The Sandburg Season

In the heart of Kansas, there’s a certain sweetness to Halloween celebrations, touched though they may be with autumn’s poignant tang. Corn shocks and smiling jack-o-lanterns abound, heaped atop hay bales and spilling from wagons pulled by broomsticked witches.

Still, goblins, ghoulies and ghosties skulk around the edges of consciousness,  not to mention old plots that insist on rising up from their graves – Psycho, Vertigo, Rebecca.  Hitchcock’s Birds wheel through the air, and while little ones delight in becoming princesses, pirates or talking pumpkins, blood drips and body parts pile up as vampires, zombies and other night-creatures seek to displace chainsaw-wielding psychopaths as the epitome of evil terror.

Sharing a Taste of American Pie

Forecasters in the north still are posting occasional frost warnings and it’s not yet time for Alaska to be awash in wildflowers, but the thawing’s nearly complete. Winter’s gone. Folks are out and about and, in the South, we’ve arrived at the very heart of festival season.

In Texas, Bluegrass and Bluebonnets already has taken place. In Louisiana, the Acadian Festival in St. Martinsville, the Bayou Teche Bear Festival and the Balfa Cajun/Creole Heritage Week are pleasant memories. Still to come are assorted strawberry festivals, New Orleans’ Creole Tomato Festival, the Festivals Acadiens et Créoles in Lafayette, Church Point’s Buggy Fest and one of the best combinations of food and music in the world, the Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival.

Events like last weekend’s Mullet Toss at the Flora-Bama Lounge, a well-known establishment on the Alabama-Florida state line, play to a slightly different crowd. While there’s just as much music and food, there’s often a good bit more liquor and a good bit less clothing.  Crowds are friendly at the Flora-Bama, but they’re not necessarily family-friendly, if you get my drift.

On the other hand, the Flora-Bama Mullet Toss shares some qualities common to other festivals. All tend to be historically-rooted and marked by a high level of community involvement. They support community causes, raise money for local organizations and provide inexpensive fun. Like State Fairs and the Fourth of July, they’re as American as apple pie.

The Parable of the Crab Pots

 

Clear Creek stitches its way through the fabric of my world, drawing together water and sky, grasses and trees into patterns of exquisite beauty.  Pulled through the marshy flood plain toward Clear Lake, its flow is a tangled haven for birds and wildlife. Eventually emerging from the lake to become a channel, it becomes a passage to open water, intertwining with the ocean’s salty tang in Galveston Bay.

Near the Bay, the Creek seems little more than a prop, a backdrop for tourist snapshots and Chamber of Commerce brochures. Nearly forgotten behind the facades of interchangeable restaurants and bars, it no longer tastes of life on the water but feeds a growing appetite for profit.  Weekend boat traffic is heavy.  The boaters themselves can be loud and boisterous, demanding attention as they cruise by the land-locked crowds.  They seem oblivious to the natural marvels that float and swirl before the tide of human progress or fly off, seeking respite from the uproar.

During the week, the channel and its inhabitants are left in relative peace. On a low tide, rocks along the edge serve as perches for some of the world’s most successful fishers: black and yellow crowned night herons, green herons, American and snowy egrets. Mallards and pintails float by, accompanied even in summer by an occasional coot.  Cormorants dive and, in winter, mergansers and loons provide a little excitement for human northerners who also have migrated south to escape the cold.

There always are a few human fishermen about, looking for redfish or trout, walking the walls in hope of scaring up a flounder.  Sport fishers top off at the fuel dock and an occasional trawler fuels for a trip down the coast.  In season, they’re joined by the crabbers and shrimpers, working folk who have schedules and routines.  I watch them make their rounds like clockwork: emptying traps, rebainting, dropping them back in the water.

There’s nothing fancy about a crabber.  Like shrimpers, crabbers work hard and their profit margin is small.  Their boats aren’t pretty and they don’t always have the best formal education, but they’re good people, part of a less-pretentious waterfront world that tourists rarely see. 

Because they have routines and their favorite spots for setting out traps, I’ve come to know a few – one or two by name, but most by sight.  We share  the simple friendliness of neighbors - a wave, a greeting shouted across the water, a question about weather or the catch.  I think about them a lot, and about how similar our lives are.  We spend our days on the water or at its edge.  We do repetitive work,  and we have far more time to think than we have money. 

