Swine Flu

If you can't get enough mis information from your local news, just check the internet blogs. These idiots can't be any worse than VP Joe Biden's remarks. Actually I blame Mat Lowery more than I do Joe. It's like asking a bum on the street what he thinks of the Presidents Economic policies. If you want information about a flu epidemic ask a Doctor not a politition. Or at least a Microbiologist like myself. I'd be more woried about going to the doctors office than getting on a plane, and yet I went today. The president made the right call about closing the mexican borders. He refered back to the experts and computer profiles that conclued the closure would not significantly alter the flu's progress. The Doctor laughed when I told her I wasn't woried about getting the flu today, She rightfully stated yea I'm more worried about this fall. First of all the Swine flu is going to peter out soon naturally due to the end of the flu season. But this fall we still won't be able to include this H1N1 swine variety in next years flu vaccine. that's because that vaccine is already in production. Secondly if you look at historical flu epidemics the second and third years are always the worst. Then of course there is the population that won't take it serious next year because it was over rated this year. Now I have to contridict myself. For the last few day's I have been hearing that the experts just don't know why the swine flu is more serious in Mexico than it is in the U.S. That's just a cop out. It's basic Microbiology 101 actually that's Microbiology 401 (Gen. Biology was 101). When an organism Bacteria or virus jumps species it's generally very week. Can't do a lot of dammage to it's host (Human in this case). As it H1N1 progresses through the population the weeker host (Poor Mexicans) allow the virus to become stronger (more Virulent). Then there was the fact that thousans of Mexicans were infected vs ten's or even hundreds in the U.S. simple probability. and the variety that moved to the U.S. was probably not the most leathal. Someone said it was the advanced medical care in the U.S. That might be the case now but it wasn't when they said that. then only about 25 cases had been identified in the U.S. and only one had even gone to the hospital. There is so much more but I'm just tired of writing. probably only two or three people will even read my post while millions will be misinforme by the media. All I can say is listen to the director of CDC he/ she will give you the best advice. Don't believe anything the new anchers tell you they just want to create panic in order to boost ratings. I had respect for Mat Lowery but now if this gets to you, you need to apologize for creating mass pannic. I actually heard another news reporter say that Biden was telling the truth the first time but politics pressured him to now change his story.

Weight Loss 2005

For most of my life I was, if not average weight a little bit skinny. In grade school almost everyone was bigger than I, when it came to the casual bump in the hall I usually lost. So when I quit smoking and my weight jumped from 145 to 160 I didn't think much about it, the extra bulk felt good. But when the weight continued to rise to 170, 180 and finally 190, I realized this had to stop and went on my first diet. Still struggling with the nicotine addiction, I attacked the situation with a three faced offense. First was diet, I kept track of my calorie intake and kept it below 2000 a day. There was a time after a few weeks that I celebrated by going out to a smörgDsbord and consumed an estimated 4,000 calories at one sitting. Second was exercises. I was already taking night classes at the local university and one of the benefits of that was a free membership to the university gym. Every night that I had class I would show up about 2 hours early and work out, swim and shower. Thirdly was spiritual (Mind, Body, and Soul). I began going to church and meditating on God, transposing my requirements to some external source. Come to find out that God was in me, so in a way it reflected back to myself but with some supernatural power. The plan worked and after several months I not only stopped increasing weight but dropped to a comfortable 165. You know what happened next, I stopped my diet and exercises program but stabilized at a slightly overweight 180 pounds. after 4 years I picked up smoking again, but somehow the reverse doesn't work, I never lost weight by smoking.
In 1998 with increasing pressure from anti smoking advocates, I began to realize that sooner or latter they would MAKE me quit smoking, so I decided to do it on my own terms. I placed 4 cigarettes with the date and a message "For Emergency Use Only" and sealed them in a glass tube, and gathered my resources, a nicotine patch, will power, and support, and just quit, cold turkey. It was a holiday weekend and so I had several days to isolate myself and not work. The second and third days I was working in the yard so hard Trying to keep my mind off smoking that I couldn't keep the patch on so I gave up on the patch and truly went cold turkey. After about a week I stopped to fill up my car with gas, and found a pack of cigarettes that someone had left on the pump. Never before in history or sense have I ever seen a pack of cigarettes left anywhere. Must have been some omen. I had already used two of my Emergency cigarettes and was determined to keep the last two for keeps sake. As I continued to fill up my gas tank my eyes kept returning to that pack of cigarettes. The pack had been opened, could they have been poisoned? would the owner show up just about the time I took one ( I didn't want to take the entire pack I knew that would start me smoking all over again, but just one, just one little cigarette). As I hung the pump up I quickly looked around, grabbed the pack and slid a cigarette out, two came out and I tried to jam the second one back in but it broke so I stuck both of them in my shirt pocket and put the pack back. On the way home I smoked the good one and really got high. The broken one I kept lighting all night and putting it out. I continue to reflect even today on how I stoled that cigarette.
After about a month I thought I should have been over my nicotine addiction, but the worst was just beginning. You can't concentrate enough to work, but not working just causes you to sit around thinking about a cigarette. One day I just had to get out of the building, so I walked around the block a few times, when I went back in my supervisor called me into his office and wanted to know where I had been. Needless to say I had to find another escape from my addiction. The addiction was so bad I was calling in sick more than I could afford, it was like being pregnant and having the flu all the time, my digestive system became so upset that I would go from constipation to diarrhea within a day and back again. For the next 10 months I didn't gain any weight because of the diarrhea. After about a year by 1999 I began the weight gain. I knew what the outcome would be but even after a year my main focus was still on not picking up that cigarette again. The weight went on 200, 210, 220, 225 if nothing else I had to stop the weight gain. In addition my doctor said that the extra weight was part of the reason for my acid reflux disease Simply loosing weight could eliminate my $100 per month prescription. Two weeks of nothing but cabbage soup. Nothing. That did it, It turned off the compulsive eating and gave me something to think about besides cigarettes, of course to this day I can hardly eat cabbage soup again, which eliminates that as a diet program again. After about 10 months I did get the weight down to about 205 but then it just wouldn't go any lower and so I finally gave up the diet. Yep you know what happened back up to about 220 where it stabilized for several years. Recently I have gradually added another 10 pounds (230). So Its got to stop. I just bought Dr. Phil's book, and just trying to exercise and hold my weight until I finish his book. So far after 4 chapters all I've gotten is that it's my fault but don't beat yourself up.

It's been about two or three weeks now that I've been exercising for about 20 minuets almost every day and then about a 30 minute walk and just generally watching what and how much I've eaten, been keeping lots of vegetables on hand and reducing chips and nuts and I haven't lost a single pound. The human body is extremely resilient. If you reduce your caloric intake the body just uses it more effectively. I know I said I would wait until I finished Dr. Phil's book but today I started my diet. yep Cabbage soup. Earlier in ch 5 I found out I'm not an emotional eater. No big surprise I already knew that it was a result of replacing one addiction nicotine with another food. Now in chapter 6 I have a couple of ideas to try. 1) he states that people who eat while watching TV gain an average of 14 pounds a year, so from now on I'm not going to eat in the living room watching TV. Secondly is the stress reducers. Even though I'm not under stress, in the evenings I watch a lot of TV to relax and listen to very little music. I've got the radio on now, taking rhythmic breaths and it seems to be helping to reduce the hunger. I never did keep food around in plain sight so can't do much to improve that. I rarely eat at fast food restaurants or even leave the house. so that's not the problem. Well we'll see how long I can eat cabbage soup, probably only a day or two.

Two days of not eating and yep I lost one pound. I could do that by taking a piss. It's a start. I have discovered a great modification to the Cabbage soup though. After one day the spicy cabbage soup was all I could take, I had some navy beans left over and mixed some in (just a couple of tablespoons full) with my bowl of soup it really looked like slop that you would take to the pigs but it really made a difference. The beans do double the calories, but they also add a lot of protein and tame down the spicy taste which is good. My recipe is: about:
2 pounds cabbage3 whole carrots diced or whatever2 Large Onions diced2 Stalks Celery1 med bell pepper1 pkg onion soup mix5 beef bouillon cubes2 cloves garlic2 basal leaves1 can tomato juice1 Qt water16 oz cooked navy beanssalt and pepper
That whole pot of soup even with the beans is only about 600 calories. and is enough for several days.

Stock market collapse

Stock Market Collapse
I predict that the stock market will suffer a total collapse within the next 20 years. Here’s how I got there:
First of all let me explain the difference between a prediction and a forecast. Weathermen forecast the weather based on Newton’s law of inertia that a large moving body will continue to move in the direction it is currently moving unless something stops or alters it’s course. Based on scientific measurements including satellite photographs and Doppler radar they can forecast pretty good within a short time frame but still not 20 years in advance. I "predict" that the Cincinnati Reds will beat the Atlanta Braves in the upcoming games based, mostly on my desire to see my home team win, although some facts are taken into account. (This probably isn’t the best analogy to use since I haven’t kept up with baseball since Pete Rose and Johnny Bench). So bare with me when I use some facts that may not be true. Using some information like both teams are equal in the win loss ratio against each other and that the Braves leading pitcher is on the disabled list and their second best pitcher pitched in the last game, and that the games will be in Cincinnati, my predictions are educated guesses. Now back to the stock market.
Not yet. First I have to set the background for my prediction. Many years ago back when the US population was 1/100 of what it is now, and John McCain was just a young man, a college professor explained to us how the baby boomers would never be able to retire because they constituted such a large proportion of the population. Now that no longer holds true but the perception is still there. Back then only a few billionaires manipulated the stock market. People got rich bought million dollar yachts and multi million dollar homes. Where did the money come from. Did you know that speculation accounts for about 95% of your stock investments. Most companies are only worth pennies on the dollar for their stock value if that. I believe in 1929 that percent was more like 50%. A lot of money doesn’t really exist. Those investors with billions of dollars in the stock market are getting nervous. It has taken decades for small investors to "buy out" the stock market and they are not done yet. You always hear "the stock market is risky" although "there has never been a 10 year period where investors have lost money". Conflicting statements. Intentional? I believe that the billionaires are trying to get their money out. The problem is there is more than one billionaire and they still constitute a significant portion of the stock market. As they try to take money out the remainder of their money is worth less. At some point, when they have most of their money out, the market will no longer be able to sustain itself. I guessed a long time ago that when that happened (billionaires taking their money out) would be that the stock market would swing wildly to mask the removal of such large sums of money moving out of the market. That’s happening now. Stocks would take a "general" negative trend though somehow they need to mask this blame it on something else. SUBPRIME anyone. Housing market. Weakening dollar?
I still have a large part of my Retirement invested in the stock market. Shouldn’t I be taking it out? I know, but I am greedy and just don’t trust my own judgment, like last year when oil went down to $50 a barrel. I was just about to put a lot of my money into oil stock, when someone on CNBC said that oil was still overpriced it should drop to $42 per barrel. I got distracted for a week and oil was back to $90 a barrel, surly it wouldn’t go over $100 so the profit margin just wasn’t worth it! Wrong again. Besides most of my retirement is as secure as the US dollar. :(
and Property :’O. OMG .
Like John McCain I’m not an economist, but if my information is incorrect at least it’s an honest mistake. Unlike the news reporter the other day that said she was cutting cost by clipping coupons. HUH. Why do you think they invented coupons in the first place. They make you spend more money!!! I wonder how much the coupon industry paid her to say that?? Or the reporters who are suggesting that you trade your new $50,000 SUV in for a Toyota Prius, do the math first. You’re not going to get anything out of your SUV and next week people will get used to the price of gas and go back to their SUV’s.
That’s just my opinion, and now it’s in print for everyone to see.

