Would you like the city of Burlingame to collect a tax from her any time your sister comes to visit you from Seneca, Nea York?
If she stays in a hotel she has to pay a tax. Why?
Hotel tax
November 7th, 2009EQUITATION
May 17th, 2012
EQUITATION
“Fork the horse, Lieutenant, fork the horse!” the Colonel kept shouting. “Fork the horse.”
Of course this brought out subdued laughter from the Marine 2nd Lieutenants in the Reserve Officers Class on this summer day in 1942. We had just graduated from Officer Candidates Class inQuantico,Virginia and were going into other training. Why equitation? Though we had heard of the Horse Marines, in theChina and Philippine forays many years before, this was a new war, with jeeps, trucks and tanks and a new way of fighting. But, ‘twas”ours not to question why, ours but to do and die”– and learning to ride under this Colonel was a punishing battle. Sitting on this small English saddle, with no horn to grab, the idea is to press your legs tight against the horse’s side like a clamp, or, as the Colonel shouted, like a fork.
Then he emphasized, the ball of your foot should hit the stirrups, and you bear down with your heels. It seemed very uncomfortable, but as you prodded the horse with your spurs and guided him with the reins, you began to get the idea. Of course, at this stage of your learning, the horse didn’t agree with you. All he, or she, wanted to do was go back to the stable, get rubbed down, and have some oats.
But further lessons on trotting , galloping, and jumping eventually gave us the confidence to show the horse that we were boss. That forking the horse came in handy when we were ordered to try to wrestle another rider off his horse, and finally getting that feeling that the horse and we were one. For most of us this was our first time on a horse, not terrifying, but unsettling. But we were Marines – we could do anything.
The Colonel, actually a Lieutenant Colonel, was a handsome sight as he rode among us, sharply correcting our style and posture. He was large and fairly stout, but quite erect. and in his breeches, boots and pith helmet was a model to emulate. While we had already purchased our optional dress blues and whites, out of our own pocket, the riding outfit was included in our uniform allowance.
We had these lessons for about three hours once a week. We lived on the Post in Officer’s Quarters which were one floor duplexes, two of us to an apartment. While I have forgotten most of the detail of our life there, one memory of those hot humid days solidly remains – removing the boots. I suppose we had a boot jack, but our practice was to remove each other’s boots, tugging, twisting, and finally enjoying the relief as we sat there pulling off our hot sweaty socks, a bit put off by the odor of the other’s sweat.
.When this ten week course ended, the officers went on to various other assignments, most to infantry assignments fighting in the Pacific. Some fifty of us went on toBaseDefenseSchool, and Bob Laing, Larry Julianne and I continued on as instructors in that school. Our weekends were now free, and we frequently got horses from the stable and rode in the woods to the west of the Post. There we found idyllic trails, small brooks, and logs to jump over. One Sunday afternoon, I got a lesson on how not to ride. I had stopped for some reason, and the rest of our party has gone on ahead. As I ran the horse to join them, a tall bare trunked tree divided the trail ahead. Perhaps the horse had been along here many times. Perhaps he had always passed on the right. Perhaps the rider always guided him to the right. At the last stride before the tree I reined him to the left, but it was too late. He had already headed to the right. I caught most of the blow with my arms in front of my face. It took a few minutes for me to recover from the shock as I sat, dazed, on the ground. The horse kept going until he joined my friends. Where’s George? I rose and slowly joined them, remounted, and bidding goodbye, returned to the stables, wondering how I could have been so indecisive.
One other time I went riding while in the Corps. We were now stationed atCampLeJeuneinNew River,North Carolina. It was New Years Eve, 1943. With two friends we had driven from the Post to a small resort town near Southern Pines andFortBragg. We had trouble finding lodgings, but finally settled into a small hotel, and joined a raucous party with some soldiers, as we welcomed the New Year. The next morning I arose early, quietly left the hotel and walked to a stable. There, on a rented horse, I rode silently through the woods, on a snow covered trail, with the flakes slowly building up on my shoulders and hat. It was memorable way to say goodbye to the East, for in another week I would be heading west and overseas.
In the years since, it has finally come to me; why equitation? The Quantico Post had a polo team, and Polo meets with other teams around theUnited Stateswere quite common in peace time. But the Corps didn’t want to surrender its ponies, and this feeling must have existed clear up to the Commandant of the Corps, or maybe down from the Commandant, for it was part of our officers’ education, though we would never use it in war.
George W. Parker
May 16, 2012
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GEORGE P. SHULTZ – MARINE
April 8th, 2012GEORGE P. SHULTZ – MARINE
- Shultz – Original Letter
SING FOR AMERICA
March 2nd, 2012
SING FOR AMERICA
I am embarking on a new adventure, only for a short period, but still with some trepidation. Checking my e-mail last November, I received a message from General Mike Myatt of the Marines’ Memorial Club. He said that an Erich Stratmann, a singer who has often performed at the club, was organizing a “Sing for America” chorus to perform at the Herbst Theater in San Francisco on April 17th. This is a non-profit activity-based fundraising event, much the same as an Aids, or Marathon for Leukemia, but involves singing rather than walking or running. The participants can designate fifty percent of their fund-raising to their choice of charity, the other half goes to charities selected by Sing for America. So I signed up, since I am not now singing in the church choir, and my eyes, larynx, and lungs need to keep working. Any funds I raise I designate to The Marines’ Memorial Club for renovation of the theater.
I sent an e-mail to Stratmann, explaining I was 93 years old, and could tell whether the next note went up or down, and I would like to join. His reply expressed much doubt, but if I could stand up, and I knew when not to sing, I could give it a try. Cari went with me for company to the first meeting, held at the Marines’ Memorial Club. This was the first of many Monday night rehearsals scheduled. There was a good turnout, good singers, some of them professionals, and we got started with a two and a half hour rehearsal. Cari didn’t join that night, but after seeing the quality of the singers, decided she would at the next meeting.
So we are committed, and the show looks better all the time. Since our joining, Erich has announced the addition of the following singers: Melody Moore, who played the role of the wife in Heart of a Soldier, the San Francisco Opera production in 2011; Marcus Lovett of The Phantom of the Opera, and Carousel; and Michael McGuire, Tony Award winner in Les Miseables.
So here is my profile to be put on Facebook, so my friends with extra money can make a contribution, and, or, buy tickets to the show. www.singforamerica.org
Sing for America Profile
My first attempt at choral singing was at a concert in 1967 at a church in San Mateo, California. The music was the Messiah, a piece I had not heard, except for the Halleluiah Chorus, but I was a good follower and they accepted me. Singing started beside my mother’s piano playing, continued when I worked summers in a logging camp that had neither electricity nor radios, and filled our dull evenings in the Pacific when training for further ventures. And when I lie awake at night, I don’t complain, I just silently sing from my vast repertory.
