Some “professional critics” are doubtless chagrined by J. K. Rowling saying in a recent interview: “How we react to death, how much we fear it. In many ways, all of my characters are defined by their attitude to death.”

It is good Rowling said this for the record because critics are often those without an original thought or the talent to do the things they criticize. Ray Bradbury was quite rightly incensed by the supposed literary critics telling him what he really meant in “Fahrenheit 451” as though they were better qualified to tell him what he really meant. And how many people will use a remark when addressing someone seeming not to realize they are telling the other person what that person “really” thinks and believes, or worse, what they should think or believe.

How many a great writer and artist must turn over in their graves if they knew how some critics and university professors are telling others what these great writers and artists “really meant.” At least Bradbury and Rowling are alive to set them straight about what they meant. Most others are not so fortunate.

While I greatly appreciate the genius of Rowling and the enormous contribution she has made in stirring the imagination of so many children, encouraging the rightful domain of magic and fantasy belonging to children I would never have presumed to tell her what she really meant in her stories. I am just grateful she is speaking out about what she really meant rather than leaving this to the critics.

Life and death are the two greatest mysteries confronting humankind. Science cannot define either of these apart from “something” animates the clay, and that same something departs at death. Perhaps Oscar the Cat could explain it, but “meow” doesn’t translate into human speech. However, Rowling’s comment concerning an “attitude to death” certainly speaks directly to the issue, and it is not an issue we can avoid since we will all die; and in many ways our lives are defined by our attitude to death. It would be trite to reply it’s our attitude to life that really counts, since life is not permanent. Death is. And it will be our attitude to death that defines our attitude to life. For some it is “eat, drink, and be merry,” for others it may take the form of asceticism or religious beliefs. But it is an attitude to death that predominates even among those that practice the Golden Rule, the belief that to live well toward others is to die well.

A lady friend and I got into a conversation yesterday when the subject of the USS Indianapolis came up. She had just seen the Discovery Channel episode of this tragedy and was deeply moved by it. But the really striking thing to me had always been the fact that if the ship had been sunk on its way to Tinnian Island that atomic bomb would not have been delivered. The loss of hundreds of lives compared to the many thousands that were to die as a result of that bomb, who can make sense of such seeming contradictions to any “value” of life? I’m left wondering, who is keeping score?

Henry Thoreau commented on the profligacy of life, that Nature would spread thousands of seeds knowing the most would die but some few would survive to carry on. But it’s a most uncomfortable thought that God may be so profligate of human life in the same manner. “Not a sparrow falls to the ground” comforts my mind, but Nature red in tooth and claw, the wars of men, the untold millions that seem to be born to no other purpose but suffering and dying give me pause to wonder.

I have real confidence in the beginning chapters of Genesis; that behind the fables are the facts that gave birth to the stories. But the only conclusion so far to my mind is we can’t expect God to intervene in the things that are our responsibility, whether it is the safety and welfare of children, the care of our planet, the wars of men or whatever. And it is our attitude to death that defines us and will determine how we live our lives in respect to those things that are, after all, human responsibility.

Now that Oscar the Cat has been making national news for his uncanny ability to sense death, some calling Oscar “Grim Kitty,” though staff at that hospice in Rhode Island are quick to point out he comforts those near the end, I have been keeping a closer eye on the resident pussycat here at my place. My friend Mike Turner and I have long suspected this cat of being a furry extraterrestrial, and people who know cats don’t totally discount the idea of their being aliens, and the many cultures throughout the ages according supernatural status to cats is well known.

Dogs and cats especially often seem to sense the moods of their human companions to quite an extraordinary degree, and the stories are legion concerning this. The ability of animals in many instances to sense and respond to many things of which humans are not capable continue to prove fascinating, and at times an exciting area of scientific research. In view of much of this research it is difficult to determine just how much of human intelligence might be ascribed to animals, and in many cases we are rightly uneasy thinking the animals we raise and slaughter for food might be sentient beings having more than just the lowest level of perception, but capable of some human-like conscious, cognitive thoughts, or like dolphins and some others even self-awareness.

Many of you know the jokes about trying to stare down a cat, like the strip showing Jon attempting to do this with Garfield. For cat cognizanti you may have tried this yourself, but whether you have or not dogs and cats show marked intelligence in their eyes; and oftentimes uncomfortably so. Cartoonists have long been able to ascribe human characteristics to animals. Where would Disney have been otherwise, and what would Charles Schultz have been without Snoopy?

For those of us who care about our pets we like to believe they understand us, that they understand our moods and respond more like friends than simply animals. The problem is that vast chasm between warm and fuzzy, and nature red in tooth and claw. You simply do not make “friends” of sharks, bears, lions, and tigers, and anyone that thinks otherwise and wants one of these as a “pet” has to be short of brain cells notwithstanding all the warm and fuzzy anecdotes.

Certainly animals of all types can be trained to do things out of character for them. In an age past C. H. Spurgeon compared women preachers with a dog that had been trained to walk upright on its hind legs. He said it was not surprising the dog did it badly; but why would it do so at all? Wait a moment ladies; note I said this comment by Spurgeon was “in an age past.” Well, to hear some preachers today maybe not so far past.

Observers of animals in their natural environments soon realize that as with human beings not all are equal, and not all are predictable. In the meantime, perhaps those of us fond of our pussycats just might want to show them a little more respect. Who knows but what Mike Turner and I might be on to something?

How much better off David Crisp would have been to have heeded my advice, bought the Padre Hotel and turned it into a world class “gentlemen’s club,” you know, a cathouse rivaling anything in Las Vegas or San Francisco. At the time I was writing about this I’m sure David was aware of this rare opportunity to put Bakersfield on the map. Alas, he was not farsighted enough to understand the merit of my suggestion, and just look at the trouble he is in now. As it turned out, David had enough brains to scam people out of relatively paltry sums of money working his small-minded version of a Ponzi scheme, but not enough brains to be a true visionary. And so, I’ve written Donald Trump to see if he might be interested.

