What Age?

                                             What Age?



     Caught.  That’s how I’ve always thought of my generation.  Caught between the utopian ideals of the hippies and the narcissistic boom-box dreams of the “me” kids.  I am a child of the Seventies.  Even as I say that, I am steeped in sentimental longing for the wild-haired ways of the flower children.
I was born into the middle of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and I’ve had a lot on my mind ever since. As I reach 50, so does that week from October, 1962, when the fear mongering maneuvering of power-hungry nations reached a life and death situation.  As I read the day-by-day historical account of events, I am astounded by the resolve President Kennedy showed in the face of opposition from his joint chiefs of the military.  Once they discovered the build-up of nukes by the USSR in Cuba, the military brass wanted to fly an air strike over the little island just a few hundred miles from our shores.  An air strike over a nation in close proximity filled up with nuclear warheads by a formidable world power.  Kennedy would not agree, but we still came minutes from fighter planes flying over and shooting anyway.  Minutes.  (Dobbs,Michael.www.foreignpolicy.com)
     A little over a year later, he was assassinated and conspiracy theories still abound today.  I was only a year old, but those events did remain in the national conscience and did mark my generation. But behind the closed doors of the Cuban Missile Crisis lies the dichotomy so prevalent today among those of my generation, and perhaps between us all.  Whether to show forceful bravado and spew, “War is Peace!”  or to believe in the power of diplomacy, tactical decision-making, and general good will.  The monumental deaths would continue the 60s of my young childhood.  Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.  I don't have specific memories of those events, but am forever imprinted with their long-lasting consequences, and identify with the memories of the martyred.
      The Pulitzer-Prize winning photo, “Flower Power,” of the young man  placing flowers in the barrels of the soldiers’ rifles at the Pentagon during a 1967 Vietnam War protest represents well my childhood iconography. What this image came to symbolize would permeate and create my worldview and perceptions. I was 5 then and not old enough to grasp the meaning of the movement, but it grew and flowered in my generation.  The anti-war song, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” by American folk icon Pete Seeger with its lyrics about young love and dead soldiers whose graves their young widows visit and place bouquets upon is etched into my musical memory.  We used to sing that together as a family.  The refrain continues to echo, “When will we ever learn?  When will we ever learn?”
     Twenty years later in a college writing class, I was introduced to the 4 laws of thermodynamics as metaphors for the cultural chaos we were headed for.  Today, it is defined more as entropy, and I see that, as many of my generation do. It’s apparent to us in the falling away of functioning social systems through the dependence on hand-held communicators,  with many users viewing them as life itself--instead of life being where we reside in the immediate moment in our immediate surroundings.  Hence, this little electronic object, which requires extractive fossil fuels to exist and operate, becomes the life, creates the life, and takes the time of the person holding it, and seemingly, holding onto it for dear life.  While many purport that the ability to communicate instantaneously with those far and wide is progress, it seems too often to be to the detriment of deep, sustained engagement with those in our circle—those who actually exist in our physical realm, whose facial expressions, vocal subtleties and reassurances through pats on the shoulder or hugs, we lose, little by little, to this entropy.
     Even I, not of this “smart phone” generation, but as an iPhone owner, forget about the power and simplicity of life without one.  Just yesterday,  I had the wrong information entered in my phone app to get to a place out of town.  We arrived at the wrong location almost late for an important gathering, and I grew agitated as I decided whether to search on my phone for the original invitation or to retype another name in my phone map.  Meanwhile, my riding companion simply got out of the car, asked the people parked in front of us, and got quick directions.  We were only 2 blocks away.  Where have all the flowers gone?  Will we come through this brain drain created by  hundreds of our “friends” chirping their arbitrary Id-ish psychobabble, every hour on the hour, every minute by the minute,  on our little life screens?  Still, we worry and seek the harmony and simplicity that hides now in the recesses of our minds, languishes in faded photographs, rests in  forgotten stories of youth, back when Snoopy did all his communicating with one of the original tweeters.
My generation was shaped by the war protests that occurred when I was a child.  We were wary and distrusting of the military, of the propaganda parading as good intentions falling from the lips of our elected officials.  Those of us who recognized this danger became intent pursuers of the truth.  Became impassioned seekers of the intellect with the ability to discern fact from fable.  Many of us were not pro-military, or did not even believe in a standing army.  Yet, our brothers and cousins, our fathers and uncles were being drafted or joined up, while flags were being burned.  Soldiers were seen, for the first time on national television, in the throes and aftermath of a jungle war.  Moving images of the burning of villages, of innocent women and children bleeding,of flag-draped body bags ,but also stories of  secret agent orange and LSD experiments being carried out on those soldiers--all these formed our vision.  The naked Vietnamese girl running down a smoke-filled  road, screaming in horror as her family and village erupt in flames from a napalm bomb attack is another visual forever trapped in our memory.  This is the TV news of my childhood, with Hunt and Brinkley or Walter Cronkite, in their comforting and steady news voices calmly relaying the events of the day.
      We watched, mesmerized in 1969 as the first men landed on the moon, our parents forgetting for a few moments, the turmoil and unrest. The moon mission I remember most though is Apollo 13, when we waited in agony for news of the astronauts who were lost in space. I embody the yin-yang of those times; rebellious against corrupt officials but with a child-like wonder for exploring the unknown.
