in the past week, I dare no longer keep quiet.

******

Dearest Pat,

First let me say that I have been terribly upset ever since I hit the send button on that e-mail. That said, I can accept, and even welcome the fact that people disagree on political issues. That, to me, is what makes this country great. What I dislike, and indeed what makes me so angry is when people blindly follow what is being said around them without bothering to look at the facts objectively.

In the case of these quotes, I have no doubt that they are accurately reported. I have no doubt that they are, indeed, what Obama wrote. But without the context, the selected quotes are meaningless. I could say to you that the Bible tells us to smash babies’ skulls against the rocks, and I would be correct. (Psalm 137, verse 9) But I know that is not the total message of the Bible. Obama's books have been out in print for over a year now. Surely, if these quotes represent the final message of the books, someone would have long ago shown that the man is not fit to be President. But that is not what we have seen. Millions of Americans have bought and read these books and have found hope, courage and love in them. Millions of Americans are not wrong.

You say that you didn't mean to send me this. The fact is that every day I have received an e-mail from you with similar idiotic fear-based lies, half-truths and innuendo. I remained quiet when I got your e-mail saying that the economic meltdown in this country was because we had elected a Congress controlled by Democrats two years ago. That is just blind ignorance. The roots of this world-wide situation go much further back than two years ago and they can largely be laid at the feet of those people, both Democrats and Republicans, who got rid of all regulation and oversight of our fiscal institutions. Deregulation has been a key part of the Republican party's agenda for many years now.

I remained quiet when I got the e-mail saying that no one really knew what "Change" meant. That is an outright lie. I could sit down and write a long essay on the change that is needed in this country, point by point, as others have done.

I remained quiet when I got the e-mail saying that we should pray that God would protect us and see that Obama is not elected. That is just foolishness. If we believe that God is all-knowing, ever present and all powerful, then why would we think that he doesn't already know what is going to happen? Why would we think that God is so weak that he can't make whatever he wants happen. This is indeed what scares me so much about Sarah Palin. When someone belongs to a church that teaches us the world is about to end, and that we need to do our part to make sure that Armageddon happens, I don't want a person with those beliefs having the nuclear codes that can end the world. Ending the world is God's prerogative, not ours.

When your e-mail with the quotes from Obama's book came, I had just read a news article that a local man was fired from the company he himself founded. Why did his Board of Directors ask for his resignation? He supported Obama. That is just un-American. Every American should be able to support a candidate without the fear of losing his or her job, or in this case, his company. If that is not the case, then we do not have a democracy, but rather a dictatorship. I had just come from a conversation with a neighbor I dearly love who told me, with no doubt in his mind whatsoever, that if Obama is elected, we will lose our Constitution. I can't even begin to understand where someone would come up with an idea like that. Especially since under the current Administration Americans have seen one Constitutional guarantee after another taken away from us. George W. Bush, when confronted with the fact that the Patriot Act went against provisions in the Constitution, replied. "Stop throwing the Constitution in my face. It's just a goddamned piece of paper." Well, I for one, take the Constitution of the United States very seriously. I believe that it, and the reasoned process behind it, are what set this country apart from most of the rest of the world. And when our own President calls it a "goddamned piece of paper," then I have to believe that that President is a criminal and should be tried for treason.

The same neighbor told me that if Obama is elected we will surely have a depression in this country. I replied that whoever is elected, we'll have a depression in this country. It's already starting. People are losing their jobs, they are losing their homes, their savings and retirement funds have been decimated, and this is happening not just in the US, but world-wide. I can't imagine how anyone elected on Tuesday will be able to turn things around. The situation is just too dire.

In the past I have admired John McCain. He has a record of service to this country that everyone should respect. Had he been the Republican nominee in 2000, he would have had my vote. But what I have seen in the past three months is anything but admirable. His choice of Sarah Palin is nothing more than a cynical attempt to appease the religious purveyors of fear and hatred who have attempted, with some success, to take over the Republican Party. The only advantage that I see in her run for Vice President is that no one can claim that Obama is too inexperienced to be President and at the same time support the McCain/Palin ticket. Not without being extremely hypocritical that is. But then hypocrisy seems to be the unwritten plank in the Republican party platform these days.