There is one thing that may turn Trump off to my suggestion concerning the Padre Hotel; the mention of Bakersfield. I know he thinks location, location, location. And I have no illusions about what images are conjured up in people’s minds at the name Bakersfield. After all, despite my Ph. D. I’ve encountered a few problems with people associating my birthplace of Weedpatch with Al Capp’s Dogpatch; both euphonic, lyrical names that pleasingly roll off the tongue, but Bakersfield? The Bakersfield Californian did a really bang-up job exposing Crisp, but where is the paper touting my own vision for the Padre, my vision for what this could do for Bakersfield? Strangely silent. But what reasonable person could fail to see how such a thing would put real meaning in the motto “Life as it should be.”

However, when I wrote an article questioning whether marijuana is now Kern County’s real cash crop few dared respond to that. But as the noose tightens around the quasi-legal dispensaries statewide we have to wonder where the money trail leads for a failed and phony “war on drugs?” But you know, I have written about this for so many years now it just doesn’t seem to be worth the effort any longer. If I’m going to tilt at windmills, I would like to leave a Quixotic legacy of my vision for making my hometown of Bakersfield the envy of merely pretentious people that roll their eyes over any mention of Btown by my continuing to suggest to the city fathers that turning the Padre into a world class pleasure palace is the right thing to do.

I deign to say if a poll were taken most people would agree politicians are whores. But in my opinion this is demeaning and degrading to “working girls,” since there is really no honest comparison. Politicians treat elected office as a license to steal; they enjoy the drugs and prostitutes they treat as perks coming with election all the while denying such things to We the People. We even see celebrities facing charges that politicians routinely escape.

There is no denying the hypocrisy of the whole thing. Neither is there any motive but money in denying We the People the same perks like drugs and prostitutes politicians demand as though they were the only truly privileged class in America. But then, I remind myself that one of the benefits of old age and having no empire to protect is being able to speak my mind. No one has to listen. But now honestly; what real argument can be made against my suggestion for the Padre? At the very least, considering the recent firestorm over Councilman Couch, wouldn’t it be fun to bring the matter up before the city fathers?

For those at least mildly interested in my proposal for the Padre, here is a brief recap of a few things I wrote to justify my position:

January 21, 2007

A kindly word for the “working girl”

One of the things I would like to see here in the Kern River Valley and in downtown Bakersfield is a “gentleman’s club,” you know, a brothel. But not just a whorehouse, an upscale nicely appointed palace of vice right out of a Hollywood production. Ideally these places would also provide marijuana legally. Such establishments properly regulated and taxed would be a real boon to local economies.

For that very small minority that might object to such a thing, consider the fact Walt Kelly made so clear in Pogo when discussing the presidential elections a “Vice Party” was suggested and Churchy asks Owl, “Deep down, wouldn’t you be for vice too … given the chance?” My dear brothers and sisters, no matter how you slice it a Vice Party is exactly what both Republicans and Democrats represent. Were these honest vice parties I would find no fault in that. But one of the problems I have with this is politicians of every stripe allow of every kind of vice among themselves including prostitution and illegal drugs, often at taxpayer expense, but hypocritically deny these vices to We the People! And quite frankly this makes me mad as hell! Why should the very vices politicians treat as their personal domain coming with elected office be made illegal and denied ordinary American citizens?

While historians and behavioral scientists have not made it much of an issue, sexual frustration may account for many of the wars of men as well as many of the more noble achievements. After all, for many men and women a cold shower just does not suffice; and much of our history as a species may well be understood in the light of sexual frustration on the part of both men and women.

Now I am all for traditional marriage and families as the foundation of all civilized societies. I am a staunch supporter of the sanctity of marriage, the sacredness of the marriage bed. But I am at least equally opposed to the kind of hypocrisy that denies sex is a normal function of the human species and makes it a crime for relieving one’s sexual frustration by simple mechanism of economics. There is all this foofaraw over abortion, so many women claiming they have the right to determine what to do with their own bodies while at the same time denying the “working girl” the same right. And what of the men in Congress and elsewhere that legislate and pass laws self-righteously denying women this right to their own bodies? Hypocrites!

The right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness should have included prostitution. After all, this was thriving at the time of the Founding Fathers, it was quite acceptable in most of the civilized societies at the time and throughout history, and it is doubtful the early years of our government could have been successful without a plentiful supply of bordellos. If our early legislators did not see these establishments as threatening to home and hearth, what happened to change their minds? All the other biological functions of the body are carefully attended, enormous amounts being spent on bathrooms for example, why the normal function of sex is suppressed is the stuff of history and books by the thousands...

However, the historical male dominance that makes whores of women while men have escaped any such pejorative appellation, at the same time denying the same right to women hiring themselves a man to satisfy their normal sexual desire, does make for the steamy novels, plays and films that take full advantage of this dichotomy in most cultures. And the refusal of men to accept women on the same basis they excuse themselves makes for an industry where women pander to the lust of men, making fools of men in the process. But men seem to excuse their foolishness in this regard while penalizing women and holding them in contempt. Consider the man playing the fool exclaiming “I never had to pay for it!” as though that was a proclamation of his “manhood.”

January 22, 2007

Why not a “gentlemen’s club” in Bakersfield?

Since I am known as a writer of humor, it was gratifying to receive so many notes from people who got a laugh out of my suggesting I would like to see a “gentlemen’s club” in downtown Bakersfield. While many people commenting understood the significance of my support for legalizing prostitution and treated it with the seriousness such a thing deserves, it was the name “Bakersfield” being associated with a fancy, legal whorehouse that tickled not a few funny bones. And by golly, I’m tired of Bakersfield being the butt of derisive jokes having this image problem and propose doing something about it!

While I was born in Weedpatch, I have always considered Bakersfield my hometown. And I have fond memories of the Dust Bowl folks among whom I was raised, many fond memories of our little church and grocery store on the corner of Cottonwood and Padre, and I know first hand the kind of nobility associated with the best of those Okies and Arkies with their polite southern manners and speech so characteristic of long held traditions of such things.

But let’s face it folks, when anyone says “Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Malibu, San Francisco” these names conjure up a certain image. And, when anyone says “Bakersfield” this conjures up a certain image; and it certainly is quite distinct from that of the other cities mentioned. And people are not going to confuse CSUB with Stanford or Berkeley. However, perhaps because of my being born in Weedpatch I may be a tad more conscious of and sensitive to the name of one’s birthplace, and maybe that has something to do with my sticking up for Bakersfield. That said I do understand the importance of perception. And I want to do my bit in changing the perception of Bakersfield.

