In this age of Political Correctness I am frequently astonished by new examples of P.C. I thought America was the world leader in P.C., but my time in England in the summer these last few years has convinced me that the U.K. is a serious rival to the U.S.A. in this department.
Then, this Sunday morning on the telly, as our British friends refer to T.V., I saw an astonishing new example of P.C.. A morning talk show had expert guests discussing whether Great Apes should be subject to Human Rights. One professor argued that great apes show evidence of enough intelligence that they should be subject to human rights, while another professorial expert argued that the evidence of such intelligence was specious and that these apes do not possess enough intelligence to be considered eligible for human rights. A whole group of experts played intellectual ping-pong with this subject of rights for apes.
I find all this debate a bit of Alice in Wonderland. We’re talking about apes, for God’s sake. Now before the A.C.L.U. and assorted tree hugger mentalities condemn me as a crass and insensitive lout, I want to assure them that I certainly do not condone mistreatment of these magnificent creatures or the wanton destruction of these animals or the unnecessary capture and sale of them. But human rights? Let’s get real.
Now, if you want to talk about the extension of human rights to the dispossessed and downtrodden of the third world or the victims and refugees of war-torn regions of the world---then you’ve got my attention. Let’s do something about that and stop this ridiculous P.C. Patrol investigating this nonsense of human rights for great apes. Enough, already…
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
WHERE HAVE ALL THE HEROES GONE...
I was contemplating today writing a blog about the attrition through age of "the greatest generation", as Tom Brokaw so aptly called the generation that fought WW II, when I read my old friend Grumpy's blog (grumpy-olddog.blogspot.com---well worth reading, as I've said before) about the death of another hero of that war and wisely saying that such a hero is what the Staples Center should be packed for---Amen. Grumpy beat me to it, but I still want to put my two cents in.
One of my pleasures in England is reading the obituaries in "The Daily Telegraph" or "The Times"where crafting these tributes to the dead is a real art form. The "New York Times" sometimes can rival the British papers in this department--but not often. Several times a week, you can be certain, a key obituary in the British papers will concern another war hero who has passed on, and by this time such heroes are becoming fewer and fewer. My older brother's death in late June (see my blog of July 9, 2009) was another example of another loss by that great brotherhood of WW II.
We should stop and remember them, as they become rarer and rarer. We owe them an incalcuable debt, for they paid a great price to guarantee us the liberty we possess today. It is so easy for us to be caught up in the daily problems of life, especially in the economic conditions of today, that we forget to consider how much worse conditions would be if we had lost that war and were yoked in the bondage of Fascism. The same respect should be tendered, it goes without saying, to those who fought in Korea or Nam or in today's storm centers of Iraq and Afghanistan.
Every day, even when the world is too much with you, pause and think of those heroes and what they did---for you and me.
One of my pleasures in England is reading the obituaries in "The Daily Telegraph" or "The Times"where crafting these tributes to the dead is a real art form. The "New York Times" sometimes can rival the British papers in this department--but not often. Several times a week, you can be certain, a key obituary in the British papers will concern another war hero who has passed on, and by this time such heroes are becoming fewer and fewer. My older brother's death in late June (see my blog of July 9, 2009) was another example of another loss by that great brotherhood of WW II.
We should stop and remember them, as they become rarer and rarer. We owe them an incalcuable debt, for they paid a great price to guarantee us the liberty we possess today. It is so easy for us to be caught up in the daily problems of life, especially in the economic conditions of today, that we forget to consider how much worse conditions would be if we had lost that war and were yoked in the bondage of Fascism. The same respect should be tendered, it goes without saying, to those who fought in Korea or Nam or in today's storm centers of Iraq and Afghanistan.
Every day, even when the world is too much with you, pause and think of those heroes and what they did---for you and me.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
MY BROTHER HENRY: A REMEMBRANCE
I have not written a blog recently for reasons that will be apparent. I am writing this now from my wife's and my summer home in England.
I lost my older and only surviving brother on June 29, 2009, who died without excessive pain and with admirable dignity in a hospital hospice. Henry, or Hank to most of his friends, had a long and tempestuous life and would have been eighty-eight in August, so he certainly had, as the Brits would say, very good innings. He had been married three times. Both his divorced wives preceded him in death, but his third, to whom he was married for almost thirty-seven years, survives. He died surrounded by loved ones: his caring wife, who demonstrated in his last weeks of swift and painful decline extraordinary dimensions of care and love; his sister; his only surviving daughter; two of his three surviving sons---the third was out of the country---and two step-daughters.
