Consider the Plight of Platypus

Consider the Plight of Platypus

Gay, lesbian, or transsexual

I find labels ineffectual

I don’t understand all of the fuss

Consider the plight of the platypus

Is it a mammal or otherwise

Who knows where the real truth lies

If it’s a mammal how does it lay eggs

Why is it said to have “otter legs”

And a beaver tail and bill of a duck

Getting its food from riverbed muck

It seems sometimes the gods are cruel.

Then there’s the problem of the plural

What if under the Australian sun

You should happen on more than one

Do you shout “look and see

There is some platypussy”

If that’s not right I’m not to blame

Perhaps the plural is some other name

Maybe you should point and cry

“Look over there are some platypusi

Some mammals think them strange

And to them say “why don’t you change”

But platy smiles and says “What the fuss”

I am what I am a duck-bill platypus”

“Oh, I know you think us mischievous

Just because we are polygamous

Electroreception makes us only unique

And not some kind of nature freak”

“I know you may think me strange

But I see no need to change

Just because I’m not like you

Doesn’t mean I’m not a mammal too”

So if you’re not exactly the norm

Hang in there and weather the storm

Even if at you someone may cuss

Just consider the plight of the poor platypus

- JGM 10/20/16

10 Things You Probably Did Not Know About U.S. Presidents

10 Things You Probably Did Not Know About U.S. Presidents

1)  At his second inauguration George Washington wore no underwear.  Later in the day he had to be treated for severely chaffed inner thighs.

2)   Teddy Roosevelt had a morbid fear of teddy bears.

3)  Warren Gamaliel Harding, the 29^th President of the United States, was once a hit man for the Mafia.

4)  At a commercial break during their televised 1964 Presidential debate Lyndon Johnson reached over and gave Barry Goldwater a wedgie.

5)  William Howard Taft is listed in the Guinness Book of Records for eating an entire Long Horn Steer in one sitting.

6)  Thomas Jefferson, who fathered many illegitimate children, was known in the local taverns around Charlottesville as “Tom Cat” Jefferson.

7)  As he was being sworn in at his inauguration, John Kennedy was seen pinching Mamie Eisenhower on the butt….and she was overheard saying, “thank you”.

8)  Abraham Lincoln was actually born in a condo in Boca Raton, Florida.

9)  Harry Truman once killed a rare heirloom rose in the White House Rose Garden by urinating on it.

10)  As he was being sworn in as President, Bill Clinton, lifelong admirer of John Kennedy, was seen pinching Barbara Bush on the butt….and she was overheard saying, “do that again if you want my vote in four years.”

It has to be true because I read it on the internet.

D-Day

D-Day

In June, 1999 I boarded a train at the Gare du Nord in Paris headed for Calais.  It was an early morning trip on an older train that spent a good portion of the morning meandering through the Normandy countryside.  It was a pleasurable ride to a destination of great importance and significance.  It was the 6^th of June and the 55^th anniversary of D-Day.

I have many memories and mental images of that day; standing on Omaha Beach with my back to the sea and looking at the still visible German gun emplacements wondering at the courage it took to leave your Higgins Boat, wade in the surf into a steel curtain of death; looking over the heights of Pointe du Hoc down to the sea where Rangers began their near impossible climb; the quiet sadness of the rarely visited cemetery where the German dead from that fateful day lie buried.

I remember all those images and I recall the veterans of that day, now old men walking slowly with comrades and family remembering what they probably wish they could forget.  I remember the dignitaries and speeches and bands, but there is one memory that stands out over all the rest.

The American Cemetery, located at Colleville-sur-Mer stands tall above the sands of Omaha beach on a perfectly manicured lawn bordered by large evergreens.  It has been American soil since its dedication in 1956.  There are some 10,000 American young men buried there in row upon row of perfectly aligned, identical white crosses interspersed occasionally with a Star of David.  It is a wide-open space but upon entering one has the feel of stepping into a cathedral.  Automatically you walk slower and speak only in a hushed tone.  You know that you are among the brave that will never grow old.

I was there at a time when only a few other people were present and so it was as I looked out onto Omaha Beach I caught a movement in the corner of my eye.  A man in uniform was walking down the walkway not far from where I stood. He looked to be in his mid-seventies but still lean enough to wear his khaki uniform festooned with medals; his sergeant stripes on his sleeves.  His walk was more of a march of military precision, ramrod straight and purposeful; his eyes looking straight ahead. His arms were outstretched at 90 degrees and he held before him a funeral wreath. He marched about four rows past where I was standing, executed a perfect right face, moved to a marker about midway down the row, made another right face and set the wreath down in front of the marker.  Rising, he came to attention and saluted the grave, reached in to his pocket and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.  With trembling chin he came back to attention, saluted again, and marched with the same precision back the way he came.