Many of us had imaginary friends when we were children, and many of us had a favorite doll or stuffed animal as in “Calvin and Hobbes,” some of us had several, with whom we would carry on conversations. Some of us would talk to a favorite pet, and many carry this into adulthood. The old maid talks to her pet cat, and so do the old fellows like me. In my case, I have found the resident cat to be without conversational skill; nevertheless I still speak to it, and when I look at her and ask “Feed the cat?” I do get a positive response, a soft “meow.” However, that’s as far as any dialogue with the cat goes.

Few of us have the good fortune of a “Harvey” as a companion, and most of us quite reasonably have our doubts about those adults claiming to have the benefits of an invisible companion. And while there are innumerable claims for “manifestations” of ghosts, I have yet to see one. I have a real ambivalence about this, not being quite certain I really want or do not want to be the beneficiary of such a manifestation. While I believe I live with ghosts, I haven’t any idea if this is true, or, for that matter, just what form my departed loved ones and friends have taken since their departure.

The realities of life are difficult to deal with, and at times some of us need our invisible friends. It is a reality that counterfeiting is such a problem many businesses will not accept one-hundred dollar bills in order to lessen the loss. Document fraud and identity theft are real and ugly, growing realities. I think I can be forgiven for times when I believe the cat understands these things better than those in our government.

So I consider the ghosts of my loved ones and friends to be understanding of me. It is my belief they know me thoroughly in a way not possible to our loved ones and friends still inhabiting mortal bodies. And oftentimes I have been prevented from doing something wrong not because I fear God may be there waiting to punish me either now or later at some assize, but because I have loved ones I do not want to hurt. In most ways, I suppose this a better rule for moral behavior than any system of religion.

Existentially Emerson might have been correct, but perhaps the world is only a stage and all of us only players upon that stage? Perhaps nothing is real except my own mind, this fire of life in a mortal body that transcribes everything and everyone I see from phantasmagoria to my perception of reality? This much I believe; for too many life is a living hell on earth, a seeming lunatic asylum with the chief lunatics running the asylum, an asylum where evil seems to predominate and there is room for believing the “Monsters of the Id” are more than the stuff of SciFi, and only occasionally do the better angels of humankind prevail.

I am not going to judge those who believe “The play’s the thing.” But I do wonder what is it that compels some to strive to play a role of fantasy? Do they live such fantasies in their own minds? Psychologists and psychiatrists, our contemporary witch doctors and shamans, expend enormous amounts of time “explaining” the attraction of stage and film to so many wishing to play a role. And it is not always out of the desire for fame and fortune, not even the desire for attention but sometimes the need is to simply escape from reality.

It is quite normal for children to engage in fantasies just as the children in “To Kill A Mockingbird” made up a game about Boo Radley, acting out parts of the story they had invented about this neighborhood boogeyman. But as the Apostle Paul pointed out, when he was a child he thought, acted and spoke as a child, but when he became a man he put away childish things. And I suppose most of understand the difference between childishness and being a child. Paul did not intend a discourse on the fantasies of children carried into the realm of adulthood and was fully knowledgeable of the Greek and Roman stage given to much more than fantasies, and none would disagree the world would be impoverished without Shakespeare; and few would want to give up the marvelous fantasies of Hollywood like the great musicals. But in looking at last year’s crop of Oscar nominees it seemed Hollywood has painted itself into a corner, and having been raised on the great films of time past I cannot but feel a certain sad melancholy about the low estate to which this great American institution has fallen.

Children like Scout, Jem, and Dill enjoy the “theater” they invent for themselves, they enjoy a lively imagination in which all things are possible, things of fairy tales and magic come to life. The world would be a dreary place without the laughter and imagination of children giving life to the fairy tales and magic properly the domain of childhood. Still, as Paul pointed out there is a difference between those things the proper domain of childhood and childishness. We want children to be children, we want adults to be adults. Where Hollywood has departed from being a great American institution is in becoming “childish.” In too many ways what Hollywood has engaged in is throwing childish tantrums, demanding attention be given the demands of the spoiled brat, the kind of child no one wants around them.

The result of this spoiled brat and its tantrums is people staying away from theaters in droves. There is no more “Here’s lookin’ at you kid,” no more “bright, golden haze on the meadow,” but a self-absorbed, spoiled brat demanding attention be given its childish version of “reality.” And it seems the MSM is fixated on a very shallow celebrity rather than hard news. It is almost as though the realities have become so monumentally bad the MSM simply cannot cope with them.

This reminds me of the book of Job in the Old Testament, which is thought by some to be the most ancient text in the OT, dealing with issues from the most distant past of human history. It is from this ancient story we have the thought Jesus emphasized that Satan holds dominion over the kingdoms of the world, but that his rule is doomed in the end to failure. This is cold comfort to those like abused, tortured and murdered children, to the innocent suffering from the wars of men. But there is little from Hollywood about this story of Job, except in passing. And I doubt there will be a musical version of the story.

What drew Americans to the Silver Screen in time past, what made Hollywood successful was largely the desire to escape the ugly realities of life. As an art form, Hollywood used to give us that kind of escape from ugly realties. We had the great books delving into the dark side of humankind, but it didn’t take Hollywood long to explore this as well. But the advantage of a book is being able to lay it aside and come back to it in our own time. And while Hollywood has produced acclaimed “masterpieces” delving into the dark side, it is those great films in which virtue prevails, in which there is great beauty and hope lifting people up from their often lives of quiet desperation, too often lives lived with ugly realities from which the Silver Screen granted some respite and surcease of sorrows that made Hollywood an American institution, and I miss that Hollywood.

Whatever the “reality,” I believe the ghosts of my loved ones and friends gone on before me understand. I believe their “angels” know my thoughts, I believe we have spiritual communion though I neither see nor hear them. I find comfort in believing this, and while far from original thinking, but quite the contrary, my most fervent hope is to rejoin these loved ones and friends when I pass away. I can only hope in the words of Scripture that if this happens “all tears will be wiped away.”

If you have lived long enough to make a qualitative analysis of the subject you realize what passes for commercial humor in America has changed considerably over the past decades, and now it is much safer to engage in the lowest form of what some consider “humor” than what is truly humorous about the human species; and for good reason. America and the rest of the world has become very dangerous, and even gallows humor were it acceptable would not be able to make us feel safer; much in the manner of Thoreau’s comment concerning economics, while it may lend itself to levity it cannot so easily be disposed.