Then Kent State happened in ’70, and while I was only 7 going on 8, it was an event that forever shaped my worldview.  I was just a child when untrained and fearful national guardsmen, fueled by the inflammatory words of the governor that compared the student protestors to dangerous vigilantes and commies, shot down college students in broad daylight, killing four. (President's Commission on Campus Unrest.253-4).   But I grew into a teenager and young adult who remembered that.  The songs of the day carried the message.  CSN and Y sang their solemn anthem to innocent youth. Neil Young’s lyrics echoed,  “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming…we’re finally on our own.  This summer I hear the drumming, four dead in Ohio.”  Peter, Paul and Mary redid Dylan’s, “Blowin’ in the wind and cried out in haunting 3 part harmony, “How many lives will it take till we know that too many people have died?”  The Stones thumped out Gimme Shelter, in the aftermath of  the Altamont killings, the recoil from race riots, and protests, “War, children, it’s just a shot away.  If I don’t get some shelter, I’m gonna fade away…” And the Doors, who evoked the machismo, the mystery, the danger both in Southeast Asia and at home,  spoke with Riders on the Storm,  “There’s a killer on the road.  His brain is squirming like a toad.  Take a long holiday.  Let your children play…” And Hendrix rocked out Dylan’s, All along the Watchtower,  “There must be some way outta here…”
Nixon reneged on his campaign promise to stop the war quickly and escalated it with the invasion of Cambodia before finally ending it in 1975.  I didn’t know all the politics then, I just knew the bloody unjustified war, the protests, and the musical reactions.  It all shaped me. But after Vietnam, the ‘70s blossomed.  Some soldiers had come back and joined hippies and draft-card burners, a curious mix, in protest.  Now they discarded their army greens or wore them as badges of an unusual combination of courage.  The courage to go to war and the courage to protest it.  They grew their hair long.  “Hair, beautiful hair!”  Some of their discarded army greens ended up at Goodwill and the fashion of the day for me and many others was faded military greens, beaded jewelry, wild hair, long skirts and faded Levis.
      Mellow rock and hard rock took us to our soul place.  Fleetwood Mac rolled with Stevie's mystical ways, Welch witch lyrics and that smooth rhythm section.  The Eagles with that day-dreamy California sound. Led Zepplin with those wired, writhing bodies, wailing guitar, and magical lyrics, "And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our souls..."
My generation’s equality fight now was for women.  Feminists like Gloria Steinem rose and demanded equal pay and reproductive rights.  They started Ms. Magazine and made the word “feminist” a reality.  It was not a word or idea to degrade, but a positive vision of strong women with the freedom to choose careers and to receive equal pay.  Helen Reddy’s song, “I am Woman, hear me roar, in numbers to big to ignore,” was reality.  Still, we fight for these equalities, though.  And today we have to re-educate young women about feminism.  Double standards still exist, and strong, out-spoken women still get called names.  But “we have come a long way, baby.”
We were caught in-between the ideals of living off the land, practicing non-violence, sharing, especially naturally grown plants that mellowed you, and throwing off responsibility, filling up the automobile and heading down the highway to find ways to make those dollar bills.  Gas was cheap, freedom abounded, music soared, entertainment was affordable and we had each other, man.  We had grown out of the struggles of those a decade older, some of whom were killed or forever changed by being in the war.  We had made in-roads into the racial equality sought by those of the ‘60s.  We were hanging out with our brothers and our sisters.  We shared our floors and couches, our record albums, our elixir of escape.  We lived the good life—for a little while.
Then the 80s came knocking, and it wasn’t on heaven’s door.  Pink Floyd's darkly metaphorical 1979 album The Wall was made into 1982's starkly metaphorical film, The Wall, symbolizing the chasm as the hard edges of Wall Street crushed the gentle sway of flower children everywhere.  The two world-views we were caught between came crashing down upon us.  The alienation of being "just another brick in the wall" hit us hard.  Out of our teen years and into young adulthood, no longer free to sashay and sway in flannel and patched jeans, unless we were content to keep crashing on someone’s couch, to work in the back of a restaurant or stay in college, for a long time.  And then John Lennon got shot in December of '80.  All the idealism and innocence of our youth was gone in that second.  But most of us survived the cold-hard reality of the busting up of the air traffic controllers unions and then in '89,  the Berlin wall came down. And finally, in the '90s, flannel, long hair, fuzzy guitar, obscure poetic lyrics with double entendres  and ritual rock screaming and wailing (re)appeared.  Hello Grunge. '70s children thank you and the singer-songwriters who revived the campfire acoustic sound, like the Indigo Girls and Tracy Chapman.
 But in the '80s, mellow minds and wild hair were replaced by uptight coke snorters with short, upright hair-dos, thin black ties, tightly buttoned, collared shirts, shiny black jackets and tighter, shorter skirts.  Welcome to the New Wave.  Good-bye anti-establishment kid, hello corporation slave.  Many of us liked the music.  We still had troubadours like Springsteen and Johnny Cougar( Mellencamp) singing our hearts and carrying our dreams down Thunder Road outside the Tasty Freeze. We identified with the earnest energy of U2 on Sunday, Bloody Sunday. We liked the birth of MTV. We even remember where we were and the first song we “saw.” (Mine was Eddy Money’s, “Two Tickets to Paradise”). We liked songs by The Thompson Twins with their quirky mix of culture, beats and looks, or The English Beat’s infectious, “Melt with You.”  R.E.M hit their zenith and put out never before heard sounds and subtle social commentary in lines like:

“Hang your collar up inside
Hang your dollar on me
Listen to the water still
Listen to the causeway
You are mad and educated
Primitive and wild
Welcome to the occupation”  (“Welcome to the Occupation” from Document).

