"Me, Me, Me, or You, You, You?"

 

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."-- Attributed to Abraham Lincoln. In reality, Lincoln never uttered or wrote those words or words to that effect. Instead, they were said about him.

The original version of the quotation came on Jan. 16, 1883, during a speech in Washington, D.C., by the prominent writer and orator Robert Ingersoll.

"If you" want to know the difference between an orator and a speaker, read the oration of Lincoln at Gettysburg and then read the speech of Everett at the same place. One came from the heart. The other was born only of the voice. Lincoln's speech will be remembered forever. Everett's no man will read. It was like plucked flowers."

 

From the Democratic National Convention came speeches we haven't heard the likes of in a while. No sound bites, full on speeches, given with conviction, truth, honesty, promises to lower taxes for the middle class, build more houses so the middle class can afford to buy one, preserve Medicare, and Social Security, feed the children, give teachers a living wage, maintain funding for schools, give our children an opportunity to be free of pollution and bullets, overturn Roe vs Wade to provide a reproductive freedom to women, give Americans hope again.

The American Dream raised its beautiful head again when two people from State Schools worked their way up the ranks; one was bussed to school, and the other who grew up on a farm could run for President and Vice President of the United States.

Remember when the strength of America lie in its strong middle class?

Yes, we had problems in the 60's, but we had the guts to protest wars, and march for civil rights, to change the dress code in schools--and champion men to grow facial hair.

Professor Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor, now on Substack, helped me understand how Americans could vote for a tyrant.

Trump exploited their anger.

Americans, especially the working class, have been bullied.  They have been bullied by corporate executives, Wall Street, and upper-class urban professionals.

They're angry.

In Trump, they saw someone who they thought was different.

Except that Trump is a bully.

Trump used his wealth to gain power. He used his power to target people of color, harass and abuse women, lie, violate the law, and attempt to topple our Constitution. Instead of being a leader for the people, he became an advocate for himself. He was and still is vindictive against anyone who opposes him. And then he rages at anyone who calls him a bully. And he admires Hannibal Lector! What?! (Lector is fictitious character from the movie Silence of the Lambs, who eats people.)

Trump is a "me, me, me, person.

Kamala Harris said every day in court, she would say 5 words, "Kamala Harris for the People."

"Because," she says, "what happens to one of us happens to all."

"Kamala Harris is a You, you, you person." (Thanks, Bill Clinton.)

 

From Reich:

"We have learned that Trump cannot be beaten at his own game. He cannot be out-threatened. He cannot be shouted down. He is beyond shame or guilt. He emits lies at such volume and repetition they cannot be corrected.

"The only way to beat him is by playing an entirely different game that draws on qualities that are the opposite of his, that appeals to those aspects of the American character diametrically opposed to his.

"Lincoln spoke of the better angels of our nature. Those better angels are still there but have lain dormant since 2016. Biden tried reviving them, but he didn't have the energy or stamina to pull it off. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz do."

 

And why don't our adversaries trust women?

Women, we need to roar now to convince Americans to vote for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz.

Listen to Lady Gaga go against Trump. She  put it out there. (Trump lied with an ad stating that Gaga supported him.)

https://www.nbcnews.com/video/lady-gaga-slams-trump-at-biden-rally-in-pittsburgh-95211077945

"Vote to keep Trump out of the White House like your life depends on it, no, like your children's lives depend on it, because it does."—Lady Gaga.

And then listen to that Lady sing our National Anthem. Wow, those pipes of hers rang out over the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Memorial with the clarity of an angel.  

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/watch-lady-gaga-sings-the-star-spangled-banner-at-biden-inauguration

 

And now for those following Your Story Matters, here are Chapters  39 and 40

First, Fun at the Grocery Store, then a War Story told to me by the man who lived it.

 

39

 

Funny

 May 21, 2023

 

The Pink blossoms of the dogwood tree have beaten me. (I'm up to 28,630 words, aiming for 50,000.)

 There are a few scraggly blossoms on the tree, but the ground beneath has pink all over it. The leaves have taken up residence where the flowers once were. The tree is moving on.

 

BUT WAIT. I could have an extension. Does it count if I switch trees? Mom's Tree in the front yard is still blooming. I planted a twig that came to my shoulders in tribute to Mom, who loved flowers, and I love dogwoods, so I planted one in the front yard on March 9, Mom's Birthday, in honor of her. Now, it is blooming. Okay, Mom, let's go for it.