I was not there when he actually died because my wife and I were leaving for our summer home in England the very day he died, but I had spent three days with him the previous week in the hospital starting the day after he was admitted and was, aside from his wife, blessed to see him in his most rational although often painful state. I thank God I had this opportunity. I had originally thought I would run up to see him in his home in Minneapolis after I returned from England in late September, but his decline in health was so precipitous that I decided the only course of action was to go immediately before our trip. We had just arrived on the Monday from our home in Florida to visit our daughter and son who have families in Toledo, and I flew to Minneapolis on the Wednesday. Since I had not seen him for almost two years, it was one of the wisest decisions I ever made.
His decline had begun five years before when he had a severe stroke, but he had recovered from that onslaught and reached about ninety percent recovery, thanks to a strong will, superb medical care including a persistent and gifted therapist and the attentive care of his wife. In the last year his decline gained momentum and picked up speed in the last few months. His wife had put him temporarily in a nursing home for nine days while she visited two children from a previous marriage and a granddaughter whom she had not seen for some time. When she returned, she found him going downhill fast and within two days she had him admitted to the hospital---the same one where he was treated for his stroke. He was there less than a week.
Hank had led a full and tempestuous life. I described in an earlier blog (June 6, 2009) his valorous experience as a Navigator on a B-24 Liberator 4-engine bomber, having flown thirty-six missions and having been shot down on his thirteenth mission on Friday, the thirteenth.
Both his previous wives preceded him in death, while he was survived by his last wife to whom he was happily married for almost thirty-seven years. He went through his first two marriages, fathering two sons by his first wife and four children---two girls and two boys---by his second. Through his last two marriages he was also step-father to three women.
He spent a good portion of his first two marriages as an alcoholic, graduating from heavy drinking (which many servicemen who had been exposed to combat used as "surcease from sorrow") to a full-blown boozer with a life spinning out of control. and going through a dark night of the soul. Then in 1971 he totally changed his life by joining Alcoholics Anonymous. He also married his surviving wife in 1972, a woman who had lived through a previous marriage to an alcoholic and understood the problems and who by profession was a Probation Officer for the state of Minnesota.
A.A. became the centerpiece of his life. He regularly attended meetings, at least twice a week, and became a potent counsellor to those seeking to break the vise of alcoholism. He had an articulate and confrontational style---you could not con him, for he knew all the tricks in the book---in dealing with those seeking his help. One of the more moving experiences of my last visits with him was seeing the number of recovering A.A.s who came to see him and thank him for what a difference he had made in their lives.
He lived life to the lees. He loved jazz and was a drummer. An ardent sportsman, his joy was in hunting and fishing in the Dakotas, Minnesota or Canada. At one time I used to join him and a group of his riotously funny A.A. buddies in fishing for walleyed pike, perch and bass at Lake of the Woods in northern Ontario. He and his wife Anice traveled extensively in Europe and Africa and all over the U.S., particularly to California where her daughters and granddaughter lived. They used to winter in Florida near his oldest son in Fort Myers and near us in Sanibel Island. They were deeply involved in the cultural life of the Twin Cities---from sports to art.
So that is the brother I have lost. We went through good times; we went through bad; and then it was good again. He could infuriate me, he could amuse me, but always he could not be ignored. His children endured some bad patches in their relationships with him, but in the end love prevailed and carried the day.
At his memorial service two days after he died, which I unfortunately had to miss due to my flight to England, one hundred fifty people attended, plus the family. He had asked for a jazz band at the gathering after the service. I bet he was up there, smiling and playing drums.
My brother: warm, opinionated, funny, irritating, quixotic, unpredictable---but always interesting and lively. He’s gone, and I miss him. And I love him. I know I’ll see him in the next few years, and we’ll pick up where we left off. Until then, to use his favorite phrase, I’ll try to keep everything under control.
