Precious Memories?

Last week, I selected the topic of reunions as the subject for blog writing. And, frankly, my first intent was to write about family reunions. I come from a family where reunions have been a many decade tradition--at least on my mother's side of the family.

But then, I turned my attention to a non-family reunion. See, I was about to return to my college alma mater and celebrate with fellow graduates our 50th college graduation!  Golden Grads! Yup, that's us.

Oh, there are so many advantages (disadvantages?) to returning to the college where you began your adult life. Good memories, bad memories. Recognizing college friends, not recognizing college friends. Seeing old professors, not seeing departed professors. 

Any reunion is a mixture of joy and sadness. Of sweet memories and bittersweet memories.

Our mortality is ever present--classmates who joined us for the 40th reunion now gone; classmates who were hale and hearty now wheel-chair bound, classmates who were dear friends and now barely remember you.

My recollections focus both on the personal--things we did in college--and the universal--things that happened to our country while we were in college.

So, walk down memory lane with me for a short while as I revisit a major event from the four years of my college days.

1962-63: no sooner had we begun our freshmen year than the world plunged into threats of war. It began on October 22 with the start of the Cuban Missile crisis.  What I recall is the terror we felt as we lived through during those 7 days in October, from October 22 to October 28. Frankly, we thought we were living on the brink of a nuclear war. From the beginning of the crisis when our spy satellites saw the build-up of nuclear missiles in Cuba, to the response of President Kennedy to place a blockade around Cuba, to the Soviets insistence that they would  send their ships anyway, running through the blockade to the final stand-down resolution--I can say we lived through days of terror. 

Particularly visit it the time I was riding along with some girlfriends in a car, as we listened to the radio coverage of the U.N. debate.  We waited to see if there was the launching of a nuclear war between the U.S and Russia.

I do not want to live through such an event again--the world hovering on the brink of nuclear war.

1963-64: our sophomore year began...calmly. Oh, there was the traditional reconnecting of couples or uncoupling as the case may have been.  There were higher level classes we were taking, with the attendant increase in academic rigor. But what dominated that year was the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  The news came over the loud speakers in Old Main. I was on the college debate team and we had assembled, preparing to debate for a weekend tournament at Fordham University.  Suddenly the news "President Kennedy has died" came over the loud speakers. 

The nation plunged into mourning--a president so young, so full of bright promise, a widow only 33 years old, two photogenic children, a nation stunned.  

Some of the members of our class, particularly those who had access to cars (a rarity in those days) traveled the hundred plus miles to Washington, D.C. to attend the funeral. 

I do not want to live through the collective grief ever again--a nation mourning a leader struck down by a soul-less assassin.

1964-65: our junior year--now we were taking upper level course and choosing majors (if we hadn't already)--once again national events dominated our thinking. It was an election year. The candidates, Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson, presented two vastly different world views. Goldwater wanted to use "low-level" atomic weapons in north Vietnam. Johnson ran a political ad which showed a sweet child pulling petals off a daisy counting. Her little voice then morphed into a countdown voice--10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.  And then a mushroom cloud. At no time was Goldwater's named used, but the implication was clear.  

I recall being on a debate team for an all-college debate: I along with a partner arguing for Johnson, and two other students arguing for Goldwater. The only other thing I remember about that election campaign is that Goldwater made a stop in Harrisburg. He came into town on a train, which stopped on a bridge over Market Street.  The crowd gathered below to hear him. At the time, I was so struck at how mob psychology worked--people who may not have been his supporters being swept up into the crowd chant. (Shades of a future campaign!) Well, we know how that race turned out: Johnson won having partly campaigned on not expanding the war in Vietnam.

I do not want to live through another populist candidate fanning the populist sentiment with dangerous and impossible ideas.

1965-66: President Johnson's promise to not expand the war in Vietnam was quickly broken. Retaliatory strikes had begun in late 1964 after reports of an attack on U.S. ships in the Gulf of Tonkin. The Congress quickly passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution which effectively gave the president authority to expand the military effort in Vietnam. And with his election secure, President Johnson did exactly that.  

When we graduated in 1966, several of our classmates were drafted or volunteered and were deployed to Vietnam. Within one year of our graduating, one of these young men--Larry Houck, who had been our class president one year--was killed. That experience of loss was repeated in town after town, in school after school, in college after college. It is something that I still grieve today, as do many of my generation who began the 1960s with such a hope of a new order--the age of Aquarius. 

I do not want to continue to see bright men and women with their lives ended prematurely because of ill-advised wars.

 Of course--if you look over all the things in this post that I said I do not want to live through again, you may note that in fact we HAVE lived through all of these again.

Reunions? A time for reconnecting, for regretting, and for remembering.

Going to the Movies Part 3

Tonight's the night!  So I had better get a move on...

The last two movies that are subjects for my Oscar preparation (and anticipation) are Selma and Unbroken. Now, I hasten to point out that Unbroken is not one of those nominated for Best Picture, or best director, or best actor, etc.  In fact, it was only nominated for cinematography, sound mixing and sound editing. Of course those categories are very important for the people who work in those fields, but--frankly--I don't stay tuned for the winners.

So, why did I pick this pair to compare and contrast. Well, there are quite a few similarities. Both both are about real men, based in 20th century American history; both deal with men of uncommon valor, who have to deal with a presumption of racial superiority.