Just Another Day

A typical Day
Saturday June 28, 2008
Got up at 6:00 am, turn on computers, start coffee, retrieve morning paper, take medicine, turn on TV to watch news. Now with about 5 things started I switch back and fourth between them, multitasking where possible, not that I should need the extra time. I’m retired. I check the internet and e-mail while I do the 15 minute albuteral (nebulizer) treatment. Back to the Paper and TV, back to writing my daily list and computer stories, another cup of coffee, still noone else has woke up. The girls probably won’t be up for hours, but Carols not even up. What really surprised me is that I offered to let Sugar out for her morning duty and she chose to stay in bed. 8:30 and Carols up, now she wants me to check out her new phone features. Internet, text mail, etc. so another task to add to the others that haven’t been completed, paper, news, computer, eating (I’m hungry), and it’s about time for Sugar’s morning walk. Today is a little unusual because I am also trying to document the daily activities with this diary. But then there’s always something like this to do. One thing I enjoy in the paper are the comic strips.







Often a single comic strip convey more than many paragraphs. Today I cut one out to go with this blog.

It’s 10:00 am and I’m coking chili, and Manwich for lunch while Carol is cooking breakfast. Then time for the dog walk. I really enjoy our daily walk. Sugar loves to just run circles around me, and chase anything in sight. She’s really hyper and needs to run (not walk on a leash), to get the energy out of her. Our property here in Georgia backs into about a thousand acres (at least hundreds) of corps of Engineering flood land property, so the walk is like having my own private rain forest down a branch that begins at our back yard about 1/4 mile to Lake allotoona.
Back to the house for breakfast and send a few e-mails. And it’s time for mail call. Business Week, and just junk mail. More reading, writing, and balance the bank statements & Quicken. Short nap, game of Halo with Destiny, ice cream, and it’s back to Quicken.
It’s 7:30 and a number of jobs didn’t even get started. Trim & bath the dog, trim cats nails, get girls out for exercise, Start a number of Opinion articles (Salmonella in Tomatoes). Why Obama will win in 08 election, why drill for oil in Florida, subprime mortgage scam, bullshit corner, final resting place. Let alone work on projects that are just on hold for now. Finish foundation for storage shed, solder wine equipment, work on backyard walkway, clean bamboo, enter Legacy Data, Identify photographs, edit Autobiography movie, and more. I settled back for some TV and relaxation time, but then back to the computer to review EV Autos, the Think City looks promising.
It’s 10:30 and time to call it a day, shut down computers after reviewing e-mail. We finally got to sleep about 2 am after threats of canceling Sunday mornings 4th of July special church services. We did make it up on time (barely) and went to a really inspiring service.

Autobiography and other writings

I would like to dedicate this group of writings to Dr. Stallings, professor at Northern Kentucky University. They may not be published in the normal since of publications, they have not been proof read, to tell the truth I don’t even know where I am going with them, simply following some promise I made earlier to continue to document this existence through all the resources that I have available. Trapped in a period of time 1947 to 20??. Past, Present, and future as seen from a very narrow perspective of time. I only know a small part of the world present, much of the past I did know has been forgotten, and I can only guess at whether there will even be a future. I often wonder at how my grandfather reacted to the events of his day, and at how my great grandchildren will perceive my life or will they even care. How much family history will be lost forever. It’s not what to include here that is a problem, but what to exclude. Probably everything I plan to say has already been said somewhere before. Only the organization differs.
My name is William David Ware. I was born on October 6, 1947 in Cincinnati (Hamilton County) Ohio at Jewish Hospital at 11:02 AM. I weighed 8 lb 11 oz. and had all 10 fingers and 10 toes. My fathers name was William Chester Ware, but we always called him "Chet" (more on this latter) he was born in Argyle Kentucky on July 8, 1920 - The son of Virgil Ware (Born October 6, 1884 died May 11, 1944) and Pearl Martin (Born November 11, 1886, died October 12, 1941). My mother was Effie (Wesley) Ware, she was born in Bethel Ridge Kentucky on November 6, 1914 - the daughter of George Taylor Wesley (born September 15, 1864, died January 23, 1943) and Tina Estella Jones (born September 14, 1885, died March 6, 1959). Mom died August 28, 2001.
I have 4 brothers, Two sisters and one half sister. Beginning with the eldest Agnes Vivian Wesley was born on July 2, 1936. Being the oldest of 8 children, Agnes played more of a mother figure to the rest of us than a sister. On December 9, 1955 Agnes Married Glenboro (Sony) Hill. I was quite young (8 years old) when Agnes moved out and I have very few memories of her at home. I do remember that her and others would always refer to me as "the baby" even after I no longer thought of myself as a baby. I remember one time they were calling me baby and so I hid under mom’s bed (it was in the same room as the dinner table). At supper time I could see everyone sitting down to dinner. There was always enough food to eat but never enough for seconds. Mom would call everyone to dinner and if you didn’t show up you didn’t eat, therefor everyone always showed up for dinner. Mom seemed somewhat worried that I didn’t show up for dinner but after about 10 minutes of looking for me they all settled down to eat. Initially they complained that their food was cold, because of the little crybaby, I took pleasure in that but the realization that I could not expose my hiding place and would go to bed hungry, I began to cry myself to sleep. Several hours latter they pulled my sleeping body from under the bed, and we all went to sleep. When I got old enough to ride my bike across town I would often visit my sister Agnes at her home. I had just spent the night there camping in her back yard with my daughter Annette, the day the news came about my first wife’s fatal accident. Agnes had three daughters by Glenboro. Pamela Jean Hill born November 5, 1956, Sharon Kay Hill born January 18, 1958, and Cathy Lynn Hill born July 20, 1959. Vivian as she goes by is now 67 years old and married to Bill Frauenknecht and lives in Ohio..
Bernetta Marie Ware was Chet’s eldest child, she was born on March 27, 1939. Marie also had married and moved out of the house before I had any specific memories of her, but unlike Agnes I had no desire to ever visit Marie sadly even to this day. To Marie I was nothing but trouble from day one (maybe she was right I did have a lot of problems throughout life) and she could probably identify every one of them. My one haunting memory was at Christmas or maybe it was her oldest son Keith’s birthday. Keith had gotten a vehicle that was motored by pulling back the handle. Really cool. I had to try it out, yes I was a little too big for it but it was really sturdy and quite capable of handling my weight. Marie screamed for me to get off of it, but she didn’t stop there. On January 5, 1956 Marie married Ronald M. Wilson, born June 10, 1936. Ron was a supervisor for General Electric in Cincinnati Ohio, and did very well financially for his family. Like Marie he was very meticulous. Ronald died May 20, 2008 in Lebanon Ohio and was buried at Miami Valley Memory Gardens in Centerville Ohio. Keith was born to Marie and Ronald on August 13, 1956 the same year as my younger brother Rick. On March 22, 1982 Keith married Sue O’Hara (born June 29, 1960). They have two daughters Jessica Ann Wilson (born May 18, 1982) and Monica Lynn Wilson (born February 7, 1986). Karen Marie Wilson (born June 17, 1960) , Karen has two sons 1) Jason R. Lake born August 8, 1976 and 2) Dustin Gross born July 21, 1981 and one daughter Kelly Marie Lake born September 19, 1978. Marie’s last child was Kay Sue Wilson born December 9, 1964. Kay married Bradley Jones (born June 28, 1963) on November 27, 1984 and they have one son Jeremiah Bradley Jones (born December 24, 1983) .