Returning from Guam after WWII I resumed my education at Stanford University in March of 1946, and joined the just founded Marine’s Memorial Club in San Francisco. Over the years I have enjoyed the sky room restaurant, with its fantastic views, the piano bar (who was the lady who played there so long?), and the hotel rooms with the all-included happy hour, and banquets for special events.
A big feature of the Club is its 650 seat theater, a venue for the George P. Shultz Lecture Series, which has brought many great speakers, often in cooperation with The Commonwealth Club. Add to this the many stage performances by theater groups. The rental revenue from this source helps maintain the theater and the Club, but the theater is in need of upgrading, so I am donating my fundraising to The Marines’ Memorial Club.
George W. Parker
Major, USMCR
Retired w/o pay or benefits
OBSERVER OF WAR
January 30th, 2012
An Observer of War
I
I was hot, dirty, sweaty, tired, and thirsty. Perhaps a bath would make me feel better and awaken me to my duties here. I slipped down to the lagoon through a grove of scraggly pine trees, over a gravely bank and to the coral reef. There, I removed my shoes and clothes and waded cautiously over the sharp coral into the water. But no comfort. I was now in the full rays of the sun; the shallow water barely covered my knees and was as warm as the tropical air I was breathing. I rubbed some salt-water soap over my body, sat down as best I could and splashed rinse water over me. I carefully moved farther out, stepping cautiously, for this coral was sharp and, suddenly, I stepped into a deep hole- up to my shoulders. What joy! The water at my feet was cool, I guessed at least 30 degrees cooler than at the surface. I exhaled, held my breath, and sank to the bottom in a sitting position. Then back up, a few big breaths, another exhale, and back down. I repeated this several times in spite of the discomfort of holding my breath, but, Oh, that cool water.
But then, as I popped up I heard the rat-a-tat of a machine gun and saw bullets ricocheting in the water around me. Looking beyond the curve of the lagoon to a far point, I could see several figures moving around. Were they friend or foe? No time to find out. The bullets kept splashing around me. This time I took a deep breath and ducked down as far as I could. How long could one hold one’s breath? I don’t know, but when the pain got too strong, I rose up, gasped some more air, observed the splashes were still coming, and dropped down again. I kept wondering, were these Japanese firing at me, or our own troops, thinking I was a ”Jap”? Finally, after some ten minutes of these maneuvers, the shooting stopped. Perhaps they thought I had been killed or wounded? I would never know. I dashed over the sharp coral, ignoring the pain, grabbed my clothes, ran up the bank, and out of sight of my antagonists.
II
A fortnight before, my orders, dated 11 May 1944 directed me to report to the Commanding General of the 24th Provisional Corps Artillery for temporary duty as an observer. I was stationed at Camp Tarawa situated on the Parker Ranch at Kamuela, Hawaii, as Battery Commander of Battery “A”, 10th Gun Battalion, Vth Amphibious Corps Artillery. At one time I was an instructor in the Seacoast Artillery Section of The Base Defense School in Quantico, Virginia, and Camp Lejeune in New River, North Carolina. Then, it was decided we needed no more Defense Battalions, so I learned Field Artillery from The 2nd Division on Hawaii. It was common to assign officers to an invasion force, as observer, to gain combat experience. I flew to Oahu and reported into an Army camp just north of Pearl Harbor, where I was assigned duty with a Captain, whom I will call Jack.
It wasn’t long ‘till we were part of a magnificent flotilla of war ships sailing east ward as a convoy. Forward, they stretched, so that only the masts of the leading ships were visible. And aft, they stretched, until out of sight. Cruisers, destroyers, cargo ships, troop ships, small anti-submarine boats, all zigzagging across the ocean in radio silence. The only communication was by signal lights and flags. It was a scene out of a movie! For five days we voyaged on under fair skies, with destroyers and anti-submarine boats, maneuvering around us, though I saw no splash of depth bombs being dropped. Our deception must have been good. Not much to do on board except eat, sleep, play acey-deucy, and, finally, examine maps of our objective. It was only now that we learned our objective was Saipan. Saipan is the northernmost significant island of the Marianas. Farther south is Guam, and in between, and very close to Saipan, is Tinian.
A few days later, we awoke to find ourselves anchored about a half-mile offshore on the western side of Saipan, with hundreds, or what seemed, thousands, of ships around us, many lobbing shells at the island. We heard that battleships had been doing the same for several days, but now had left and joined up with carriers to seek the Japanese fleet. We could see small craft ferrying troops and weapons to the shore only to be met by vicious shelling from hidden sites in the hills. But, ashore, the marines and soldiers did go and move inland.
Our units, 155 millimeter field artillery guns, went ashore on the 3rd day. My memory is vague, bur I recall wading in a bit, crossing the sand and entering a grove of trees, where I observed a building. It appeared to be an abandoned store, and my curiosity invited me in, only to find it empty, no goods on the shelves. Had the proprietors cleared the place and moved north with the Japanese, or had souvenir seekers emptied it? As I was leaving to join our group progressing forward, I spotted an object on the floor – a slide rule in a black case. It ended up in my pocket, and I have it to this day, my only souvenir of that Island. We ended up that night at our guns which were just being set up and slept in shallow fox holes dug by troops the day before.
The next morning I set out with Jack, a driver, and a radioman (actually telephone) in a jeep heading inland on the southern part of the island, which was somewhat secured, for our troops were now pushing the Japanese northward. We knew little of what was going on up there, but could hear lots of artillery fire. We holed up in a small grove of trees and awaited instructions, not knowing if there was enemy around us. That night we didn’t sleep – our headquarters kept ringing our phone, in spite of our protests, to see if we were still connected. No better way for the enemy to locate us.
The next day I did some reconnoitering and came upon a grassy clearing with the bodies of perhaps a dozen Americans and an equal number of Japanese laid out in opposite rows. My first reaction was that they had faced each other in gunfire, as they might have done in Colonial Days, but then realized that they had been placed there, awaiting the “graves” detachment for burial. It was a sobering sight, a recognition of the inhumanity of war, and while we had been taught in boot camp to hate the Japanese, It didn’t stick. I stood for a few minutes, weeping, something I had not done for several years.
And now, a few days later, feeling grubby, thirsty and useless, I slipped down to the lagoon for a bath.
II
I don’t recall how we spent the next few days. At one time I discovered a water well on a meadow and thought “oh boy, fresh cold water!” I preferred to go thirsty than to drink the chlorinated water we were given. But a Marine guard stood by, preventing any military personnel from drawing water, though there were two natives there, filling their buckets. The dead cow lying along side did not deter them.