Unbroken focuses on the life of Louis Zamperini,  Now, were it not for a best-selling book by author Laura Hillenbrand, Zamperini's life, beyond his youth, might have passed relatively unnoticed.  Hillenbrand*, you may recall, is the author who wrote another story of resilience and triumph--Seabiscuit.  Just as Seabiscuit was seen as fertile ground for making a movie, so was her book Unbroken.   Even though the idea of making a movie about Zamperini's life had been kicking around Hollywood for decades, it was mostly likely Hillenbrand's book that jump-started it.  Angelina Jolie, who directed it, had to fight--not to get the movie made, but to be selected to direct it.

After a childhood during which Zamperini was a bit of a miscreant, he discovered he had a talent for running. In fact, he became so accomplished that he was selected for the U.S. track team which went to the 1936 Olympics held in Berlin, the ones infamous for Hitler's domination of the spectacle--and for Jesse Owens' amazing accomplishments as a track star that buried Hitler's notion of racial superiority. Owens won four gold medals--3 in sprint, and one in long jump. Zamperini was a distance runner participating in the 5,000 meter race. He didn't win any medal, but acquitted himself well with running the final lap in record time.

The connection that Zamperini has to 20th century American history was his service during World War II.  He was a bombardier on the somewhat notorious B-24 bombers. These planes were known to be difficult to fly. In fact, the plane he was on was hit by gunfire during an aerial battle and badly damaged. Because of that, he and other crew members were sent to Hawaii to be reassigned. While they were waiting, a call came in to go on a rescue mission for another downed bomber. A crew of 11 was assembled and flew off in another B-24. During that mission, the plane he was on developed mechanical problems and went down in the Pacific near Palmyra Island. Thus began another great adventure of his life. He and his surviving crew mates lashed together several rafts and began drifting across the Pacific Ocean.  

After 47 days of drifting in the Pacific, the raft washed up on Marshall Islands, then under control of the Japanese, some 1837 miles (2956 km,). The two remaining survivors were promptly captured by Japanese soldiers, thus beginning another "adventure." While the movie shows his early life, the youthful troubles he encountered, and his running triumphs, it concentrates on the drama of being adrift and the subsequent imprisonment in Japanese POW camps. During this time--about two years--he and other Allies were cruelly mistreated by prison guards, some of whom were particularly sadistic. One stand-out example, which the movie portrays very convincingly, was a guard the POWs called "The Bird."  He took a particular dislike for Zamperini and never missed a chance to punish him.  It is during these moments in the movie that the viewer experiences full force one of the elements that was evidenced in World War II.  Just as the Germans presumed their superiority due to their "Aryan purity," Japanese soldiers felt superior to their captives whom they degraded and looked down on.

Zamperini's very survival is an indication of his uncommon valor. The movie ends before the final difficulty of his life; Zamperini experienced one other challenge that threatened his survival. Upon his return home after the war, he began to drink heavily.  His life was turned around after his wife begged him to go hear the evangelist Billy Graham.  Based on the message Zamperini heard, he realized he needed to change his life--and he did. Beyond that, he absorbed a central element of Christian thinking--that of the need for forgiveness, even of one's enemies. Zamperini eventually returned to Japan, and sought out his former captors with the specific intent to forgive them.

Martin Luther King, Jr., the subject of the movie Selma, is far better known to most Americans than is Zamperini. Given that familiarity, there is less need to underscore the initially stated similarities: the two stories are about real men, are based on 20th century American history, both deal with men of uncommon valor, and both deal with a presumption of racial superiority. We know many of the basics of Dr. King's life--his rise to leadership in the infancy of the civil rights movement.  In fact, the movie Selma distills many of the details in a single event--the march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965.

Following the Civil War, African-Americans were systematically and routinely deprived of many of the rights the Civil War was intended to help them gain. Chief among those was the foundational right of our democracy: the right to vote. African-Americans were required to register to vote--as we all are today--but for them, the finish line was a moving target. The movie powerfully portrays this in an event involving Annie Lee Cooper (played by Oprah Winfrey). She tries to register to vote, only to be asked a series of questions which she admirably and confidently answers. Then one last question is thrown at her, one so trivial as to be absurd. Not surprisingly she cannot answer, so her application is stamped DENIED.

To redress this and other grievances, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and Dr. King are brought in to Selma to try to galvanize action. Part of the drama of the movie also focuses on the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which included John Lewis, which had been trying for three years to move voter registration forward.  The means to move voter registration rights forward was to organize a march from Selma to Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, which begins by crossing the Edmund Pettus bridge. 



(credit for photo of the Pettus bridge-- "Edmund Pettus Bridge 03" by Carol M. Highsmith)

The history of this time is fresh to many of us who were adults--albeit young adults--during the 1960s.  Its retelling is essential for younger generations to know that the right to vote was hard won for African Americans.

Other elements of Dr. King's life are woven into the movie--not always in full detail, but enough to give a sense of the man's life, including some of the sadder aspects.  We know that the FBI maintained a file on him, that the then director J. Edgar Hoover seemed to make a special point of spying on Dr. King.  We also know that Dr. King was unfaithful to his wife in a way that very nearly destroyed his marriage.  All these elements are in the movie.