 

A few days ago, I pulled Robert Fulgrum's book, What in the World Have I Done, from my cupboard bookshelf and read the best story I have heard all week.  

 Fulgrum offered two college boys on his street a ride to work one morning. He asked what they were doing besides school and work.

"We're eating a chair."

 "What?!"

 A chair! They were eating a chair. The college professor had assigned them to do something unusual, something they had never done before, and write about it. "This is going to fry the professor," one of the kids said. 

They bought an unfinished chair and ate the back and one of the rungs. They shave off a fine dusting of wood daily and add it to their morning granola. At night, they sprinkle some on their salad. They asked a doctor if it was dangerous, and he said no, not in small doses. They may not get it all eaten by the theme due date, so they have asked if others would help them and found a willing bunch.

To further carry on the conversation, Fulghum asked what else they were doing. They have been running around the lake each morning to keep in shape.

However, they tired of running in circles and decided to see how far they would run in a straight line. They got a map of Washington (they live in Seattle) and were mapping out a route; when they were almost to Portland, Oregon, they decided it was boring and chose a European map. Now, they are finding interesting things to do along their trail. And they are finding that large tasks done in small doses can get the job done.

 Fulgrum stopped worrying about the younger generation.

Inspired by Fulghum's wanderings, speaking with people, and finding funny tales, I decided to find something amusing as I set off for the grocery store last night.

 I asked the solemn-faced kid who checked out my groceries if anything funny had happened that day. Nope. Nothing funny.

 So, I walked down to the live-wire lady with white hair and a limp, who is nearly always laughing. I asked if anything funny had happened that day. "Not today," she said, thinking, "but something happened yesterday."

 "What?" I asked.

 "A lady came into the store with no pants on."

 We both laughed. "Really? Was she completely naked, or did she have underwear on?"

 "I don't know. We scanned the store but couldn't find her. Does that story suffice?"

 "Great. Thanks. You saved my day.” Thumbs up, I exited the store.

  

40

 

Hi Jack

Jack was our friend.

He might still be our friend, but he left to investigate something beyond those skies he so loved.

Jack was a pilot in the Second World War.

As he walked past the kitchen window of our house in San Diego on the way to the front door, I would call out, "Hi, Jack."

"Never say that to a pilot," he retorted. 

Jack had a story, a war story. It should be written into a book, but I only have the short version. 

He was a navigator during the Second World War.

The navigator sits behind the pilot, and according to Jack, that is the safest place on the plane.

That proved true for Jack, for he was shot down three times and twice the sole survivor.

The third time, he was captured by a German soldier.

There was a racket around the downed plane, shells were going off, shots were fired, and the German soldier was leading Jack away from the turmoil. Jack felt he was going to be shot.

As they walked through the forest, Jack tripped, and as he did, he pulled the gun from his boot, slid it up his body, laid it on his shoulder, and fired. He didn't know if his bullet connected with the man behind him, but he ran and thus escaped.

He hid during the day and traveled at night. While lying under a bush, he watched an aerial dogfight—planes in combat. Charles Shultz's Snoopy imagines himself to be a fighter pilot yelling, "Curse you, Red Baron." 

Jack developed pneumonia during his sojourn and ended up at a French woman's farm. (I know this sounds like a movie. However, she was not a young, gorgeous French lady, but an older French woman with a heart of gold.) She was alone and living off her land, which didn’t provide much. About the only thing that grew well was potatoes. He said she wore a dress that was woven together out of cellophane. She hid Jack from the Germans and shared her meager fare with him. 

One day, the US Military front advanced to her door.

Jack came out of hiding, gave his credentials, and told the group of GIs how this woman had saved him. 

The following morning, a glorious event occurred. The GIs returned with their jeep laden with goods for the lady, food and clothing, and a trip for Jack back to his troop

 

First. The Easter Newsletter, Then Chapter 9 of Your Story Matters

 

There is a restaurant…this must have the correct inflection. There is a restaurant in San Diego that makes the best crab sandwich.

 It’s a simple sandwich. Here it is: Begin with two slices of great sourdough bread, slather liberally with tartar sauce, add crab fresh from its shell. Done. Period.

 Iced tea and lemon slices finish off the perfect meal. 

 Okay, this is Easter—I’ll tell you about the first part of the day in a minute, but I’m stuck on the sandwich. 

