Vespers Whispered: A Query

Sifting For Gems

Some Thoughts On Veterans Day

2014 marks the hundredth anniversary of the beginning of the First World War which began on July 28, 1914. In my desire to make a post on my blog to acknowledge Veterans day I found myself at a loss as the where to focus or even start. My difficulty arise from a few areas. I am not a veteran, I have been an active peace worker for most my life and I have mixed unresolved feeling about veterans in general.

As I seek my flow, a poem I ran into while collecting content for this post touched me very must so I think I will start with this poem written by Penny Rock, a nurse in the Vietnam, who wrote poems to help process the horrors of war. When she came home she found, much like Jerry Lembcke points out, that the myth of vets being spit on when returning to from Vietnam give way to the larger truth that conversely no one wanted to talk about the war. So she chose not to talk about it for 25 years. But after she was diagnosed with cancer she came out of her shell and wrote two acclaimed poetry books about war. Here is her poem “Before The War” for your consideration.  

From Homer's Iliad about the Trojan War to today Iraq and Afghanistan, like Penny Rock, poetry has help veterans deal with what they have seen and done in war. And in this era where more soldiers survive in our wars as medical science improves, folks like David Finkel remind us that, as with all war, the war continues for our veterans long after they leave the battlefield. This pain is illustrated so well by the story of Jacob George, a beloved vet who became a peace worker after war who sadly committed suicide.  While exploring this narrative I also ponder if Chris Hedges is right when he says war is a force that gives us meaning?

"War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today." - John F. Kennedy

I knew at an early age I had no desire to kill for my country. In “68” Nixon, to his credit, began his campaign and finally fulfilled his desire to end the draft.  I turned 18 in the fall of 1972 and the selective service had assigned my age group draft numbers. But this was the year they quit sending out draft notices as the war in Vietnam was coming to its end. So by this time I knew the probability of me being drafted was small and my plan to go to jail rather then to war was thankfully derailed. Today we have an all volunteer military but the mechanisms of the draft are still with us. Here I could dive into the appalling practices of the military recruiters, the provisions of the No Child Left Behind Act for all student information be turned over to the military or even the disrespectful ways were treat our returning soldiers. But that would make this little blog venture into a never ending vortex difficult to emerge from.

The cannon fodder of war has always been the young and this current “endless war on terror” is no exception. This new cannon fodder has been called the Millennial military. Some stats. >> Recent data shows that in the millennial military 43% of the active duty force age is 25 or younger and roughly 66% of it 30 or under. 4,491 U.S. service members were killed in Iraq between 2003 and 2014. Nearly 1,300 were 22 or younger. In our current war on ISIS the first official casualty was Lance Corporal Sean P. Neal, who died on October 23, 2014. He was only 19 years old. The above millennial statistics where taken from this interesting article by Rory Fanning who walked across the United States for the Pat Tillman Foundation in 2008-2009, following two deployments to Afghanistan with the 2nd Army Ranger Battalion. Fanning became a conscientious objector after his second tour. My heart goes out with compassion to all our veterans of war. And to all the casualties also.

Besides the soldiers there are many casualties of war, starting with the first thing. The Truth. Women  and children are the unseen casualties of war. And the environment has long been a silent casualty of war.

In Conclusion.

I knew this venture into war and veterans would be a difficult one, but I felt the need to say something, anything about this significant issue to our society and world. Recognizing the pain suffered in our wars and treating the victims of war with understanding and compassion are necessary steps to finding a world where there is war no more.

Just a few bullet items of note on this day. First, I was struck by something I read on the Selective Service page on women and the draft “Although women would become part of the personnel inventory for the services to draw from, their use would be based on the needs and missions of the services.” The term “ personnel inventory” caused me to feel like our soldiers are like just so many gears and cogs sitting on the shelf. And indeed they are. And when the parts of the machine are broken you pull a new part off the shelve and write off the losses in the accounting book.

Second. There was a gala for IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) that raised over $33million. I am simple dumbfounded by this. Another vortex I am not going to approach today. And then there is the irony I found in this situation.