What we see is only a glimpse of is his uncommon valor. We don't see much of time spent in jail--where Dr. King was too often sentenced for his pursuit of basic rights for Americans.  We don't see many of his speeches where the possibility of rioting and destruction was all too present. We don't see his death at the hands of a white assassin.

What we do see graphically portrayed is the visceral deep-seated hatred that too many whites displayed against Africa-Americans. There are very few examples in the movie of whites who were moved to join this basic civil rights fight. But there some.

So, where do the movies differ? Apart from the understandable differences of stories being told about two different men being portrayed, perhaps the singular difference is in the length of their lives. Louis Zamperini, born in 1917, died very recently in mid-2014. Dr. King who was born in 1929 was assassinated in 1968.  And, of course, neither of the deaths feature in the movies.

The movies share one more common aspect--both have been controversial in that challenges were raised to the ways in which the stories were told, and how faithfully history was represented. Some evangelical Christians were upset that Unbroken ended before Zamperini's life-changing encounter with Christianity. And Selma has been controversial in the elements of history either omitted, or recast. There were many more nuances to the civil rights campaign--and at times the movie truncated those events. What has received more press has been the way President Lyndon Johnson was portrayed--as reluctant to get into the civil rights campaign.

A far better treatment of the way these two movies tell history is dealt with by my fellow blogger (and longtime friend) in her blog post: "Pondering History, Torture and Violence."  I commend it to you.

OK--now, off you go. Watch the Academy Awards. And afterwards I just might tell you if I picked any winners.

--------------------------------------------
*Laura Hillenbrand has her own story of struggle and resilience. While she was a student in college, she experienced a sudden debilitating weakness that was eventually diagnosed as being caused by chronic fatigue syndrome. Her life has been marked by her ups and downs with this disease. But despite the severe limitations it places on her life, she has managed to become a successful author.

It's Oscar Time

There’s a popular commercial right now (for an insurance company) where a camel comes strolling into a workplace and says in a loud camel-y voice—DO YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS?  The answer in the ad is “It’s Hump Day.” 

Well, reader, do you know what day it is?  It’s OSCAR MOVIE DAY.  Or month!  Yes, it is that time again. Our annual mad movie dash has begun.  The aim—see as many of the movies nominated for Best Picture Award at the annual Academy Awards.  And, of course, see them BEFORE the show airs on March 2.

In past years, when I have written about “Going to the Movies” I find myself making some obvious linkages between two movies.  But this year, as we went from movie to movie, I found myself scratching my head.  What was a common thread in these movies?  Seemingly nothing. Among the movies nominated as best motion picture, we have not yet see Her or Philomena.  We saw the seven other movies nominated, in this (very arbitrary) order: 12 Years A Slave, Gravity, Dallas Buyers Club, Captain Phillips, American Hustle, Nebraska, and The Wolf of Wall Street.

Today, we saw the last of the movies we are likely to see before the Academy Awards—and then it hit me.  The common theme!  This is the year of the scam.

In varying ways, there is in each of these movies a thread of deception.  Sometimes the deceiver poses as a friend (12 Years a Slave). Sometimes the deceiver is an apparition (Gravity) or a delusion (Nebraska). In Captain Phillips, the deceivers are the U.S. military who come to rescue Captain Phillips. In American Hustle, the whole plot is a deception, compounded by a deception, wrapped in a deception. . .you get the point. Dallas Buyers Club involves a kind of deception, albeit for a good cause.  Finally, The Wolf of Wall Street hinges on selling shady stocks through deceptive means.

Of course, each of these movies has much more to offer. 

For my money, the most stunning movie of the year is 12 Years A Slave. You may recall that last year, the MUST SEE movie for me was Lincoln.  And I fervently hoped it would win best motion picture, only to be disappointed by the selection of Argo.  While I liked Argo, it will not stand the test of time, as Lincoln will.  So with hesitancy, I say this year I would hope that 12 Years A Slave wins.

Watching this movie is a soul-searing experience.  There are only about 15 minutes of unalloyed story telling, which focuses on Solomon Northrup, a free born black man living in Saratoga Springs, New York in the 1850s.  He earns a living as a carpenter and as a fiddler. When his wife and children go away for several weeks—his wife is skilled cook who is sought for special occasions—Solomon is alone.

One day, he is introduced to two white men who have heard of his prowess as a fiddler. They cajole him to accompany them to Washington, DC, where he can earn some money as a fiddler.  What he neither knows nor suspects, they actually have other plans for him—to drug him and have him sent off in chains. They pass him off as a runaway slave named “Platt” which becomes his name.

So begins his 12 years as a slave. The account of Solomon’s life—being forced to strip, paraded like meat, bought by a slave owner, shipped off to a far worse slave owner, and finally regain his freedom—is so graphically portrayed that at times it was difficult to watch.

One of the most disturbing elements of the movie is the degree of depravity exhibited by the white slave owners. While one owner tries to be benevolent, other owners and their overseers, are horrific.  The wives of the slave owners occupy their own morally depraved universe, being alternately jealous of the black female slaves with whom the master sleeps and then being sugary kind to other slaves.  No scene is spared, including a vicious whipping.

That Solomon eventually is able to regain his freedom, while certainly just and right, hardly seems to compensate for the horror he endured as a slave.  Were the story but a creation of a creative writer it would be horrifying, but it is in fact based on an actual account by Solomon Northrup who recorded his memoirs after his experience.