After Marie came Carl Ray Ware, born May 12, 1940. Carl was Chet’s first born son and as such stood to inherit all of the rights and privileges of any first born prince. Carl was very intelligent Straight "A" student, good in sports and winner of his beautiful high school prom queen’s heart. I don’t know how much of that was genetic or how much was environmental, but growing up for me Carl was the big brother that we all strive to be but could never reach that goal "no matter what". With Agnes and Marie gone that left Carl in charge whenever Mom and Chet were gone. They must have gone to the grocery on this one particular day, because I was feeling pretty "free" jumping up and down on the top bunk bed, with a pair of scissors in my hand of all things. Well Carl tried to get me to stop but something rebellious inside just said "make me". Every time he would try to get close I would jab at him with my lethal weapon. Things were out of control, and brother Don was also there supporting Carl with suggestions. At one point Carl gave up and Don tried his turn at coaxing me down from the bed. Well that’s all it took I didn’t have anything against Don and wanted to show that Don was a much better sitter than Carl, so I bounced off of the bed into Don’s arms. Unfortunately the scissors were still in my hand and as I came down, Don threw his hand up to protect himself and the scissors went all the way through his hand. Carl of course got blamed for letting things get out of control, but at this point I took no gratification in proving him incapable, I never played with scissors again, although there was a time latter that we used to play cutthrought where you would throw a knife in the ground as close to your foot as possible. Carl married Suzanne (Cookie) Long. on January 30, 1960. They had one son: Steven Thomas Ware born July 31, 1960 and two daughters: I.) Carla Rae Ware born June 6, 1961. Carla Married Robert Michael Downey on May 24, 1980 and they have three children: 1) William Troy Michael Downey (born September 30, 1982), 2). Trevor Scott Downey (born January 8, 1985) and 3). Cara Marie Downey (born June 19, 1986).
II.) Hidi Lynn Ware (born February 15, 1971). Hidi married Bryan (Bucky) Allen and they have 3 children 1) Joshua Thomas Allen (born February 7, 1994) 2) Jacob Ray Allen (born July 25, 1997) and 3) Jo Anne Marie (born January 10, 2000).
Rosemary Ware was next in line born September 23, 1941. Although brother Art and I shared a tight childhood together, Over time Rose was probably the closest sibling I have. Rose was my big sister. I could tell her my problems (sometimes too confidential). Rose always watched over me and I was her Knight in shining armor. Like me Rose bucked the system when she felt an injustice. The 50's were not a popular time to be siding with the Black race, but Rose couldn’t understand why they should be treated any different from anyone else. I don’t think she ever joined any organized groups going down south or anything. Rose was just too busy trying to feed her family without much support from her spouse. She still tells the story that when they brought me home from the hospital in 1947, she wanted a baby too. The older sisters told her that they found me in the cornfield, so the next day Rose spent the entire day in the cornfield looking for her own baby. When I think of Rose I often think of the apostle Paul, Phil 4:11 "for I have learned , in whatever state I am, therewith to be content". Her life has been like a roller-coaster ride. She has lived in the back seat of a car with her family and yet, she has been to some of the most exotic places in the world. She has fought to do a Man’s job, and she has fought Cancer. Rose was married three times, two produced children. On September 23, 1958 Rose married Ronald Stepp (9/20/1941). Three children were born to this union. Michael Lee (3/19/1960), Tina Marie (4/2/1961) and Edie Lynn (9/6/1962), all were adopted by her second husband Richard Craft (2/5/1940). Two more children were born to this union 1. Richard Daniel Craft (12/21/1965) and 2. Lisa Dannett Craft (3/31/1967).
After Rose came James Donald Ware, born June 28, 1943. When I think of Don I think of "The Fontze" although 100 years from now noone will know who the Fontze is. Don was cool, but when he would bring his friend home I would have to leave or hid. They tried being cool like Don but they would hurt, both physically and mentally. I was too little to comprehend what was going on in the late 1950's, but I am sure Don participated in some of the wild times back then. Drag racing was popular, and I heard stories from Rose that they would play a game called chicken: where 2 cars would drive head on, and the first person to swerve away was a chicken. The first person I ever saw drunk was Don. He came home one night, stumbling into the bedroom all giddy, and woke me up (I slept in the bottom bunk from him), I remember him putting his index finger to his mouth and a long Shsssssssss. I’m drunk....... I think Don always thought he was the black sheep of the family. We all thought we were. On January 29, 1962 Don Married Lauretta Collins (7/24/1945) and they have two sons: James Kencil Ware (b. July, 26, 1962) and Timothy Scott Ware (b. April 8, 1968).
Arthur Virgil Ware, born on December 27, 1944 was like a brother to me, I guess because be was a brother. We did about everything together growing up, or at least I thought we did. Art was the runt of the litter, and even though he was three years older than me at times I was his big brother. I could never be a big brother intellectually, because Art was a genius. For whatever it is worth IQ wise there was at least 100 points between us. And yet at one point in his college career he told me that he envied me for having the gumption to get a "job" and support my family at such an early age. Art carried me on his shirt-tail throughout our childhood. When he was the All-star pitcher for the little-league Reds team, he refused to play unless they would let me join the team too. Legally I was too young to play little-league so they gave me the job of bat-boy with a uniform and everything. My number was "0". That was the only year we played baseball. Golf became Arts passion, as a teenager he often played with the Club pro’s and at one time played in the same tournament with Arnold Palmer (not with Arnold, but in the same tournament). During the summer of 1958 Art and I were on the 7th fairway of Harmon Golf course in Lebanon Ohio, looking for lost golf balls. One of the first things Art taught me before he would allow me to accompany him to the course was that when someone was teeing off, to find the biggest tree I could and hid behind it until he gave the all clear. Which I did. I don’t know maybe the second or third golfer up was my fathers insurance agent. He drove a hard line drive into the tree behind me, it ricochet back and got me just high and behind the right ear, or was it the left, I’m not sure anymore. Everything got blurry, the earth began to spin and I could see flashes of light. Staggering, I almost fell off of a 10 foot cliff, but Art grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground. That night I began vomiting and a day or two latter spent the next few weeks in the hospital. They had to open the skull up in 4 places to drain off fluid. There are so many stories about Art that I will probably have to devote an entire chapter to them. Art went to College (Miami University in Oxford Ohio) and joined the US Air force and was stationed at Wright-Patterson Air Force base in Dayton Ohio. I partied with Art in Dayton a few times, but for the most part we grew distant and his last memories are closer to Don who also lived in Dayton at the time. Art died of a gunshot wound to the head on July 26, 1972. Authorities ruled it a suicide. Art never married or had any children (that we know of).
I came next almost 3 years after Art, on October 6, 1947, a semi War Baby, born about 2 years after Chet returned from the War (not 9 months ) like I grew up thinking.
By the time Ricky Dan Ware, (born on April 1, 1956) was born Agness and Marie had already moved out and were starting families of their own making Rick more of a cousin than an uncle to Pam, Keith and many of the other grandchildren of Chester and Effie. By the time Rick was 2 years old Rosmary would begin her family and three years latter Don would move out and Art would begin College leaving only myself and Rick at home. It was as if the entire United States was taking a clue from my personal family life which was in turmoil. At home I was now the big brother with "baby brother" skills torn between a waning relationship with Art and developing a relationship with Rick. In the United States we almost destroyed the world with atomic bombs, our president was assassinated , a new civil war was brewing between blacks and white, women were establishing a new identity (men didn’t understand them before so now we didn’t have a clue how to respond). Of all times in world history women had to pick the years that I needed to develop a relationship to change all the rules. At least I was able to deal with it. Brother Art did not, and in my mind, his death was a direct result of "The battle of the Sexes". Rick was 16 and just interring the war. I tried to develop an environment where if some of Rick’s girlfriends got hurt, tough they were just casualties of war. Maybe it backfired whatever, I just wasn’t going to loose myself or another brother to women’s onslaught for independence, whatever that was. Rick is now married to Cathy, they have no children between them although Rick has embraced her children as his own.
The Grandchildren