We finally got an assignment as forward observers to direct fire on the island of Tinian, about ten miles to the south and the next invasion target. We found a grove of trees that gave us partial shade, and obtained a bit more by erecting a tarp, supported by limbs we cut from the trees. We then set up a telescope where we had a good view of our targets, mostly buildings, called in approximate distances to the gun control officer by phone, located some two miles away, and puffs of smoke appeared around the target. Then, by ordering up and down, and right and left commands, we bracketed the target with just one gun, and when the target was hit, the command was “fire for effect!” and all four of the battery’s guns opened up. We continued this for several days, noting that some smaller army artillery came out near us each day and fired continuously at a point of land ahead of us and to our left. We discovered that this was Nafutan Point, a rocky peninsula on the south end that was by-passed when this part of the island was secured. It appeared, now that the plan was to keep the enemy penned in their rocky retreat. But why did this small artillery draw back at night, leaving the four of us alone out there? Actually, we were not too worried, and probably not too smart, since hidden in a grove of trees, we felt we were unobserved. We joked about this light artillery cowardly backing away at night, while we were brave to stick it out.
Our targets on Tinian were rather vague, probably large warehouses, and, we suspected, an airfield beyond, but could not actually see it. The days wore on; the light artillery kept firing at Nafutan Point in the daylight, and pulled back at night. Our firing at Tinian became sporadic, our airfield had been rebuilt enough to allow our cargo and fighter planes to come in and perhaps they had neutralized Tinian. I was still hot, tired and thirsty. And then it came; a telephone message that I was to return to my home base in Hawaii. A vehicle would come and pick me up. Yes, it came around 10:00 P.M. . . . a jeep, with its headlights on, with rays of light flashing up to the light cloud cover ,and then disappearing as the vehicle drove through a ravine We screamed at the driver to turn off his lights, but to no avail. If the Japanese were watching, and they surely had guards posted, they would now know we had a position here.
I made my good-byes, threw myself and gear into the jeep and was driven to some head quarters and shown a cot. But before I could sleep, a bomb attack warning sent me down into a basement. It seemed no time at all ‘till I was roused, put into the back of a big truck, alone, and driven to the airfield in the dark of early morning. The truck drove up to a large transport plane, deposited me, and drove off. And, just as I walked over to the plane all hell broke loose. The rat-tat of machine guns and rifle fire, this time all around me, with tracer bullets lighting up the area. I dashed to the plane and crouched behind one of its large wheels, assuming the enemy was in the direction of the tracers. Were these the Japanese that had been holed up on Nafutan Point? Did the jeep driving out to pick me up with its lights on have anything to do with this attack? Perhaps. A half hour later, and with dawn breaking, all was quiet. A Marine appeared and guided me to the ramp of the plane.
I entered, to see the interior of a cargo plane with no seats. Stretched down each side of the cabin were wounded men, some on stretchers, others sitting against the bulk head. All was quiet. The only activity was two nurses going down the line giving cups of pineapple juice to the injured. My mouth watered in anticipation of this delicacy, and, finally, a nurse stopped beside me and said she had one drink left, and as I reached for it – the drink I had been thirsting for over the last two weeks, the man lying next to me said he would like some more. I handed him my cup, and my thirst disappeared. The plane took off and the roar of the engines was the only thing that bothered my sleep for the next several hours.
IV
In late afternoon we landed at Kwajalein. I was directed to a large mess tent where, sitting alone, I was served all the pineapple juice I could drink, and a hearty meal. How quickly I was rejuvenated. Then, a stopover at Midway Island, and the next day the sunny shores of Oahu.
The transportation officer looked at my orders, and with a wink, said he could not get me back to Hawaii for a week, but I could stay in the B. O. Q. and could borrow a jeep from the motor pool if I wished. In the B. O. Q. I found Captain John King and Lt. Dwight Sales of my outfit on Hawaii, who had also just returned from Saipan Captain Jack, whom I had just left, firing on Tinian had asked me to look up his girl in Honolulu to say he was OK. I visited her that evening where she lived in a house with several other girls, and made a date to see her the next night. But circumstances changed. John King had an introduction to the manager of the Dole Pineapple Company, He and I and Dale were invited to dinner at their house the next night, and then spent several days being shown around the Island by his daughter and another pretty girl. I phoned my broken date to find that she had taken a hotel room the night before, and had left directions for me to join her. She was not happy with me. Well, win some and lose some. Then, back to the big Island.
WAR IS HELL!
V
Did I learn anything as an observer? Not too much. Did I serve purpose? Yes, to some extent for Tinian was invaded two weeks later. Did I know what was going on north of me on Saipan? Very little. But, years later, reading the official history of the battle and the personal stories of participants, I now feel that I was there. Some 500 Japanese had come out of Nafutan Point that night and attacked the airfield. Did that jeep, with its headlights on have anything to do with their breakout? I heard later that the friends I had just left were killed.
No, I didn’t crawl on my stomach, jump up and throw hand grenades, didn’t direct a flame thrower into caves, didn’t repel bonsai night attacks, didn’t see men dying around me. I didn’t even observe it. I was no hero, but, I was there, on this little Island only 12
miles long by 6 miles wide.
Seventy thousand Americans battled 30,000 Japanese. Three thousand Americans were killed and ten thousand wounded. Nearly all the Japanese were killed or committed suicide by jumping off the northern cliffs and taking with them some twenty two thousand civilians who were made to believe that the Americans were brutal.
George Parker
© 2009
Yosemite Reservations
January 2nd, 2012
RESERVATIONS
“Have you ever been to Yosemite?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, several times,” I replied. “Once when I was very young, but I don’t remember. My father says we camped there. But I’ve been there other times that I do remember. Once, right after World War II, I went skiing there with two friends. We stayed in a cabin that had a wood stove for heating, and I got a headache from blowing on the fire to keep it burning. Another time I spent a honeymoon there and also went skiing.”
“What’s a honeymoon? Is it yellow, like honey?”
“No, it’s when you take a vacation trip after your wedding to get acquainted. It’s what you should have done before you got married. Why do you ask about Yosemite?”
“I saw a show on television. I’d sure like to go there sometime.”
“Maybe your parents will take you when you get older.”
“I don’t know. They are always too busy.”
“Well, you seem to be having a nice summer. I see you riding your bike up and down the street, and you have lots of playmates. I saw you trying to walk in high heels the other day. Where did you get them?”
“They’re my mother’s, and she was really mad at me. Tell me about Yosemite”
“One summer I was working in a logging camp up in the mountains, not far from Lake Tahoe. Have you been to Lake Tahoe?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it. Someday we’ll go there my mother said.”
“Well, I was cutting down trees…”
“Doris says you shouldn’t cut down trees.”
“Who’s Doris?”
“She’s my best friend’s older sister.”
“Ask Doris if her house is made of wood, and where did the wood come from.”
“Tell me about Yosemite,” she countered, apparently not concerned with ecology.
I continued my story. “That summer two new college boy came up to work. Every summer there was a need for more workers. That’s how I got my job, and because my father was the timekeeper in camp, so I had pull.”
“What’s pull?”
“That’s when you know the right people. These two new fellows must have known the company president. Anyway, these two fellows were brothers; Jerry and John Chamberlain, from Oakland. They were both students at Berkeley.”