     While many of my generation have diverged from the songs of our youth and now  have a new variety of favorites-- R.E.M., and especially in these lyrics, captures exactly how we became divided, both by generations and within our own.  Now we were seeking occupations. Some chose liberal arts degrees and the helping professions, or to be artists and food workers. Others pursued the American Dream in the shape of dollars and material accumulations.  I got caught somewhere in-between and tried on all those hats.  We are a teacher and a federal cop with enough to live on, a fine house, a loving family, a nice car, and way too many material possessions.  Isn’t that the American Dream?
     But I am a conscientious flower child from way back, and I think about better alternatives.  I engage in the practice of some of these ideals.  I’ve been growing an organic garden for a long time, have always recycled, enjoy nature over moving pictures and screens any day, promote acceptance and non-judgment of those who are different, usually stay away from inhumanely raised animals as a form of protein, don’t drink bottled water, and so on.  But I also fall prey to hedonism, lazy stretches of time and am fat.  I feel part traitor to my own ideals and part innovator and model for others.  I work within a system that I believe is degrading, disenfranchising, and lying to too many of us. Monitoring our every thought or deed and making us into just a number.  Removing our spontaneity, our creativity, our independent thought; commanding us to measure and quantify, everything.  Mandating us to record all data, to study charts and graphs to measure humanity. Dissatisfaction and disappointment reside in me side by side with resolve and idealism. Still others my age live very different lives with different values from me.
What was it that caused the change from the laid-back, carefree days of the 70s?  Was it just that we got older?  I think it was more.  The economy opened up to new ventures, tax laws went lax on the corporate world, and labor unions were broken, dismantled.  Now the dream of being able to work a blue-collar job, have a good home, and then afford a second one for retirement in warmer climes disappeared.  Unless you had already joined the system, and wedged yourself into the machinery of the venture capitalists.  Then we began to become the haves and have-nots.  Social workers barely able to put food on the table  were graduates of the same high school as corporate bankers, fossil fuel extraction operators, chemical company executives making millions and billions while callously forgetting about the environmental toll, removing themselves from the social consequences.  All of us succumbing to fast food and plastic containers for everything.
Thus, the solidarity of a generation, our commonly held values, were dispersed, dissipated, became divided.  Now organized propagandists from powerful religious organizations join with corporate zillionaires and pollute the airwaves and minds of us all.  The screen has taken over, and it fits in the palm of our hand.  Almost everything is wrapped in plastic and comes from China.  NPR is the last vestige of truth for the common folk.  We can search for non-slanted news online, but we can also turn on the radio and hear uncensored, "clean" news.  We haven't forgotten our history lessons and have seen repeatedly in our lifetimes, the corrupted, convoluted truth-twisting censorship of state sponsored news in fascist regimes.  And those of us who study the truth see it clearly here parading behind false profits, made up men and pretty blonde "news reporters" (ha) on Fox and affiliates.  You Fox lovers, (well you probably aren't reading this anyway) we have studied war; we have learned our history from non-censored sources, and we know you are either blind or willing to be so.  It is a dangerous lack of vision with the potential to ruin us all.
I find even I have resigned myself to the necessity of a well-trained military, and smile fondly and proudly at my students when they come visit me in their military uniforms.  Perhaps even I’ve been a bit  brainwashed since 911 into believing that somehow military force can rid us of this insidious evil.  The problem is, though, that it is insidious.  It lurks in all nations, all colors of skin, all government and religious institutions, all moneymaking enterprises.  It is greed. Greed mixed with lies that preys on subconscious bigotry, blind patriotism and fear of going to hell to gather the forces of the masses and make them march to the tune of the lies, just like in those bad Sci-Fi films.
      So, maybe what I see now is a group of youths with unclear paths to solid jobs that offer good benefits, with no clear-cut enemy, but with a sense that they can be proud and do good work and find a solid occupation, perhaps through the military, or with a corporation, and I can’t fault them for that.  But what about the abundance of complacency, the lack of focus or concern for the plight of our earth, the absolute detachment from the adult world through the absolute attachment to the cyber world.  Should I fault them for that?
What age are we living in now?  For me, it is an age in which I have influence upon the next generations.  I am hitting my zenith.  I live and breathe in this great divided nation.  I think and speak.  I suffer days of dark despair and hopelessness--and light-hearted days of joy and hope.
      On those days, this is what I believe:
A noticeable number of the millennial babes and Generation Xer’s (once called the slackers), are working together with a common vision.  Even as they embrace the digital age, they sense the ironic finiteness of it.  They see through the lies of the Corporate-Religious State.  (Forgive me, those of you who attend religious institutions or work for or run corporations.  I’m not speaking of spiritual or religious beliefs that remind you to be good or do good in this world; I’m talking about corruption of those morals even as they are brazenly flaunted as the way by the corrupted who are destroying this planet and people out of greed and through fear).
     The non-brainwashed Gen Xers and Millennials, they recognize the importance of self-sustaining ecosystems and economies.  They know it’s important to be responsible for yourself and your neighbors when you can.  They know the power of community and shared vision.  They are well-read and have explored cultures beyond their own.  From this exploration and seeking of the truth amid the distortion and cacophony of millions of simultaneous messages of minutiae being fired across the world and into their palms, they know the power of nature, and human kindness.  They seek ingenuity and inclusiveness.  They embody the open-mindedness and desire for equal rights for all  fought for by their parents and grandparents.  They have the opportunity to slow the entropy of this planet and this people.  They do.  Will they?  Unlike the WWII generation, who lived in fear of nuclear destruction, and my generation, who had nuclear fall-out drills at school when they told us to get under our desks,  we live in an age of  ongoing, probably soon to be irreparable, destruction by way of our convenience food, fuel, electricity, and plastic.
     It will take monumental energy, cooperation, brainpower, and money.  Will we ever learn to use it for good?  I am a child of the 70s, entrenched in the idealistic visions and actions of the 60s, and even through the darkness, I do sense the possibility of light.  It is a fractured light, but it is light.  And light begets light.  But will it be enough to create the next age?

