He not busy being born is busy dying

Happy Juneteenth to you, where ever you are. I could offer you an explanation of Juneteenth, with nary a card to be found in your neighborhood Hallmark store, but there's a lot of unresolved sorrow, fear, anguish and anger associated with the origins and causes for the system of oppression whose end, in the United States as we knew it then, Juneteenth helps mark. It was on June 19, 1865, when slaves in Galveston, Texas, learned that the War Between the States had ended and that they were now free.

In the here (and hear) and now, basically lasting all day today (a day later than is historically accurate but it's Saturday and what doesn't celebrate better on Saturdays, right?) at the Marina at Norwich Harbor across from Louis Brown Park, will be quite-the-do. And large fun has been a part of these annual celebrations in Norwich for the 20 years that the Norwich NAACP has sponsored them.

In a sense, holiday celebrations help bring different people, and peoples, together, to reflect on who they are, who they were and who they are on the way to becoming. Ideally, each of us sees in one another a reflection of ourselves as well as a better understanding of our unique talents and gifts-the stuff that makes you, you and me, me. That's why the Juneteenth party at the Norwich Marina is so large--not only all the people who are going to be there are at it, but all those who've come before them and those generations as yet to be born who will fulfill their promises and who will dream their own dreams and then live those as well.

So celebrate with us here in Norwich or where ever in the world you find yourself today.Sometimes, unless and until you look back it's hard to see how far you've traveled. It can be easy to realize the journey has a distance yet to accomplished, and to feel daunted by the challenge of that task, but it is sweeter and sweetened by the knowledge of where we were and where we are now. "And if my thought dreams could be seen, They'd probably put my head in a guillotine. But it's alright, Ma, it's life and life only."
-bill kenny

So that's what Sirius means? You dog!

I drive a reasonable amount--tied to my being a Child of the Sixties when gas was cheap (Getty actually sold only one grade of fuel, premium, and it cost 35 cents a gallon (umm, when did they do away with the cents key on the computer keyboard? I can't find it-the dollar, $, I got it-right above the 4, but the cents is gone. Are gone. Am gone. Sic transit keyboard symbol.)) and was regarded by many of us of that era as a birthright. Look at the hot cars of that era, Mustang, Camaro, Firebird, GTO, Malibu SS, Charger, Wildcat, 442 and Barracuda....'good mileage' NEVER appeared in the advertising copy. Trust me on this one. Two certainties in the Sixties-stay away from the brown acid and don't fear the pump.

Bad habits, especially old, bad habits, are hard to break. So I still drive a lot. I have a better stereo now than I had back in the day when 8-Track players ruled the dashboard. All I can say about them thirty-five years on is that they seemed like a good idea at the time. I still have a player and recorder in a box in my basement (a Panasonic brand, as I recall-a multi-voltage model able to accommodate 110 volts at 60 cycles and, by swapping out the capstan, also 220 volts at 50 cycles. Right after hallucinogenic drugs are legalized, I'll make some nice money on e-bay, or not-especially looking at the price of shipping 45 eight track cartridges to some lucky owner, 30 bucks, ow!). And little then, or now, is better than getting your Drive on and cranking the sounds--assuming it's more Springsteen than Manilow and more AC/DC than Air Supply. But to each his own, I suppose (except in my car).

I spend a large amount of time behind the wheel talking to other drivers--technically, it's probably called swearing or muttering imprecations in their direction. I am, like most auto-Americans an obliviot once my right hand turns the ignition key. The only one in my universe is me, I and everyone else is cautioned. I scan my sector constantly and don't drive too fast or too slow (Goldilocks' Driving Academy closed before I was born), check my mirrors on a regular basis and watch the following distances.

As I mentioned, I'm not especially generous in my interactions with others behind their wheels and find myself asking aloud often, far too often suggests my wife over the tunes, what was he thinking? I don't really expect an answer and since I am at least half the time responsible in some way for the other driver's actions, it's just as well I never get an answer--but, at least in theory, I could ask and receive.

Yesterday on 395 South, I saw a husky dog, maybe a malamute or perhaps a small pony, I'm not sure exactly what, with her/his (?) head out the passenger's side window of a white Toyota Solara convertible (with the top up)--wind whistling through her/his umm, fur, its snout pitched forward and the sides of her/his mouth rippling slightly as the air rushed through her/his partially opened mouth. Why do dogs not merely like to stick their heads out of car windows, they LOVE doing it? All the 'fetch' in the world, all the belly rubs, all the 'who's a good boy?' in that stupid cartoon-voice humans use when speaking to a dog, all of that aside--I don't care how carefully trained the animal is, or the history and pedigree of breeding that resulted in its existence. Doberman, Dalmatian, Dachshund or Great Dane--open a car door and your dog calls shotgun.