“What’s Berkeley?” she asked.
“That’s a University. It’s called the University of California, and because it’s located in the City of Berkeley, it is sometimes called ‘Berkeley’, and sometimes ‘Cal’ for California.” Someday you may go there.”
“My dad says I’m going to USC, whatever that means. He says he played football there. Tell me about Yosemite.”
“Jerry and John were both very tall, maybe six foot-six, and slim and strong. They were both blond.”
“I’m a blond. I’m getting my hair fixed Saturday.”
“Do you want to hear about Yosemite?” I asked, “Stop interrupting me.”
“I’m sorry.” She answered.
“These brothers had an air about them, not conceited, but more like assured of themselves, as in ‘born to the manor’, no, don’t ask. I’ll explain that later. Me, I’m a short, little guy. I had to use my wits to keep going.”
“You’re a lot bigger than me. I like your stories”
“Going on, Jerry, the younger of the two, told me he had a girl friend from Cal who was working at Yosemite for the summer, and he would like to go see her. ‘The Fourth of July is coming and we’ll have a three day weekend. Let’s spend it at Yosemite.’ I asked how we would get there, and he replied, ‘you have a car’. I put to him that the car was a Falcon Knight and twelve years old, and I wasn’t sure it would go that far.”
She broke in again, “A falcon is a big bird that flies very fast, I saw one on television. It flew right onto a man’s hand. Could your car go fast?”
“Only at night,” I said, but she didn’t get the joke.
“I suggested to Jerry that we could drive down to Sacramento Friday night…”
“Where’s Sacramento?”
“I’ll show you on the map someday, but now I want to get on with the story.”
“In Sacramento we can stay in our family house, and hitchhike to Yosemite on Saturday morning.”
“Doris says you shouldn’t ride in strangers’ cars. They might hurt you.”
“Doris doesn’t know that we lived in a different world then. In those days we didn’t lock our house or our cars, and everyone was a friend.”
“You’re funny,” she said “you’re fooling me.”
“You want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Oh yes, I won’t stop you anymore.”
“Our Sacramento home was only a block from Stockton Boulevard, so named because fifty miles to the south was the city of Stockton. It was a segment of State Highway Ninety-nine, that stretched from the Oregon border in the north, to the Mexico border in the south, so maybe they should have called it Mexico Boulevard, or Oregon Boulevard. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, maybe Mexican Boulevard. I know the names of all the streets around here,” she answered.
“Good,” I said,” So I bet you never get lost.”
“I even know how to walk to school.”
“Well, we got out on Stockton Boulevard, and stuck our fists up, like this, with our thumb sticking out. Yes, just like that, but a little higher. And it wasn’t anytime at all until we got a ride. A man in a big sedan stopped and asked where we were going, and he said he could take us as far as Stockton. Jerry got in the back seat where he could stretch his legs sideways, and I rode in the front. That was a long time ago so I don’t remember what we talked about. The highway went right through the center of the towns, so we got to see the stores, and restaurants, and hotels, and movie houses. There were no freeways then. It was fun to see how each town differed. Stockton was big, Modesto smaller, and Turlock, well, it was about like Modesto. In Turlock, we had lunch at a diner.”
“What’s a diner?”
“A diner is a restaurant that also has a counter where you can sit down and eat.”
“How many rides did you get?”
“I don’t remember, but when we got to Merced, it took us a while to find the right highway to Yosemite. It was really hot standing out in the sun. We had our sweaters draped over our backs and the sleeves tied together over our chests. We didn’t wear hats and our shaving gear…”
“I like to watch my Daddy shave.”
“Does he ever cut himself?”
“I don’t think so. He says it’s a ‘lectric razor.”
“Well, I carried my razor in a little bag in my pocket, with my toothbrush and…”
“Didn’t you have a suitcase?”
“Oh, no, we travelled light.”
“One, two, three, three, two, one. See I can count backwards.”
“Yes, I see, but sit down and stop skipping up and down the steps so I can finish my story about Yosemite.”
“We got to Yosemite around sundown. It was beautiful, seeing the sun shining on the great peaks and cliffs surrounding us. We drove along the Merced River, and then past Bridalveil Falls, which we could see in the distance, but the driver didn’t want to stop. Our destination was Camp Curry, with its hundreds of tents, tent cabins, wooden cabins, restaurants, a lodge, bears, and a big parking lot.”
“Did you say bears?”
“Yea, just keep food away from them and they’re no problem. We thanked the driver, who said his family was already there, and maybe we would run into each other again. We got out of the car and took our bearings.”
“What were your bearings?”
“Oh, that just means we looked around to see where we were, and what was around us. Jerry seemed to know where his girl friend worked, so he took off to find her. While I sat on a bench and watched the crowd of people strolling, running, cycling, licking ice cream cones, talking, laughing, and a few little ones crying.”
“An hour had passed when Jerry returned. He didn’t look happy. His girl friend had a new boy-friend, and didn’t want Jerry around. He asked her if we could stay where she lived, wherever that might be. Absolutely not!”
“She wasn’t very nice. I don’t think I like her,” she pouted.
“Our next step was to find a place to stay, so we went to a little office that said ‘reservations’. We’d like a cabin for two nights, Jerry told the attendant. ‘Ha! said the attendant’, and then Jerry said we wouldn’t mind a tent.”
“Don’t you know this is the Fourth of July weekend? Everything has been booked since Christmas.”
“This didn’t look good, so I asked if we could rent blankets.”
“No blankets”, he replied “you’d do better to go to Merced.”
“It was getting dark now, so we did some planning. We would go over into the woods by the cliff, rake up pine needles and cover ourselves. But first, some dinner. While eating, some people asked if we were going to watch the fire fall? Fire Fall, I asked, what is that?
You’ll see, they said, and we followed them to a big meadow where crowds of people were sitting on the grass and some on chairs, they had brought. It was dark, now, and someone in a loud voice shouted ‘let the fire fall’. Then, falling off the top of this mountain called Glacier Point, was this fire that kept falling like a waterfall. It was beautiful and exciting.”
“Did the fire engines come?” she asked.
“No, they did this on purpose. They did it every night in the summer.”
“Were you scared?”
“Oh, no, we were a long way off. It was very pretty.”
“I want to see it when I go.”
“No, they don’t do it any more. Doris decided there was a lizard, or something in the meadow that people might step on, so no one could go on the meadow any more.”
“I didn’t know Doris was ever there. She didn’t tell me.”
“I’m kidding,” I said, “I just used her name because she’s an ecologist.”
“What’s an ecologist?”
“That’s someone who wants to save the planet.”
“Don’t you want to save the planet?”
“Sure, but I want to have some fun while I’m alive. After I die they can save the planet.”
“You’re funny.” She said, “I have to go home soon.”