The Poppy is the symbol in Britain, and internationally, for their Remembrance Day for veterans of war. Recently there was an event called the Poppy Rocks Ball that was sponsored my Lockheed Martin. All I could do was sigh a deep sigh and shake my head. And finally is this story about Harry Leslie Smith, a 91 year old British veteranof says he will no longer wear a poppy after this year.

I will end as I started, with another poem for you. The poem that sparked the poppy as a symbol. It is called “In Flanders Field” written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae on May 3, 1915. Be well. Help the vets. Work for Peace.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

On Living Ghosts and Revolution

Living Ghosts

"I think therefore I am." is René Descartes' famous thought on existence. Now before you roll your eyes and hit exit on this post let me assure you this is not a venture into the philosophical merits of Cartesian dualism versus Naturalistic dualism. Even my head hurts at the thought of that! But ghosts, that is an attention grabber. Halloween images still linger with us at this time like those spots we see when looking into the sun too long.

Did you know there are 10 million Living Ghosts wandering among us? A standard definition of a ghost is “an apparition of a dead person that is believed to appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image.” But what if you never died but still felt you were just “an apparition” to those you engaged with? Further imagine being born invisible. Or being alive, but unable to prove you exist. Well my friends, this is the state 10 million souls find themselves in worldwide. And here is why.

At least 10 million people worldwide are currently stateless. Most of them refugees fleeing wars. Just for instance 3 million have fled from Syria in recent years. It is estimated a baby is born stateless every 10 minutes and 1/3 of the stateless are children. If you are stateless you can be denied the rights and services that countries normally offer their citizens. Statelessness can mean a life without education, without medical care, employment, the right to marry, no ability to move freely and when you die there won't even be a death certificate to say you were even alive.

Special envoy to the U.N. Angelina Jolie, Nobel Peace Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu and many others are backing a global campaign to end this horrific injustice. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR)  has launched 10-year global campaign to end statelessness being called the #IBELONG campaign  Seeking 10 million signatures for the 10 million. You can sign on to the Open Letter HERE I signed on. I am hoping you will too. Flowing onward.

Modern Revolution

“Remember remember the 5^th of November”. Here I begin a short stroll down what could be a very long road of questions and debate. Tomorrow is Guy Fawkes Day  Increasingly the Guy Fawkes mask has become a worldwide symbol of resistance for activists who are angry with the “establishment” and its policies that are viewed to be unjust, suppressive or simply lacking in compassion for our fellow man. The mask can be seen being adopted by groups such as the Occupy Movement  but most notably the group that calls itself Anonymous.

Across the world people are calling for change via Resistance or Revolution, even here in the United States. The “revolutionaries” are increasingly coming out of the shadows. Our country was created by revolutionaries and many wish to resurrect that spirit again. You know, “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another.....” Fueled by increasing discontent with our political system simple families to those who believe the theories of world domination from the Illuminati, the mood is palatable. It hangs in the air like an aroma you can't see, touch or pinpoint but you can taste it in your mouth. Many wish to think on more positive things and dismiss it in general, and I applaud them, but they too realize its presence.

My thoughts. Two things on revolution. 1: Historical data and evidence shows that if only 3.5% of citizens embrace non-violent civil disobedience they can overpower the government. In the USA right now that means it would take 11 million people. 2: Historical data and evidence shows also that non-violent revolutions succeed on an average of 3 years compared to armed violent struggles that take on an average of 7 years.  I choose non-violent civil disobedience if and when it comes to that time. John Lennon said, "When it gets down to having to use violence, then you are playing the system’s game. The establishment will irritate you – pull your beard, flick your face – to make you fight. Because once they’ve got you violent, then they know how to handle you. The only thing they don’t know how to handle is non-violence and humor." - John Lennon

So today I encourage you to think about the state of the world, what you would like to change and how would you like to do it. I also ask a few questions, to start one that has been asked quite a bit before and after the events of 911. Who are the terrorist and who are the freedom fighters? And another, where do hacktivists fit in to this new model of resistance?  Are you Anonymous or cDc?  Secretly do you wish you were? “We are Anonymous, We are legion, We never forgive, We never forget, Expect us.” Well now.

So my friends I leave you today suggesting we all take a deep breath, reach out and tell those you love that you love them. We will not change the world over night, but we can change ourselves. Today do something kind to one person you may or may not know who is having life difficulties and assist them if you can. Remember what ThichNhat Hanh  says. “Compassion is a verb.” And as always, please share this post freely.