The birth of Carl’s youngest daughter Hidi in 1971, brought an end to Chester and Effie’s grandchildren, although additional grandchildren through Carl, Don, Myself, and Rick are still an unlikely possibility. But it wouldn’t be long before Marie’s second eldest child Karen delivered their first great-grandchild Jason R. Lake born August 8, 1976, and an almost explosion of great-grandchildren in the 1980's. To which I simply refer to "The Genealogy of Chester and Effie". Thanksgiving and Christmas were becoming unmanageable with about 45 children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren encroaching upon their usual tranquil retirement. It was in the mid 1980's, at Thanksgiving dinner that the final altercation occurred. In the midst of baby’s crying, toddlers running around and young boys being young boys, the bathroom incident brought a sober end to the family Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. This time it wasn’t me or my family that created the situation, and yet it was still my fault, as I was the only person in the room that knew what was going on. The problem was that even now at almost 40 years old I was still just the baby and no-one would listen to me anyway, so I just kept my mouth shut. Without family gatherings, I seldom met my nephew and nieces children and now they themselves are having children. I try to at least keep their names and birthdays updated on my family chart, but even that is becoming difficult to do.
Where I’m Coming From
My life has always been somewhat like a roll of toilet paper, not very significant and yet always somewhat useful to someone. I am a man torn between a world where men ruled and women appreciated chivalry, and the world where modern women demand and deserve equal rights. I love the computer, it allows me to explore my different personalities, and writing skills. If you trace my publications on the web some will be real, some will be fantasy and some will be outright fiction. It may be difficult to tell which is which. I like Pink Floid, Sci-Fi, camping and Cheri pie. Country living, city women and vacations by the beach. As a Libra I strive to create balance and harmony in myself and others. Like the scale of justice that represent my astrological sign I abhor unfairness and conflict. This causes people to perceive me as indecisive and fickle. How wrong they are. To avoid conflict I may appear to give into unimportant disputes, but I believe in the power of God and it is through his strength you will be taken down. Whereas others appreciate the beauty of things, I appreciate the beauty of people, both inside and out. I enjoy romantically seducing women but often appear to be cold and unemotional to those who do not know me. One Flew Over The Coo Coo's Nest, was my favorite book. I like Jules Verne, H.G.Wells, Walt Whitman, Emerson, Hawthorn and Poe. But mostly when I read it's just to learn How-to do something. I like Photography. Unlike my father who liked to photograph birds, flowers and things like my grandfather who photographed for a living I like to photograph people.I have gained a few pounds from quitting cigarettes a few years ago, but am slowly gaining ground on physical fitness. I believe that most people in authority are more concerned with maintaining their authority than they are with performing the service they were paid to do, and that most of us would be honest and do the right thing even if government did not exist.I envy men who are in polygamous relations where they and their wives can share their affections with others. I'm looking for many things in a relationship but not from the same person. A friend, a lover, or just a pen-pal who disagrees, but offers supportive criticism. I have spent my entire working career doing exactly what I had dreamed of doing as a child, but now it is time to move on to something else, helping someone else fulfill their childhood dream would be a good start.
In geological time the last 50 years have hardly been a shooting star through the night skies. But, mankind has changed the earth more than in the last 2 million years. It has been reported that there are more people alive today than have ever lived since the beginning of mankind. In the last half century we have used up virtually all of the fossil fuel stored since the beginning of Earth. We have discovered and wasted the miracle drug penicillin (antibiotics). And have entered the information age with mis-information. Many archaeological discoveries that have laid undisturbed for thousands (millions) of years, have now been dug up and transported to museums to be lost to future generations forever. I often wonder where we will be in another 50 yet 100 years from now. Surly we cannot continue this assault on earth as we have the last 50 years. Will we enter another "Dark Age" where "progress" is reversed, will God return to reclaim earth. So much has been discovered in the last 50 years, from the dead sea scrolls to the possibility of re-animating 20 million year old dinosaurs through copying genetic codes of fossils. Through slow motion high speed photography we can for the first time in history observe something as fast as a speeding bullet flying through the air, and through time laps photography observe the life cycle of a plant in motion, or find a single asteroid in a sky full of stars. We have measured the outermost regions of the Universe and traveled through space but I guess every generation thinks the same thing. I have no Idea what the future might bring but I believe that more mysteries will be solved. The understanding and manipulation of Time itself and the understanding and control of what we now know as mental telepathy. We will learn that our universe is not the only universe. And God will still remain a mystery to those who will not believe.
My earliest childhood memory, is that of a balloon bouncing off of my nose. At least that is how I finally interpreted the memory after becoming an adult. It actually goes more like this: I’m in a small bed maybe a crib (I knew at one time, but the actual memory has now faded). There is a small red dot in the doorway of my bedroom and it gets bigger and bigger. I am incapable of even blocking it with my hands as it blocks out all other vision. Suddenly it bops me on the nose, startled at that moment I know that my short existence will end. After growing up I reveled this to mom and she said that Chet used to bring balloons home and the older siblings would bounce them off of my face. Well the only color balloon they made back then was red. After taking a psychology class in College I was able to date the event to sometime before I was 6 months old, because the balloon got larger, not closer. After age 6 months infants are able to perceive distances.
My next memory is about 2-3 years old. I am hiding in a closet under the stairs. I guess the family had been looking for me for some time. I was naked as I quite often was on the farm. I thought mom was going to jerk my arm off pulling me out of there, and as I was jerked from one sister to another. I remembered something to the effect. "Someone discipline him because if I do it I’ll beat him to death". There were a few other memories on the farm, but for risk of losing my audience I’ll skip them for now. Except for my last farm memory. That would be my first day’s of school. You notice I said day’s because I have no memory of my first day of school. But even today I can still visualize the dirty basement where the bathrooms were at. And the big bullies who hung out there that I didn’t want to come into contact with. I couldn’t use the bathroom anyway, because as soon as I would start to pee someone would come over, and smack me on the butt or something. There were no doors on the toilet stalls, and big bully’s were always hanging around. Thank God we moved into town, that first year of school, because I think I peed my pants almost every day on that two hour ride home on the bus, and on at least two occasions it was worse. I should be careful here about revealing too much. According to Dr. Kevin Leman, people remember those events from early childhood that are consistent with their present view of themselves and the world around them. Sometimes we make up playmates or events in our childhood, we confuse dreams from reality and sometimes an event is so horrific that we bury the memories. One such memoire occurred when I was about 3 or 4 years old. We still lived on the farm and I was old enough to wonder at least a quarter mile from the house. I often played in a culvert about that distance from the house. One morning I was being attended by my older sisters that job ultamitley rested with Agness but she would often delegate it to Marie who would always delegate it to Rosmary who really wasn’t old enough to keep up with me. On this particular Saturday (it had to be Saturday or Chet would have been at work or church). Anyway it just seemed like Saturday. I slipped away from Rosmary to go play at the culvert. But, I really wasn’t going there. I knew (somehow) that Mom and Chet were at a neighbors house about a mile from home. The route there took me past the culvert to highway 123 or 350 (they have changed the intersection now, and I can’t be sure which major highway I had to cross back then). Walking up the highway it was the first Road (not drive) but a road with a road sign on the left. The house they were at was the first house on the right. It wasn’t much of a house probably only two rooms with a porch, and the outer walls had gaps where cold air would blow into in the winter. Next to that was a small shed in about the same condition. Mom’s hair was falling into her face as she wiped the sweat from her forehead and she was screaming at Chet "If you hadn’t been sleeping with the old fluzy I wouldn’t have had to kill her. They were chopping up the body of the woman who lived there and destroying the evidence by grinding it with a meat grinder. Suddenly mom saw me in horror and about the same time saw the girls coming down the road. Mom screamed at them to get me out of there and the next thing I knew I felt someone grab me around the chest under the armpits and carried me away. Sometimes dreams are confused with reality and reality with dreams. Everyone says that mom was probably butchering a hog as they often did. It doesn’t really matter, it’s the perception that you grow up with and something I couldn’t share with anyone, not even Art. We moved from the farm before I was 5 years old so I was probably only about 3 maybe 2 when I walked this 5 to 10 miles to a neighbors house.
I always thought it was my name David, and the story of David and Goliath that I would take on challenges that I had no chance of winning. Maybe it was the balloon, no matter how big something is it won’t hurt you. Yes I’ve done some really stupid things in my life and gotten away with it. In 9th grade, one of the biggest bullies in school bumped into me in the hallway and knocked my books out of my hand. Not even thinking I turned around and pulled Jim’s books out of his arms. If you can only imagine the open mouths of those around me when he turned around, towering over me by at least 2 feet. "Pick um up" he said, his face becoming red with anger. I still didn’t get it. "I’ll pick um up, when you pick mine up" I said. Only one guy in school was bad’er than Jim. His name was Tom Brothers and he saw the whole thing. Tom not only made Jim pick my books up, but he made him pick up his own books. This is ironic because it was about 10 years earlier that Tom’s brother David had threatened my life.
It was just before Christmas 2nd or third grade that David was in my class. I really can’t remember any fight we ever got into or anything but for some reason David just didn’t like me. As we were leaving for Christmas vacation he came to me and said that he was getting a "Big" knife for Christmas and the day we returned from school he was going to cut me up with it. For some reason I really took him serious and returned to school with intripidation. I was really relieved to find out that David would never be coming back to school. In fact I was glad to hear that part of his brain was found on the door of the car after the accident. Death didn’t bother me it was the pain of life that was scarry.
Chet always marveled at how the world had changed since he was a child, growing up in the horse and buggy days, we now had the automobile, telephone, electricity, radio and TV, we learned to fly and even went to the moon and yes many of these were already invented by the time I was born. In grade school when all the other boys hero’s were sports stars, mine were Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Henry Ford and the Wright brothers. The early 1900's were the generation of invention, in school you may refer to it as the industrial age, but by the time I was a child, rumors surfaced that everything important had already been invented. Still I wanted to be a inventor (confused with scientist). I excelled in science (B’s and C’s were excelling for me), and except for the 8th grade mathematics. Spelling was my worse subject, as demonstrated by one of my college essays. How embarrassing, my professor wrote in big red letters "YOUR SPELLING IS ORFUL". Thank God for computers and the spell checker. And I could care less about Literature and English. One of my greatest literary accomplishments was a sentence that was grammatically incorrect, when the professor could not come up with a revision that had the correct meaning, she finally conceded to accept my version as correct. I got an "A". Although I majored in Art in High School, and for several years took over Chet’s Sign business, I look back and realize that I have no talent for "Art" or "Music" nada, zero. Still I may continue to draw, sing, play the guitar, and maybe even paint an oil painting, not because I have any talent but because I enjoy it.