“So, after the fire fall Jerry and I walked into the woods by the cliff, and though it was dark, we raked pine needles with out hands into a great big pile. Then we lay down on them and tried to cover ourselves with more needles. It was impossible, impossible.”
“If Bambi was there, he and his friends would cover you up.”
“Well, he wasn’t, and we were so cold we couldn’t sleep. I tried every position, curled up in a ball, lay on my stomach; nothing worked, and Jerry had the same problem; we were freezing. Finally we decided to get up and walk around, maybe we would get warmer. We walked over by the lodge, and what do you think?”
“What?” she played along.
“The door to the lodge was open; we went in, and there was a fireplace with glowing embers, casting their loving warmth into the room. And there were two sofas facing the fire. The room was empty, quiet and dark, except for those beautiful coals. We each took a sofa and dreamed, until activity in the room awakened us in the morning.”
“The next morning we toured around the valley. Mirror Lake ..”
“Could you see yourself in the lake?” she interjected.
“Of course,” I answered. “I could have shaved, but the water was too cold. That was a long walk up to the lake and back, but we were strong, so then we hiked up to Vernal Falls, and then back toward Yosemite Village. We walked all around the place that day, and then, that night, after everyone had left the lodge, we slept on the sofas again.”
“Then, the next morning we got up early, got out on the road and hitch-hiked back to Merced, then to Sacramento. We got in my old car, and drove up to Auburn, then to Georgetown, then, on rough dirt roads, back to the logging camp, and we lived happily ever after.”
“There’s Joseph on his new bike. He’s not supposed to ride up here. Oh, now he’s headed back to his house at the dead end. That’s a funny word, dead end. I’ve got to go home now. I liked your story.”
“Don’t you want to hear more about Yosemite?”
“Not now. Maybe my father will take me there next year.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, I’ll take you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
And as she skipped down the sidewalk toward her house, she stopped and shouted back, “Get reservations.”
George W. Parker
© February, 2011
The Tule Fog
November 10th, 2011
THE TULE FOG
I was standing on the gravel driveway that separated the house from the pasture; if you could call it a pasture. Leaning against the wooden fence, I peered out through the dense, dreary fog at the lone cow slowly moving her head over the ground, as if she was finding something to eat. I was cold and shivering, so I pulled the collar of my jacket up around my neck, and put my hands under the opposite arm pits. Why did I come out dressed like this? Well, I won’t stay out long.
This was the notorious Tule fog for which this California valley was famous. This great six- hundred mile long valley, usually described as two: The San Joaquin and the Sacramento, each named for their main rivers. The Sacramento Valley in the North, widening as it approached the City of Sacramento some two-hundred miles southward, and the San Joaquin Valley, starting in the South near Bakersfield and meeting its complement at Sacramento.
Yes, this is the breadbasket of the World: cotton; corn; rice; peaches; olives; grapes; tomatoes; almonds, and most anything you can think of, nourished by these rivers from the snow pack in the Sierra to the east. And yes, this is the month of January, the month of the Tule fog that closes down all agriculture, depresses the populace, piles up automobiles on the highways, confuses the legislature, and sends retired seniors to Florida. Throughout this vast basin, wisps of moisture rise from the wet ground, the marshes, and the canals. The air is still, the only movement is the rivers rushing to the Golden Gate.
I came out of the house for a smoke and to get away from the television. It’s been eighty years since I last visited the twenty acre farm of my grandparents here. What fun it was then: the jumping in the hayloft; the walking behind my grandpa as the mule pulled his hand-held plow; the rabbit hunting; and the ten mile ride to town in the wagon for provisions. Where is the windmill, the chickens, the wood pile, the out-house, the coal-oil lamp? Of course, I knew it was gone, only the driveway’s location was familiar. A nephew inherited the ranch, sold all, but a patch, to an agro-conglomerate, and built a small house for his and his wife’s retirement. But I had to see it once more.
I continued to stare through the gloom. There was a faint outline of the opposite fence, and what looked like a watering trough off to the right. And I could just make out a passing car on the country road beyond. I felt miserable, cold and damp, and I wondered what that cow was thinking. Was she as depressed as I? I thought “what a dumb cow”, and about that time she raised her head and stared at me. Was she thinking “what a dumb man”? While I review pieces of my life in my mind, and day-dream of doing great deeds, maybe she does the same. That bull, with which she mated, oh yes, he was handsome and rough, and it was great while it lasted, even though he didn’t hang around to help raise the calf. And the calf, learning to stand on its spindly legs, as she licked him clean. Then there was the county fair where she won a blue ribbon. And, of course, the relief each evening, when she is milked, and given a dinner of hay. Yes, she had lots to think about.
I was uncomfortable, and she was uncomfortable. We had something in common. I’d be leaving tomorrow, back to where the sun will shine, and she’ll be dreaming of the past, and of the future, to keep her mind off this damp, sparse, miserable, lonely pasture. There’ll be another County Fair and she will win another ribbon, and a special certificate for her great milk production. Yes, she will be famous, and stand with her head held high and people will Ooh! And Ah! And the 4-H children will crowd around and stare at her. She dreams on: she will do fabulous things; next year the State Fair, and bulls ogling her– and even someday, the world will see the great big headline in the newspapers: “Cow Jumps Over the Moon.”
George W. Parker
April 2010
THE LUNCH
August 3rd, 2011
Sidewalk dining has become very popular and pleasant, weather permitting, and my friend and I are about to have some lunch. Please join us – it’s on me.
THE LUNCH
“This table O.K. with you, Bruce?” asked Will as he set down the little statue holding the order number.
“It better be O.K.,” replied Bruce, “since it’s the only empty table out here, but it needs clearing.”
“The waiter’ll do it.”
“Or the waitress,” offered Bruce.
“Well, I sometimes like to use the generic, for example – ‘God is a He’.”
“Or a She,” countered Bruce.
” How about an It?” suggested Will, knowing he would get a reaction from Bruce.
Bruce sighed, and said, “God made man in his own image, so I guess it could be either a man or a woman.”
Will quickly replied, “Oh, I thought man made God in his own image.”
“Let’s not get into religion again. I know you’re an atheist and I’ll never convert you, and you sure won’t convert me. I ‘m very happy with my beliefs, but, I sometimes think you argue the way you do just to be arguing.”
“I’ll sit over here,” said Will. “The sun won’t bother me.” Then “Oh, excuse me,” turning to the three women sitting at the table behind him, as he shifted his chair to a position between his table and theirs. The woman he bumped turned, gave him a blank look, and continued talking with her friends without shifting her chair, apparently oblivious of the problem. I’m sorry I apologized, he thought to himself, and then, turning to Bruce he said, “Here, I’ll lay your cane on this chair on the other side. You’re walking pretty well,” he continued. “Do you think you’ll ever get knee replacements?”
“No, the doctors say that at my age it would be dangerous and no assurance of success. After I had that fall on the court, – God, how long ago was that?”