Local Spotlight On Unfairness and Protest

Hello faithful readers. Today I wish to address a situation happening in my area that has, as I see it, numerous implications to us as a society. Where one stands on this issue depends much on ones own history and story. So as a mini prolog I will start with a bit of my own history to illustrate my position on the issue and why I chose to write about this today. The prolog may in itself be prolix I will try to be engaging as not to lose your interest and fair warning the last section of this narrative, wherein lies the main intent of this post, will be much more straightforward in it's dialog. I wonder now, is this first paragraph a prolog to the prolog?

When I was in Jr. High school it was a time of major social unrest and change. Protesting for a cause was coming into it's own all acrossAmerica. A time of vocal dissatisfaction with the established norms had reached social critical mass. We, as young rebels in training (as all teens are and always had been) took up the mantle of the current activism we saw on the news each night and applied it to our own angst within our peer group.

We applied the techniques of marching and holding signs and stormed the local school board offices with our still developing voices, loudly proclaiming our demands. At that time students could be expelled and reprimanded for the intolerable offenses of boys hair being over their ears or girls having skirts too short and, oh my god banish the thought, that a girl would wish to wear pants to school! And if a boy were found to have “hippie beads” visible under your shirt you were surly going to be ridiculed, ostracized and most likely considered a candidate for deprogramming therapy. Well look around and it will be obvious that our efforts were not in vain as we changed these archaic norms in our school and that effort has expanded exponentially, like the rice on a chessboard

over the years. Some may argue that was a bad thing but we will leave that for another discussion. Now edging toward the point of this post  a bit more of my personal history of those days.

I had a 9^th grade algebra teacher whom I shall call J.C. (his real initials for those of who may be my friends reading this). Now J.C was a young man not much more than 10 years older than his students. He was a much loved teacher and engaged with us on a level not seen in the other teachers of the time. He understood us and had a way of connecting that made him seem more a friend than an educator. Over the course of time his teaching style, his closeness with the students and his own personal openness and familiarity with us became a major concern for the powers that be, as they felt he was a direct threat to the type of control they wished to hold over us. In brief they moved to have him dismissed and even take his license away from him. And we, as his his loyal charges, took up our protests on his behalf. Unfortunately, in this instance, our efforts were in vain. He was fired and removed. Eventually this man became one of my best friends, for a while a roommate and my mentor as a carpenter which led me on to a long career as such. Now this is a story in itself too.

Okay, now to it. Currently there is a situation coming to a head nearby that struck at my heart and sensibilities that is causal to this particular post. There is a teacher named Clay Hatfield at Eagle High School in Idaho that is being threatened for removal as a teacher under circumstances that, to me and others, seem totally out of line in the possible consequences in relation to the “offense”. Those of you who know me know I have a acute sense for fair play and justice. So this has struck a nerve.

Rather than attempting to rewrite what has already been articulated well I would like you to read the article submitted by our local news paper. You can read about >> here <<

Please take note and go to his supporters Facebook Page and listen to the video made by them to gain a better understanding of how they feel and receive a clearer explanation of the charges against him than the news article gives us.

In closing. Good teachers are hard to find. Don't let them be thrown them away by those kowtowing to some ambiguous politically correct notions that may be archaic in their origins. So I invite you to support the efforts to save Clay Hatfield from this unnecessary injustice. And while I have your ear, teachers should be paid better so vote for those who also believe this. Work for Peace!

The Writing On The Wall

The Writing On The Wall

Kether Muse ©

10.27.2014

The disembodied Fingers of Fate

weave stories in my dreams.

Oh, Daniel where are you now

so I may beseech of your wisdom

to decipher these foggy visions of tomorrow?

Angry voices cry out their warnings

from ever changing faces crafted of fire

whose words burn my flesh.

I stand in bewilderment reaching for a reason

that would explain my mantle of dread.

Like Belshazzar shall I let this moment pass

oblivious to my message from beyond?

In my panic my heart is like the spring rivers

swiftly cascading unrestrained and uncontrolled.

The White Rabbit hurries by

reciting his mantra, “I'm late. I'm late.”

as Cassandra stands silent vigil

with knowing in her eyes.