A major factor in the loss of real humor in America has its basis in the words of the Psalmist, “I said in my haste all men are liars.” I recall a preacher years ago commenting on the words of the Psalmist concluding, “You know folks, I haven’t been in any hurry about it, I’ve taken a lot of time to think this over, and I still think all men are liars.”

There is no doubt in my mind Sam Clemens was the most gifted, natural born liar with which this poor, tired old earth has ever been blessed. Not a day goes by that I’m not reminded of the debt America owes this champion of the tall tale, the “stretchers” Sam would tell for the sake of laughter benefiting untold millions of people. Even today this master of the English language and humor continues to be paid homage by millions throughout the world. But the distinction is always there between a lie told to do harm or take advantage, and those told whether for the sake of a tall tale or when one has no choice but to lie.

Which shall it be; keep your friends, keep your job, or speak your mind and to thine own self be true? This much is certain, as little Scout pointed out one must lie under certain circumstances. But it is a personal responsibility to discriminate as to when one must lie and when one must not. And just to the degree we find ourselves making allowances for lying or telling the truth, to that degree we define our own character, all the while acknowledging the fact that one must lie under certain circumstances, just as good manners, proper speech and etiquette are the socially approved method by which civilized people are able to congregate without coming to blows. It was for this reason the champion of the tall tale cautioned one must present their personal opinions carefully perfumed and barbered for the public. And it remains there are three subjects you do not bring up in a bar: Politics, Religion, and the Civil War.

But while Sam was the consummate master of humor, there is no disputing his genius for such humor had its basis in the very darkest of human experiences and emotions, as with all great works of humor exemplified by the Greeks and later by Shakespeare, so much so that he considered death the only pure and unalloyed gift of God. Far from being merely the clown laughing outwardly while crying inwardly, Sam wrote from the depths of human despair; that he was able to turn the tables on such despair of humankind, believing like Franklin it was not worthy of surviving, and laugh at himself while poking fun at others and the human condition was, in my opinion, nothing short of miraculous, his own peculiar spark of divinity.

As Harper Lee so well pointed out, real writers are compelled to write. So long as they write, they live; and they live to write; they could as well stop breathing as to stop writing. It is therefore no wonder that such real writers are also compelled to tell the truth in so many instances when a well-crafted lie might serve them better. Where Sam had the advantage, a product of his singular and unique genius for humor, was being able to plumb the dark side for his well crafted lies that served truth in the end.

Walt Kelly was a gifted humorist, and as such pointed out we should not take life too seriously, since it’s in no wise permanent. Such a point of view one would think should result in honesty. But the real honesty to be found in the best of humor begins with being honest with yourself. To the extent one is dishonest with themselves, to that extent they will find themselves being dishonest with others.

Politicians and the MSM suffer mightily from a lack of both humor and honesty. Emerson had long ago noted no one would become a politician had they a choice of some noble occupation, and I have concluded the same thing holds true for most of those involved with the MSM. How many of these, do you suppose, are really honest with themselves? It’s as though the “professionals” in government and the media have concluded of We the People in the words of Jack Nicholson “You can’t handle the truth!” Perhaps if we were ever told the truth we could put the lie to such a conclusion. But given the track record of politicians and those in the media I hold no hope of this ever happening.

Granted in an America held in bondage to politically correct speech there is no room for any discussion of the truth that does not degenerate into labeling and name-calling it comes down to lying in order to protect one’s rice bowl. Which shall it be; keep your friends, keep your job, or speak your mind and to thine own self be true?

Americans haven’t lost their sense of humor, but the very best of humor has its basis in the truth. And it is this loss of truth I blame for the lack of genuine humor in America, humor that is not degraded by meanness, perversion, or a pernicious attempt to harm or take advantage.

The real genius of Harper Lee was her being able to recapture so vividly the world she describes through the eyes of the children. She so very accurately recreates this world and makes it live in such a way as to nearly be a joke on adults that didn’t realize, as Capote later noted, they were reading a children’s book. But in fact, Harper Lee was so successful in recreating that world she knew as a child, so successful in reliving it as a child, I believe she said in effect “Goodbye cruel world,” and retreated back into that early childhood world as the one truly happy place she knew and understood so well.

But while Harper Lee so well understood girls, she could not be expected to understand boys nearly as well. There is a great gulf fixed between the two that in some respects cannot be crossed. It was enough that she understood girls well enough to be able to portray boys as realistically as she did. This came to me when I shared a particular chapter of my largely autobiographical novel about two children growing up in WWII Bakersfield with a young woman who told me, “I had forgotten what it was like to be a little girl.” It was a most humbling moment.

However, in addition to my two beautiful daughters Diana and Karen who taught me the best and truest things I would ever learn about girls and women, a few of you men may have had a Charlie Brown experience like his with the little red haired girl. Charles Schulz understood how a boy can be reduced to blathering idiocy by such a girl. Remember when Charlie Brown found the pencil the little girl had dropped on the playground and he discovered it had the marks from her teeth and he exclaimed rapturously “She’s human!” If you don’t understand Charlie Brown’s reaction, you have never met an angel. When I was a boy selling garden seed and Cloverine Salve door-to-door in order to earn my Daisy Red Ryder Carbine I met such an angel.

A girl answered the door.

She was beautiful! Astoundingly so! I had never seen a girl as beautiful!

“Yes?” she asked softly and pleasantly with a faint smile.

Her voice matched her beauty; it was musical, like that I imagined of an angel. She was wearing a white frock with small pink roses embroidered on it. The short sleeves were puffed and trimmed with lace. Long, fine, shining light auburn hair hung down nearly to her waist and curled slightly at the end.

But her eyes! They were the most striking thing about her. I had never seen eyes like hers before! They were a beautiful violet; shaded by the longest lashes I had ever seen on a girl. But those eyes; they seemed like they knew what you were thinking!

Not to worry, the sight of her and the music of her voice suddenly and inexplicably made me incapable of coherent thought. Having suddenly lost my mind and being reduced to idiocy I found myself blushing and stammering something to the effect, I hoped, that Doctor Mathison had sent me to see Pastor Samuels. To my dismay and immense relief I must have made myself miraculously intelligible because she asked, “Oh, and what is your name?”