“It must have been twenty years, at least,” suggested Will. “You were a damn good player then. You always beat me in singles.”
“Well, that was then, this is now, and I just hobble around. But you, you’re still playing tennis, singing, travelling, and remember how we four would go to the opera together? Who do you go with now?”
Two yapping dogs interrupted the conversation, and Will’s thoughts moved on without answering his question. “I hear you sold your home and moved into a retirement home. How do you like it?”
“It’s great. No more worries. No garden to take care of. We cook breakfast, but we eat the other meals in the dining room. I don’t know why you and Mary don’t do the same,” Bruce said. “Look,” countered Will, “you worked all your life for Standard …”
“Chevron,” corrected Bruce.
“Well, it was Standard Oil when you started there, and you must have ended up with a good pension and some nice stock options. I worked for a dozen different companies, and none gave me a pension. We can’t afford a retirement home. Besides, I like gardening and repairing things around the house.”
The waiter came out carrying an order and glanced around at the tables for the proper number. He placed the plates in front of them, which Will immediately switched. The waiter picked up the dirty dishes and left the two of them alone. There was silence as they organized themselves, unfolding the paper napkins and placing them on their laps.
“Why do they always give us such small napkins?” asked Will, not expecting an answer, as he held up the one on his lap and placed another by his plate. Then added, “What do you two do for entertainment?”
“Well, on Thursday night we play bridge at the residence. – Do you play bridge?” Bruce said.
“Never got into it, though once in a while Mary will play with some of her friends. Look out! That dog is about to get your sandwich!” exclaimed Will. But the dog passed on with her master’s tug. Bruce continued, “Joyce is a damn good player and gives me hell if I don’t count right. But win or lose I enjoy it. We see a few movies. Saw one the other night – something like Brugles, no, I think it was Bruges. We walked out after twenty minutes. One guy had to put at least three F words in every sentence. It was disgusting. How about you?”
“I see about three a year, though Mary will go with others when I won’t go with her. My favorite, still, is ‘The Singing Detective’. I’ve probably watched it four times. It’s like I personally know all the characters and they all know me, like I was part of the movie. Remember, I suggested you rent it.”
“Oh, I know you did, and we tried to figure out what was going on, and then that F scene in the woods – Joyce said turn it off!”
“You don’t have to use letters with me, you can say ‘fucking’.”
“Don’t talk so loud, those women can hear you” warned Bruce.
“No danger,” countered Will, “they’re so busy talking they don’t know what’s going on around them. And they’re all talking at once. Mary tells me that you can have six women all talking at once and none of them miss a thing. But that scene of his mother in the woods, while he was in a tree watching was important; it was one of the many flashbacks in his life that had him so disturbed. Another of my favorite movies is ‘Some Like It Hot’. Do you know it?”
“Know it! Joyce loves it. She loves Tony Curtis and that scene on the boat where Marilyn tries seducing Tony. She keeps imitating that clipped voice of his with ‘not very likely, not very likely’.”
“I think he was imitating Cary Grant,” suggested Will.
“Probably,” agreed Bruce. “Not very likely. not very likely,” he kept repeating.
“That was a pretty sexy scene. I’m surprised she liked it”, Will said.
“It was romantic. She likes romantic stories and movies,” explained Bruce.
“You know, we haven’t seen Joyce in years. We used to have some pretty good parties.”
“Well, I might as well tell you,” returned Bruce. ”Joyce thinks you have a dirty mind. You’re obsessed with sex. You sing those dirty songs, and tell dirty limericks, like that one about the guy from Boston and his car – I don’t exactly remember it.”
“I’m glad I didn’t tell about the guy from Nantucket. Want to hear it?”
“No, thanks. And then you have all those crazy ideas about economics. You think you’re right and every one else is wrong,” Bruce said.
“Well, aren’t they?” Will added, needling Bruce some more.
“Don’t be funny. I’m serious. You talk about a guy named Henry George who wrote a book about economics over a hundred years ago. He seems to be your God. And you don’t like Proposition 13. Do you know, we were able to transfer our assessment on our old house over to the condominium? It saves us a lot of money.”
“Man tends to satisfy his desires with the least effort, and man’s desires are never satisfied,” declared Will in a stentorian voice.
“What does that mean?” asked Bruce.
“Those are two universal economic principles and mean we are all greedy. You think it’s great that your neighbors must pay ten to fifteen times the property tax as you, yet you receive the same benefits.”
“Well, that’s the law. And she thinks you’re a Communist.” Bruce added quickly, trying to drop the subject of Prop 13.
“Do you?” asked Will.
“No, but, at least a Socialist.”
“Well, aren’t we all? I’ll bet if you opened Marx’s grave now, you’d find him smiling.” Said Will, himself smiling, and deciding to end this subject.
The two were quiet for a short time, both uneasy about the turn in the conversation. Then Bruce asked, “Is there a restroom here?”
“Just go through that door and straight back. Want your cane?”
“No, I’ll navigate without it,” and Bruce disappeared from sight.
Will re-positioned his chair. The three women had left, and he shifted around so he could see up and down the sidewalk. He thought, This is a great place to see the passing parade, the people with dogs on a leash, the mothers with their young children, and baby buggies, many of them doubles. And the children, so cute and well dressed, while their parents are grunge. It was the ‘Mao” jackets in China years ago; and now its “Mao” trousers in the U.S. The government has decreed ‘denim jeans’. Lots of Asians, not many blacks. And men – they all seem to be wearing beards now. I like sidewalk dining. It’s like being in a European café but, here, instead of being a tourist I’m the native. And then, he thought, I’ve got to be more civil with Bruce. And everyone. I’m such a curmudgeon. It’s a wonder I have any friends – or do I?
Bruce navigated himself back to the table, thinking it was time to leave. He was not happy. Why did Will have to be so annoying? Why can’t he accept things as they are? Why can’t he grow old gracefully?” As he sat down he said “There are two restrooms but they are both uni-sex. Joyce doesn’t like that kind.” Then he added, “I’ve got to get going. Joyce went to have her hair done and is having lunch with a friend. I’d just as soon get home before her, so I don’t have to tell her where I’ve been. And then we’re going to pick up our son at the airport.”
Will couldn’t resist. He said “Did I ever tell you about the English gentleman who took a client to dinner at his club?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued. “Before dinner he said ‘I’m going to have a Scotch and soda, what will you have?’ The guest answered ‘nothing, thank you, I don’t drink. I tried it once and didn’t like it’ So they proceeded to eat and after, settled in the lounge, where the host pulled out of his inside coat pocket a brown leather cigar case. He slid off the top, exposing four cigars in the base, and offered one to his guest. The guest announced that he did not smoke, had tried it once and didn’t like it, and though he hated to run, he had to pick up his son at Victoria Station. The host replied ‘your only son, I presume.’”