A Fragile Strength: Reposted As I Teach "The Scarlet Ibis" For the First Time in Years.

Beyond the Gray: A Personal Reflection on Being True
by Karen Scalf on Saturday, October 17, 2009 at 1:49pm


A friend sent me a thoughtful card in the mail today. It has a blue guitar on the front with a couplet from a Wallace Steven's poem that goes,

"Things as they are

Are changed upon the blue guitar."

As my birthday grows near, I reflect, as I do annually, on where I've been, where I'm going and how I can be a better person and truer to my calling. I'm already immersed, no doubt, in my calling. It is a blend of passion and mind, the wonderful combination of music, words, image and the language and movement of nature. I am further immeshed in the deep connection between flora, fauna and our sustenance. I haven't gotten rich from my calling ,but I live everyday knowing I am drawn to observe, reflect, and capture the words, sounds, aromas, and sights revolving through me and all around me.
A couple of recent avian sightings have given me pause to consider these thoughts. A few days ago, a little bird I had never seen before flew into my second floor study window and fell to the first floor roof, stunned. It's greenish yellow color and small body intrigued me while its misfortune troubled me. I lifted my window screen and gently sat the bird upright with a yard stick. It sat for several minutes, alive, but unmoving. I began to cluck and chat in some form of bird language I did not previously know I possessed. It probably wondered why a gigantic crow was yelling at it. Before long, the little creature opened its eyes and moved its head from side to side, taking in its surroundings. As I continued my bird chatter, it looked up at me several times with a bright yellow-ringed eye. Then it flew to the birch tree and perched on a high limb and I was happy for its survival.
After searching my field guide, I am hoping it was a Bachman's Warbler, the "rarest North American songbird." (Peterson Field Guides: Eastern Birds, 242). Or it may have been a Yellow Throated Vireo, not as rare, but still a brand new sight to me.
I was reminded of one of my favorite stories as both a student and a teacher of 9th grade literature, "The Scarlet Ibis." In this moving and lyrical short story, a young boy nicknamed Doodle is born with a weak heart and lies scrunched up in a doodle-like position for much of his early years. His older brother gave him the nick-name and tells the story as he recalls his own youth. Doodle grows into a thoughtful and sentimental boy, as one is like to when faced with physical challenges in childhood. He does not fit in because he cannot run across the fields and jump in the creeks like his older brother. His brother keeps pushing him to, though.

One evening during supper, a big redish-pink bird lands on the roof and then falls to the ground outside their window. Doodle is amazed and shocked by the bird's rare and magnificent beauty. The bird has perhaps been blown off course during migration and is out of place...you get the parallel symbolism...Doodle rushes from the table against his parents wishes and finds the bird dead. He is compelled to give it a proper burial, even though his condition makes it dangerous for him to exert himself that much.


One day during a thunderstorm, Doodle and his brother are out in the fields away from the house, and his brother convinces him to run across the fields home. It is too much for Doodle's weak heart, and he dies from the exertion. It sounds terrifically morbid and predictable, but I tell you it is not. You must read if for yourself. It is a sad, compelling and beautiful depiction of the vagaries and injustices of youth.


This long-winded review brings me back to my rare songbird sighting. "My" bird lived, and, in the process of its temporary blinding, made me realize that while, "being different" has often caused me problems in this life, perhaps that is exactly what I need to be focusing on now. How can I use my divergent thoughts and ideas to affect people in a positive way?


My second avian image of the week is focused upon a bird of an altogether common feather. In fact, this bird commoner is so ubiquitous as to be considered obnoxious by many. I am referring to the pigeon. A flock of twenty or more showed up at the feeder today. My neighbor and I must have put out food at the same time, so they eagerly flew in for the all-the-seeds-you-can-crack-for-free-buffet. While many South and Central Americans eat this bird and many North Americans would prefer to shoot it on sight and dispose of it, I enjoy observing it. Perhaps it is a sentimental viewing as I am reminded of Juli Andrews playing Mary Poppins singing with the bag woman feeding the pigeons in the square. "Feed the birds/tuppins a day/tuppins, tuppins/tuppins a day..."
Pigeons are birds, too. The carrier pigeon was used up and run into extinction. Now his cousins flock to the city and are run out of town by any number of means from imported city falcon predators to electric clappers and plastic owls on rooftops.
Anyway, I still enjoy observing them. They are magnificent in their varied iridescent coats. Have you ever noticed? A rainbow of color explosion lies just beneath the commonly perceived grayness of their feathers. They also perform an intricate mating dance that is a joy to behold. Stick around sometime for their gracefulness before you run them off.