I love to hear and tell stories, and fishermen are great story tellers.  Occasionally you find them lunching at local cafes or gathering at tiny watering holes in San Leon, Dickinson, and Bacliff, where they swap tales about catches,  crimes of passion, bodies found, or boats run up on the rocks.  They not only tell stories, they’re the subject of stories, and  I recently heard a retelling of one of my favorite stories about a crabber.  Sometimes it’s set in Mexico, and sometimes in the Florida Keys, but this version was set in Cuba.

Day after day, a foreigner visiting Cuba watched a crab fisherman ply his trade.   His routine was ordinary and predictable.  Each day he rowed to his pots, emptied them into the boat, and returned them to the water, hoping for another good catch.

However ordinary his routine, his traps were extraordinary.  They had no top.  Bemused by this topless crab trap and curious how such a trap could keep crabs from escaping, the visitor finally questioned the fisherman. “You caught many crabs today,” he said.  The old man agreed.  “I’ve been all over the world,” the visitor continued,  “but I’ve never seen a fisherman use a trap without a top.   How can it be that your trap works?  With no top, how do you keep the crabs inside?”

“I need no top on my crab trap,” the old man explained with a smile.  ”These are Cuban crabs.” The befuddled visitor seemed not to understand.  “CUBAN crabs?”, he asked.   “Yes,” replied the old man. “Cuban crabs. When one crab tries to climb out of the trap, the rest pull him back in.”

No matter which version of the story I hear, my first response always is laughter.  The image of all those crab claws tugging away  at the legs of the would-be escapee is funny.   When it’s told as a Cuban story, political implications do temper the humor somewhat.  The thought that anyone inside a dictatorship (other than the authorities) might try to prevent others from escaping the pot seems amazing, but it’s a fact of life.

Recently, however, I’ve been thinking about the story in an even larger context.  We live in a world where negativity, pessimism, jealousy and anger are powerful forces.  They breed resignation and apathy, a sense that nothing we do will make a difference in our world.  Disappointed by life, we become bitter.  Criticized for one thing or another, we begin to judge others.  Stung by ridicule, we begin to tear others down in order to build ourselves up.

Trapped by a sense that nothing ever will change, convinced that no one can be trusted and ignorant of the possibilities available to us, we live in a trap as surely as those crabs, comfortable with its boundaries and routines.  Perhaps we fear the world outside, seeing it as dangerous, frightening or evil.  Sometimes, simple laziness keeps us from struggling away from those who would pull us back.  Whatever the reason, it’s easy enough to become  convinced that the wiser course is to stay in the trap, rather than risking our lives in the dash toward a different life.  

The point here is not to psychoanalyze those who prefer to stay in the trap, but to encourage those who want to climb out.  Even when surrounded and nearly beaten down by nastiness, griping, negativity, paranoia or bitterness, the urge to move beyond the constricted world of crab pot can be strong.

The fact is that the world is filled with crabby people – people who would like nothing more than to keep everyone else in the trap with them.  If others escape, their new-found freedom becomes a direct challenge to every rationalization for staying in the trap.  Every crab in the pot knows that. It’s what makes some so determined to use whatever means necessary to keep others from making the run.

But that lone crab, fighting his way up the side with his buddies trying to pull him back down is a reminder to all of us – there isn’t a top on the crab pot. You may lose a leg in the struggle to get out, but you don’t have to stay in the trap. Remaining in the pot is a choice.

 

Copyright © 2008 Linda L. Leinen.   All rights reserved.

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It’s Their Country, Too…

 

One of the “Top Posts” on WordPress over the 4th of July holiday was CheapOair’s suggestions for the ten best places in the country to view fireworks.  All of the locations were cities and, as I read through the list, the criteria used to judge a “best” location  began to emerge.  Historical significance played a role (Philadelphia) as did general appeal to tourists (Las Vegas, San Diego).  But in this list, size did matter, and bigger obviously was better.