I have no idea as to this man’s identity and no idea whose grave he came to honor.  I knew there was a story there I would love to know but felt that it would be disgraceful to intrude into such a private moment.  I had the impression it was not his first trip to honor this long dead soldier and I doubted that, as long his health allowed, would it be the last.  I just watched him move on as he had done after the war and as his friend had been unable to do.  I knew I had witnessed a scene that would always define for me the meaning of D-Day.

It is 15 years later and today there are far fewer old soldiers in Normandy.  In not many more years there will be no one there to recall that day.  D-Day will just be past history with no eyewitnesses to the event and that is sad to contemplate.  Treasure the few that remain while you can.

Do Over Time

Yes, it is that time of year once again – do over time or redo time or, in golf terms, time for a Mulligan.  New Year’s is here once again and with it comes the annual do over list we lovingly call RESOLUTIONS.  Admit it - most of our resolutions are retreads of things we promised ourselves we would do last New Years, or for many, many New Years past.

I am sure lots of folks are in need of  a do over.  President Obama would probably love a do over on the health care website.  The Republicans would surely like one on the government shutdown.  Although in that regard I have a theory that the only reason that got resolved was because the public was becoming aware of just how little they needed all this governing and that thought petrified all those politicos.  Anthony Weiner in New York would certainly love a do over for 2013 but, wait a minute, wasn’t 2013 a do over for 2012.  I am not sure a back-to-back do over is allowed.  I’ll have to check the rulebook.

The Romans knew what they were doing when they named the first month of the year after the two-faced god Janus who looks behind and ahead at the same time.  As I look back at 2013 I don’t really see any need for any personal do over or at least nor any of any consequence..  It was a good year for me and mine in a lot of ways; the good of the last twelve months far out weighing the bad.  We have a new granddaughter; the health of my family has been good, and, my own health has been fine in spite of all the abuse I give it from time to time.  New people have entered my life while time gives me a growing appreciation for friends that have been with me along this wonderful trail of life, Therefore - no Mulligan for 2013 for me.

Looking ahead I have to admit I don’t make New Years Resolutions anymore.  I ascribe to a certain philosophy that was introduced to me several years ago by one of my favorite songwriters – Warren Zevon.  In 2002 Zevon was diagnosed with an inoperable cancer and given six months to live.  His final public appearance was on the David Letterman show in October of that year and  during the course of his interview Letterman asked him what he might have learned about life and death and Zevon responded by saying, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

This simple statement has become my mantra for life.  If I can just see every day as a sandwich and enjoy every bite, every day becomes an opportunity for a do over; every morning will bring a new resolution, not for the year, just for the day I have been given.  So far every sandwich has been terrific.

Happy New Year everyone and enjoy every sandwich.

Christmas Past

After a hiatus of over a year I have decided to once again put my friends to sleep with my meanderings.

Christmas Past

When I was five Christmas came to North Carolina so cold and crisp the air crackled and winter-browned fescue crunched beneath your feet as you ran across hoarfrost.   Christmas is never quite as special again as it is when you are five; when Santa is real and the excitement of the season has been building in you since Thanksgiving.

My Father was a Christmas person who, all his life, delighted in the season.  The rest of the year he may be the staid serious businessman but in December he became a child once again.  One of his delights was to leave a trail of Hershey Kisses in the house for to me to find at different places on different days.  He would explain to me that these were left by Santa’s elves who had come in the night to check and see if I had been a good boy.  It is hard to believe that in those days of the ‘50’s that Christmas was the only time I remember ever seeing Hershey Kisses.  When I was five it would become for me then, and for all my life, the year of the Christmas Train.  

It is an unwritten law, only known to five year olds, that you must be awake before sunrise on Christmas morning.  Not wanting to break this special rule, I was indeed up before daylight with the wide- eyed anticipation you can only have if you’re five, and its Christmas morning.  I raced from my room across the piles of Batman and Superman comics that had lulled me to an unwanted sleep the night before, almost leapt across the steel grating of the floor furnace in the hall, in to the living room and on with the lights to find if I had been “bad or good”. 

There, racing around the Christmas tree, was an electric train.  It had an engine, a coal car, a cattle car, and even a shiny red caboose.  It was a real, true Christmas surprise you see, because I had never asked Santa for a train.  Yet as soon as I saw it I knew it was what I needed to make it that most special Christmas.  I cannot remember another single detail of that Christmas sixty-one years ago but I remember my train and I remember one of the best days I ever spent with my Father as we took turns being engineer.

Sixty-one years later I still have my Christmas Train.  I keep each car in the original boxes they came in when I was five.  The engine quit running many years ago but I still hold on to it. Sometimes when the air crackles with cold and the grass is white with frost I open the box, and pull out the old engine. I breathe in its familiar smells and for just an instant; just a brief moment, Daddy is driving the train, Mama is in the kitchen filling the air with the smell of baked cookies, and I am five again.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

As Time Goes By. 