By the time I was born World War II was over, Television was just beginning to enter the American home, and Chet was providing for his family better than many. We had one of the first televisions, It was about a 6 inch diameter round screen in a large cabinet, I can still visualize it in the living room on the Farm, which dates it to before 1951. But, we never got a color TV as long as I lived with them. In 1961 when color TV came out Chet just didn’t see the need for the investment, since color was really expensive, most stations didn’t broadcast in color anyway and they were not very reliable. Of course Chet didn’t watch much TV anyway maybe that had more to do with it than anything he didn’t buy one for many years after I bought mine. I bought my first color TV several years after moving out on my own, a product from Korea, I was criticized first for buying such a small TV, second for not buying a brand name, and third for not buying American. I paid about $300 for this 13 inch TV a comparable American product ran about $600 and what Chet thought I should buy cost about $1200. I think I made the right decision. That little TV was still working when I replaced it 12 years latter, it became a good second TV for the bedroom, and by now the larger TV’s were affordable to everyone If I would have listened to him I would have had to lug a big console piece of furniture around every time I moved. I now have 6 color TV’s, and continue to replace them, not because they wear out but because they become outdated. Chet had this idea that a TV had to be a console, a piece of furniture that fit in with the rest of the "living room" a status symbol. I on the other hand could care less, it was a device that brought me entertainment and education into the home, must be a generation thing.
My worst teacher of all times had to be Mr. Martin, Cowboy Martin to be more exact. We never knew our teachers first names, probably for good reasons, but in 8th grade there were two Mr. Martins and both taught History. My second year of 8th grade I had Red Martin (named Red because of his flushed face) Red was a great teacher although many students took advantage of his generosity. But my 1st year of 8th grade I had Cowboy Martin. He reminded me of the 17th century school teacher, a whip in one hand and text in the other. If you ever see the movie "The Wall" by Pink Floyd, that’s him. One of our assignments was to MEMORIZE "The Gettysburg Address". I have never been that good with memorization skills and only got about two thirds of it memorized. Well an "F" for the entire year was not good enough for Cowboy. For that one single assignment he made it quite clear that if it was not memorized by Christmas vacation, the results was 4 whacks with a paddle. And I saw what his whacks were. He drilled holes into the wooden paddle to reduce air resistance, then gave it all he could. Many class bullies were reduced to whimpering babies after only 4-5 whacks. Each month thereafter the number of whacks doubled until the last day of school, I had 24 whacks and a guaranteed "F". Like I said I got 3/4 of it but every time I would get some of the last 1/4 I would always leave out some word on the first 3/4. You got one chance a week to recite it openly in class, one mistake and you set back down. Well it came down to the last day of school, and there were two or three of us who had not completed the assignment. We had one last opportunity. That was the only day I ever skipped school, I got my "F", but Old Cowboy never got me. I heard that the other boy in class almost or did pass out from the whippings. This was my cry in support of eliminating capital punishment in school.
There were two college professors, both at Northern Kentucky University, that changed my life (Literature wise) forever. First was Dr. Stallings in the spring of 1991. At first I thought "Not another Cowboy Martin?" His first statement to the class was "If you can’t spell, You will not get better than a "C" in my class. And of course you know how ORFUL my spelling is. By midterm I had no idea where he was going with any of his lectures from the looks of those around me they didn’t either I really felt sorry for some of my collages who really needed this grade to graduate, and I had seriously thought about dropping his class at midterm because of his criticism. . I really didn’t need this, my job could care less whether I completed any more schooling. I guess that’s the only thing that kept me in class. It didn’t matter if I got an "F"or not, which by the time I wrote the final essay I expected to get from his class. I wasn’t going to get any of my money back anyway. He was a no non-since teacher, and this was going to be his last year of teaching. My strategy again was David vs Goliath, to put the professor on the defensive. To understand my essay you would need to read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s "The Artist Of The Beautiful". And possibly take Dr. Stallings course, which of course is impossible
In The Beginning Was The Butterfly
And The Butterfly Was Without form and Void
What is this idea, this spiritual gold, this butterfly, that we have searched the last fourteen weeks for, since our birth and before? So important, that families have left their homeland, many have died in long voyages, wars, and famine, and given up all worldly pleasures for it. An idea that is passed from generation to generation, always the same, but always needing change to keep it alive. Have I seen the artist’s butterfly? Does it glow with radiance or flicker at the point of death?
You say that air is nothing, and that concrete is something, I say that concrete is nothing and that the air is everything.
Reflecting on Owen’s butterfly, we might interpret this butterfly as a demonstration of man’s ability to create a flying machine. (At the time of this writing the Wright brothers had not yet made their maiden voyage). "The butterfly now flung itself upon the air, ... and soared into a distant region", "a gem of art that a monarch would have purchased with honors", which, in itself "would have satisfied them that the toil of years had here been worthily bestowed." . But, this interpretation would not explain Owen’s apathy when his creation was, "compressed in [the child’s] hand" surely someone would recognize the importance of flight, had the butterfly survived. Even the concept of satisfaction within the artist’s own mind, that he could transform an idea into concrete, was insufficient to explain his apathy, because if you cannot share your idea with someone it dies with you. No, this butterfly must represent something more important than flight. "Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of {butterflies} poems?" "I do not know it - it is without name - it is a word unsaid. It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol." To Peter Hovenden, unbeliever, the butterfly withers, and almost dies; to Annie and Robert, it is a seed among thorns. But, to the child it is a seed in fertile soil. "And become as little children" (Matthew 18:3) Only through the mind can the butterfly grow and produce fruit.
An interesting story is conveyed in Acts 1:12 -26, about a man named Matthias. "Matthias who?" he was the twelfth apostle, chosen by men, to replace Judas Iscariot, that the scriptures might be fulfilled. He was never heard of again. It seems that man’s very first choice of priest, teacher, apostle, was a failure in comparison to another. Most of us know of the man named Paul, he was one of the 12 apostles? No, at least its not mentioned anywhere I can find, specifically. Do you know the story of Paul? "I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them."
Apparently, when I read "Song of Myself" I read a different story than most , maybe even a different author. Oh, I read pages of the text, but there was something familiar in the style and message of the words, even though I’ve ever read
Whitman before. Not a copy of the former author, but as if he were still alive and writing.
"My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution,"
"Behold I lay in Zion a chief cornerstone, elect, precious;" (Peter 2:6)
"When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in?...Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." (Matthew 25:38-40) .
"See myself in prison shaped like another man"
Have you looked into the eyes of a mother, watching her sleeping baby? Gazed into the heart of the widow, or a soldier under fire, the beggar, the baker, the candlestick maker? "I resist anything better than my own diversity"
Am I arrogant to suggest that the butterfly shines as bright on me as any other? Am I trying to copy Whitman? Can the student become teacher and the teacher become student. Au contraire! If I were to write as Whitman did, I too would be misunderstood. I would not write what you wanted to hear, but what you needed to hear. I write with narrow boundaries. Watch your spelling, watch your grammar, nouns, verbs, pronouns, and adjectives. Don’t make up words that are not in the dictionary, don’t be ambiguous or ambidextrous, don’t offend the instructor or what he believes in, to name but a few. Not that this is bad: to learn all these things is what I’m here for. Someday, I may write again, without boundaries, without constraints. Will anyone recognize it or will religion once again betray us?
I have much I want to do, farm my farm, build my castle, ski the mountains, bask in the Bahamian sunshine, and fly to the moon and beyond. But, the will of the Father is greater than mine, I know not the future, but only of his promise.
_____________________________________
It was Dr. Stallings refreshing response that brought clarity to the entire semester. "This is certainly original! It’s got all the earmarks of the start of something. Is it? B+
Dr. Stallings had passed along a challenge. I thought I could just take his course and leave. But no he had to pass along the butterfly, to be refined and shared. He issued a challenge to continue writing that has haunted me to this day. I write without boundaries now but try to recall advice from the many mentors throughout my life. . In a way I guess this autobiography is an attempt to earn that B+, an attempt to complete what I had promised Dr. Stallings I would do. To share what God has given me to share.
Focus on the 1960's
A pivotal decade for Americans
The following fall 1991, I continued my writing with and advance writing course on the 1960's. Most of my fellow students had not even been born by 1960, and the professor was younger than I was. By now I had a spell checker on my computer, which gave me somewhat of an advantage. However, my grammar was still lacking, so I was directed to a 19 year old English major for proofreading. A brilliant young man that simply tore my grammar apart for which I had the utmost respect for. So when he esteemed the content of "War" I knew I couldn’t take the credit. It was the path that Professor Patty Fairbanks had taken me through the 60's. A spiritual healing from the events of my past.
Separation of Church and Education:
Prior to 1960 articles on education dealt with segregation, financial aid, and quality of educational programs. Nowhere was mentioned the word Prayer associated with schools or education. It was simply expected that the first thing students did each morning was to recite the Lords Prayer and Pledge of Allegiance. It was not uncommon for teachers to assign reading assignments from New Testament scriptures. The crucifixion and Virgin Birth were prominent at least during Christmas and Easter seasons. A few parents complained that they did not wish to have their children subjected to Protestant religious teachings, but their complaints were met with strict opposition. Blinded by the fear of Satan, Americans, by refusing to allow freedom of religion to individuals, would deny their own children access to religious education.
On June 6, 1962 the Florida State Supreme Court upheld a Dade County Circuit Court ruling requiring daily Bible readings in Florida’s public schools. In his ruling the Judge said that "to deny the reading to the majority of pupils because a minority might suffer some imagined and nebulous confusion is to approach the ridiculous" (Sorbel, Vol XXII).
This controversy had actually begun two years earlier. In February of 1960 a Democratic-sponsored 1.83 billion dollar Federal Aid to Public Schools bill was introduced in Congress. "President Eisenhower attack [ed the] bill as improper federal interference in local affairs" (Parker Feb. 1960), but despite strong opposition the bill passed. During the presidential campaign of 1960, running Vice President "H.C. Lodge implied support to extending the Federal Aid bill to parochial schools, but Kennedy flatly opposed this extension" (New Your Times Index 1960 p 332), citing that the Constitution prohibits aid to Parochial schools. (Parker Mar. 1961)
In his first month in office President Kennedy made public a four year, ten billion dollar program of Federal Aid to U.S. Public Schools. The Roman Catholic hierarchy opposed his Aid to School bill because it did not include parochial schools (Parker 1961). To remove the religious issue from the general public school aid bill, Congress attempted to extend the 1958 National Defense Education Act (NDEA) to provide loans to parochial schools (Lichtenstein 1961). The question of federal support for church related schools became a major political issue.
The controversy was not limited to the political arena. On April 15, 1961, while barring schools from depicting the birth and crucifixion of Christ and showing religious movies, Dade County Florida Judge J. Fritz Gordon upheld Florida’s law requiring daily reading of the Lord’s Prayer. In July of that year a New York Court of Appeals also ruled in favor of prayer in school, as long as it was recommended by the Board of Regents. On June 6, 1962, just days before the U.S. Supreme Courts decision, that the use of an official prayer in New York state public schools was an unconstitutional violation of the first amendment, Florida Supreme Court upheld Judge Gordon’s decision (Parker).
The day after the Supreme Court’s decision, bills to amend the Constitution were introduced into both houses of Congress to permit prayer in school. Many states openly rejected the Supreme Court’s decision. Alabama Governor George Wallace "vowed that if the Supreme Court should try to stop Bible reading in any Alabama school ‘I’m going to that school and read it myself’" ("The Law", p16). The Supreme Court found it necessary to reaffirm its decision and on June 1, 1963 barred Bible readings from Florida public schools. And on June 17 of that year it ruled in favor of noted Atheist Madalyn Murray and her son William (Parker). By May of 1964 twenty-five States either continued to require or allow prayer in their public schools. Even in states where it was forbidden local schools continued to disregard the Supreme Court decision. (Nation," p63).