The acting is superb—particularly Chiwetel Ejiofor and Lupita Nyong'o.  The scenery is lush and lovely, at times, providing a stark and ironic backdrop for the depravity of humans.  The dialogue is at times quaint and stilted, but that lends a sense of witnessing something from another time.

I came away from the movie marveling at the resilience of the human spirit, despairing at the depravity of the slave owners and all who were complicit in the institution of slavery. I was especially struck how much the whites involved in slavery had lost their moral compasses and had themselves become enslaved to the institution of slavery. They were far more lost that the black slaves who had been ripped from home and country.

So my first recommendation—go see 12 Years of Slave, if you haven’t already.

---------------

To be continued

November 22, 1963

I am 18 years old.  My sophomore year in college has just begun in the small college I attend.  Friday afternoon, our college debate team of which I am a member will be leaving some time mid-afternoon to go to Fordham University for a debate tournament.

I am standing in Old Main, on a small flight of stairs leading to some classrooms.  Suddenly, the news comes flashing through--whether a student or staff member had heard it on the radio, I do not know.  But the word comes and it is shocking, earth-shattering.  President Kennedy has been shot and killed.

That breathless moment when everything seemed to cease.  Our world suspended. What to do? Not just what to do personally.  But what to do for the whole country, maybe even the whole world.

Television was still in a kind of infancy--even though President Kennedy's appointee as chair of the Federal Communication Commission Newton Minow had pronounced its being "a vast wasteland."  Our small college had only ONE television set available for public viewing.  That television was in the Commons area of Old Main.

For the next few days, while the country plunged into inarticulate mourning, we students gathered around that television.   CBS had made the decision to begin broadcasting and continue until the president had been buried.  So we watched while Walter Cronkite led the country in an extended wake.

We students did not spend the entire next four days in front of the lone television.  We went on with our student lives.  The debate team missed any Saturday news--we had agonized over whether or not to go to the Fordham tournament but in the end we went.  On Sunday, the college choir had a church service to attend, and so we were in the house of one of the church parishioners to have Sunday dinner when we saw on that television a man, named Jack Ruby, step up to Lee Harvey Oswald and shoot him.  The dissolution of any meaning in our world seemed complete.

On Monday, when the President was going to be buried, some students with cars drove to Washington, DC.  Most of us stayed on campus and continued our television vigil.  

This 50th anniversary--November 22, 2013--also a Friday.  As the grainy black and white footage from those four days of continuous broadcasting, sometimes interrupted by a few splashes of color footage from film, are replayed--I am transported back.  I am once again a college sophomore, standing on the steps in Old Main, conversing with fellow students on the Debate Team--the President has been assassinated.  

Now, fifty years later, I know how very young eighteen is.  How very innocent.  Yet on that day, November 22, 1963, our world changed.  And we were suddenly older--not old, maybe--but the brightness of life had been dimmed in an inexpressible way.  Things would never be the same.

And, of course, we were right--we still had so many fresh tragedies to go through--Vietnam, more assassinations including Jack Kennedy's brother Bobby, civil rights struggles, dogs lunging at people trying to secure the right to vote, Kent State, Watergate...

On and on.  What was lost that day was bright-eyed innocence. 

November 22, 1963.

Revising History

We recently visited Hilton Head Island (see previous post) and, while we enjoyed the beauty of the place, the sights we saw and the delightful weather we had, I was struck by how the telling of history can change.

One day, we went on a trip to the Sea Pines Preserve area, and took a boat ride to see alligators and various birds.  It was a dreary day with overcast skies--not conducive to bringing out lots of animals, but great for tolerability.  Our tour guide and boat captain--a transplanted Brit--kept up a running patter, pointing out flora and fauna.  At one point, we asked--was the lake on which we were sailing "natural or man-made."  Well, he said, it was where dirt was scooped up to create some of the golf courses on the island.  (There are more than a dozen.) The lakes are what was left behind.  So, they turned it into a wildlife sanctuary.

He went on to describe how in the 1970s, the island was a sorry place to be.  There was land here, but of no value.  Only a few people were living here, eking out a miserable existence.  (These aren't his precise words, but very nearly.) So, someone got the bright idea--build golf courses and give people a reason to come here.

I must say--that explanation struck me.  We had briefly visited Hilton Head in the mid-1980s.  At that time, I came away with the primary impression of lots of gated communities.  But, I had also read about the people who lived here, and how with real estate prices rising, and along with that property taxes, the original residents were being priced out of their native area.  And who were these people?

Two primary groups of people inhabited it--of course, originally native Americans did for centuries before European settlers arrived.  During the Civil War, Union troops occupied it and used it as part of their blockade of Southern ports.  As a consequence of the Union presence, ex-slaves moved to Hilton Head--hence the Gullah traditions in Hilton Head.  No doubt, some of the descendants of those ex-slaves were the ones "eking out a miserable existence" when Charles Fraser, and eventually others, began developing Hilton Head Island.

The full-time population of the island grew from 300 in 1950, to 2,500 in 1969, to 6,500 in 1975, to 12,500 in 1982, to the current population of 28,000.  Add to that the tourist population of over one and a half million each year.  