I'd love to know what is going through their heads but suspect it's more towards 'damn! This is why I chase em! as opposed to 'Clay Aiken! Crank it!'
-bill kenny

of Mice and Men

A week or so ago, there was an exhibition and information session at the Otis Library in Norwich, CT on city plans and the history of city planning in Norwich over the years. I didn't go, not because I wasn't (or am not) interested in what happens in the city in which I live but, as James McMurty says, "I'm not from here, I just live here." Based on what I read in the local papers, it seemed to go about the way I feared it would.

The accounts suggested those who attended were impressed but dismayed in almost equal amounts by the number of detailed studies accomplished (and the decades these plans covered) and how almost, without exception, they were shelved, left to gather dust until cleaned and moved when the shelf was reorganized to accommodate the next plan that was commissioned. There seemed to be an undercurrent of chagrin at the realization a lot of folks had asked a lot of questions, and gotten a large number of answers and then no one was interested in any of it.

Seems almost like a case of MADD, Municipal Attention Deficit Disorder, which is a challenge many small cities, with large numbers of volunteers, will always face that's compounded by the twin plagues of too much to do and not enough time to do it all in. In Norwich our City Council and Mayor all have full-time, and real-time, jobs and lives beyond City Hall. They have hired professional city management and department heads and municipal employees but when one of us residents says 'somebody oughta do somethin' about that (whatever that is on any given day) we usually are thinking of the Council and Mayor. Makes sense-we elect them--we don't vote for the Comptroller or the Personnel Director.

And, think about it: what exactly is a plan? It's a map, of sorts, that takes you from where we are to where we'd like to be and transports you from now to some time in the future. It's a little bit like going to Grandma's except, because we're a city, there's sometimes discussions about whose Grandma we're going to visit and what her house looks like. I always want a house with a yard big enough for a swing set (and a pony, of course)--but some think a Starbucks is a better idea while others don't speak up at all until after we've driven past Grandma's house. And don't get me started on what route to drive to get there or whose car we're going in! The discussions on all of this can get so heated, there's a danger we lose sight of what it was we set out to do.

That may be what befell a lot of the plans on display at the library. That so little of any of them has made its way into our daily lives is probably more a sin of omission than commission (you can take the FARC out of the church but you can't take the altar boy out of the FARC). The sad part is, to me, I have little doubt we, like towns and cities everywhere, have not gone around the same bridge twice (sorry, Captain Yossarian) for the last time. Unless (and until) George and Lenny agree on where to build the rabbit farm, the chances Steinbeck will ever meet us there or at his grandmother's house are moot.
-bill kenny

Show Your Work

Growing up and attending Catholic schools, I encountered Sister Mary Jean, more a force of nature in a black habit than a member of the Sisters of Charity, who, today, we would say, was as interested in process as product. She didn't phrase it that way-- she wasn't so grandiose. She told us to 'show your work' on tests.

What she meant, of course, was she didn't want just answers, though they were always expected (correct ones, especially) but she also wanted us to show her we understood how things worked. It wasn't enough to produce an answer when the question had you multiply compound fractions. She'd been around the block often enough, despite the habit and the crucifix, to realize seventh-graders have excellent eyesight and my correct answer could have started out on Judy Burns' paper. (It didn't Judy, I swear. Your handwriting was terrible-you should've been a doctor. What? Oh-you are a doctor. Well, congratulations! I suppose there's little chance of a 'classmate discount' forty-two years on? Figured I'd ask.).

In a lot of ways, as I totter towards my dotage, I wonder why we don't have more Sister Mary Jeans, not just in our schools (though that would sure help, imho) but scattered across our society. We have reinvented ourselves financially as a Beggar Nation. living on OPM (other people's money) and well beyond both our, and their, means. We don't seem to make anything here anymore-aside from weapons of all sorts (and we spend a lot of money on them) and I can't be alone in wondering why it is we cannot harness the genius of design and construction that gives us the Virginia-class submarine, or the latest fighter jet or Stryker vehicle to produce livable and affordable housing, or to rebuild so many of our urban centers. (I just had an image of Xzibit, hosting Pimp My Ride with a Bradley, pop into my head-I apologize.)