Madalyn Murray, who won her case against Curlett (the board president of Wodburne Junior High School, Baltimore Md.) Paid a heavy price for her convictions. Mrs Murray, who had 17 years of experience as a psychiatric social worker and a master’s degree in law, could not find work. Her eight year old son was stoned by Christians (Scribes & Pharisees), and her seventeen year old son was beaten no less than a hundred times, by boys, who the courts said were just defending themselves. Constantly harassed by venomous letters, death threats, and vandalism she was forced to flee to Hawaii. During one encounter with police a crowd of over 250 citizens cried "‘Kill her, hit her harder’ [as] she collapsed and had to be carted to the hospital before going to court". Mrs. Murray was forced into atheism by a society that refused to recognize an individual’s right to religious freedom. As she stated in her 1964 interview, ‘I don’t really care that much about atheism. I’m not well-read in philosophy and theology... but I’ve gotten into this thing, and I’ve been driven out of the community. Atheism is all I have to fight my way back in with’. She also commented, ‘I just don’t want religion permeating every aspect of my life’ (Liston, p83-87).
By 1965 more than 150 resolutions were introduced to amend the Constitution, and reverse the Supreme Court’s decision. Ironically some of the greatest supporters of the Court’s decision were the national church bodies. Protestant Episcopal, American Baptist, Southern Baptist, American Lutheran, Methodist, Lutheran Church in America, Missouri Synod Lutheran, United Church of Christ, United Presbyterian Church, Disciples of Christ, the General Board of the National Council of Churches, and Orthodox, Conservative and Reform Jewish denominations, all joined in support of the court’s decision. Roman Catholics were divided but also opposed tampering with the First Amendment (Eisenberg, p38). Despite criticism of the court’s decision, many constitutional lawyers took a dim view of even mild tinkering with the First Amendment.
Realizing that they could not require biblical education, our educational system took an about-face and prohibited anything even remotely connected to religion or God. The result was an entire generation of scriptural illiterates, as indicated by a contrast between an article written in 1965 by Eisenberg, and a recent article in Omni by Stein. "Rarely in recent years have Court decisions approached so close to total unpopularity as in 1962 and 1963 when for a time it seemed that there were only eight men in the entire country who opposed prayer in the schools" (Eisenburg, p38). "Recent polls show that between 50 and 75 percent of Americans favor that biblical creationism be taught in the public schools [25 to 50 percent of Americans disapprove of creationism being taught in the public schools.]" (Stein, p44).
Much of the criticism "reflects deep misunderstanding of what the court actually said," declared an article in Time magazine in 1964, but apparently nobody listened "All three decisions were based on what the court deemed to be an inescapable reading of the First Amendment’s ‘establishment’ clause. Far from being antireligious, the court simply aimed to keep government from interfering with religion" ("The Constitution" p63)
After 25 years of defending their position, religious groups have taken an offensive position. In 1990 the high court upheld the measure that says "that no public secondary school receiving federal funds may bar student clubs on the basis of their ‘religious, political [or] philosophical’ views, if the school permits one or more ‘non-curriculum’ groups to meet after school hours" (Sanders, p72).
The tide has turned and now it is the secular humanists who are trying to cram their beliefs down our children’s throats. The theory of evolution is just that, "Theory". It has had less than 100 years of scrutiny as opposed to 4,000 years of scrutiny for creationism. However, if our children are permitted only one side of this argument, Ignorance will prevail. "For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him" (1 Cor 1:21).
Kathleen Stein claims that science"has no place for authority and little use for faith" (p48). I disagree. Science is built upon the assumptions that "Laws of Science" have been sufficiently proven that we may have confidence [faith] in their reliability. She also states: "Evolution may be a foundation fo all sciences... but it is considered satanic heresy by the religious right". It is not evolution that I object to, but the omission of the words "theory of" and their claim that there is no God and that the Bible is nothing more than ancient literature. I also wholeheartedly agree with her statement that "The minds of children are the battlefields: the schools, the factories of indoctrination".
For Gods sake, for the sake of our children and our countries future, will our educational system not wake up and teach: Or shall we go back to the "Dark Ages" because teaching might result in a law suit?
Neither the Constitution nor its amendments ever provided for the separation of church and education. What it did provide for was the separation of church and state. Since we cannot separate religion from education perhaps Eisenhower was right. Our government should get out of the business of education.
References:
1 Corinthians 1:21. Holy Bible New International Version. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1987
Eisenberg, Arlene and Howard. "Why Clergymen are against School Prayer." Redbook Jan. 1965 38+
Lichtenstein, Nelson, ed. Political Profiles The Kennedy Years. 1976
Liston, Robert. "Murray’s War on God." Sat. Eve. Post 11 Jul. 1964
"Nation Chooses Sides In Fight Over Prayer." U.S. News & World Report 18 May 1964: 63.
New Your Times Index. 1960 , New York Times Company, 1961
Parker, Thomas. Day by Day The Sixties. Vol 1, New York: Facts on File Inc. 1983
Sanders, Alain L. "Let Us Pray." Time 18 June 1990: 72
Sorbel, Lester A., ed. Facts on File Vol XXI. New York: Facts on File Inc. 1962.
Facts on File Vol XXII, New York: Facts on File Inc. 1963.
Stein, Kathleen. Omni Feb. 1987: 42+
"The Constitution, Does Schoolroom Prayer Require a New Amendment?" Time 8 May 1964: 62+
"The Law, Another Kind of Defiance>" Time 16 Aug. 1963: 16.
Rural America In The Sixties:
The nineteen-sixties were overshadowed by the Viet-nam war, woman’s movement, protest, riot, racial unrest, assassinations, drug, and space travel. In fact less than one-half of one percent of the U.S. population was stationed in Viet-Nam at its peak, even fewer women were involved in the woman’s movement, and drug abuse was a result largely from returning servicemen in the late sixties and early seventies.
While some women were fighting for equality, others were fighting for their very survival. In rural America, where change sometimes takes a turtle’s craw, the influences of national concern are minimized. Some of the stories that follow will sound like something your great grandmother might have told you about, but there are people even today that live similar lifestyles.
Carol’s father was three quarters native American Indian, lean mean-looking, with weather-beaten facial features, always wearing baggy work pants, plaid shirt, and a ball cap pulled over his eyes till you could barely see his face - A WWII veteran thirty years his wife’s senior. Carol’s mother rarely spoke, and if you suggested her Indian heritage, gust might get a look that suggest it was none of your business.
John, her oldest brother spent most of his military career in Germany and Korea in the sixties. What time he spent in Viet-Nam in the early seventies he would net even talk about. John would often talk about the sleazy women in Korea and his romantic conquest in Germany, which would explain Carol’s lack of interest for the war. When home on leave John, being the working man of the family, would take on the father figure - two hundred plus pounds of all muscle, he would often demonstrate his large hands by placing them around Carol’s waist touching thumbs and forefingers without effort.
Denny, pronounced Danny was stricken with Polio as a child. He was unable to ever get an education or acquire meaningful employment. Jerry, her younger brother was killed in the early seventies, while attempting to work under a car that was improperly supported. Randy the youngest of the family was murdered in Covington, and Larry, next to the oldest, is struggling to avoid a twenty year sentence for non child support. Betty, her only sister, is married and working in computer programing.
Like her brothers before her, Carol was born wherever the family happened to be living at the time - in Carol’s case it was in the back of a pickup truck. Were it not for some do-gooder Christian, there probably would not even be a record of her birth.
Wright tried to keep his children in school, once threatening one of the boys with a club if he didn’t get onto the bus, but the school system was not equipped for teaching anyone who did not share the teachers’ value system. Most of the Capps children left school without the skills to even write their own name.
Even though Wavie, Carol’s mother, saw to it that they had one of the first color televisions made, events such as the Watts riots, protests, and the war were as distant as Asia. Located miles from their nearest neighbor, they lived in a run down shanty, drawing water from a cistern where it was best to use an opaque glass so as not to see the little creatures swimming around. Using an outhouse in sub-zero weather gave a true meaning to "not having a pot to piss in." Yet, there was almost always a working T.V. where the predominate shows were soap operas and westerns. When John was home they never missed a Gunsmoke rerun.
Carol’s main job growing up was to do the grocery shopping. Since there was never an automobile in the family, she would walk, generally barefoot, to the nearest country store. Two or three times a week. This small child would carry a bag of groceries and carton of pop, or sometimes two bags of groceries, ten miles back home. When cash was in short supply, the trip was twenty miles one way to Corinth Kentucky, where they had credit. One summer a relative visiting the family, decided the visit would last until his conquest of Carol (just a child). By disabling the couple’s car they had arrived in, he assured himself an indefinite amount of time. When Wright, her father, found out what the man’s intentions were, he set the lot of them on the road, leaving their disabled car behind. For quite some time thereafter, they had transportation. But, with a houseful of young boys, it was only a matter of time before the car was wrecked.
The sixties encompassed all of carol’s teenage years. Like most teenage girls her attention was focused on none other than boys. Elvis Presley was her idol, other men failed miserably th meet her expectations. One that did was finally chased off the farm by her father with a shotgun. Her father was in hopes that Carol would take up with an older man from Tennessee - who flaunted a fare amount of money. At the age of 18 she dropped out of eighth grade, against the advice of friends, to get married and out from under her father’s and older brothers rules. Out of the skillet and into the fire, would be the best way to describe this marriage. As she describes it, the fat @#&**# drank heavily. He would slap her around and had no time for domestic affairs. After their daughter was born in nineteen seventy-one things just got worse. She left her husband and went back home on several occasions when there was no food or electricity, but would always return to the brutality when promised things would change. They changed alright, the last time she saw him was from the barrel end of a shotgun.
Having taken away their land, their language, religion, family structure, way of life, and dignity - forced to obey European laws, and introduced to drug and alcohol abuse, we have the audacity to claim equality for all American citizens. In James Baldwin’s "the Fire Next Time’ he states that the Negro "remains - with the possible exception of the American Indian - the most despised creature in this country" I submit to you that the mulatto Indian is somewhat below either.
I should clarify my position somewhat for two reasons. First; since Balwins book was published the American Indian has gained some recognition and even respect. Secondly, the mulatto Indian often cannot be distinguished from other U.S. citizens. But, as Baldwin states elsewhere "If you know whence you came, there is really no limit to where you can go. The details and symbols of your life have been deliberately constructed to make you believe what white people say about you." and "The American Negro [or Indian] can have no future anywhere, on any continent as long as he is unwilling to accept his past."
Carol has been convinced, since her birth, as her mother before her and her mother’s mother before her that any expectations beyond those attributed to housewife and mother were nothing more than wild dreams. Her life in the sixties, isolated from the movements that carried many other women to careers and recognition of self worth, simply confirmed her expectations. Without the benefits of educational programs that would imbue the virtuous qualities she and her culture possessed, she sustained the conviction of her inability to change her destination.
Note: In contrast to the above story, my supervisor at work was a very strong willed female, who had clawed her way through the ranks, subjected to sexual harassment from male superiors, and determined to correct all injustices done to women over the years. I became the focus of her wrath. My next report is a response to "One Flew Over The CucKoo’s Nest" by Ken kesey, written in the 1960's.
How do you tell someone their mind is being controlled? We know it is, but try to explain how it/s being done, and people will laugh and say you’re just paranoid. What better place for the setting than an insane asylum. All of society is an insane asylum, but you had better tell your story as fiction or the "Combine" will stop it. Tiny electrical wires tied to the brain, transmitters, microphones, and other electronic gadgets are all metaphoric instruments of the mind control used by Government and Institutions. Our communication system is a form of mind control. Advertisement tell us what we want to buy even when we don’t need it. Psychologist and sociologists tell us how to live, and we are forced to conform by peer pressure. Politicians are controlled by public expectations and in turn control the public by legislation. Who’s really in control? How would you know if your mind had been and still is being controlled by the controller?