And the more recent "original" residents, the Gullah?  Well, their numbers are not precisely known, but their way of life continues to be threatened.  

Yes, we very much enjoyed our stay and my overall impression is most positive--a beautiful place, well designed, well maintained.  But, I always keep in mind the people who are dispossessed as others move in.  Perhaps, thus it ever was--it is just hard for me to reckon with.

OK--herewith a few photos of nature.

Fallen tree and birds

Hilton Head sunset

Sea Pines Preserve with alligator

Sea Pines Preserve--Heron in flight

Sea Pines Preserve with Great Heron

A Sense of Place

I was an English major in college, and I soon learned that there is no way to be a literature major without being a student of history.  As it happens, I do greatly enjoy history.  While there are many ways to learn and experience history, for me, a sense of place adds a dimension that I cherish.

One of the benefits of traveling is that sometimes when we visit somewhere, I am able to get a sense of place that gives fresh insight.  After years of taking of family vacations mostly at the New Jersey shore, with an occasional trip to New England or parts of Canada, our daughter suggested, in 1996, that we should go somewhere abroad for our summer trip.  Thus it was that we headed off for our first "European" vacation--we did a somewhat grand tour of parts of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. 

And that's how I had my first experience abroad of "a sense of place."  We were visiting Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh.  Our guide took us into one room and announced "...and here is where David Rizzio was killed."  Well, believe me, I took notice.  I had read the seminal biography of Mary, Queen of Scots, by Antonia Fraser, and had absorbed many of the details, including the account of the horrific murder of Rizzio, the private secretary to Mary.  Mary's closeness to him had engendered palace jealousies as well as rumors that he was the father of her child.  So a group of nobles murdered him right in front of Mary, who was pregnant.  The sense of place--that here was where a specific event in history had occurred--made my understanding of that event take on new meaning.

There are, of course, many such places around the world.  While I don't make that the only reason to see some place in the world, it certainly adds to my enjoyment.  My master's thesis research focused on the historical Thomas Becket, and how he was portrayed in two dramatic works.  So, of course, one of the places I had long wanted to visit was Canterbury.  On one of our recent visits to England, our daughter helped arrange a day trip for us to visit Canterbury.  Not only was I a Canterbury pilgrim for a brief day but I also got to stand in the cathedral that marks the approximate spot where Becket was slain by four knights who thought they were doing the king's bidding.  That actual altar in front of which Becket was slain no longer stands, but there is a candle in the floor marking the spot.

Another place where there is a palpable sense of what had happened there was in the cathedral in Worms, Germany.  We were on a family history tour in the year 2000 when we visited this cathedral.  It was to this place that Martin Luther had been summoned for the famous Diet of Worms.  (What budding history student hasn't giggled at such a thought....a diet of worms.) Luther was challenged by the pope's representative to recant his developing Protestant views.  Of course, the historical representation is Luther's famous speech:  

"Unless I am convinced by proofs from Scriptures or by plain and clear reasons and arguments, I can and will not retract, for it is neither safe nor wise to do anything against conscience. Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. Amen."

The historical record is not so clear that he actually spoke these words on that occasion, but standing in the Cathedral of Worms, the sense of place makes Luther's brave stand very real.

So it was that on our most recent trip, a cruise of the Baltic Sea with various stops along the way (see my prior post for the countries we visited), we stopped in St. Petersburg.  This is a city I have long wanted to see.  Many years ago, I read of biography of Peter the Great, who developed this marvelous city as Russia's outlet to the Baltic Sea and thereby eventually the Atlantic Ocean.  I had also read Harrison Salisbury's account The 900 Days: the Siege of Leningrad.  And, I have read many works about the last of the Romanovs--Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra.  

Prominent in their lives was their youngest child and only son--who would be heir to the throne, young Prince Alexis.  He was born after his parents had borne four daughters, and they were devastated when Alexis was found to be hemophiliac.  He was frequently gravely ill, suffering the bleeding episodes that threatened his life almost constantly.  Understandably, but not helpfully, his mother Alexandra was frantic.  So when an itinerant holy man--at least so styled--came into her life in the man of Rasputin and promised he could heal her son, she was primed.  Eventually, Rasputin insinuated himself into their lives and seemingly advised them on far more than Alexis' health.  The resulting jealousy and paranoia among Russian nobility led to a plot headed up by Prince Felix Yusupov, who along with his co-conspirators, decided to kill Rasputin.

So, another sense of place--on our visit to St. Petersburg, we visited the Yusupov Palace and saw the small basement dining room (complete with creepy wax figures recreating the scene) where Rasputin was lured to his eventual death.  He did not die quickly--he was first poisoned, then shot, then drowned--none of which caused his demise.  After being thrown into a canal to drown, Rasputin managed to crawl out, after his captors had left the scene and there he died of hypothermia, freezing to death in the cold Russian winter.

 A sense of place, indeed.

Where have you been where you had a sense of place for history?

We, the People

Watching the news from Egypt, where a duly elected government has been deposed, we should be thankful—on this eve of the Fourth of July—that our founding leaders took care to enshrine some bedrock rights.

Herewith, the ten Amendments to the Constitution of the United States--these ten form our Bill of Rights.  Taken all together they have helped provide us with stable governments over our more than 200 years of history. 