Today, one lone member of the flock kept returning and grazing and flying just a little bit out of rhythm with the rest of her crew. (Yes, I have to run them off from time to time when the pigeon party gets too big because my neighbor on the other side complains). The lone pigeon didn't stand out from the rest of them because of physical characteristics, but because she chose her own rhythm. You get the drift.
I close with this thought gleaned from watching a flock of pigeons; It's not so much how we are generally perceived, but how we choose to interact with others and how we decide to act alone as we navigate through this world.
Then, we can simply reflect on it, or we may be compelled to create something from it. From gray to light to the indigo of midnight, "Things as they are, Are changed upon the blue guitar."
May you find music, magic and great flavors in your backyard or wherever you are,

Karen



















Like · Comment · Share

Karen Scalf Maybe I'll start a podcast or a blog. Which? Both? What's the best forum for essays and assorted creative ventures these days? How will I tied all these ideas and creations together?

October 18, 2009 at 6:29am

Karen Scalf tie

October 18, 2009 at 6:39am

Karen Scalf Why didn't I make this my main page? This page that is supposedly linked to my main fb page is annoying because it's like a "secret" page. Maybe I should start all over from scratch??

October 18, 2009 at 6:50am

Audrey Ball I remember reading "The Scarlet Ibis"...I cried.

October 18, 2009 at 3:17pm

Karen Scalf Yes, that story stays with you. How are you doing Audrey? Writing any satire this year?

October 19, 2009 at 4:56pm

Audrey Ball I've been through a lot emotionally in the past month or so (in a good way), so my writing has changed as well. Instead of satire, everything I write turns into a huge sappy mess. It feels so unnatural.



I suppose eventually my sappy side a...nd my not-so-sappy side will find common ground, where both can be comfortable with what I'm writing. Until then, I'll be cringing at all of the emotions on the paper. Woohoo!!



How have you been?See More

October 19, 2009 at 6:03pm

Karen Scalf Whoohoo! Audrey Ball is a sappy writer! ;) Yes, I have confidence that your sappy and sarcastic will come together as snazzy:) Me, I'm meandering a bit, but in hopes of another interesting job before too long. Meanwhile, I've finally settled into serious writing mode. Not all my writing is serious, but it is seriously happening on a pretty regular basis.

October 20, 2009 at 6:52am

Audrey Ball It's hard to be sarcastic at all about this stuff, which makes it even weirder...I'm totally serious, and there's no sarcasm to protect me. Serious Scalf writing...sounds dangerous! Haha.

October 26, 2009 at 10:24pm

Denn Tackett It does indeed sounds bit dangerous! Ha

November 13, 2009 at 4:49pm

Karen Scalf Danger is in the eye of the beholder...

November 18, 2009 at 10:40am

Denn Tackett ‎;) I hope all is well in Scalf world!

November 24, 2009 at 11:19am



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Grandma's Ashes

     As I rose this morning, I heard a gentle summer rain falling.  I thought of Grandma and how she enjoyed a good rain or a cloudy day.  I went outside and stood in the eaves of the front porch, listened to the rain music, inhaled the fragrant yesterdays,  and gazed at the Zebra Grass standing sentry in the corner of the flower garden.  She gave me a small start from her Zebra Grass on Mother's Day 6 years ago and now it is the highlight of my flower garden, while her purple Asters grace the other corner.
     Yesterday we planted her ashes by the stone bench and the Dogwood tree on the family plot at Corinth, the cemetery outside of Corbin, KY where most of my people are laid to rest.  It is serene there in the rolling meadows hugged by the Cumberland Mountains. The serenity helped me through the Memorial Service she planned for us to carry out, an intimate family gathering the day after we all celebrated the next great-granddaughter to come at my cousin's baby shower.  There we delighted in the joy of the current 7 great-grandchildren. The shower was planned already and my mother and aunt decided it best this way, with family all together, to honor the cycle of our time on this Earth.
     Grandma's memorial soothed us and brought us tears.  "Yesterday," by the Beatles began the service, and I wasn't sure I would make it through the eulogy she had requested I prepare.  "Mood Indigo," by Duke Ellington followed as I gazed up to the mountains, "from whence came my help,"  then rose to pay tribute to the matriarch.  I stood in front of my family, eyes scrunched and watering, stumbled through the opening lines, but then found it in me to read it.  We laughed and cried through the eulogy, nephew Billy's tribute and the rest of the readings. The music especially affected me, in both her careful choosing and in the feelings it evoked.
     "Always," a song penned by Irving Berlin, comforted us.  Our collective sorrow shuddered when Eddy Arnold began singing, "Make the World Go Away."  Some nodded to memories when Elvis crooned, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"  And just before a snippet from Thoreau about resting among the pines, we were filled with longing and joy through the Cox Family's rendition of, "On the Far Side Banks of Jordan."

     We embarked from Corinth down the Falls Road to the Dry Land Bridge to scatter the rest of Grandma's ashes.  She requested this in a place rich with family and ancient history.  In the cradle of the valley between two mountain peaks, we took turns rushing onto the road between speeding cars to send her to her resting place beneath the pines.