 After dropping my grandson off from the jaunt we had just taken, I drove to the fish market to get fish and chips for my grandson, clam chowder for Neil, and I decided to try a for a crab sandwich. (I’ve attempted to at that establishment before, but they didn’t know what I was talking about.)

 “Do you have sourdough bread? I asked the girl taking my order. 

 “Yes,” she said.

 “Could you make a crab sandwich for me? 

 “Sure.”

 “Oh, you have them?!”

  “They’re made with crab cakes,”

 “Oh, no. I just want fresh crab, not toasted bread, plain.” (They had tartar sauce in dispensers.)

Well, we have,” she motioned with her hands, “a sort of loaf.”

 Not just fresh crab?” (It’s in the display case.)

 No, that stumped her.

 “Okay I said I’ll take a crab cocktail.”

 I thought, I’m going to beat this, and when I picked up the hot portion of the meal, where the fish and chips were dispersed, I asked the cook if he had sourdough bread?

 “Sure,” he said.

 “Could I have a slice?”

 “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

 I felt like a bag lady who just asked for a handout, but I had just dropped 40 bucks into the card slider gizmo where we pay for most things now.

 Instead, I drove down the street and bought a baguette—it wasn’t sourdough, but since I wanted the fish and chips hot when I got home, I didn’t drive farther.

 At home I put together a sandwich on baguette slices, but it wasn’t my dream sandwich.

 Guess I’ll have to drive to San Diego or just make my own damn sandwich to my specifications.

 Maybe I need to hear the barking of sea lions to make it authentic.

 That was our Easter feast.

 

 Before that lunch, my Grandson and I went to Church—not a regular occurrence in our household, but he wanted to try a Christian Church, so we went together. 

 God wasn’t there. He was visiting someplace else. 

 The choir sang with their noses in a hymnal, many songs, not old gospel favorites either. 

The minister, for some reason, gave a shout-out to nonbinary people. Okay, so you’re progressive, but it seemed inappropriate for an Easter Sunday celebration.

 That annoyed my grandson, who said he could have honored many others.

 Neither of us got any intellectual meat to chew on. It was all gristle. Usually, even with the most boring of sermons, there is something of value. This tells me if you don’t get anything of value from me here on this site, give it up.

 I left the church with David Pomeranz’s song running through my head. I’m used to services closing by standing, holding hands, singing Pomeranze’s song, It’s in every one of us…open up both your eyes.” Those people had one eye closed and the other half asleep.

My grandson and I had fun driving home, though, because we agreed with each other’s evaluation of the service—no philosophical arguments. We began on the same page. It was the best failure that ended successfully.

We’ll have to work our way down the list of churches. 

I wonder where God was this morning. Oh, I brought Him/She/ It in with me. I just didn’t feel connected. But then maybe God, the Great Spirit of the Mountains, Rivers and Valleys was out hiking. It’s a gorgeous day.

This is posted from Substack.The Newsletter is always free. a Subscription will bring it into your ebox. 

Please go to https://joycedavis.substack.com

 

Here comes the Excerpt from Your Story Matters

 

 

9

Boots

 

They say a writer writes about their obsessions; growing up, I was obsessed with horses. I loved horses. I drew horses, made horses for my paper dolls, prayed, and wished for a horse. And when our school assignment was, "What would I do with a million dollars?" I put "A horse" first on my list. Second, a saddle and bridle. The summer I was 12, we had moved away from the Oaks, as my folks bought 32 acres; half was in orchards—cherries, peaches, and apricots. The other half was wild and hilly. Close by the house were a couple of apple trees: one Bing cherry tree—the big black-eating species of cherries—and a pie cherry tree producing tart cherries for baking.

 Our front yard sported a peach tree. When in season, it often produced my breakfast of fresh peach slices. I  added cream from Sandy, our cow.

Then, there was the crab apple tree that stopped traffic when it was in blossom. We sold the fruit to a co-op where the peaches went to be canned, and the cherries became Maraschino cherries. 

 I have never tasted an apricot or a peach as delicious as ours.

Mom pruned the trees so they could be picked from the ground and thinned the fruit until those apricots were almost as large as a baseball.

 Occasionally, I visited the Oaks and would get to ride King. 

 An auction yard existed across the back pasture where the Oaks kept their animals. The road from the auction house wound through a residential area, but it put the two within walking distance.