Bruce smiled, but really thought, “I’m not going to pretend that was funny. I think he was digging me in some way, sure, we only have one child, but that’s because of Joyce’s condition.” He decided not to reply to the story. Instead he said, “This has been nice; we should do it again. I’ll give you a call; it’s better that you don’t phone me.” He stood up, turned away from the table and navigated his way through the men, women, dogs and children, zigging and zagging his way on the sidewalk.
Will took one last shot and called out, “Tell Joyce I said hello!”
Bruce stopped; half turned, and replied, “Not very likely.”
George Parker
© 2008
MUSIC SCHOOL
May 31st, 2011
MUSIC SCHOOL
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Do they enjoy beating out rhythms on drums, tunes on xylophone, playing the recorder, the flute? And do they pick out tunes on the piano?
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Take a look at ”musicschoolsanmateo.com”. And see what we offer.
THE LAST DANCE
May 11th, 2011
THE LAST DANCE
The dance floor is thinning. It’s better now. It was “excuse me” and “sorry”, as you bumped your arms and elbows into someone’s back, though you were hugging them close to your body. But, somehow, there was room for that one couple to show off their expertise and you were a bit jealous. It’s a big crowd here, this college re-union covering several graduating years. It’s a nice hotel, but the dance floor is quite small, and too many people at each table, there are eight around your table. There aren’t many of your classmates left to attend these functions. Age takes its toll.
It has been very noisy, with all the talking and the music, but, now, many are leaving. You old folk tire easily. You’ve said good-by to your classmates, they are leaving, and you are dancing again, on a near empty floor. You work your way around to the band stand as the piece ends. You compliment the musicians, and the leader asks if you have a request – it is the last dance, one last dance. Years ago you and your wife watched a television movie on the life of Glen Miller, and it brought to mind the song “Moonlight Serenade”. You didn’t know the words at the time, but you remembered how smooth a dance piece it is, how nice for slow dancing, for close dancing, so you looked up the words – romantic words that fit the music so perfectly.
You ask the band to play “Moonlight Serenade”.
I STAND AT YOUR GATE, AND THE SONG THAT I SING IS OF MOONLIGHT
Do you remember your first dance? Not much. Vaguely it comes to you: just one little episode – not the dance, but before the dance. You and your classmate are standing on the gravel driveway behind your house discussing the upcoming high school dance. You were probably sophomores. You have never danced with a girl before, except your sisters, and, of course, they always led, and belittled you for your inaptitude. You are green and confused by this exciting new feeling, the first commandment of nature– the hush, hush and no, no of becoming a man.
The question was – what is it like to hold a girl in your arms, especially one you secretly like? Should you wear a jock strap, in case you get a hard-on, and embarrass yourselves? You decided to bring them home from your gym lockers and wash them. Best to wear them and be on the safe side. The dance? You don’t remember. Was it in the gym? Did all the girls sit on one side and the boys on the other? You’ll never know. The memory was just a dim light.
Memory is like a train ride across the prairie at night, riding in a dark sleeping compartment. You lie there on your side staring out the window. You force yourself to stay awake; there might be something interesting out there. But, for now, it is pitch black. And then, in the distance, the dim, flickering light of a farmhouse, where some worried mother is comforting a sick child. That light is your ancient memory flickering for just a moment – the first dance.
The train runs on, clickity clack, clickity clack, and then you vaguely hear the sound of a road crossing bell clanging, the pitch of the bell increasing higher and higher as you approach the crossing, clang, clang, clang. And then, when you see the flash of a signal light swinging back and forth, the sound goes down the scale, clang, clang, clang. Not enough of the signal light to bring back a memory. Close, but it evades you.
But, now, you pull into a station – lights all around, people scurrying. You begin to remember another dance, but you didn’t dance. You worked in the controller’s office when you were a junior classman, and for a while you were responsible for providing phonograph music for noon dances. You remember them as “Hops”. You would go down town to Sherman Clay, the great music store, and select several records by the big bands, with vocals you would remember forever. You would take these 78’s; records that played for three minutes on each side, go into a sound-proof booth and see what you liked. Then, to school where you played them while you watched your schoolmates spin around the floor. You didn’t dance but you learned a bit by watching.
I STAND AND I WAIT FOR THE TOUCH OF YOUR HAND IN THE JUNE NIGHT.
They called it a “barn dance” but it was a pretty nice dance hall just outside Georgetown, where, in the summer, every Saturday night was dance night. Several of you had come down from the logging camp to taste a bit of the “big life”. Lots of beer being consumed, couples disappearing out to the parking lot for a while, and lots of whirling on the floor. And then, when the floor got a bit gritty, all dancers were ordered off the floor, it was carelessly swept and then sprinkled with Spangles, a wax that looked like soap flakes. You were improving as a dancer, and the beer helped quite a bit.
Spangles! That brings back the memory of your mother standing in the kitchen, with a bar of laundry soap in her hand, paring off thin slices, putting them in a pan of water, heating the solution, and then, pouring it into the Maytag washing machine – the electric washing machine, with the wringer that could be swung in several positions – a great invention – it sure beat the wash board.
Spangles! Another train stop! You are having a masked ball on Halloween. You and you wife clear the furniture from your office room, roll up the carpet, and sprinkle Spangles on the floor. What a party – you discuss the costumes for months, but who was that one fellow who never unmasked, and whom you could never identify?
THE ROSES ARE SIGHING A MOONLIGHT SERENADE
Before the dinner you had all met in a courtyard for cocktails, and chatting. The noise level was low and you compared notes with your classmates, some who were comfortable old friends. In the dining room, it was noisy – you could only talk to the person sitting next to you. So you clink your spoon against a glass, and lowdly demand attention. You pose the question to your dinner mates – “What is the definition of a dance?” You get the appropriate reply by someone – “We don’t know, what is the definition of a dance?”
Your answer –“A dance is a navel engagement without loss of semen”. You get a couple of appreciative guffaws, someone says “Hey, that’s a good one”, but you fear it was lost on some, as you hear the mention of Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. Your wife gives you a disgusted look, but you don’t care – you still like it – “a navel engagement without loss of semen”.
The stars are aglow, and tonight, how their light sets me dreaming.
She pulls you onto the dance floor, though you would rather sit longer. And it’s the style of dancing you never liked You face each other with your fists held high, feinting punches as if you are waiting for an opening to really slug your partner. And keep those feet dancing – a good boxer keeps them moving. You wave your hands, hop up and down, and have a stupid smile on your face. Fortunately, no one notices you – they are all too busy having a good time.
You had taken dance lessons several times, and you forgot them quickly, but she didn’t. She would say lets do the West Coast Swing, and you would do a couple of the maneuvers, but then, you couldn’t think of what to do next, while she would look at you expectantly, and you would solve it by going back into a Fox Trot
MY LOVE, DO YOU KNOW THA T YOUR EYES ARE LIKE STARS BRIGHTLY BEAMING?