                                           (Photo by Anna Cummins Smith, July 17, 2011)

We had enjoyed family picnics here, had heard the stories of how her father (my great-grandfather) took a Model T down to Cumberland Falls before the bridge, an adventurous trip that took two days.  We had journeyed as a family here through the generations, first my grandmother and grandfather, back when you could still walk behind the falls and swim below them.  Then my mother, aunt and uncle, to sunbathe on the rocks above the falls.  Then my generation to see how high the water was, to seek out the elusive moon bow, to walk to Lover's Leap, to rent a cabin.
     My grandmother was the first person in my family to request being cremated and I believe that's how I shall go.  It seems best to me, to go back to the earth in a place alive with joyful memories.  We travelled the road we had travelled many times with her,  then stopped to rest and set her free in the heart of the foothills of the Cumberlands.  We basked in the power of the moving waters of Cumberland Falls,

and enjoyed a family meal in her honor at DuPont Lodge, overlooking the gentle curve of the Cumberland River as it wound through the green hills from where we came.

 I leave you with the song she requested at her service, "The Far Banks of Jordan," by the Cox Family.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZwxL9ekKtbU

(Photo by Susan Scalf, July 16, 2011)

Gentle Dog, Go Gently

   One week ago today, I discovered that our dog Allie, age 10, had a large mass in her abdomen.  I had taken her to the vet because off and on for about a week,  she had been lethargic and not eating much.  I expected perhaps an infection or some arthritis that medicine would help.  I never could have imagined that 2 days later, she would be gone.  That's the same day the pink peonies bloomed.

   When the vet called me back in and brought the X-rays, my very being grew heavy as she told me the mass filled up a big portion of Allie's abdomen and that her white blood count was quite high.  I could barely speak, but I agreed with her that immediate exploratory surgery was the best option. Either it would be benign and removable, giving Allie a good shot at her normal life expectancy of about 15 years, or it wouldn't.  The vet thoroughly covered all scenarios and asked apologetically--if, that when she operated, she found it inoperable and malignant--would I prefer to have Allie euthanized while she was already under?  I immediately said, "Yes."  I discussed it soon after with CJ, who agreed completely.

   For the next two days, CJ and I twisted our way though the tangled emotions of denial, hope, dejection, love and uncertainty.  Yes, this is about a dog.  A willing and joyful companion who never complained and who travelled with us just about everywhere.  Dog love runs mighty deep.  

   On Friday morning, we both took her in for surgery.  We had sort of said goodbye the night before, but not really--we didn't want to be too morbid without knowing for sure the outcome.  CJ and I got down on our bellies under the dining room table, one of Allie's favorite spots, looked her in the eye and talked to her.  C told her that whatever happened, it was OK, and I reminded her that here was the very spot she and I had first met 7 years ago.  The next 7 years with Allie made a loyal, life-long dog lover out of me.  

   The two of us had spent lots of time together these last two years, while I struggled to recover from losing my job.  We had an unspoken understanding and rhythm between us.  She followed me back and forth, upstairs and down, throughout the house everyday as I went about my chores and writing.  She was rarely more than a few feet from me.  We also took frequent walks in the park.  I knew when she was thirsty or hungry.  Saw the simple joy she felt rolling in the grass or following a scent trail.  She was part Aussie and part Beagle.  An Australian Beagle we called her. What a great mix. Why oh why couldn't I see her changing and growing terminally ill?  I think because she really did not show her symptoms until a month ago, and then only briefly.  Dogs stay loyal and happy.  That's what makes them so lovable.  

     Thirty-six hours after learning unexpectedly that she had a big tumor, I got the call from the vet's assistant. She said it was too big to remove and was completely attached to the pancreas, and did I wish to have her euthanized?  "Yes,"  I said again, as my being fell like stone into the pit of my stomach, into my calves.  I hung up, stunned. So was a friend who had dropped by for a cup of coffee. She left shortly, but gave me a hug with her condolences.   Then I started wailing.  CJ called me a few minutes later from work to ask with a hopeful tone if I had heard anything.  I could barely speak and she had nothing to say when I told her it was all bad news.  I sat in my chair for hours that day, immobilized by grief.  A short while after she put Allie to sleep, the vet called me to let me know the specifics.  It was a warm gesture and comforted me for a few minutes.  That evening, with poor CJ still at work, I began to wonder how much longer I could cry alone.  A few minutes later, the door bell rang.  My neighbor and two of my friends joined me with a bottle of wine.  And finally, when C got home, she began to wail because Allie was not there to greet her at the door. We had a toast and told stories of Allie.  We all laughed and cried, but felt a little better.  Yes, over a dog.
   Allie's cancer had completely surrounded her kidney and had begun wrapping around her intestines.  An insidious and rapid killer.  It was the best choice to let her go peacefully before it ruptured or cut off her kidney or intestinal functions completely.  We were humane to our sweet companion. 

     Still, we mourned and will be sad for many days to come. We will miss her forever.  That song, "Mr Bojangles," kept ringing in my head with the line, "His dog up and died, up and died, and after fifty years he still grieves..." We questioned our ignorance of her condition, looked for answers.  Where did we go wrong?  The vet assured us that it would have been undetectable to anyone, that it was a rare,  life-ending condition, no matter when we would have found it.   That we didn't do anything to cause it.  That she lived a good life and was probably in some discomfort the last months, but not serious pain.  That she had been happy until the end.  That's all anyone could ask for.  