But my own eyes remain clouded

no matter my efforts to see the Light.

The warp and weft complete

the steady beat of the loom goes silent.

I lay down on this tapestry

knowing it was made for me

as everything else fades away

like smoke in the wind.

Even my fears have departed.

Yet still the vision eludes my understanding

as I caress the patterns around me.

I feel there is a choice to make

and assistance is not forthcoming.

The task is mine alone.

Slowly I awake as the sunlight replaces

the darkness in the shadowy rooms

of the dream temple I recently inhabited.

Looking out to the sky the patterns of my tapestry

linger there for a moment

imprinted on the swirling clouds

before fading away like a morning mist.

Psychoceramics, A Primer

Hello friends. It has been quite a while since I have ventured into the Blogosphere, even though I have documents expanding weekly to eventually deliver my thoughts and opinions on a plethora of topics. But most of those are of serious intent and require much refining to convey their intended impact.

So I found it curious that a silly little unexpected excursion into cyberspace led me to an unknown corner of the world, coaxing me out of my blogging hibernation. By the end of this magnum opus (insert an u-hum and a smile here) many may immediately think, “Man, this guy needs a life!” Well sometimes I have thought that very same thing! …. Nah...

16, remember that number if you will. If you actually make it to the end of this adventure for it will have a bit of significance. (there WILL be a test) For now, in relation to needing a life and traveling the internet I read a report just today that said Americans spend 16 minutes out of every hour on social networks. Wow, really? Only 16? Well I suppose I used up my daily quota just making this post!

Time to start the silliness. I was investigating a little pottery figurine to put into my space at a local Antique/Collectible store I am a part of. It is a lovely vintage child dressed in Chinese garb reading a book while sitting on a book. Very whimsical. On the bottom it says Kreiss and Company. I discovered that Murray Kreiss left a successful career with a national silver company started the company in 1939 importing novelties from Japan. The company, four generations later, is still family owned. This is where I went off the rails.

While looking at more links for Kriss and Co. I saw a link that drew my eye. “Psycho Ceramics: A Primerfor For Collectors” Now, anything with the word psycho in it HAS to be interesting. So I clicked on through. The article was another adventure into the unknown. After I read the commentary by Cosma Rohilla Shalizi about psychoceramics I felt inclined to know more. Then my curiosity suddenly felt like the feeling you get when the roller-coaster is starting to climb. Excited anticipation.

This is where I met, or didn't meet (you'll understand soon) Josiah S. Carberry Professor of Psychoceramics, and the study of "Cracked Pots"  If you are still with me at this point you may well understand how I felt like Alice in Wonderland at the Pool of Tears as she exclaimed "Curiouser and curiouser!"

Well faithful readers we have come to the end of this mini blip in your day. If you have not read the Wikipedia page, and even if you did, you will get much more from the following video and end with a smile on your face, I would bet on it! Now what was that number I asked you to remember? Well here a some more. If your time is limited, because at this point you also have abused your allotted web minutes, jump to the time stamp at 10:52 to 12:10 for a moment of "What??" As always, I wish you well. Please share freely.

For Our Mothers

I will be brief today. Thanks for visiting. Tomorrow is the special day in America when we celebrate and acknowledged all things that encompass out love and appreciation for our mothers. Although my own mother has departed from this physical reality I thank her for all she gave me: birth, nurturing and wisdom. And to all the mothers in my life I thank you all for the same.

Much talk in our politics these days of the inequality toward woman in our society and the world. But one thing that woman are unequaled in is the gift of the sacred space referred to by some as the Yoni where the future is manifested, nurtured and given as a gift to the world in the embodiment of our children. Every woman is a manifestation of the Divine Feminine. I honor and acknowledge your sacred space and celebrate you as the Goddesses you are!

Many do not realize that Mothers Day was originally a day to call attention to Peace. In 1870 Julia Ward Howe issued a Declaration/Proclamation hoping to gather together women to take action to end war. After the civil war they understandably felt deeply the loss of their husbands, brothers, fathers and of course their sons due to the ravages of war and knowing “war is hell”. This has always been so. And unfortunately remains the same.