I lost my older and only surviving brother on June 29, 2009, who died without excessive pain and with admirable dignity in a hospital hospice. Henry, or Hank to most of his friends, had a long and tempestuous life and would have been eighty-eight in August, so he certainly had, as the Brits would say, very good innings. He had been married three times. Both his divorced wives preceded him in death, but his third, to whom he was married for almost thirty-seven years, survives. He died surrounded by loved ones: his caring wife, who demonstrated in his last weeks of swift and painful decline extraordinary dimensions of care and love; his sister; his only surviving daughter; two of his three surviving sons---the third was out of the country---and two step-daughters.
I was not there when he actually died because my wife and I were leaving for our summer home in England the very day he died, but I had spent three days with him the previous week in the hospital starting the day after he was admitted and was, aside from his wife, blessed to see him in his most rational although often painful state. I thank God I had this opportunity. I had originally thought I would run up to see him in his home in Minneapolis after I returned from England in late September, but his decline in health was so precipitous that I decided the only course of action was to go immediately before our trip. We had just arrived on the Monday from our home in Florida to visit our daughter and son who have families in Toledo, and I flew to Minneapolis on the Wednesday. Since I had not seen him for almost two years, it was one of the wisest decisions I ever made.
His decline had begun five years before when he had a severe stroke, but he had recovered from that onslaught and reached about ninety percent recovery, thanks to a strong will, superb medical care including a persistent and gifted therapist and the attentive care of his wife. In the last year his decline gained momentum and picked up speed in the last few months. His wife had put him temporarily in a nursing home for nine days while she visited two children from a previous marriage and a granddaughter whom she had not seen for some time. When she returned, she found him going downhill fast and within two days she had him admitted to the hospital---the same one where he was treated for his stroke. He was there less than a week.
Hank had led a full and tempestuous life. I described in an earlier blog (June 6, 2009) his valorous experience as a Navigator on a B-24 Liberator 4-engine bomber, having flown thirty-six missions and having been shot down on his thirteenth mission on Friday, the thirteenth.
Both his previous wives preceded him in death, while he was survived by his last wife to whom he was happily married for almost thirty-seven years. He went through his first two marriages, fathering two sons by his first wife and four children---two girls and two boys---by his second. Through his last two marriages he was also step-father to three women.
He spent a good portion of his first two marriages as an alcoholic, graduating from heavy drinking (which many servicemen who had been exposed to combat used as "surcease from sorrow") to a full-blown boozer with a life spinning out of control. and going through a dark night of the soul. Then in 1971 he totally changed his life by joining Alcoholics Anonymous. He also married his surviving wife in 1972, a woman who had lived through a previous marriage to an alcoholic and understood the problems and who by profession was a Probation Officer for the state of Minnesota.
A.A. became the centerpiece of his life. He regularly attended meetings, at least twice a week, and became a potent counsellor to those seeking to break the vise of alcoholism. He had an articulate and confrontational style---you could not con him, for he knew all the tricks in the book---in dealing with those seeking his help. One of the more moving experiences of my last visits with him was seeing the number of recovering A.A.s who came to see him and thank him for what a difference he had made in their lives.
He lived life to the lees. He loved jazz and was a drummer. An ardent sportsman, his joy was in hunting and fishing in the Dakotas, Minnesota or Canada. At one time I used to join him and a group of his riotously funny A.A. buddies in fishing for walleyed pike, perch and bass at Lake of the Woods in northern Ontario. He and his wife Anice traveled extensively in Europe and Africa and all over the U.S., particularly to California where her daughters and granddaughter lived. They used to winter in Florida near his oldest son in Fort Myers and near us in Sanibel Island. They were deeply involved in the cultural life of the Twin Cities---from sports to art.
So that is the brother I have lost. We went through good times; we went through bad; and then it was good again. He could infuriate me, he could amuse me, but always he could not be ignored. His children endured some bad patches in their relationships with him, but in the end love prevailed and carried the day.
At his memorial service two days after he died, which I unfortunately had to miss due to my flight to England, one hundred fifty people attended, plus the family. He had asked for a jazz band at the gathering after the service. I bet he was up there, smiling and playing drums.
My brother: warm, opinionated, funny, irritating, quixotic, unpredictable---but always interesting and lively. He’s gone, and I miss him. And I love him. I know I’ll see him in the next few years, and we’ll pick up where we left off. Until then, to use his favorite phrase, I’ll try to keep everything under control.
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