Big Chief Bromdom, I think, represents most of us. We can see what’s going on, but feel helpless to do anything about it. The fog of complexity prevents us from interfering or taking a stand. Even if we tried no one would hear us except possibly the opposition who would immediately shut us up. So, why do we stay and take it? There’s nowhere else to go.
Nurse Ratchet is possibly our conscience, or society in general. Don’t make waves, don’t cause problems. Keep things nice and organized, status quo. Like nurse Ratchet, society controls what we do, even what we believe. For example, you wouldn’t strip your clothes off and go shopping, even if there were no laws against it, because of the embarrassment society imposes upon us.
I think it is very significant that the group is allowed to vote on how things are done, and yet they always end up doing what big nurse wants. It ties in to the way we vote on election day, and yet never really have a say on anything that concerns us. We allow laws to be imposed upon us that we don’t want, because political activist groups, have decided it’s for our own good. Seat belt laws, unreasonable speed limits, safety regulations on lawnmowers (you can’t get one started anymore for all the safety switches), drug testing, gun control, abortion restrictions - you can’t even die naturally anymore, they keep you hooked up to a machine until the courts can decide what to do.
Cheswick is mentioned quite often in Kesey’s book. "He’s one of these guys who’ll make a big fuss like he’s going to lead an attack, holler charge and stomp up and down a minute, take a couple of steps, and quit." I can relate to Cheswick. You try, you make a big fuss. But when it comes down to it, it’s really not even worth the effort. Even if he got support, he wouldn’t know what to do next.
And then there’s Billy, kind of reminds me of Government managers. Just doing what they are told to do, can’t make any decisions on their own, and ready to put the blame on someone else if caught.
The black boys are the cops. There are plenty of men out there who played cops and robbers as kids and want to be the good guy when they grow up, but only a few have the right attitude. They are allowed to abuse their authority, because we need them to keep things under control.
And the Combine, The ultimate tool to describe society’s many institutions that control everything we think and do. Every institution attempts to conform society into its own design. I see the combine as Satan’s system of things on earth. The Combine seen from a small animal’s perspective, tearing through their otherwise peaceful environment, ripping everything in it’s path. So huge you can’t escape around it. You can’t outrun it, you can’t stop it, nothing you can do but watch it tear up your world and try to stay out of its path.
Remember old Max Taber, he’s the baby boomers. Some people might think that McMurphy represents the baby boomers, but I don’t, I think were old Max Taber. Committed to the asylum of society, the baby boomers have been an entire generation of something gone wrong. Abandoned to be babysat by television, raised by Dr. Spock, they have become spoiled, sniffling, self-indulgent brats - a social problem that must be corrected, according to a U.S. Government training program for managers. Their solution to correcting the problem is to create "a significant emotional impact" and replace the defective attitude with a more acceptable one. Managers immediately took their psudo-psycological training and went to work, like a lobotomy from a colt 45 infected with brain virus ribosome T-11. "Why, I’ve never seen anything to beat the change in old Max Taber since he got back from the hospital; a little black and blue around the eyes, a little weight loss, and you know what? He’s a new man."
Only one man has ever escaped Satan’s Combine, and he left an example for the rest of us to follow. "See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the basic principles of this world rather than Christ." (Colossians 2:8) The Declaration of Independence words it somewhat differently. " When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide New Guards for their future security." We are captive under absolute despotism by the invisible forces of subliminal messages, propaganda, advertising, traditions, peer pressure, and laws.
Like most American writers Kesey is optimistic, and ends his story with Chief Broom, who represents most of us escaping from the asylum. It’s a nice fairytale ending, but all I can see is Nurse Ratchet still in control and a new group of inmates taking the place of the old ones. \
Our next assignment was "The Feminium Mystique" by Friedman. Which was the most difficult for me to read, in fact I didn’t complete it. Of all the gull to blame men for all of their problems. And this book (the most popular book for women in the 1960's) alone was largely responsible for many of mine. And, all the time I never had a clue.
Mystique:
Friedan describes her "Problem That Has No Name" as a "Comfortable concentration camp" (p307), but she says "Women never had it so good" (p60). Maybe they had it too good because something was missing from the "Happy Housewife". Do women think they are the only ones manipulated into the "Comfortable concentration camp"?
I am reminded of something I had written a number of years back. I’m tired of being the luckiest person in the whole wide world. I don’t feel that lucky, but the way people react to me I must be the luckiest person alive, or even that has ever lived. First I was lucky to have been born at all, especially with both loving parents. Then I was really lucky to be an American citizen, nobody else in the world has such freedom. I was lucky, because I didn’t have any physical handicaps, was white, Caucasian, male, and as part of "the boomers generation" had everything money could buy, totally spoiled since the day I was born. So why don’t I feel so lucky? I even had the opportunity to complete my education in college (or most of it). Gee, I was sooo lucky to work 8 hours a day, go to school four hours a night, study eight hours a night, raise my daughter alone, and if I was really lucky, get four hours sleep some nights. And, for all this I was promised a career. But, since I was so lucky I won’t mind giving it up now, because Uncle Sam needs to cut its budget.
We men are as much victims as women. We too are placed into our nice safe and cozy cubbyholes, denied by law anything that might harm us on and off the job, put on display eight hours a day by government and industry, like nice expensive jewelry, and told how valuable we are, only to be treated like toys. We are expected to be the Knights in shining armor, the rock that supports everyone’s problems, to carry the burden like Atlas. While our world crumbles around us. So, why are we accused of being chauvinistic pigs? Originally I though it referred to some flaw in my character, however having found that most other men are , as much or more chauvinistic, I have learned to accept the term with pride.
Have you ever tried to explain a problem that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, when all of the evidence appeared to be against you, only to be ignored as if you didn’t exist? I wonder if that’s how Betty Friedan felt when she began her book, when all of the scientific evidence was against her. On page 276 Friedon appears to recognize the problem. "When her exclusive role as wife and mother... forced her to live through her son... The father is not as often tempted or forced by society to live through or seduce his daughter." If I may be permitted to carry this thought process to an analogy: when a girl is raped she feels rejected, used, dirty, has a low self-esteem, and is unable to trust or relate to members of the opposite sex. When a male has been screwed (lived through). He feels rejected, used, dirty, has low self-esteem, and is unable to trust or relate to members of the opposite sex. Is this the Masculine Mystique?
Is this problem somehow connected to the idea that women enjoy sex as much as men do? There was once a man who stopped at the local gas station for a couple of dollars of gas. As he was getting his gas, he noticed a sign advertising a promotional gimmick "WIN an evening of free sex, with fill up". The man decided to fill up his tank, but when he scratched his game card it read "sorry, you lose". Everyday the man returned to the same gas station for a fill up. After about three weeks of losing he began to think the game was rigged, and complained to the manager, who replied "Oh no! Just ask your wife, she won three time just last week." If there was equality between the sexes we wouldn’t have rapes, we wouldn’t have sexual harassment and that joke wouldn’t be funny, it would not even make sense. Women use sex to gain romance, among other things. Men use romance to gain sex. However, I believe that is a fallacy induced by a society that promotes male sexual prowess and female restraint. We humans tend to desire most, that which is inaccessible. Friedan identifies three instinctive human needs that are shared with other animals "food, sex, survival" (p314). It’s interesting that in the female of our species all three are generally in abundant supply, allowing woman to strive for some higher spiritual need. In th e male however, one of the basic needs is, if not n reality, at least in idea, in short supply. Man’s drive to fulfill this basic need prevents him from reaching this higher level, already acquired by the female. But, instead of helping him to reach that level Friedan’s solution seems to be, to take what little men have away and dominate over him.
No! Women are not helpless and I believe most men resent women who already have more power than they themselves possess. Nothing can bring a big bruiser to his knees quicker than a little woman. This is what is referred to by "man eating women": they want men’s power, but are not willing to share their own. We don’t even know what it is, men don’t understand the power of a woman’s wits and charm. Men who are dominated by this power are often referred to as "pussy whipped", or "momma’s baby", which gives you some reference as to it’s source, or as Randal McMurphy referred to it "a hen pecking party". In marriage women want to take away from their husband whatever it is that makes them desirable to other women. Competition wise this would be desirable, to prevent their husbands from being whisked away by other women, but then they are left with a less desirable male. Boredom and emptiness results. Once thy have molded their husbands into something no other woman wants - they find that they don’t want him either. Many of the men who escape this molding process are running around all hours of the night, leaving their wives to take care of the domestic scene.
After spending several hours soaking tears into my shirt, I ask my sister-in-law why she puts up with it. Her reply in "I love him". Here we go with words that have no meaning and a problem that has no name. I have no documented references, but it just seems to me, from general observation, that the women who do not experience the boredom and emptiness, as described by Betty Friedan, are the same one’s who, as often as not, will be seen throwing anything they can get at their husbands. Their life if filled with excitement, and their husbands have not been molded.
Women claim that we must tear down the barriers that prevent their access to the man’s world, even going so far as entering our locker rooms. [And, like old Ms. Snatchet in eighth grade, pulling our ears and slapping wrists with a ruler if anyone should let out a snicker.] To further their efforts to gain control, they have organized numerous "Exclusively women" groups whose sole purpose is to usurp the male’s only refuge. If women really want to tear down barriers, let’s begin with the clothes, and expose the mystery of women’s power. Let’s remove the lies and deception. And begin to communicate in a true dialogue instead of two monologues, speak to each other instead of at each other, Let’s set down at the negotiation table not as equals, but as a team.
I have been somewhat fortunate or sometimes unfortunate to have worked in an environment that was equally represented by both male and female professionals, and have spent ten years under the direction of a female Supervisor, and just recently obtained the insight of a woman who benefitted from both worlds. Susan, WA in high school during the beginning of the woman’s movement. And so had spent her life up to that point learning domestic skills. She feels that her creative abilities to cook, sew, and decorate have been invaluable to her identity and self esteem. On the other hand, The career opportunities that opened up during her high school days, challenged her to continue to grow. Her only hold back is an inability to comprehend technological concepts in her field. Is this an intrinsic difference between male and female or just another social door that must be opened? The factors that determine behavior are extremely complex and Friedan’s conclusion that everything we are, is determined by our environment, is over simplified and as damaging as the previous assumption that women were natural mothers and housewives. I am very well aware of the images that society instills into individuals. In the eighth grade I was classified as somewhat retarded by the I.Q. test, That was improperly evaluated, and even though I now work in the highly technological field of genetic engineering, hardly a field for idiots, I can never shake that feeling of inferiority. I am also aware of the fact that you cannot take a segment of the population that has been repressed for generations and compare them to a non-repressed group as having an equal start.
In spite of my anger at having been adversely affected by Betty Friedan’s "Feminine Mystique" it was imperative to examine and eliminate the false barriers that separate male and female images. Her book was very good at starting a war, and exposing some very significant problems that need to be addressed, however it divided Women against men, and even women against women.