In Washington, celebrations would begin ”with a giant parade”.  Las Vegas’ Americafest would feature a “world-class firework display”.  New York would be “displaying its patriotism through massive fireworks”. Boston would celebrate “in a big way”.   San Francisco and Chicago both promised “spectacular” evenings, while New Orleans and San Diego would tow out the barges to make it all happen.  Of the ten sites, only Orlando, Philadelphia and Atlanta were listed with a certain restraint and basic information.

I’m a great fan of fireworks myself, and like spectacular shows as much as the next person.  Ribbons and cascading swirls of light, gigantic dandelion-like blooms of red, blue and green sparkling in the sky, terrible thundering, percussive noises that make dogs run and children cry – I love it all.  Throw in a little John Phillips Sousa as background music, and I’ll be waving the flag with the best of them, telling anyone who tries to talk to me to “BE QUIET!  Can’t you see I’m WATCHING????”

That said, it still is true that the best fireworks display I ever experienced took place in isolation and nearly-total silence: unless you count the presence of a couple of friends, the sound of a car engine and the hum of tires on a deserted road.

We’d been in Port Aransas, Texas, planning to spend the entire holiday sailing.  A massive storm on the 4th sent the Coast Guard rescuers out to sea even as it washed fishermen and sailors back to port.   Considering the weather and the low probability of being able to get back on the water the next day, we decided to drive back to Houston.

Our route, State Highway 35, is a nice, two-lane road for much of its length, winding along past some of the loveliest coastal prairie you’ll ever see.  There are fields filled with maize and cotton.  There are bays -Copano, Aransas, Tres Palacios and San Antonio.   There are marshes and sloughs, and the edge of the Aransas Wildlife Refuge, winter home to the endangered whooping crane. 

From Aransas Pass to Port Lavaca, you drive through relatively unpopulated territory.  But from Port Lavaca north to Bay City, there are little towns and communities scattered across the countryside.  Francitas, Blessing, Olivia, Caranchua Community, LaWard, Palacios, Collegeport, and Markham are unknown even to most Texans.  Many are invisible from the highway – you have to get there on County Roads – but they do exist: tiny, hidden bits of American life the casual passerby never will see.   

Never see, that is, unless you happen to be driving the coastal prairie on the Fourth of July.  As the last bit of glowing sunset faded from the sky and darkness gathered us in its arms, we thought at first we had seen lightning from a distant storm.  When another flash caught my friend’s eye, she turned quickly enough to catch a glimpse and exclaimed, “Fireworks!”  Looking around, we saw not one display in the distance, but two, three – and then four.  We slowed in amazement, and then stopped at the side of the road. 

Standing outside the car, we absorbed tiny displays of color and light sent up from the tiny, hidden towns that surrounded us.  There were no showering cascades of light, no pulsing, exotic displays of pyrotechnics.  There were single rockets blooming in the night sky, or an occasional pair.  Within five minutes, they were gone.  The end of the shows wasn’t marked by glorious excess, but by simple bursts of light sent higher into the sky.  If we had been watching with those gathered in the towns, we would have been forced to look up, toward the stars.  In utter darkness, against a hidden horizon, the exploding lights were beautiful beyond belief.  When we realized the end had come, we hardly could move.

Eventually, we drove on.  For another hour we watched displays shoot up around us and then fade away as hidden Americans in little towns with not much of a civic budget did what they could to express the impulse of the day: to celebrate, and bless, and rejoice in America.  No television crews recorded the events, no newspapers sent reporters.  If YouTube had existed at the time, a teenager or two might have thought to record the night for strangers, but then again, perhaps not.  Love of country, a sense of community and the sheer pleasure of celebration have no need of publicity, and even the smallest showers of light filling a sky emptied of everything but darkness can satisfy much of America.

 

We live today in a country dedicated partly to the proposition that all are created equal, but primarily to the proposition that bigger is better.   I have no doubt that more people in this country know which corporation is associated with the phrase “super-size me” than know the author of the Declaration of Independence.   While big cars roll down our roads, big money affects the political process, and mega-churches preach an interesting “gospel” of self-actualization.  Family farms disappear while questions about the safety of corporate agriculture increase, and media conglomerates continue to blur the line between factual reporting and entertainment.