So while we enjoy our mothers and families I ask, like Julia Ward Howe, please spend a moment considering wars and ending them. Raise your glass a moment and send out your compassionate thoughts and prayers for all those mothers out there who continue to suffer from them today. Then kiss the nearest mother to you. Many blessing to you all! Work for Peace.

Photo found at The Blooming Womb

 

Thoughts of change and evolution. Words escape me today. All is in thought form. For today a reminder of gratitude. Blessing to you and yours.

THE METTA 

 May all beings have fresh clean water to drink.
May all beings have food to eat.
May all beings have a home.
May all beings have someone to share love with.
May all beings know their true purpose.
May all beings be well and happy.
May all beings be free from suffering.
Today I will do what I can to make it so.

Shadows Introductions

Part Two

a Kether Muse

(copyright)

 The headdress is amazingly dazzling and magnificent. Beautifully beaded in intricate and colorful designs. It's age and origins unknown but images of ancient ritualistic ceremonies flood my minds eye. Tibet, Africa or Peru? But then again I also see a smiling young flapper dancing across the floor with total abandon donning the accessory in accordance with the Egyptomania of the times. Whimsical thoughts as I run my finger across its surface and note where repairs have been made over the years to salvage this object of obvious special intrigue. That last thought brings me back to my present surroundings and out of the mini-trance I was swept away in. Still caressing this treasure I look up from my chair and gaze out the window to the sunny morning. I see Shadow standing outside near a tree, motioning for me to follow him. I rise obediently, for when my love, my guru, beckons I respond. I am eager and have no pressing matters to distract me from my lessons. And it has been way too long since my last. I exit the house with quickened step because Shadow has already almost disappeared at the edge of the tree line and I do not wish to lose sight of him.

 My pace, still a bit quicker than my norm, takes me down one of the winding, and fortunately, familiar pathways through the forest. I sense where it is Shadow is leading as I catch glimpses of him ahead in the filtered dancing sunlight. The birds are singing their morning greetings to the light and I hear my name in their melodies. It makes me smile knowing they recognize me and add me to their song. Not too far off is a little open meadow which Shadow often makes the classroom of the day where he instructs and guides me. I am out of breath a bit and am glad when we draw near our destination because I know there is an old stump at the meadow's edge where I can sit and gather my body and my thoughts in preparation for whatever Shadow has in store for me. Anxious to sit I see my appointed seat and approach. But before I can sit, there is an object there I must remove.

 “How very odd and unusual” I think to myself in an astonished tone while I plop down hard on my seat as I am a bit exhausted from our hike. I smile at my surprise, because I should be accustom to things being odd and unusual when it comes to Shadows teachings. As I settle myself I begin to examine my prize.. It is a conductors baton. It is about 16 inches long, but shaped in a taper more like a extended chopstick than a baton, but in my mind I am told it is a baton by an unrecognizable voice. Beautiful black ebony wood or so it appears and decorated with flowing designs of inlaid mother of pearl. Such a lovely object, but what is its purpose for today? I look up, scanning the meadow for Shadow. I do not see him. But there in the middle of the arena is a surreal scene that gives me a momentary start, causing my heart to skip a beat.

 Seated in a half moon array is a stringed quintet, dressed in fine clothing fit for any noteworthy performance stage. It is difficult to ascertain the sex of the member of the group as their clothing seems to fade in and out, male to female from one member to the next. Their hair styles and faces to are ever changing in a sort of seamless flowing motion. I am confused as to if this is significant or a sign that it matters little to the lesson. Each has his/her music stand with sheets of music in front of them. In front of that is a solitary stand and I m prompted by Shadow in his voiceless manner to take my baton and and my appointed post.

 Unsure of my ability to take on the unfamiliar role I stand before my musical podium, raise my baton and begin, assuming the musicians have practiced the music and my plan being to adjust my awkwardness and inexperience accordingly. Abruptly the players begin. Expecting to be lavished with some moving composition of indescribable sweetness, I was applaud at what issued forth. It was the most discordant and near painful echoing sound I had ever experience! I continued in my play actor conductor mode for a few minutes, hoping and praying that this agonizing overture may magically find some semblance of harmony. Quickly I recognize that this is not going to happened and I wave my arms frantically in the air motioning for the players to cease. They stop as abruptly as they began.