I stammered out another message to the effect, I think, that my name was Donnie Bradden. But I couldn’t be sure. Somehow I was having trouble remembering my name. There was something definitely wrong with my brain. Maybe I was going to have another one of those episodes that caused me to put the snake down Ella May’s collar so long ago? I fervently hoped not, not in front of this indescribably beautiful girl!

But with that slight, faint smile and soft musical voice she asked me to wait a moment while she went to get her father, the pastor. I breathed a huge sigh of relief at this. I wasn’t sure what her father was going to be like but I was certain I would be able to at least talk right to him. At least I was reasonably sure he would be human. No mere girl as beautiful as the one who answered the door could be so; she had to be some kind of angel.

Only then was I suddenly and unaccountably self-conscious about the way I was dressed. Now I had on clean, belted Levi’s instead of my usual bib overalls. I was wearing a clean shirt, my hands and fingernails were clean, my hair was combed and I had on my good tennis shoes. Grandma had tutored me well in being presentable as a salesman. Yet I was suddenly very uncomfortably aware of the way I was dressed...

As I left, I tried to think of something else in order to get my mind off her. Thinking of her was both uncomfortable and pleasing at the same time. And I didn’t like things like this that I didn’t understand. But I didn’t want to stop thinking about her. And that was uncomfortable because I didn’t understand it. It suddenly occurred to me that no girl had ever caused me to be so mixed up in my mind. I didn’t understand how I felt about this either. Good? Bad? No use… I simply didn’t understand.

One thing was certain; I was going to be better dressed the next time I called even though the thought of going back strangely frightened me. Still, the mystery of the angel was one of such fascination I knew I had to go back. I needed to understand and make sense of my confusion. There was always an explanation for mysteries, I believed.

Shaking my head and trying to get my mind back on track, I considered the added mystery of my clothes. And it was a kind of mystery. But one that surely had an easier explanation than that of the mystery of the little angel. But somehow the clothes had a bearing on the mystery of her as well. Now, that was an interesting thought … maybe even a clue?...

While the novel required I go back in time like Harper Lee, one of the lessons taught by Jean to Donnie was the truth of what I had been told by my great-grandmother and grandmother: “Girls were meant by God to be a civilizing influence on boys.” I recall my kind of resenting this because I didn’t think I was uncivilized; I had been taught good manners and knew to be respectful to my elders and so on, just what about me as a boy was in need of any civilizing influence from a mere girl?

But Jean did civilize Donnie in ways no grownup could possibly do or explain. In time he would learn how to dress for a girl, how to speak correctly and pay attention to the many things boys are inclined to think unimportant until they meet an angel. And as Donnie later considered the mystery of the little angel, he thought perhaps there would be more civilized boys if there were more angels like Jean, and as they grew to be women those like Jean would result in more civilized men. And just maybe, the problem with things like wars and so many other things wrong was there were not enough angels in the world.

How quickly adults seem to forget the depth of thought of which children are capable. Harper Lee had not forgotten, and neither had I. Donnie and Jean were only twelve years old, but already their thoughts were deeply profound as they struggle for answers to very complex questions of life and about each other. And over these many decades of life, I still believe as Donnie the world needs more angels like Jean with their civilizing influence on boys and men.

Emerson had pointed to the danger of sharing your most intimate thoughts in what you believed to be the most beautiful of words with anyone else, seeking their approval, only to have this “treasure” treated as of no consequence. And true enough, in my own experience as a writer and author this is a quick way to lose a friend by telling them honestly what you think of their writing. What people are usually seeking is approval, not honest criticism. Many times I have refused to read something from friends asking “What do you think of this?” I refer them to the many services provided writers where an objective evaluation of their writing can be had for a fee. I may still lose a friend, but this remains sound counsel for those that want an honest and objective opinion of their work.

But writing in America throughout has fallen on hard times, as anyone truly literate in the great works of literature knows. It is with justification I have said mine is the last generation of the great writers of America.

My having been raised with the great literature of Western Civilization and like Harper Lee among natural story tellers of a past generation, primarily southerners of the Dust Bowl migration, it seems natural I would become a writer and author. But as a teacher I found my background in story telling played an important role; there was hardly a situation I had to deal with concerning my classes some story would come to mind to make and emphasize a point. Perhaps some of this skill in story telling is in my genes from my Cherokee ancestors as well. Much as the most ancient of poets, my Indian ancestors cultivated their story tellers, their poets, and honored them because this was how those things of greatest importance were passed on from generation to generation.

By the time I began attending college, I came face to face with the facts of Harper Lee’s criticism of the universities no longer teaching writing. I became intimately acquainted with the truth of her criticism, and have written much about this, including my critique of Ms. Lee’s literary masterpiece considered by some including me “the novel of the century” in which I elaborate somewhat on her reasons for never writing again. But in sum, “To Kill A Mockingbird” might well be considered the epitaph for writing in America. One commentator reflecting my own thought believed Ms. Lee considered trying any further to advance writing in America would only be “spitting into the wind.”

In the only interview Harper Lee gave in 1964 she stated in respect to writing: “There’s no substitute for the love of language, for the beauty of an English sentence. There’s no substitute for struggling, if a struggle is needed, to make an English sentence as beautiful as it should be... We really have no tradition of criticism. (Here we go, back to tradition.) The thing that has made it worse is the mass media—television, radio—that dominate time with less than a full creative effort. Reading gets confined to a quick grab for the latest best seller as the commuter dashes for the train. I think the American public is the worst-informed public in the world about its own literature. We have few journals that begin to compare with English periodicals like The Spectator and The Economist. But then, books are published in England in a more leisurely fashion, and the judgments on them are better simply for that. In general, American criticism is in a very poor state, and I think it always will be...

Ray Bradbury recently emphasizing his novel “Fahrenheit 451” was not about censorship, but expressed his concern about TV supplanting reading and writing, the danger TV posed to a literary class in America anticipated Harper Lee’s own concerns. The further death knell emphasizing my comment about Harper Lee’s epitaph “There’s no substitute for the love of language, for the beauty of an English sentence” has been the rampant political correctness that has betrayed the beauty of the English language to Bush and other lovers of slave labor in America touting Spanish, as though this were equal in any way to the language of Shakespeare and the great works of literature in English. Merely quoting Ms. Lee’s comment now is to open yourself to the howls of “racism!” by those with an agenda of denigrating the language of Shakespeare and all great writers of the English language and opposing making English our national language by law.