For over two centuries, we were the envy of every other nation on earth. Citizens of every color and nationality aspired to be Americans, even if they had no actual idea of who we were or where we were located. We were as much a notion as a nation and we made friends by keeping our promises and showing our work. And now we have a short term memory, the doubtful handshake and situational ethics.
-bill kenny

A Bridge not unlike that of San Luis Rey

Except for the part about the bridge, and the San Luis Rey part, too if we're being honest.

I had an errand that necessitated I walk from the building where my office is located to another building, about halfway across the property, but up a steep hill. I have made this trip often in sixteen and a half years and habit is stronger than reading comprehension, sometimes. Even though I saw a sign telling me the cut-through I like to use was closed, I kept walking until I got to the rent-a-fence that blocked the concrete stairs that I normally take.

I chose to take a short-cut that, as is so often the case, proved to be a long cut though it was a nice day and the walk was pleasant enough, so I can't really complain. What was a little daunting was the elaborate metal stairs that had been constructed beyond the "lake" on the upper half of the property. I put quotes around "lake" because it's not really a lake at all; it's a man made puddle, with dirt and algae and plants that grow up through the water, but which has a concrete bottom (I haven't actually seen it, but I've been told by folks even older than I who claim it's been drained and they've seen it) but it has no fish of any kind (sorry JETMEC) so I call it the fake lake.

Anyway, near the (real) picnic area by the sand of the fake lake--which is very nice, btw; there are barbecue pits and grills and lots of benches and tables under the pavilion, there was a bug zapper, still plugged in. I am not a bug sympathizer by any means, but it's 1245 on a summer's day, no one is using the beach, the fake lake or the picnic area. I'm the only person anywhere near any of this and someone is electrocuting bugs for no reason at all. I note this for the record just in case The Great Scorer is keeping track-I would like at least partial credit for a mitzvah in mentioning this and my unease at the unfairness and meanspiritedness of it all.

The metal stairs reminded me of Led Zeppelin and, surrendering to my own power of suggestion, I thought about one of their tunes while I hiked up those stairs. I couldn't help but admire the art and artifice of their construction--every alloyed component, from the steps through the handrails to the nights and bolts (some the size of my fist) reflected the brilliant mid-June daylight like a thousand suns and I wondered what it might have looked like to anyone from a distance watching me ascend the stairs. Then I flashed on Yossarian in the tree watching Snowden's funeral and how the Chaplain, graveside, had thought the argument Yossarian and Milo had had about wearing clothes was somehow Old Testament.

My knees aren't what they once were-as a matter of fact half of one of them isn't a knee at all, it's a replacement of some kind of super compound or substance developed originally for the space program (like Tang? I asked my surgeon hopefully, but not at all like Tang as it turns out) and I had to stop about a third of the way up the stairs and then a second time somewhat later. It was on the second wheeze and knees recovery stop that I saw a deer, technically a fawn (I think) below me, traversing the terrain silently unaware that I was there and uninterested in my silver staircase.

A minute later (the stairs are steep and recovery can take a moment) I saw a hawk through the trees fly overhead and then plunge at what seemed to be a hopeless angle towards the earth only to pull up at the last possible moment and fly away. As he did (I don't know why I think the hawk was he, and I don't know how people know these things), I could see in his talon what might have been a frog or a lizard now about to be lunch. What a pity the hawk didn't want bugs-I knew where the deep fryer and a large supply was waiting--perhaps Kermit or the Geico gecko might have lived to laugh another day.

I was standing in the middle of 'raw nature' but only about 45 seconds away from some 10,000 people in any direction I so chose, proving as Descartes suggested, defining infinite space is a dicey proposition and more mental than physical. I could have been in Grover's Corners though without Professor Willard who always seemed to see everything but notice nothing. We can't all be Emily Webb, I guess, and we all certainly can't return to a happy day, now can we?
-bill kenny

When the nuance gets lost in the noise

Sometimes the things we do speak so loudly, I can't hear what we're saying. At the national political level, it seems that with as much and many differences as exist between the two presumptive candidates of the major parties we could find something more to talk about than the ethnic heritage of one or the age of the other. And yet, we persist.....

Here in Connecticut, during the special session of the Legislature being convened because the regular session didn't get everything accomplished it needed to (when you or I do this at our jobs we usually wind up having short, somewhat intense and vaguely unpleasant conversations with the people for whom we work--when we're lucky. Otherwise they just yell at us very loudly all the time we're cleaning out our desks and leaving. I have, as you can surely tell, experience in the performance expectations portion of the employment process.) and now these same folks will hold an abbreviated session to get done what they failed to do for the first five months (I think this session actually began in February). A new topic, I'm told, is an investigation into the price of gas in the Nutmeg State with the full intention to take action.