   As the shock wears off, the emptiness remains. Yet, the house is still filled with the animal presence of our cats.  Allie helped raise the youngest one who now searches for her. They both used to rise up and growl, then go flying down the steps together when the door bell rang.  Now I don't know when the mail carrier has come, either.  But I do know that one day another gentle spirited canine will catch our eyes and hearts and find a home with us.  Maybe it will even have a little bit of Allie dog in it.  If we could be that lucky.

Up the Creek

I love the sight of the bee on my basil and the surprise of the Great Blue Heron flapping up Four Pole Creek. Occasionally, on my morning jog, I'm lucky enough to see him gliding silently over the water, his 4-5 foot wing span seeming to cover the entire width of the creek. That's quite an urban sight.

Emerson and Thoreau professed the intrinsic necessity for humans to be contemplative in nature. They found it the way to illumination and epiphany--the clear path to the "seat of the soul." Muir had an ecstatic, religious experience in the untouched, open spaces and high places of the Tetons and would go on to become a significant force in preserving and creating Yellowstone. Olmstead 's vision created the complementary coexistence of wilderness and city in his parks, including Central in NYC and Cherokee in Louisville, KY. These visionaries knew humans craved the expansion of human inventions and glittering cities; yet, they also understood the key to maintaining a healthy modern society. Several game hunters have conveyed a similar message to me. They actually appreciate the quiet, alone hours spent in the woods and on the waterways as much as the hunt itself. The key to our wholeness is regular time spent in nature.

Bear Rocks, Dolly Sods, WV

People who think wild areas should be preserved for nature's sake are called any number of adjectives with negative connotations from "knee-jerk liberal," to "treehugger," to "hippy."
However, the small farmer Wendell Berry and orchard keeper Robert Frost would not describe themselves in those terms, but they certainly have written treatises about the uneqivocal measure of the natural world. Teddy Roosevelt was a man's man and avid big game hunter, but he knew the immeasurable importance of preserving large swaths of unspoiled nature for the future of our existence.

Jesse Stuart wrote fond memories of the good life in the rolling hills of Northeastern Kentucky and Silas House has written the true to life account of the coming of the lumber mills and strip mines to Southeastern Kentucky. The people who lived in the hills took the good paying jobs that depleted all the old growth forests and that denigrated their family land. They too were caught up in the coming of the machines, the rolling in of dollar bills even if to sacrifice their beloved hills. It's always been this way, from coal to sugar cane. The people pay in so many irreversible ways just to earn a living. In Silas House's, Coal Tattoo, the main character finds herself married to the son of a big coal operator. I say "finds" because she wakes up one day in her big, fine house on the hill, utterly empty and alone-- above the rumble and lights of the mine site, and over the company houses. She is literally looking out upon grey slurry and muddy, treeless coal roads that used to be her family forests and meadows. She and her womenfolk eventually do what seems unthinkable. They are so torn in their hearts by the ripping apart of the hills that they lie down in the haul road, their desperate act of defiance. The very land they grew up on is about to be destroyed. The sheriff, who has known them all their lives, has to cuff the ususally mild mannered one and carry her to the paddy wagon.

Mountaintop Removed in Pike Co., KY

This is where we are today. The great American visionaries of the past helped preserve the western U.S, and some urban areas and key spots on the eastern seaboard. The ancient Appalachians, however, are pieces of a patchwork quilt scattered about, unconnected and unprotected. We have Shenandoah and the Smokies, but in between, hugh chunks of at least 5 states have been leased to the men with the mighty machines. People from the same place are pitted against one another in a fight for their lives. Miners and mountain people threaten each other and their livelihoods. People from the foothills and the cities fight the battle, some dismissing the fervor as just the stage for those "knee-jerk, liberal, hippy, treehuggers" to have a parade, while other urban dwellers, most with ties to the mountain communities and family from the mountains, are piecing together a new vision.

The great divide continues. Those with money and power over the land wish to continue to profit despite the unconscionable destruction they wreak. The working people are scared for their jobs while many mountain people and their land-protector allies fight for the legacy of this land, these waters, this air, these creatures, this culture.

There is a way, amid the outlandish propaganda thrown in all directions. It will not come easily, but we can make progess to green energy and green jobs, The mines will not be shut down overnight. It is called transition, not to job loss, but to new kinds of jobs. But it will require unity, and we are sorely lacking that in this country. I was told that where a deep mine used to employ 900 people for decades, the same MTR site above the old mine now employs maybe 20 people for just a few years. So much for job security.

However, this is not just a regional issue, nor is it a bandwagon just for "hippies." And biodiversity is not a big word reserved for scientists. Without a wide array of prospering flora and fauna, we sacrifice clean air, healthy food and medicine.

This is the future of your health at stake all across this country.
For what starts upstream eventually comes downstream into your river, your creek, your pipes, and your home from, "the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters." Get out your paddles. At least take a look at what it means to be green and look at some of the work others are doing to make the shift into a sustainable economy and a sustainable natural world. Sierra, OVEC, Powershift, Coal RIver Watch, Mountain Keepers and ilovemountains, just to name a few. The urban and the natural worlds can coexist.