The utterly inane shallowness of the media including that of the news in both print and TV with a fixation on celebrity, the sheer lack of writing skills evidencing a lack of love for language on the part of newspaper columnists throughout is a reflection of Ray Bradbury and Harper Lee’s concern and criticism. That there has not been a novel the equal of TKM since is commentary enough to prove the point.

Affectation, pretentiousness, these will never take the place of having mastered the discipline of writing, the ability to convey complex thoughts in written expression with the intention of communicating rather than seeking approval of your prose. The cautionary words of Sam Clemens, Faulkner, Lewis, and Harper Lee continue to hold true in respect to writing. Refusing these eventually the greatness that was once the English language became merely tawdry, in too many cases trash reflecting Thoreau’s criticism “... a cloth-o’-silver slut, To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt.” Only now it is the English language itself that has been made to serve the cause of slavery, no longer the language of freedom and the most noble thoughts of men and women finding expression, but fallen to “a cloth-o’-silver slut” pretending to be other than what it is in fact, too often pretense and affectation in lieu of the real love and mastery of the English language.

Much in the manner of Nathaniel asking Philip “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” poking fun at various places like Bakersfield is a time-honored function of the “literary set,” and writers like Sinclair Lewis did this with real artistry. Just the mention of my hometown is enough to cause titters among those in places like San Francisco, and while living there it seemed a sacred obligation on my part to punctuate the conversations at various cocktail parties with mentioning my birthplace of Weedpatch, which the doctor noted on my birth certificate was “near Bakersfield.” And while my mention of Weedpatch would elicit real interest among the literary set, no doubt because of the similarity to Al Capp’s “Dogpatch” that even the literati had to acknowledge, it was the mention of Bakersfield that caused the rolling of eyes and tittering remarks.

But beyond pricking the balloons of pompous asses by mentioning my “humble origin” to those that considered anyone with a Ph. D. being born in Weedpatch (near Bakersfield) as an insulting effrontery to the educated classes, to those that feel themselves superior by accident of birth or later choices of geography like San Francisco, there is a need to accept the fact that throughout the San Joaquin Valley there are the substantial drawbacks like world class air pollution and a preponderance of non-English speaking people that cannot make any contribution to raising the standards of culture in places like Bakersfield and Fresno. Nor can Bakersfield easily escape either its past or being more readily associated with Buck Owens and the Crystal Palace rather than our museums, book stores and art galleries.

So it was that in all seriousness I suggested the Padre Hotel be made into a world-class “gentleman’s club,” something to outshine any pleasure palace to be found in places like Las Vegas. I gave my reasons for believing this should be done, and it would certainly give Bakersfield real stature and shut the mouths of detractors in places like San Francisco. But alas, my sound judgment and reasoning has thus far fallen on deaf ears. What politicians continue to believe to be their private domain concerning prostitution and drugs coming with elected office continues to be denied ordinary citizens.

While Kern County has come far since the impact of the Dust Bowl days, none of us a product of those sincere and honest people that settled here would want to deny our heritage of the best of civilized manners and speech representative of the southerners like my maternal grandfather John B. Caldwell that came here back then. However, the music that became known as the “Bakersfield Sound” in those early days would be foresworn by those whose pretentiousness would deny such a thing.

As radios played throughout Bakersfield we children would often pick up some of the lyrics that went with the catchy tunes being played. And because the producers were not always circumspect in the choice of programming, some of these songs had lyrics that did not fit the moral code of our elders. But then, the catchy jingles on radio advertising things like Dr. Pepper, Pepsi Cola, and Shredded Ralston were often intermixed with the music programming and some of this apparently went unnoticed by many of the adults.

While I was attending Mt. Vernon Elementary during the early 40s the school was having a talent show. As one of the better singers at school I was volunteered by my teacher to sing in front of the whole school. She had a few selections for me to choose from like “Red River Valley” but none of them seemed to hit me quite right. They just didn’t fit my mood. Bakersfield radio stations carried many good musical programs and I was always listening to music from the radio, the church, and mom’s records, and I had memorized many of these songs. As a result I had an extensive repertoire of widely diverse songs and decided to do one of my own favorites. But I failed to share this decision with the teacher. And so it was that the principal, teachers, pupils, members of the PTA and others were treated to my rendition of that great and famous ballad popular in Bakersfield at the time: “Cold Icy Fingers.”

Bill Jackson was a fellow that believed in hainted sights

He used to dream about them when he went to bed at night

And when he dreamed about them you could nearly always tell

He’d just pull back his covers and jump right up and yell

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

I don’t mind your naked bones

Don’t mind your hollers and your groans

But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

One night as Bill was passin’ a graveyard on a hill

Somethin’ dressed in white jumped out and made a grab at Bill

Bill said you may not catch me but I’ll make y’ do your best

But 'fore we start t’ travel, I’ll make one last request

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

You can chase me out of breath

You can scare me half to death

But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

Bill went to see a doctor with a misery in his chest

The doctor looked at Bill and said take off your coat and vest

He started tappin’ on Bill’s wrist and gave Bill such a shock

That Bill just jumped right back and said now wait a minute Doc

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

You can cure my aches and ills

With your powders and your pills

But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

The teacher was most unforgiving. Little did she realize how lucky she was that I didn’t treat everyone to “Cocaine Blues” (circa 1942), my alternate choice. Looking back, I think it was the reference to naked bones that got to her. She was quite the old maid. However, if any of you are wondering about the lyrics to that other old favorite, one line went “Took ‘a shot ‘a cocaine ‘n’ I shot m’ woman dead.” It’s quite a rouser and you may imagine how the rest of lyrics went from that sample. Parents take note: Simply marvelous the things that attract the minds of children, things to be memorized for a lifetime. I’ve now shared with you an example of my own cultured tastes and refinement that knows no bounds, and I am always anxious to share the bounty of my childhood with others who have similar, discriminating tastes. So much for any pretentiousness on my part; it is far better to be honest; after all, why live like a politician in constant fear of being exposed?