Mind you, I don't hold the Democrats blameless. The last time I saw politics as vicious and deceitful as we are seeing today was in 1964 when the second-worst President in my lifetime, Lyndon Baines Johnson, destroyed the reputation of an honorable man and another Barry, Barry Goldwater, saw his campaign go down in flames. Unfortunately, elements in the Republican Party learned from Johnson's Democrats how to divide the country using lies, half-truths and innuendo, and they've adopted those techniques with a vengeance in the current campaign. I have to wonder just how much of this venom springs from the racism that still taints America's soul. Although, the same kind of dirty tricks were used against Al Gore and John Kerry, neither of whom would have been my choice for President were they running against anyone other than Bush, but neither of whom deserved the calumny heaped on them by operatives within the Republican Party.

In the past three months I have heard nothing positive come out of the McCain/Palin campaign. I know what they're against. I don't know what they're for. I have not heard a coherent economic plan from McCain, nor have I heard any talk about bringing the country together. Rather we have had Sarah Palin divide the country into "the Real America" and someplace where the rest of us live. We have heard ignorance praised and erudition slandered. We have raised "Joe the Plumber" to hero status despite the fact that "Joe" is unlicensed to practice in the community where he lives and, presumably, works. Despite the fact that this American "hero" is not paying his taxes. Despite the fact that his name isn't even Joe. We have taken the progressive income tax that this country has had in place for almost one hundred years and called it "Socialism." What we have seen coming out of the McCain/Palin campaign is a vicious attempt to further divide an already deeply divided people using fear and hatred.

This has to stop. If we are to survive as a country, as a people, we have to work together. We have to agree to disagree and not call those who disagree with us traitors. We have to reach out in love and hope, and try to understand each other, or as Benjamin Franklin taught us, "We must all hang together, or else, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately." This does not mean that we all have to agree. It does mean that we have to respect each other and respect ourselves enough to reject the kind of slander and hatred that is pouring out of the political arena like foam from the mouth of a rabid dog.

Finally, were everything equal, if the McCain campaign were putting out positive statements of what it stands for, rather than telling us what's wrong with the other guy, if Sarah Palin were truly capable of taking on the reins of government in the all-too-likely scenario of John McCain's death or disability, I would still support Barak Hussein Obama in this election. Why? Because the world we live in is an incredibly complex and difficult place. If America is to regain its standing as leader, we need a President with the intelligence, wisdom, and capability to listen to and talk with our friends as well as our foes. I will put my trust in someone who graduated at the top of his class at Harvard Law rather than someone who barely made it through Annapolis.

The one thing I ask of you, and indeed of all Americans, is that you look at everything you're being told carefully and thoughtfully. That you examine it with your heart AND your mind. And that you please, please do not send out or pass on statements that are negative, slanderous, and just plain dumb.

I'm sorry that Larry isn't working and that you didn't get the house. I know how much that house meant to you, or at least the idea of having your own place. I fervently pray that we, as a country, come through these trials and that we as a people are able to get back on our feet and live with dignity. I'm keeping you in my thoughts and prayers, and I deeply regret responding to you out of my own anger at the ignorance and intolerance I see all around me. My greatest fear, at this point, one day before the election, is that Barak Obama will be elected President, and by a large margin, and that because of the hatred and fear that the McCain/Palin campaign has elicited, we'll see violence in the streets. In my mind that is not, or at least should not be, the American way!

Love and Peace to you and yours,

Bryan

*****

One final note for those of you who live in Arizona, Florida, and most especially California. Please, please do not give in to those who would have you enshrine my status as a second-class citizen. I have heard over and over that allowing gay people to marry will destroy the institution of marriage, but I have not heard from anyone how that will happen. It seems to me that Brittany Spears has done more to destroy marriage than all of the gay couples who, after ten, twenty or even fifty years together, have finally been able to “make it legal.” In the state of Montana, where I live, should I end up in the hospital, my partner would not be able to visit me or get information from my medical team unless we draw up extensive legal documents. Should I die, Kevin would have an enormous tax to pay on property that I own, but on which we have worked together and in which we have lived together. Married couples have over 1,000 rights and responsibilities that are guaranteed under law, but which are denied committed gay couples. Please, PLEASE, vote NO on Proposition 8, and do not allow discrimination to be written into the California State Constitution.