Given these realities, it makes sense that publicists for America’s birthday celebration should choose to highlight the big parties, the rock-concert-like events, and the sheer spectacle of it all.  I have no real quarrel with that; I enjoy spectacle myself from time to time.  But we need to remember that out in the country darkness, in the wilderness of the inner city, beyond the well-kept fences of the suburbs, there are fellow Americans celebrating in a different way. 

Many are struggling. Most don’t have “names” and few have big money or great power.  What they have is love for the country they call home, a willingness to serve that country and work for her preservation, and a commitment to values that include self-sacrifice and responsible stewardship.  They also have an ability to rejoice in the gifts they have been granted, and to appreciate simplicity as well as spectacle.   However it may distress the powers that be, this is their country, too, and they have a right to participate in their own governance.

 Because of circumstances, I thought I would miss any sort of fireworks this year.  I had made a quick trip to the grocery store and was certain I wouldn’t be home in time to see anything.  To my amazement, I walked out of the store into the parking lot just as the city fireworks began.  I hadn’t realized that the lot would be a perfect viewing spot, but it was filled with people, coolers and chairs.  Some surprised shoppers perched on the hoods of their cars.  Others just stood, chatting with perfect strangers as the show unfolded.

It was a beautiful display, nearly 20 minutes long, neither perfectly simple nor as spectacular as what would come later in Houston.  When it ended with a huge, cascading spill of color, there were “oohhhs” and “aahhhs” to spare.  And then, it was over.  Folks picked up their chairs, put the coolers away, loaded the rest of their groceries into their cars and began to leave. 

As I walked my cart over to the collection point, I heard someone behind me, whistling.  I turned to look and discovered a man in blue jeans, a white sleeveless shirt and work boots.  He needed a shave, and probably should quit smoking, but he really could whistle his song of choice:  The Stars and Stripes Forever. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks to OSHNBLU for the images posted in this blog!

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Caring and Thinking: Two Men, Two Styles, One Goal

 

When William F. Buckley, Jr. died this year on February 27, I was touched by the on-air tribute given him by Chris Matthews, host of MSNBC’s Hardball.  I don’t always agree with Mr. Matthews, and I don’t always appreciate his style, but on that particular evening, he said something important. 

What struck me was not what Matthews said about William Buckley – his writing, his publications, his sailing, his extraordinarily privileged life – but what he said about himself.  As Matthews put it,  “To start out as a young conservative is not–let’s look at the facts–to end up there. But you have to start somewhere. You have to care before you can think, think before you can change your mind…   I owe that start to the man who died today at his desk…”

Those words came again to mind when I heard Tim Russert had died.  Like Buckley, Russert was a caring and thoughtful man, an extraordinary interviewer, and a bridge between worlds.  While Russert made the world of “inside the Beltway” politics more accessible to ordinary Americans, Buckley brought intellect and wit to  television and helped make erudite conversation the newest parlor game in town.  When I listed “good conversation” as my favorite sport on my Wordpress “About Me” page, it’s at least in part a testament to the influence of Buckley’s Firing Line in my life.  On the other hand, when I settle in with a cup of coffee and a printed newspaper or one of the blogs I follow, it’s partly because of a passion for political process that Tim Russert helped engender.

Certainly there were differences between the men: in background, temperament and style. 

The aristocratic and patrician Buckley could be - and often was - insufferable, pompous, or unutterably obnoxious.  He just as often was brilliant, despite his acerbic tongue and impenetrable vocabulary.  Buckley was all privilege, old money, and connections forged over generations.  Born in New York, he lived in Mexico and Connecticut before beginning first grade in Paris and being further schooled in London.  An accomplished harpsichordist who wanted Bach played at his funeral, he attended Yale and graduated into a life that became the stuff of legends. 

Tim Russert, on the other hand, was working class Buffalo, a ”just-folks” sort of fellow full of homespun wisdom, compassion and a kindness toward others – even perfect strangers – that was legendary.  As E.J. Dione of the Brookings Institute put it, “Tim Russert knew it was as easy to be kind as to be cruel.”  No harpsichordist, he: it was The Boss, Bruce Springsteen, who played Thunder Road at his memorial service.  Not given to the linguistic flourishes of a Buckley, he was intelligent and insightful, if just a bit uncertain of himself in the beginning.  When he first came to work for Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Moynihan recognized his insecurity and gave him a classic piece of advice, saying, “What they know you can learn.  What you know, they never can learn.”