Being without power all day yesterday while Edison worked on lines the temp here inside my cottage in Bodfish reached 100 degrees and the outside temp was 115. I’ve lived without either A/C or swamp cooler in this place for fifteen years now, but to be without even a fan really made it miserable at my advanced age. The paramedics were kept busy with people that couldn’t handle the situation, and I was reminded once more of living on the mining claim those decades ago without any utilities, of how my great-grandmother and grandmother especially endured the harsh temperatures both summer and winter without complaint. But having become accustomed to the many conveniences provided by electricity, I know how the sudden loss of this can impact us, sometimes catastrophically. We are no longer a nation prepared to live as so many of us did back in the 30s and 40s. Ice boxes, wind-up phonographs and wood cook stoves for example are now “collectibles.”

The oppressive heat wave we are presently suffering here in Kern County makes it difficult to think, and sometimes even difficult to see. But even without the heat as a factor, sometimes we look but we don’t see. You can take a small child to the corner of a street to teach them about the hazards of cars, warning them how important it is for them to always look both directions before crossing the street. The child will dutifully do as directed; but if they are too young to understand the hazards, if left alone they will look both directions as warned to do and then step right in front of an oncoming vehicle. The lesson to be learned from this has many applications to adults. And though having failed in my own attempts at a Darwin Award, some that have attained this distinction were the victims of failing to learn the lesson.

Having had a lifelong love affair with airplanes from building models as a boy and eventually becoming a pilot, and owning two planes when it was not quite the hobby for the wealthy it has become, I was distressed when I read of this incident last year: AP August 3: “An experimental plane crashed, killing two people, because the ailerons were incorrectly connected to the control stick, federal safety officials said… The flight was the first since the plane’s aileron linkage had been disconnected and reassembled during a maintenance check, the NTSB said.”

First, I will repeat something I wrote at the time following this incident: Every month I would devour the AOPA publication, especially the section of the magazine having to do with accidents due to pilot error. In many such cases the accidents were the result of a lapse in performing essential preflight duties. But in the case of the cited crash it was caused by the failure of the pilot to do one of the most fundamental tasks of all. Once you have taxied to your takeoff position you do a run-up for an instrument check, then you do a visual of your control surfaces to make certain they are responding correctly. Had the pilot done this latter he would have noticed immediately the incorrect action of the ailerons. The omission of performing this essential and most fundamental of tasks cost the life of him and his passenger. When a pilot becomes apathetic to the point of failing to perform the most fundamental of tasks before taking off the result is too often catastrophic. But it is human nature to become apathetic about such things. After you have had a thousand successful takeoffs without accident, a false sense of security can lead to becoming merely perfunctory in your preflight duties...

It occurred to me some time later that an experienced pilot, especially one with high time, might look out of the cockpit while moving the controls and see the ailerons responding, but fail to notice they were not moving as they should. How is such a thing possible? Because if you have done something a thousand times and there has been no other result you may only see what you expect to see. And a high time pilot especially would not expect to see his ailerons moving incorrectly; all he would see is they were moving in response to the yoke or stick, and though rigged incorrectly there may well be no difference felt by the pilot to the control actions. As inexcusable as it is, the pilot of a DC-3 failed to remove the elevator chocks before taking off, this despite a “walk-around.”

A momentary lack of focus on things of importance is all that is necessary to cause disaster. The use of cell phones or other distractions have accounted for many accidents, even deaths because of their being distractions from being focused on the most important thing, driving the car. There may even be a failure to exercise caution or respond correctly when faced with imminent danger because of a momentary befuddling of the brain for any number of reasons.

One of my closest friends, a pilot who had flown fighters in WWII and Korea told me of the time when he was coming in for a landing and saw the red light flashing from the tower while his radio was blasting a warning and the horn was sounding in the cockpit, all of this because he had not lowered his landing gear. But none of this registered in his mind. Fortunately at the very last minute his brain kicked in and he narrowly avoided a disaster.

Once he landed an explanation was demanded of him, but the only explanation he had to offer was there was so much commotion and noise going on all at the same time none of it penetrated his consciousness. The constant drill of repetition over and over of performing some tasks can lead to apathy, even stupefaction in an emergency. And while this does not always result in disaster, airplanes are most unforgiving of any delinquency in performing dull but essential tasks. In the case of politicians and others giving lip-service to “concern” for children, most of it amounts to little more than noise and commotion in the face of impending disaster. And though the noise and commotion, “sound and fury signifying nothing” may be well-intended, these alone do not get the needed attention to the reality of an impending disaster, but may even become a kind of “overload” obscuring, even defeating their purpose.

The blasting noise from TV accompanying so many programs and commercials are the result of those that believe this is the only way they can get the attention of viewers. What they do not seem to comprehend is such noise drives away sensible people who want to maintain their sensibility.

There is an imminent danger America is facing because of terrorism, but when politicians are clearly motivated only by their own selfish self interest how are We the People to know what dangers are really threatening us? Scare tactics in the face of such selfishness and refusal to do even the most rudimentary thing like securing our borders only amounts to noise from DC, but it is the kind of noise that can confound and confuse, that prevents focus and critical thinking.

I’m gratified to read my friend Kathleen Parker finally coming out in favor of legalizing marijuana; but as she points out the issue needs legitimate debate removed from the politicians that profit from drugs, both legal and illegal. There is a host of issues We the People had better begin raising our voices about and those with a bully pulpit like Kathleen Parker, Lou Dobbs and others can certainly help. But it is still going to be We the People alone that can make the real difference. Small wonder some politicians are afraid of talk radio. In the words of Scripture, “None dare come into the light lest their evil deeds be exposed.”

Even as we suffer from the heat wave here in Kern County I realize we Americans have far less to fear from climate change for whatever reason than we have from those in DC deciding what is “best” for We the People. The Bush/Libby affair as with Clinton’s wholesale pardons for the crooks that supported that infamous couple is a cancer that has spread throughout our government, one that thrives and threatens because of the hypocrisy of politicians that are so corrupt none dare hold any of the others accountable for fear of exposing themselves.

While we are being warned about fireworks and they are banned in many places, I recall a time when this was not the case. When I was a child July 4 was celebrated often dangerously with fireworks of many description, and sometimes children got hold of these and were badly injured by them. Because of this my great-grandmother was going to teach my brother Ronnie and me about the evils and dangers of firecrackers. Where the explosive devices came from I’m not sure. I suspect grandad had something to do with that. In any event, she had one of the infernal machines and with great fanfare about the possible loss of eyes and limbs, proceeded to light one off to demonstrate their destructive capability. Unhappily, she planned to do this in the kitchen and toss it outside to explode.