 On one particular Saturday, I was surprised to see my mother walking up their drive, smiling like she had a secret—which she had. What in the world…Behind her, Mike led a beautiful 5-year-old golden gelding named Boots. "Make friends with him," he said and handed the reins to me. 

 It was more than friendship that happened that day.

 How I loved that horse. That first day, Lois and her sister rode their horses partway to our house, about ten miles from theirs. We rode up that long Cherry Heights hill. Halfway up the hill, they determined Boots was trustworthy and left him and me to ourselves.  

Boots was a perfect horse, neck reined, could turn on a dime, and could run at least 24 miles an hour. I knew he could run at least that fast and on a slight incline, for one day, my uncle clocked us as he was driving up our hill, and I was racing Boots alongside the road to meet him at the house. 

Being with Boots, my buddy, friend, and companion for many years, made me think horses are gentle, agreeable, and perfect partners. Later, I found that not all horses are as pleasant or agreeable as Boots, like people. 

 No matter the quiver in his hind quarters, Silver would hike with us as Boots and I traveled the countryside. 

On Sunday mornings, Mike would deliver a few newspapers on our hill as a favor to his mother. She had a paper route servicing another area, but on Sunday mornings, she delivered the Sunday papers on our hill. I mentioned that Mike worked the graveyard shift, 11 pm to 7 am. He worked at the Round House, where The Union Pacific Railroad engines could turn around and where he maintained them. So, as a favor to his mother, and coming home after 7 am, it was easy for him to deliver the last few papers for his mother.

 One particular Sunday morning, he awakened me and asked if I would take Books and deliver the last few papers up the hill from us. He didn't know if the car would make it, as it had snowed about a foot and a half during the night. 

 I bundled up, tucked the last few rolled-up newspapers into my jacket, went out for Boots behind our shed, and jumped on his warm bare back. He was as frisky and excited as I was, doing a little dance as we ventured into the pristine snow.

There is a particular sound, a squeaky scrunch, as snow compresses beneath footfalls. The air glistened and snapped. Minute ice crystals sparkled in the sunlight and pinged my face like rock salt. Boots pranced like a charger, and we were the first to mark an otherwise perfect blanket of white. 

 Come spring, Boots, and I touched heaven again.

 I had ridden Boots further than usual, down a road leading to another road where I came to a gate. 

The gate was not locked, so I opened it and almost lost my horse when he saw the open expanse of flat ground before him. We were in a springtime prairie where water had collected in low areas, creating ponds and watering wildflowers that dotted the grasses.A group of ducks startled by our arrival sprang from the water and fluttered into the air. After the barren winter and the landscape around our house that was home to scrub oak, poison oak, and straw-colored grasses most of the year, to my eyes, this was heaven. 

We were standing on a packed dirt road that ran through that area. I didn't know how far that road ran, but we took advantage of it. Boots liked to run—a quarter horse has a lot of Thoroughbred (a breed, not meaning a purebred) mixed into their lineage, so maybe that was it. 

 

We tore down the road until I felt he would run right out from beneath me, so I turned him in a circle and gradually shortened the circle until he slowed, and I felt in control again. 

We investigated the area, and when I saw Silver leap into the air, run a short distance, and jump again, I rode over to see what had caused such bizarre behavior. A huge King snake was stretched out in the grass, and a few feet away, another. We left the snakes and eventually went home. 

 I returned to my secret prairie several times but never caught it in the condition I found that first day. It was such a moment when you stopped alongside the road, stripped off your pantyhose, waded in a mountain stream fresh off an ice flow, and felt alive.

Such are the moments that take our breath away.

Later, I found that my flat prairie was a mesa. If you ride far enough to the north, the prairie will end at a cliff, and below it will be the valley holding the town of The Dalles and the Columbia River.

If you drive through the Columbia River Gorge until you come to The Dalles and look to the South, you will see a cliff. At the top of that cliff are shallow caves called Eagle's Caves. If you climbed to the top of the caves, you would see the backside of my prairie.

If you stand on that prairie, you will see little but grass, a mile or more of it, and the only sound you will hear is the wind rushing past your ears, and you will feel as the natives did when they came upon such a scene: that the earth, the mountains, the rivers, and the rains are home of The Great Spirit, and there for you to take from and give back to.

To be Continued to Chapter 10  "C-R-A-C-K"