 Looking down at the sheet music in front of me I found myself staring in wonder at a totally blank and unmarked page,, I pick it up and thumb through the remaining pages to find the same empty canvas.  Stepping over to the stands and music of the musicians I begin the same process with their music, each in turn.. Their pages reveal music, unlike my own pages, but I note that each has a different piece than the others. I look to them and they sit motionless but attentive and do not reveal any indication as to what they are thinking, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. I turn my gaze outward, scanning for Shadow turning 360 to no avail. Shadow appears to be gone. Confused I choose to return to my faithful stump, baton and “music” in hand. The players sit patiently as before, the only movement is the continuous smooth flowing of their dress and appearance as before.

I struggle to absorb what I have just experienced and sit up straight and close my eyes allowing my questions to echo about, awaiting an answer of some sort that rings true to explain to me the purpose of  the morning events. Holding tight to my new found touchstone, baton and “music” my mind reaches out to my love, my guru for just a little guidance. I immediately I sense a sigh from Shadow in his characteristic telepathic manner. He is encouraging me to not be so impatient and to sit a bit longer with it all. I feel a moment of being perturbed at the reply and suddenly every note of the previous discordant “concert” comes back into my awareness further adding to my distress. It seems impossible to even convey the depth of the soulful agony of hearing it a second time.

 The sounds fade. Quietly I sit and sit for a seemingly endless time awaiting revelation. Like the rising moon, quietly and silently the task and purpose is revealed. I open my eyes to the twilight of the setting sun.  With my new feeling of relief and purpose I return to the Meadow Quintet who remain patiently sitting and awaiting my direction. I assure them that I shall return with a score that can be played by all. I am unskilled at this task, but I know it is necessary and good. The why still eludes me but in time my lessons teach me about who I am and I remain thankful in my unsureness. Beyond this I have little to say. The players look to me with eyes that are not there and let me know they understand and will continue to wait. I turn to find the path back through the woods as I feel/see Shadow, my love, my guru smiling...

Shadow's Introductions
Part One

(copyright)

Rain.

The spring sits awaiting weeks away. So why does our Mother tease us in such a manner? The white bird in my dreams last night also seemed to be toying with me, flickering about and alighting on my shoulders. I was straining to hear what it was saying but the message eluded me.

Rain, tobacco and coffee. Welcome guests to start a new day with. The incessant clamor in my head is beginning to dominate over the pitter-patter of the gentle rain, insisting I begin making plans for the day that awaits me, heretofore of little or no concern. Slightly startled I see that familiar movement at the edges of my peripheral vision. He often comes to me this way, especially after times of long absence. My love, my teacher, my friend.

I assume he has been busy with his other students, as I am not arrogant enough to believe I'm his only one. I do wish at times his visits were not so brief, but being an excellent teacher his lessons are always conveyed with focused and efficient intent. Aloud I speak, “Ah, Shadow, welcome.” I know he heard a bit of dismay on my voice, as I am a little miffed at having been left to my own devices for so long without his guiding hand. I can almost see him smiling as he ducks around the tree out of sight for now. And isn't that a thought! Surprising because in all these many years I have never really seen Shadows face..

Excitement and anticipation are sprinkled with a garnish of apprehension. Apprehension because Shadows visits are sometimes painful, as my lessons reveal my fear to me, like the rising sun that I cannot escape from or make retreat to the other side of the horizon. I stand, taking a deep breath of resolve, ready for what may come.. I salute our Mother. I reach out from the porch and touch the gentle rain..

Ah, the rain.

THOUGHTS ON BEING GREEN

Author Unknown

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman, that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren’t good for the environment.

The woman apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this green thing back in my earlier days.”

The young clerk responded, “That’s our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations.”

She was right — our generation didn’t have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.

But we didn’t have the green thing back in our day.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use of brown paper bags as book covers for our schoolbooks. This was to ensure that public property, (the books provided for our use by the school) was not defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books on the brown paper bags.

But too bad we didn’t do the green thing back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right. We didn’t have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby’s diapers because we didn’t have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts — wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that young lady is right; we didn’t have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house — not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn’t fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn’t need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she’s right; we didn’t have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But we didn’t have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn’t need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger joint.

But isn’t it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn’t have the green thing back then?