These amendments are all important—there is not one that should overpower the others.  I could wish for greater clarity of construction—just look at the Second Amendment—so that subsequent interpretation would not be so difficult.  But, in the main, these ten statements capture the essence our the genius of our democracy. 

Would you vote for these today?  When the “man on the street” is asked about these rights, there are times when those who are ignorant that these rights are already secured sometimes answer in the negative to some of them.

Shame on us if we forget what these statements mean.  So on this Fourth of July, contemplate their meaning—all of them.  And be grateful.

First Amendment

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Second Amendment

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.^[54]

Third Amendment

No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Fourth Amendment

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Fifth Amendment

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Sixth Amendment

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

Seventh Amendment

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Eighth Amendment

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Ninth Amendment

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Tenth Amendment

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

Arm chair witness to history Part II

Continuing the musings on being an arm chair witness to history.

The Democratic Convention (1968)

By 1968, my political affiliation was beginning to turn toward the Democratic Party (and it fully turned to my registering as a Democrat when Richard Nixon revealed his true nature).  So, once again, I was glued to the television watching the raucous, highly entertaining and downright scary Democratic Convention in Chicago.  All but lost in this chaotic convention was the actual nominee—Hubert Humphrey (who was defeated by Richard Nixon in the general election).  

What riveted me and the country was the rioting in the streets.  The country was gripped with full blown dissension over the war in Vietnam.  Richard Daley, Mayor of Chicago, had ordered the police as well the National Guard to suppress any kind of demonstration.  Daley had bragged that no demonstrators would take over Chicago’s streets.   Predictably, the demonstrators rose to the challenge and streamed into Chicago.  The result was full scale rioting in the streets of Chicago with the demonstrators chanting “the whole world watching.”

I was watching the scenes unfold late at night, waiting for the important speeches, which by now were far past prime time coverage.  Senator Abe Ribicoff was actually nominating George McGovern—when Ribicoff deviated from prepared remarks and looked straight at Mayor Daley and blasted his handling of the demonstrators.  Daley rose to his feet, shouted back, and could clearly be seen mouthing obscenities.  The Democrats went on to lose the election.  While being a witness to the unfolding of this history was exciting, there was also something very sad about watching the unraveling of hopes of people to bring the ill-advised destructive war to a close—and to know that the demonstrations likely doomed any chance Humphrey had to win the general election.

The “Explosion” of the Challenger (1986)

Sometimes the location where we watch the video of an event unfolding is sufficiently unusual as to magnify our sense of the event.  I was attending a meeting of a governmental board, and during lunch break went to a department store to pass the time.  As I walked past the television section, I saw people standing watching some evident catastrophe. The look of their faces conveyed the gravity of what they were seeing—the space shuttle Challenger had blasted off on its mission—and had “exploded.” 

People may now recall that they watched the Challenger blow up, but in fact what we all saw was a video replay of the event.  The networks had begun live coverage of the launch, but by 1986 space shuttle launchings had become. . . routine.  Just a few short minutes into its flight, it quickly became apparent that something disastrous was unfolding, and the networks switched back to cover the disaster.  The shuttle had begun its ascent with the usual thunderous roar of engines, but less than two minutes into the launch, it began to break up resulting in two white plumes.  What had actually happened was that the “external fuel tank had collapsed, releasing all its liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen propellants. As the chemicals mixed, they ignited to create a giant fireball thousands of feet in the air.”  (Source: National Geographic).

Of course, in addition to being horrified and riveted with the endless replay of the disaster was the fact that seven people died, including the first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe.

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I had planned to add a final disaster most recent in our memories—that of the attacks on the U.S. on September 11, 2001, but I suspect you have your own recollection of watching those events unfold.  The September 11 attacks were to the 21st century what the attack on Pearl Harbor was to the 20th century.  Many people of my father's generation can recall exactly where they were when they heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor--of course what they experienced was hearing the news, not actually watching the event unfold.  With September 11, 2001, we heard the news and watched the news unfold, complete with each of the World Trade Center towers collapse.  What a horrific seemingly slow-motion disaster that was--as the towers began to implode, floor collapsing on floor, then watching the rolling cloud of debris engulf parts of lower Manhattan.

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Television has made us arm chair witnesses to so many events.  Some events are simply not important—e.g. watching the slow police chase of O.J. Simpson—and are obviously fueled by the 24 hour 7 day television marathon that runs on a constant loop.  Other events have been defining ones—ones that we can truly say we will never forget where we were when we first watched the event of _____ unfold.  We are arm chair witnesses to history, true enough, but making sense of it all—now that’s another story all together. 

Arm chair witness to history (Part I)

For all the excesses and waste of television (a subject on which I sometimes muse), there is an undeniable benefit: television gives us the opportunity to be arm chair witnesses to history.

One  of the almost trite statements is “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news that …” (you can fill in the blank).  The most recent that struck me as almost irrelevant was Brian Williams, anchor of NBC Nightly News, intoning “We will remember where we were when we learned that James Gandolfini died.”  Now, I grant you Gandolfini may have been a fine actor—I was not one of the legion of viewers of “The Sopranos” so I can’t say.  And by all accounts, he was a genuinely fine man.  But, really, was his death earth-shaking? I think not.

In the course of my lifetime, thus far, there have been earth-shaking events.  And many of them were televised as they happened, so that I was an arm chair witness to history.