 As these things happen, each man became associated with his own remarkable television phenomenon.

Buckley’s Firing Line was must-see tv for years. After he died, Eric Konigsberg, writing in the February 29 New York Times rehearsed a bit of the history of the show, an hour-long PBS production.   Over the years guests included Louis S. Auchincloss, Alistair Cooke, Vernon E. Jordan Jr., Henry Kissinger, Margaret Thatcher, Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan and William Simon.  Politicians weren’t the only ones who showed up.  Malcolm Muggeridge was there, as was Mortimer Adler and Jorge Luis Borges, Norman Mailer and Allen Ginsberg. 

During Allen Ginsberg‘s appearance, the poet asked Mr. Buckley’s permission to sing a song in praise of Lord Krishna.  According to Richard Brookhiser, quoted by Konigsberg, “Bill was very gentle with him.  He said, ‘Of course’…  Mr. Ginsberg proceeded to play a long and doleful number on a harmonium, chanting along slowly and passionately,  And when he was finished, Bill said, ‘Well, that’s the most unharried Krishna I’ve ever heard.’ ”

That is pure Buckley, but Russert had his own, equally enjoyable style.  Until Eugene Robinson pointed it out, I hadn’t been aware of some Meet the Press  traditions.  “After each segment, a photographer comes out to take a picture for the archives.  When the taping is done, snacks are brought to the set and the guests linger for a while, chatting with the host about their families, about baseball, about the news of the day and about what’s likely to be the news of tomorrow.  It’s all so civilized that it feels almost anachronistic.”

In this photograph from Meet the Press archives, Senator Christopher Dodd, D-Connecticut, cavorts with Russert, his wife Jackie Clegg and their daughters, Christina and Grace. after a taping at the NBC Washington studios on Sunday, Oct. 28, 2007 (AP Photo/Meet the Press, Alex Wong).  There were many reasons newsmakers fought to be on Meet the Press, and while post-grilling socializing wasn’t at the top of the list, it surely played a role in the overall appeal of working with Russert.

It can be tempting to see Buckley and Russert as different ends of the thinking-and-caring scale, with Buckley the thinker and Russert the one who cared, but that simply isn’t so. Both men gave profound thought to the issues of the day and both cared deeply – not only about the issues, but about their life’s work and the people around them. 

Equally important was their passionate care and concern for what they understood to be their responsibility to the nature and development of civility in public discourse.  Whether writing, interviewing, or speaking, whether engaging the public by the persuasiveness of their ideas or sheer force of personality, both men brought passion, intellect and good humor to their love of truth and politics.

Given their dedication and passion, it seems perfectly fitting that both men died at their work.  William Buckley was writing at his desk.  Tim Russert was in a studio at NBC’s Washington News Bureau recording a voice-over.  Men of faith schooled in Jesuit traditions,  both understood the meaning of laborare est orare - to work is to pray – and both left this life wrapped in the mantle of that prayer.  

As I think about these two lives lost in one year, and about their contributions to our public life, I cannot help but ponder the need to maintain balance between caring and thinking.  Thought without care risks becoming judgmental.  Caring without the discipline of thought easily becomes sentimentality.  Finding the appropriate balance between the two is one of our most important tasks.

Though never granted opportunity to know these two remarkable men personally, I value their lives and work, and refuse to choose one over the other.  Like thinking and caring, they seem to belong together – two visions and two voices born of two different worlds which share a single goal: an engaged and informed populace willing to forego platitudes and easy answers in favor of discernment and commitment to difficult decisions.

Whatever their differences, the words of Bessie Anderson Stanley surely apply to both:

He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much; who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children; who has filled his niche and accomplished his task; who has left the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem or a rescued soul; who has never lacked appreciation of Earth’s beauty or failed to express it; who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had; whose life was an inspiration; whose memory a benediction.

 

 

 

 

 

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