Altitude Changes

We entered this world

of our choosing

with intrigue

and trepidation

For unknown monoliths

amid peaks

swirling ridges

Shadows on the river

Ever changing

Once among the tribe

we rested

Dark barley drinks and welcoming

Supped on cast iron casserole

Then fast asleep in the hacienda haven

I know 

not 

your exact 

point 

of origin

but

eons condensed

in 

your formation

Startle me 

into

recognition

of time 

wind 

and river

coalition 

A summer evening we shared

the Colorado's layers 

and solitude

red umber to green 

to sunset's 

purple hue

From the market square to the cool aspen air

We picked stone fruits and feasted

our eyes upon vistas ne'er imagined

Dynamite to Dust

It's a three-fold fubar conundrum
When you feel the pound of the explosion
The sound imploding in your eardrums
25 dead and still another shift's begun


Machine's ripping into the mountain
See the Big John Shovel
Here it comes
Twenty years of coal dust
and no pension
Water table's busted
There's no fixing it

It's just dynamite to dust
What's to become of us?
How will the mountains 
and her people stay alive?
When they're tunneling in,
blowing off the tops
and dying inside?


I wrote this song after a visit to Larry Gibson's homestead,  Kayford Mountain, or what's left of it after MTR, just outside of Charleston, WV.  I just rewrote the opening and chorus to pay tribute to the miners killed in the Upper Big Branch explosion on April 5, 2010.  


Almost everyone from Appalachia either has family who work in the mining industry or knows people who do.  It is a pervasive mono-economy.  It is also an invasive one, for the miners and their families gave up land (mineral) rights many years ago to the greedy outsiders who saw the  black gold at the end of the tunnel.  The mountains are owned by people who aren't from them, but worked by those who grew up in them.  It is the best paying job around--one that men and women today are proud to do, just like their daddy did.  But it's killing them and the mountains.
    
The fat cats and the working people live in the same world, but share very different realities.  Recall the opening to Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities?
          It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of     foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way...


My song goes on, "Now the miners are fighting the mountain man
                             Both from the same place taking opposite stands
                             While back in the cities the lights burn
                             But here in the hills we got valley fills
                             And no where to turn..."


I understand the economic necessity of taking the best job in town, but I am beginning to believe that the hold the big man's dollar bills has on the working people and the desperation it causes can only be conquered  together by those who want to save the mountains and those who dig coal inside them.  Contrary to popular belief, these are sometimes the same people.  Many of the environmentalists working to end mountain-top removal come from a long line of coal miners.   Yet, the boss promises he has good intentions for his workers, stirs up their patriotism and leads them to violently riot at peaceful gatherings of those standing up to end the fouling of the waters, the unrecoverable desecration of  the mountains' majesty, and now, the tragic and preventable death of deep miners.  


This same coal baron  played a central part in breaking up the unions in the 80's, so his employees are at his whim and have no union voice to speak out against the unsafe conditions they work in.  He also "donated" 3 million to a state judge's election campaign and that same judge voted in favor of his settling another environmental dispute at one of his surface mines.  The national reporters today are having a hard time getting quotes from the miners in Coalmont, WV because they fear what they call, "the long arms of Massey."  


Outsiders indeed.  The Kings of Coal came from the outside and bought the people.  Hard-working people who want to make an honest living, yet they call the people who want to lead the way in sustainable alternatives to this dangerous profession the outsiders.  Fear and greed are a deadly mix.  


Misinformation and lack of vision are too.  I heard three young men on the MU college radio station discussing the Upper Big Branch disaster yesterday, and they all had the same point of view.  They didn't even consider bringing on someone with the opposing view for a civil discourse on college radio.  


Some of their quotes that stand out: 
 "This is our heritage and we will dig all the coal until it's gone.  No need to even consider alternatives until then because it's not going to happen."  
(No, if you don't consider wind, sun, water, and crop alternatives, they certainly won't happen, boys.)


 "If you get right down to it, you can blame the eco-freaks for this, because they are trying to end mountain top mining, which is much safer for our miners."  
(Safer yes, but the jobs are few and many are taken by outsiders brought in by the company.  Plus, I was told by several locals in the area that Massey closed down one MTR operation just a week before many local miners would have hit their 20 years of employ, then reopened it later with a different name so they didn't have to pay the pensions.)


"We're all a big family and have to keep the outsiders and commies out of this so we can keep our economy thriving."  
(I almost ran off the road when I heard that one.  If you consider a few thousand risking their lives to make a living while the quality of life continues to spiral down to the point of no return with no alternatives after all the mountains have been destroyed, "thriving,"  then you certainly have no vision for the mountains of your heritage or your people living in them.)


A philosophical rift of long-lasting consequence grows as innocent, hard-working people die, as the lifeblood of a people, the earth and water, falls away, useless and foul.  


It's just dynamite to dust
What's to become of us?


I believe we have to keep speaking out and finding ways to make a shift to sustainable energies and other ideas that can maintain the mountains and the mountain people.  No, we 're not trying to shut down the jobs and turn out the lights tomorrow.  We are trying to find better ways to provide and protect.  Maybe I'm just idealistic and the land and water lover's will turn into land and water barons if given the opportunity to bring better uses of the mountains to the people.  I hope not.  


The final quote from the  college radio boys: "The mountains of West Virginia really aren't good for much except the minerals inside them.  We have to mine them.  That's what we do."  
(That's what people resign themselves to do because it's what has always been done, because it's the only alternative the rich outsiders have given them.  But the mountains were here before the humans and would still offer up providence and plenty if only the people could see.)  

My heart goes out to the loved ones of those lost deep in the mines.