Here’s a sampling.

The Assassination of JFK’s killer (1963)

One of the ironies of events being televised is that even if they are not televised “live” people who see a video believe they saw the actual event.  Such is the case with the assassination of JFK.  When Zapruder came forward with his famous 8-mm film, and when that film was shown, there were thousands of people who swore they saw JFK’s assassination live.  Of course, Zapruder—who was a witness in Dallas, who happened to have his camera handy—filmed the assassination and that film was then shown after the fact.  Its constant replaying and its verisimilitude is what gave people the sense that they saw JFK’s assassination live.

What we did see live was Lee Harvey Oswald being led from jail; we watched Jack Ruby step up close, then suddenly produce a small gun and shoot Oswald in the stomach.  We saw Oswald grimace, and grab his front, and then collapse.

As it happened, that event occurred on a Sunday.  I was a college sophomore, and was touring with our choral group. We had just sung in a church service, and then went to various homes of members of that congregation for a Sunday dinner.  It was in such a home, where the television was turned on, that I saw this snip of history unfold.

The Republican Convention (1964)

…or the short-lived effort to have someone other than Barry Goldwater become the party standard bearer.

During the summers, while I attended college, I was employed as a maid and/or cook in the homes of wealthy U.S. citizens who had summer homes along Lake Erie, on the Canadian side.   So, that meant I was live-in at these homes, with specific work tasks but a fair amount of free time.  

During the summer of 1964, the Republican Party held its convention to nominate its candidate to run against President Lyndon Johnson.  That was in the days when party conventions really meant something, and actual ballots were taken that would result in a candidate that was not a foregone conclusion.  While I was too young to vote, I was intensely interested in politics. Plus I hailed from Pennsylvania, whose then Governor William Scranton was an honorable and decent man.  

Since the groundswell clearly favored Senator Barry Goldwater, who I thought had disastrous policies on Vietnam, I was thrilled to watch as a sudden flurry of activity on the convention floor made it appear as though Scranton actually had a chance.  And all of this activity was occurring right before my eyes as I sat glued to the television.  As it turned out, he didn't—he wasn't nominated, Goldwater was, and in the fall election, Goldwater was soundly defeated.   

The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy (1968)

It was the first day of summer vacation for me, in my first year of teaching college English.  So, I slept in.  When I awakened, I turned on the television, expecting to watch a few minutes at the end of the Today Show.  Instead, I turned in to the late-breaking news that, immediately following his victory in winning the California primary, Senator Robert Kennedy had been shot and had died.  

Of course, like so many people during the turbulent 1960s, I had mourned the untimely deaths of political leaders—of course, JFK was the “first” followed by Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Robert Kennedy.  The song, recorded by Dion, “Abraham, Martin and John” captured the deep sadness these assassinations evoked in many people.  And, of course, the final stanza captured the horror of one more assassination including Bobby.

I don’t recall what I did the rest of that day—all I can recall is sitting for a long long time trying to absorb and make sense of yet another senseless death.

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To be continued

Those Who Do Not Remember the Past

It was the philosopher George Santayana who was credited with the saying: those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

That sobering thought haunted me as we spent a day in Nuremberg.  This city's name is now associated with the aftermath of World War II, and the Allies' efforts to hold the Nazis responsible for their horrific "crimes against humanity."  It was here that the Nuremberg trials were held--the first time that the conduct of a war was put on trial.  Twenty four major leaders of the Nazi war effort were tried, with many of them being convicted and some being sentenced to death by hanging.  Some, such as Field Marshall Göring, the most prominent Nazi to be tried and convicted, requested the honorable death by firing squad.  That request was denied, so Göring cheated the Allies anyway when he procured an ampule of cyanide which he bit into and died.

The windows of Court Room 600 where the Nuremberg Trials were held

Nuremberg was chosen as the site for these trials precisely because of Hitler's having used the city as a staging location for his huge Nazi rallies.  We visited two sites where these rallies took place--Zeppelin Field and Congress Hall.

The interior of Zeppelin Field

A photo of the projected appearance of Congress Hall

The interior of Congress Hall today, a deteriorating shell of a building that was never completed

These two huge structures were planned for construction.  Hitler had designed an 11 acre site with a wide sweeping avenue, a huge field (Zeppelin Field) for assembling the thousands of Nazi party faithful and Hitler Youth along with members of the SS, and Congress Hall where rallies would be held.  Zeppelin Field is the site made famous in Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will".  For these Nazi rallies, the field was decorated with Nazi flags, and featured row upon row of gathered Nazi faithfuls, all held in the thrall of Adolph Hitler who emerged from the center of the stage.  Congress Hall was designed and building was begun but never fully completed.  The architect for this grand project was Albert Speer, one of those also tried and convicted during the Nuremberg Trials.

What is so sobering about this visit to Nuremberg?  Well, I kept having two thoughts:  first, what happened in Germany that led up to the atrocities committed?  and how could an entire nation be pulled into seemingly blind compliance.  Second, can it happen again?