Another train stop. The towns are getting bigger, more activity, more passengers, and fuller memories. You’re at the Officer’s Club on the Marine Corps post at Quantico, Virginia. It’s the Saturday night dance and you’re kept busy on the floor, mainly with the civilian women who worked on the post. Now the band has left, and a few of you gather around the piano where Bobby Troup expertly plays the current popular songs, including his “ Daddy”, the composition that had already brought him fame. He and you are in the same Base Defense class, and you won’t meet again until you are on a troop ship waiting in Eniwetok Atoll until space opens up for your debarkation at Guam.
Your next station stop is Camp Lejeune, New River, North Carolina, a new installation with beautiful brick buildings. The Base Defense School, where you are now an instructor, has been moved from Quantico. The Officer’s Club here, is surrounded by the BOQs and has a dock out on the river. On Saturday nights, if you don’t have a date with a Navy nurse, or a Woman Marine, you twirl the wives of fellows who don’t dance. You are all wearing your whites, and the ladies look gorgeous. It reminds you of a scene out of a movie, set at some glamorous Southern country club.
I BRING YOU AND I SING YOU A MOONLIGHT SERENADE.
You travel west across the country and board a ship. There were other ports, but now you are anchored in the coral island of Eniwetok. The hospital ship, Hope, all white and beaming, is a beautiful site as it stands in contrast to the grey transports and destroyers waiting in the harbor. Nurses, those beautiful nurses, come ashore, and you dance to the music of Bobby Troup’s orchestra. He, the orchestra leader, and recreation officer with this all black Defense Battalion defending the atoll with its anti-aircraft guns. The first Negro troops in the Marine Corps.
LET US STRAY ‘TILL BREAK OF DAY IN LOVE’S VALLEY OF DREAMS.
JUST YOU AND I, A SUMMER SKY, A HEAVENLY BREEZE CARESSING THE TREES.
Peace has come, and after the many stops in your life, the train has reached your present station, and you have debarked. You’re back on this dance floor – with only two other couples now. You look back at your table, the only one not cleared. Two glasses, half full of red wine. It was good wine, but you probably won’t finish it. Your coat is hanging over the back of a chair, and her jacket on the next chair – you removed them earlier when you were getting too warm. And, though you can’t see it, there is her beautiful, small beaded, purse on the seat of her chair. You remember suggesting, as you were getting dressed, that you could put her lipstick and comb in your pocket. Oh, No! The purse is as much of the dress as the shoes.
SO DON’T LET ME WAIT, COME TO ME TENDERLY IN THE JUNE NIGHT.
You are no longer singing the words to her. You are both getting very tired, you haven’t danced this much in years, and now your feet are barely moving, mostly just swaying your hips. And then, not even that. You hold each other tight, standing still, your head against her neck as you savor the sweet fragrance of her perspiration, sweeter than the Chanel No. 5 she dabbed on earlier.
I STAND AT YOUR GATE AND I SING YOU A SONG IN THE MOONLIGHT.
A LOVE SONG, MY DARLING, A MOONLIGHT SERENADE.
The last dance.
George Parker
June, 2009
THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS
May 1st, 2011THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS
I have never been much concerned about sinning. I have never been religious, but am, what I consider to be, a reasonable person, a somewhat responsible citizen. I have never been struck by God’s Wrath, or lightning; never been in jail; never been sued; I’ve voted every fall; and never needed to fight a duel to defend my pride. But how about other facets of my character? Let’s take a look at these sins.
WRATH: Yes, I admit, I do have a temper, and I usually defeat myself because of that. A temper leads to irrationality. I fixate on a statement or an idea, and then will not back-down even when I realize I am wrong. I’ll work on this.
GREED: I’m not alone here. We are all greedy. There are two basic principles of economics: “Man tends to satisfy his desires with the least effort”, and “Man’s desires are never satisfied”.
You say you’re not greedy, but do you think Proposition 13 should be reversed? Of course you don’t if you are paying only ten percent as much property tax as your neighbor, but getting the same benefits. We all like to get something without having to work for it, so don’t feel sinful; it’s just human nature.
SLOTH: Guilty! I wallow in it. I am lazy and unkempt much of the time. Lying on the couch doing crossword puzzles, and dozing off now and then, is my favorite pastime. Why fix the roof if it’s not raining. My wife says “you haven’t changed that shirt in three days.” My reply, “I use lots of anti-perspirant.” And I dislike shaving. Dragging the razor over my marbled chin invariably brings blood; and a septic pencil stings, and pieces of toilet paper drop off. Besides, a stubby beard looks manly.
PRIDE: Do I have pride? Yes, I suppose I do. Am I proud of my achievements? Well, yes, some of them. But, truth is, I don’t worry much any more of what people think of me. In fact, I rather enjoy being an enigma; the joy of growing old.
ENVY: How true, how true! I am envious of people who can take the floor and mesmerize their audience with their eloquence. The other evening I was at a dinner party. During cocktail time, economics was being discussed. One gentleman had the floor and was telling us how to solve our fiscal problems. The guests sat, leaning forward in their chairs, drinking in his words, instead of their cocktails. During a pause I tried to break in, but was beaten out by the elderly lady sitting next to me. Her analysis, too, I thought was faulty, but the other guests were intent on hearing her out. Then, with complete abandon, and I fear, poor manners, I stood up and loudly took over the floor, ready to give them the right answers, when, alas, the hostess walked in and stated that dinner was ready. “George,” she said, “ you’re sitting in that far corner. It’s a rather tight spot, and you’ll have to climb under the table to get there. But don’t worry; I’ll bring you a plate.”
I don’t get no respect.
GLUTTONY: Here, I feel I am in good standing. There was a time when I would overindulge, but I have learned my lesson. I can refuse seconds, and sometimes I do. I used to be a glutton for martinis, but there, too, I have gained wisdom, and only sip one, unless I am ensconced in my armchair at home.
LUST: Lust! What a lovely word: a smooth, slippery beginning, and then a snappy ending. Just the sound evokes a stirring in the loins. All of these “deadly” sins are derived from teachings of the Catholic Church, and, of course, not being a Catholic, I’m exempt, but I recognize that a little softening of the foregoing, so-called, “vices” can be a stabilizing force to the community.
If you are ashamed of your lustful thoughts, enjoy them instead. You can’t help it. Perhaps you should worry if your thoughts turn into inappropriate action, for that’s where you might get into trouble. But, as I said, you’re not responsible for your thoughts and your sexual drive, for you are a part of nature. All living entities in nature; amoebas, insects, diseases, mankind, have a common drive, a common gene, superior to all other genes. That gene says, “Reproduce! Unless we reproduce, our genus, our species, will disappear. Your duty is to be born, mature, reproduce, and then die. After that others of our family will carry on.”
Birds do it, and fly; bees do it, and die,
Dogs do it and stick to it,
So why shouldn’t you and I?
George W, Parker
Burlingame, CA
April, 2011