Is the white Anglo-Saxon male, the male in general, the new Jew, the new niger, to be slowly executed by an image of evil, blamed for all of society’s problems? Are we not also victims twice over? - Victims first of the combine that molded us all and second by the very ones we loved.
As far as I am concerned you can have my education, my job, my possessions, and all that is of this earth, My wife can choose to do what ever she chooses, my children become slaves, and God may do with this body whatever he chooses, I willingly march with the Jews to the gas chambers not as one defeated, but as one victorious over this earth and all it represents
War: What’s it all for
Our last assignment was a book by Tim O’Brion called "War", but my report was not about his book but about the emotional journey that Professor Furbanks had taken us over the semester, a healing process of reliving the 1960's from a different perspective. From the perspective of a survivor. A secret that has been kept, from even the closest of relationships was my tendency’s as a young adult for suicide. Even before Art’s fatal day I had kept a sufficient supply of phenobarbital to end it all. For over 20 years it was within easy reach, should the depression become too great a burden. It wasn’t the thought of dying that bothered me, but the thought of failure, the possibility of living as a complete invalid was simply unacceptable. Then, after Art, I was forced to think of those around me, It just wasn’t always about me.
Tim O’Brien’s book is not so much about the physical "Things They (the soldiers) Carried," as it was the emotions they carried. Many of the aspects of the stories are repeated: the man he killed, his first dead body, all the dead bodies, Ted Lavender, love, hate, fear, reality, imagination. Each time the details are somewhat changed but the truth remains the same. You get the feeling of a haunting nightmare that keeps returning – the same basic nightmares but with different details. As I look back, most of my responses were not so much about the stories I read, but about the emotions they invoked, the nightmares that kept returning.
Whether it was intensional, or by some divine intervention, as I read the assigned stories I began a journey that began in 1991 with Nurse Ratchet now in control of society, with new fancy gadgets, and the fog thicker than ever. We went back through the sixties, where it all began, through the acid test, which was really kesey’s attempt to play the part of McMurphy. Through the woman’s struggle for independence, through the war (not the Viet-Nam war, but the battle of the sexes). We took all this, processed it through the mind of one who was there, and came out with a Picasso, all distorted almost unrecognizable, and end up back in 1991 trying to understand what it all means.
I have re-lived the sixties a hundred times since August – how it was, and how it could have been. Once I went to Nam with my best friend and instead of coming home strangers, separated by a war neither of us understood, we came back closer, because we had both been there, in the shit fields. Once I went to Nam, was shot, and ended up face down in the shit fields, but someone at least cared enough to pull me out. I’ve been to Nam many times, but really can’t talk about it because I really never went. Like a rabbit hiding in his hole, I stayed home, Would I trade places with anyone who went? Nah!
Growing up, we didn’t talk about death: we didn’t talk about sex and heaven forbid if you should ever use take God’s name in vein. I once attempted to use the fraise "Jesus Christ" but all I could get out was Jesus before being slapped to the floor. There was never any profanity in any of the books – you just didn’t talk about it unless you were with the guys. So, when we were together we would learn all the profanity we could, every other word was shit, damn, fuck or some that we just made up. You couldn’t use these around the girls though, they’d get embarrassed, start to huff and puff, their voices would get real squeaky, and they’d run off to tell the teacher or your mother. You knew that the swats were coming, not that they hurt so much but the embarrassment of when the girls would sit and giggle. In Nam the men didn’t worry about their language; there were no women to tell them to watch their language. But, we were told, there was no difference between men and women, except how they were expected to behave.
I discovered "death" when Punk died; he was a small Chihuahua, Pekingese or something like that. Punk was supposed to be a family dog. He wasn’t. He was my dog, because we understood each other. They kept him locked in the cark, cold, damp, cellar at night and most of the day, where some of the rats were bigger than he was. Punk was always snapping at peoples’ heels, not that he could really hurt anyone, he was too small, like me. After school I would take him outside and play. Punk never snapped at me; we understood each other. We only had him a few weeks, they told me he died of pneumonia, they said they had to put him to sleep, someone said a big rat got him, and sometimes they said "he just died." But I knew better, They killed him, because he was my dog, and they were jealous. They killed the only thing that understood me. It’s like Tim says, unless you’ve been there you can read the words but they just don’t mean the same. I’m talking about love, and acceptance. I’m talking about people who don’t understand how important it is - who play with emotions as if they were light switches.
Tim was born only a year before I was, and even though he went to Nam and I stayed home with a nice cozy job, our experiences were really not that different. We fought a different war, that’s all. Neither of us knew what our war was all about, we both lost because we didn’t understand our enemy. We both experienced casualties, and we both felt the effects of the other’s war.
Although Canada was never an option for me, when I received my induction notice I experienced all of the same emotions he did. I would like to add one more emotion to his list. After receiving my notice requiring a physical for the Army. I joined the Air Force. I had a one in a million chance of being accepted on such short notice. Sometimes we get lucky, really lucky; the Air Force was still bad, but better than the Army. I was accepted, passed my physical and was waiting my orders to ship out. Fifteen days later I received the letter. I didn’t even open it for three days, during which time I experienced all of the emotions Tim describes. I knew I was going to Nam, and there was a bullet already with my name on it. During those three days I must have died a hundred times. Nobody ever came back from there, except in a body bag, or too screwed up in the head to lead a normal life. Right then and there you somehow died, something inside of you just left, your mind went so blank it would have registered a straight line on an EKG. The letter contained my discharge papers; no explanation, no questions just "Honorable Discharge". But, somehow that life force that left never really returned.
Art was the genius of the family, an IQ over 145, all-star little league second baseman, second only to one person in town at golf, I’m talking doctors, lawyers, and professional golfers asking this fifteen year old kid to play golf with them . Art was ROTC in college, and in the Air Force advanced to Colonel in an unprecedented rate. The only problem was, he was a NERD. Yes, 100%, pocket protector, gooky glasses, big elephant ears, NERD. He tried dating several times in school, like for the prom, but everyone just laughed. The poor girl he went with hid for several weeks after words in shame. I really like Tim’s style, you can tell the story even if its not true and still be the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Anyway, he was twenty-six when he met Kathy. She was a hooker at a place called "The Body Shop" near the Air Force base where he was stationed. Kathy had him convinced she was in "LOVE". It didn’t take her long to talk in into buying her a new car, a new house, jewelry, and God knows what else. I guess he was two or three hundred thousand dollars in debt when she dropped him, kind of like the way Tim described the guy that was shot "he just dropped, nothing more just dropped", I’ve never really told this story before, because people don’t want to hear about the gory details. But like Tim says I want you to feel what I feel, to experience what I experienced even though you never will, because unless you’ve been there the works just don’t mean the same. They were to be married the next week, and he would have moved into the house with her, but that was over, all he had were the payments, the house was in her name, the payments in his. I guess for a college boy he felt pretty stupid. Art went back to his apartment, emptied a bottle of Jim Bean, put one shell in his colt 45, spun the revolver, put the barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Nothing; the odds were against it’s going off. Art was a statistician, he knew the odds.
The next night he tried again, but the odds really hadn’t changed. You see each time the odds remain the same. No matter how many times you do it, each time the odd’s are the same. The base had reported some despondency in his behavior, but men are trained to keep their problems to themselves. Is this some intrinsic difference between men and women? On the third day he placed two shells in the chamber side by side, there must have been some statistical significance to that, he would have known, I don’t. It was the second shell, the one that shouldn’t have been there that got him. It blew the whole back of his head off, brains and blood spattered everywhere, on the sofa, on the wall, in his drink. I tried to tell him she wasn’t worth it, but I wasn’t there.
Art was the smart one of the family, he knew how to communicate, how to tell people how it hurts to love, and not be loved, how it tears at your insides till there’s nothing left. Art once told someone how he envied me. I could never understand why, he was the genius. I’m still trying to get a simple B.S. degree after twenty-five years. Somehow that doesn’t seem important now – I survived. I never got a Silver Star, not even a Purple Heart; the blood may have gotten a little thick and turned purple, but no purple heart.
The day after writing this, I walked downtown for lunch. A young beautiful woman smiled a very friendly smile. I tried to return the smile but a lump swelled up in my throat. She could see the tears that weren’t there, and I had to turn and look away. I had to remind myself it was just a smile nothing more nothing less, you’re not a Kennedy, you’re a Ware - you can’t love the way you once did, not the way Art did. Sometimes the things we carry save us embarrassment, humiliation, even our lives.
I grew up in the sixties, and learned about love, and how beautiful it can be, I learned about losing it and how painful it can be. I learned about growing up and facing reality, and how some wounds never completely heal, but you learn to live with your handicaps, and sometimes forget they are even there.
Chapter II
My Stories
These are my stories, they never made headline news, never even made the local news although some of them might have been inspired by the events of the day. currently none of the following stories have even been written yet.
David Brotheres:
Mrs. Cunningham:
Dart throwing:
Mary Morrell
Valerie
Daryl Collinsworth
Electro shock
The frog dream
The doors dream
Time Travel
Work Stories
air Traffic controlers
Bon Vi Vont
Listeria in Cheese
Listeria in Ice Cream
John Glen & first space travel
College
The red sky in the east
Candy in first Grade
Safety Guard
Kennedy Assignation
Beatles
Roswell
Moon Walk
sound barrier
Sputnik
I met Carolyn in the summer of 1965, while working for her father. While I was delivering some signs. A friend of Carolyn’s literally pushed her out the door into me. Carolyn was only 14 when we began dating and I was rapidly closing on the magic 18. where I could be charged with staturatury rape at the least, but I wasn’t thinking about the posability of prison, I wasn’t even thinking about having sex with her, the fact that I was a virgin at the time and didn’t know what to expect, and she was already sexually active didn’t really matter. I wrestle with the morality of the events of that year even today. In 1966 they didn’t have any provisions for an expectant mother to attend high school, they simply dropped out and became mothers, relying totally on their husbands for support. That’s just the way it was then. The exact order of events are a little fuzzy now 40 years latter, but I know Carolyn was pregnant before we got married, probably about November 1965. We stayed with my parents at first but when Carolyn dropped out of school the friction between her and mom became too much. Part of the time while I was completing High School December 1965 to May 1966 we lived with my parents and part of the time with her parents. Carolyn told me she had been arguing with her mother was she 3 months or 6 months I don’t remember. Vada, I guess was chasing Carol around the house. Carol said she had never seen Vada so mad and that she just rememberd Vada jumping over the kitchen table without even touching it, she said Vada began beating and punching on her and that night she lost the baby. I don’t think it matters so much whether you are 14 or 35, if you have never had to pay for housing, food and other necessities you don’t know what it means to take responsability for supporting yourself



Ware Genealogy
According to genealogist and historian’s I have talked to the earliest we can trace our linage to is Dudley Ware (born 1757 died 1824). According to Leonard Ware Smith his tombstone (though dates and names are currently unrecognizable) rest on a small burial plot just north of Somerset Kentucky off Hwy. 27 on a farm still owned by a Dudley Ware descendant. The name of Dudley’s wife was Mary (Poly) and he was possibly married more than once. Historian James Pope said he heard rumors that Dudley came to Kentucky from Virginia with two brothers, and according to one chart prepared in 1992 it traces our family another 2 generations to Nathaniel Ware (1648-1742).