Historians have written tomes pondering the first question.  Germany too has begun to come to grips with this question.  For a time, immediately following the war, a kind of national shame gripped the country and people did not want to talk about what happened.  Denial was in surplus supply.  Now, Germany has begun serious efforts to face its own past.  Now housed within the Congress Hall is a museum called the Documentation Center  Nazi Party Rally Grounds.  We spent a portion of one morning there--and could really have spent much more time there.  It is an overwhelming experience.  The rise, expansion, domination and eventual fall of the Nazi party is the central focus of this museum.  

As we moved from one display to the next, we could barely absorb the enormity and horror of all the information.  Frankly, it becomes mind-numbing.  And, the temptation is great to just turn away.  But we kept moving along, reading the descriptions, looking at the video clips, trying to take it all in.

It is, of course, the second question that really troubles me.  Because, I think those of us who are citizens of the United States have been honing our forgetting skills.  We repeat our own mistakes, and we also seem to repeat other nations' mistakes.  

I was particularly troubled to read in the Documentation Center how the press was used to distort the truth.  Please understand--this is not a screed against the so-called liberal media.  Frankly, I think the touted image of the media as liberal is completely bogus.  What I am most frightened by is the way in which media is used today to convey a pre-determined point of view.  The fact that a national news channel would use as its slogan "fair and balanced" and then do anything BUT report in such a manner should scare us all.

Of late, during political campaigns, comparisons to Nazis are liberally applied.  You may hear some politician or some pundit opine that doing something--oh, such as passing the health reform act--is just like what the Nazis did.  Well, no--my friends.  What the Nazis did was to target almost every group of people that was outside the proclaimed norm of the white so-called Aryan race.  So who did that include?  We know it included Jews--but it also included gypsies, labor union members, epileptics, homosexuals, Jehovah's Witnesses, pastors both Catholic and Protestant.  

While our river cruise trip was lovely, relaxing, and refreshing, it was also sobering.  We need to remember the ugly truths of history, and not just enjoy the beauty of a reborn nation.  If we remember the past, perhaps we are not condemned to repeat it.

Waterloo

Author's Note: A brief interruption in the southern Italy tour series--that gives me time to finish processing photos.

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Today is the 196th anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, which was fought on June 18, 1815. Because it had rained the day before, and the area where Napoleon's army had gathered was soggy, he delayed the start of the battle until noon. Unfortunately, for him at least, that delay gave the opposing forces time to rally and position themselves. And, we all know how the battle ended...(don't we?). Napoleon met his Waterloo.

We visited the battlefield several years ago, when we toured Netherlands and Belgium. At the time of the battle, the village of Waterloo was part of the United Kingdom of Netherlands; today Waterloo is in Belgium. The visit was listed on the tour description--and I was quite excited to see this famous battlefield. Between Waterloo and Trafalgar, the two places where Napoleon met defeat, I figured seeing the site of the land battle was more promising than seeing the site of a sea battle.

Was I ever wrong. The location is an utterly unremarkable, mostly flat crossroads. Oh, sure, there are some buildings standing that were there when the battle was fought, but nothing in the entire site gave you the sense that here a great battle had been fought.

Perhaps I was spoiled, having visited the Gettysburg battlefield near where I live in Pennsylvania. There has been a concerted effort to try to preserve as much of this battlefield as possible. Plus, the topography of the area dovetails nicely with the accounts of how the battle unfolded there. I think I expected Waterloo to be a similar scene. But no.

The battle of Waterloo was a long hard fought battle. You can read an account here.

But there's another little story that fascinated me more than the great battle. The English hero of the battle was the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley. So lauded was he with various titles, statues and monuments that when we visited England a tour guide pointed out one of the monuments--a monolithic column--and simply said: there's an Arthur. An Arthur? The proliferation of honorific monuments was so common they had earned a simple first name.

Ah--but did he deserve the credit that he got? That's the little story. I picked up a book somewhere called Wellington's Smallest Victory. It recounts the story of an admirer of Wellington, Captain William Siborne. To commemorate the great victory, he decided to construct a miniature scale model of the battle of Waterloo. They did such things in the days before television, movies, and other electronic imagination robbers. To get the most accurate picture of the battle, he began interviewing veterans. He picked a particular moment of the battle--the presumed turning point at 7 p.m. The Duke of Wellington with 68,000 soldiers, was turning back an attack by Napoleon.

With painstaking care to show that accurately, Siborne displayed Wellington's battle strength. He also displayed the 48,000 Prussian (who were allied with the English) soldiers who were attacking Napoleon's right rear guard. That Prussian charge likely turned the battle.

Now the rising conflict. When Siborne had completed his miniature, he hoped to sell tickets--such displays were routinely carted around the country and people came to see them. To drum up a big opening, he invited the Duke of Wellington--the hero of the battle--to come and see it.

The Duke was stunned. He had written his own account, and had greatly downplayed the role of the Prussians. In fact, he insisted there were only 8,000 Prussian soldiers. He absolutely refused to endorse Siborne's representation, and refused any correction of his view. Poor Siborne. He reworked the miniature, taking out 40,000 Prussians. But the Duke was not assuaged. He began a vicious campaign against Siborne.

Siborne lost his backers who were going to help fund the miniature and its tour. He died a beaten broken and penniless man. The little book has helped restore his reputation. However, the Duke of Wellington won his smallest victory by defeating an alternative view of the battle of Waterloo which would have somewhat lessened his great victory.

Thus endeth the lesson.

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The painting is William Sadler's The Battle of Waterloo