Perhaps I can save my representatives some steps...gasoline and diesel fuel are expensive because the oil from which they are made is expensive. We are, in little Connecticut, part of a nation's voracious appetite for fossil fuels, competing with a world of other nations, all of whom have appetites equalling or exceeding our own. Demand is driving supply and we have more money than common sense. Why else would we drive Hummers and other vehicles larger than the nation states of San Marino or Andorra, and be the sole occupant of such a vehicle--and then, wait for it, go to the filling station and whine about the cost of fuel? Class dismissed and good luck, if you're an incumbent, in persuading me to vote for you this November.

BTW, am I the only one who paused a moment at one of the hyperlinks when realizing that the CIA, of all people, has a fact book on The Holy See, Monaco and every other nation on earth, no matter how large or small? Aren't there better uses for the assets who research and develop all of that information? Perhaps instead (I don't know) finding the evil-doers or weapons of mass delusion or something? I must admit, I like their kids' page though, the secure server is a bit intimidating don't you think?

And here in Norwich, the Rose of New England (okay the bloom, in some areas, isn't so pronounced) where a few of the police officers recently have made news all of us would prefer they didn't, the concern seems to be what should we do and less about who should be doing it. So far, we seem to be cozying up to the idea of talking about a study commissioned, accomplished and paid for in 2007 that doesn't seem to have gotten the visibility it could or should have. Like most bipeds, we are pretty good, when cornered, at facing up to our responsibilities and maybe, this time, we won't get lost in thinking that if we talk about a problem we have solved it. Perhaps we'll find out tonight at the City Council meeting. But only perhaps.
-bill kenny

Wash in Cold Water, only

I'm not a Biblicist, whatever that is (I'm hoping I just made up the next 'buzz' word because I'm thinking there's money in that, right?) but I'm wondering if I should be paying more attention to all of those who speak of 'end times.' "Everybody I talk to is ready to leave with the light of the morning. They've seen the end coming down long enough to believe that they've heard their last warning. Standing alone, each has his own ticket in his hand. And as the evening descends, I sit thinking 'bout Everyman."

Self-absorbed egotist that I am, it's not everyman I'm thinking about. I'm not so sure we're not actually at, at the very least, Omega Flats (nice try, Steinbeck). Instead of being the most interesting election since Kennedy-Nixon in 1960 (I think most of us agree it's one of the more vital national elections any of us will ever have the opportunity to vote in, no matter how young we are or how old we hope to grow) this fall promises to be the ugliest and nastiest since Van Buren and Harrison.

We are using all the tools of technology to create information jets in a media hot tub--'I'm not one to look behind, I know that times must change....' and I can create a news service that will feed me only what I want to read about and let the world leave me alone. But I don't think I know where to turn anymore when I seek information without an agenda.

We have a New York Times, fearful of its own future, struggling to find its place in the Brave New World it helped create, which takes my breath away and we have their Fellow Travelers in the mainstream media, print or electronic, who, instead of elevating the tone and tenor of news coverage on this orb, have, instead, become TMZ and Perez Hilton.

We read 'news' stories, usually unattributed about John McCain collecting disability or 'voting against' the Next GI Bill and Michele Obama's thesis being embargoed from public scrutiny and Barack's lapel seemingly never having an American Flag lapel. Instead of a discussion, as a country and a culture, on how we think the road ahead could and should look as we continue into our third century as the world's oldest surviving democracy, and how the presumptive nominees of the two major parties (and there are others seeking the Office of the President but I wouldn't hold my breath waiting to hear a lot about any of them. Though, there's a certain something, perhaps the Jersey Devil, in Charles Maxham's somewhat quixotic attempt that makes me smile) could shape that discussion, we have diatribes on why the other guy eats bugs (except we're not honest enough to come out and say that).

If YouTube had existed at the birth of Christ, how many hits do you think that clip with Mary Magdalene in the Upper Room behind the closed Door would have by now? Would FDR be able to survive My Left Nutmeg and how would Richard Daley (Sr.) have handled the Chicago convention if he would have needed to step over the bloggers who will be covering the 2008 DNC convention (and those kvetching that The Bilerico Project wasn't accredited--neither am I. Life is hard, wear a cup).

How can we have so many channels of communication and know less than we did yesterday? We can do the innuendo. We can dance and sing. When it's said and done, we haven't told you a thing. We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry.
-bill kenny