Civility

Civility

CIVILITY: noun

1) formal politeness and courtesy in behavior or speech: I hope we can treat each other with civility and respect

2) polite remarks used in formal conversation : she was exchanging civilities with his mother

In early use the term denoted the state of being a citizen and hence good citizenship or orderly behavior.

Believe it or not there was a time when people actually talked to each other instead of just yelling.  It was a time when people could disagree without being disagreeable; a time when a debate meant orderly discourse and not a shouting match.

The recent Presidential primaries and the upcoming election have reinforced to me once again the complete lack of respect we have for each other in this country today.   South Carolina, where I live, went through a fierce Republican primary fight, yet I would wager that not one in five of the electorate could today tell where most of the candidates stood on the issues.  It all seemed to center around the dog on Romney’s car roof and Gingrich’s ex-wife.

The lack of civility in this country is not the preserve as politicians.  Recently I watched as the President of the United States, while making a speech, was repeatedly interrupted by a reporter.  Shame on that member of the media and anyone who cannot respect the Office of the President regardless of the occupant.  Harry Truman once fired the most publically popular general in the U.S. Army making the comment, “I don’t give a damn what he says about Harry Truman but he will damn well not disrespect the office.”

Now we are approaching the election of that same high office and the focus on one side is on Romney’s tax returns and, yet again, where President Obama was born on the other. Instead of strategists, both major parties now hire attack dogs whose only qualification seems to be that they be able to scream louder on news shows than their counterparts.  I find this embarrassing both as an American and as a member of a supposed civilized culture.  If you want to see a stark contrast to the current environment queue up the Kennedy/Nixon debates on YouTube sometime and listen for a few minutes. What you will see is perhaps boring though relevant to the times.  What you will also see is two men who shared a great deal of personal animosity but were able to put that animosity aside and act “civilly” towards each other for the benefit of the debate.  You will also see there is no live audience to incite or influence the discussion.

 As long she was alive we visited my wife’s grandmother whenever we came to South Carolina.  It never failed that as we were leaving, her last words to us were always the same: “Y’all be nice to each other.”  Mr. Romney and President Obama, you don’t have to like each other.  You don’t have to agree with each other.  However you can keep a civil tongue and be nice to each other.

Be nice to each other.  Good advice for presidents and paupers alike.

As Time Goes By.

At the Beach

At the Beach

Recently my wife and I went to the beach.  It was our second trip this summer and, hopefully we’ll get back a couple of more times before the cold weather returns.  We both love the beach.  She gets her love honestly, having grown up less than a two-hour drive from the South Carolina coast.  I wasn’t that fortunate; having grown up in a town in North Carolina twice that distance from the sea.  Yet I share her love of sand and surf as If I was born there.  In fact my first visit to the sea was when I was six weeks old

My family was fortunate to have a cottage at Carolina Beach; the operative word here being cottage.  My children would have been aghast if I had tried to make them stay in such a place when we took our family vacations to the beach.  Yet, to us, in the 1950’s, it was comfortable enough and we loved out trips there in the summer.  It was especially meaningful to me because it was the one place my Father became my Dad.

My father and I were never close.  I neither feel any guilt nor have any animosity for this relationship.  It is just a cold, hard, fact.  My Father was a child of the depression and I was a child of television.  He grew up worrying about his next meal.  I grew up worrying I wouldn’t have the right color alligator shirt.  His work was his life, first and foremost.  My life was Elvis and cars.  Yet there was always one time when he quit being a businessman and provider and one place where started being a Dad.  That was the time we spent to together at the beach.

My fondest memories of him are those precious days over too few years we spent at Carolina Beach.  It was there we spent hours fishing in the surf, swimming in the sea.  It was there he taught me how to float on my back over the swells and to body surf in to the shore.  It was there I learned to bait a hook, to fish from shore and from a pier.  I remember when I was eight standing side by side with him on the Center Fishing Pier when the Spots were running, each of us pulling up two at a time on our lines.  When I had a backlash on my reel he would swap with me, untangle my line and hand it back.  We caught fish that day until the coolers were overflowing.  It is to this day still the best day fishing I can ever remember.  He taught me how to dig in the wet sand for sand fleas and then use them for bait.  He taught me how to fly kites.  He showed me love though like most men in his generation he could hardly ever verbalize it.

My Dad is gone now as is that little cottage at Carolina Beach.  It gave way, as most of the single-family dwellings on the beachfront, to condos ages ago.  It has become, like so much of what I write about, just another old man’s memory.  I don’t fish anymore.  It seems hardly anyone fishes from the surf anymore.  I guess there are just too many people on the beaches these days.  I still body surf and float on my back over the swells though I never mastered like my Dad who seemed to be able to stay like that all day.

If you ever go with us to the sea and I wander off my own to sit and stare at the water.  Please don’t take it personal.  You did nothing to upset me.  I’m just watching my Dad as he rides slowly over the rolling waves……

As Time Goes By