Now I do not know who latched the screen door. But I do know Great-grandma had not checked to see if it was unlatched. With Ronnie and me dutifully watching her demonstration, the sparking fuse of the firecracker in her hand mesmerized us as she struggled with the latch. We were fully appreciative of the look of seriousness on her face as we began to realize something was amiss. Great-grandma had a bad back and hip and walked with a cane. Consequently, Ronnie and I had never known that there was such alacrity in her old body. Nor were we ever treated to her terpsichorean repertory. In other words, we had never seen her dance before. But suddenly, an otherwise unknown facet of her personality and agility was displayed in a fashion to rival an Irish Jig master with a pocketful of bees.

Finally succeeding in getting the screen door open, she threw the device out when it exploded not more than two inches from her hand. Ronnie and I were suitably impressed by this demonstration and were very careful thereafter to: One: Try to keep firecrackers away from Great-grandma. Two: Not to let her catch us playing with them.

The moral of the story is, of course, children have a fascination for dangerous items of every description. When I was a boy if it could be made to explode it was an attraction to me. Kids of my generation were raised with many items posing hazards that are literally banned from homes today. But if a kid can get to a gun or firecracker chances are they will do so. My great-grandmother, the saint of my life, cared enough to try to teach Ronnie and me about many dangers we confronted as children. But despite this, there is no overcoming the natural curiosity of children and it is the responsibility of adults to do all in their power to keep dangerous items out of their reach.

Islam teaches women are inferior to men, in fact, are to be subservient to men and are often treated as chattel rather than human beings. The best women can expect in Islam’s “Paradise” is to continue serving men.

A proper perspective of women is the gift of Christian Western Civilization that has eventually given women status not to be found among Muslims where girls are emasculated by circumcision and “honor killings” still continue. And while the more enlightened Muslims attempt to discourage such things, the status of women in Muslim nations continues to be at best according them dismal second class creatures never to be the equal of men. As to the question of equal value, women are still far removed from men as reflected by their lack of representation in the UN where women in leadership are a rarity.

Well, maybe women should be more like men? Why can’t a woman be more like a man? Men are so reasonable, so fair; all in all we men are a marvelous sex. So Professor Higgins sings the praises of men in My Fair Lady, and most of us men find ourselves applauding this most astute summation by the Professor of the admirable qualities of men, qualities quite beyond dispute, leaving not a few of us wondering, as he, why can’t a woman be more like a man?

Alas, in the end poor Higgins realizes he has become accustomed to Eliza’s face, accustomed to her ups, her downs, her smiles, her frowns, and with a heavy sigh opens his door, walking into what has become an empty and cheerless house, a drear, empty and cheerless life; Eliza having become dear to him without his seeming to be aware.

Even Higgins’ mother has applauded Eliza having given her son his comeuppance, “Bravo, Eliza!” For too long her son had thought too highly of himself, had smugly thought women to be inferior and given to inanities, paying too much attention to their hair, their appearance and tea parties, of not having a mind capable of weighing the subtleties of the higher thought processes of men, of not having minds capable of coming at the really important ruling issues of life.

At the end, Higgins having admitted to his need of Eliza in his life, of her having conquered his prejudices against women she brings him his slippers and he settles back into his chair, both Eliza and he seemingly content an arrangement has been accomplished, one in which both a man and a woman are content in the scheme of things and a well ordered life will go on.

Well, these past decades since My Fair Lady have wrought some changes, and in my opinion not for the better when it comes to relationships between men and women. There are few women today who would bring Higgins his slippers; more likely they would shy them at him as Eliza had done previously. But if that is all they see in that final scene they miss the point.

We would do well to ask ourselves as a society why life should be a competition between men and women, and just when did it become such a competition rather than, as Henry and Eliza finally realized and accepted, the compatibility and honoring of differences?

As science increasingly provides some of the answers concerning the differences in brain function between men and women, it is unlikely this will dispel the need for the accommodation Henry and Eliza made for each other. However, they first had to realize and accept their need for each other, that each was incomplete and unfulfilled alone.

Granting it appears whimsical, though it is not whimsical at all to me, if this need for another in your life is there how much better the accommodation to the compatibility and honoring of differences than a competition, and a competition in which neither can be the “winner.” But the great musicals resulting from Christian Western Civilization which has produced the greatest advances in the arts and sciences the world has ever known were not possible in nations given to “keeping women in their place.” We might as well expect Mexico to build and launch a space shuttle as to expect musicals like My Fair Lady or Gigi to ever come from any Muslim nation.

In Braveheart the King of England says “The problem with Scotland is that it is filled with Scots.” Muslims certainly agree, and I suppose Muslims, Mexicans, the ACLU and haters of talk radio and conservatives in general would say of our nation “The problem with America is that it is filled with Americans.” These people simply do not want an America filled with Americans, at least not the kind of Americans that want to secure our borders and put our nation ahead of the interests of other nations, that believe English should be our national language by law and don’t believe we should cater to minorities demanding special privilege on the basis of race or perversion. But listening to politicians from Bush on down these seem also to believe the problem with America is that there are too many Americans, an attitude that was certainly reflected by so many politicians after We the People made our voices heard against the bastardized euphemism “immigration reform.”

But not really getting the message, the haters of Americans are now saying the will of the majority of Americans having been heard in wanting secure borders and an end to any talk of amnesty for illegal aliens will cause “Latino backlash” at the polls. Are We the People really expected to believe Latinos will dictate American politics? If so, I can’t think of anything that could create a greater hatred for Latinos! Politicians are as much as telling us Latinos are going to declare war on the great majority of Americans! It does seem the fear mongers using race to intimidate We the People are incapable of turning the page in their book and reading what follows.

Sadly for our nation, the great musicals were as Wodehouse so well pointed out the last time poets worked in America. It may turn out the lack of poets and the great musicals of Western Civilization they produced will prove to be the cause of America’s plunge into an illiterate darkness. But for those of us who were able to turn the page those years ago and read what was to follow the story did not have a happy ending. My generation understood there was no need of the lovers to even kiss in two of the greatest musicals to ever be produced; some few of us even noticed the chiaroscuro effect of the heart formed by the muted light in the courtyard of Gigi. But such subtleties are the purview of poets, and the whole world seems to be suffering the lack of poets.