One hundred and fifty years ago today the state of South Carolina seceded from the Union thus putting into motion a chain of events which culminated in four of the bloodiest years in American history. There was no debate at all among the 170 delegates who assembled in Charleston, South Carolina to discuss the matter. (The reason why the secession convention met in Charleston instead of the state capitol in Columbia was because of a smallpox outbreak was taking place there in Columbia at the time). The ordinance of secession passed unanimously and was immediately followed by great public celebrations.
If you visit Charleston, South Carolina today (and I recommend that you should because it is a very quaint and beautiful Southern city) you will find when you visit many of the historic homes and mansions there a copy of the ordinance of secession signed by an ancestor of the person who once owned the home. New Englanders liked to boast about how their ancestors signed the Mayflower Compact. South Carolinians like to boast about their ancestors signed the ordinance of secession.
In the months that followed ten other Southern states followed suit. Secession took on many forms. Some states held special conventions to secede. Most states were content to let their state legislatures do the work. A few others coupled state legislative action with plebiscites which allowed voters to add their voices to the question.
Still the act of secession was not without internal division. Just because eleven Southern states seceded didn’t mean every resident in those states wholeheartedly supported the act. There were dissenting voices. Historian Eric Foner in his landmark book on Reconstruction devotes a sub-chapter in his book in discussing Southern Unionism. Opposition to secession and the newly formed Confederate States of America flourished in Western Virginia, Eastern Tennessee, Western North Carolina, Northern Alabama and Georgia and in the Ozark Mountain region of Arkansas and Missouri. Even in Texas there were pockets of pro-Union sentiment. Every Confederate state except for South Carolina contributed volunteers to the Union cause.
My own maternal ancestors, the Heatherlys, were living examples of this. The Heatherlys of Eastern Tennessee fought in the Union Army (where they were called Tennessee Tories). Two members of the Heatherly family of Cullman County, Alabama fought in the Union Cavalry (where they were called Mossbacks). The younger brother of my maternal great-great-great-great grandfather Aaron Heatherly (Moses Heatherly) first joined the Confederate Army and fought with Jeb Stuart before deserting to join the Union army in 1864—Aaron who lost three sons in the Civil War never forgave his brother for what he did.
Secession had been percolating in the American crucible since the Revolution. The eternal question that vexed our Founding Fathers was: where did Federal power end and where did States Rights begin?
Up until 1860 there had been false starts. The Kentucky Resolutions of the late 1790s, the Nullification crisis of the 1830s, and the Compromises of 1820 and 1850 either ignited or tried to dowse the flames of secession.
When secession did come and with it Civil War the issue was decided not in legislative halls but on the battlefield. In many ways the Civil War was the second Constitutional Convention where the political future of our young country was written in the blood shed by 600,000 dead Americans.
What’s striking about the North’s reaction to secession was how passionate Unionists were about upholding the powers and forms of the government. In Ken Burns’ Civil War he quotes the famous Sullivan Ballou letter where Ballou wrote “I know how American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government…” and who could forget what Abraham Lincoln said in the Gettysburg Address, “and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
Today we mock, damn, and demonize our government.
Were we more naïve back then or have we become more foolish and obdurate now?
When we contemplate this anniversary we must also be aware that there is a Civil War going on in American today. Even though there are no bullets flying there is an ideological war going on inside this country and with it—a form of symbolic secession from the Union.
The founding fathers of secession of 1860 damned the Federal Government for what they saw as attacks upon their property (i.e. their slaves) and the rights of the individual states. Today Americans damn the government on a more individual basis. Discontent is rampant and no solutions are in sight.
What’s sad is that America has become just as much an ideological tinderbox now as we were back in 1860. Even though we might not erupt into armed conflict our nation is being torn asunder in the name of ideologies that really do not resolve our problems or our conflicts. Instead we fight one another merely for the sake of fighting and our nation continues to implode from within.
And in this Civil War there are no winners….
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Katahdin Mountain Trip Report
MOUNT KATAHDIN-MAINE
OCTOBER 8, 2010-UNSUCCESSFUL
In my thirteen years of high-pointing, I had bagged all the Northeastern states save for Maine. I had delayed going after Maine because I wanted to go after other highpoints but for this year, I decided to try my luck at the terminus of the Appalachian Trail.
My attempt was part of a larger trip which included visits to Acadia National Park and visiting some Maine lighthouses in and around the vicinity.
I got into Millinocket (which is base camp for many a hiker going along the Appalachian Trail) on Wednesday October 6 and made a quick trip to Baxter State Park to get info on how to reserve a slot in the Day Use Parking Lot at Katahdin Stream. The ranger at the gate gave me great info and when I returned to town, I went to Baxter State Park HQ to reserve my parking slot.
I didn’t go into this hike feeling very confident. My main concern was the weather. Reports throughout the week were not encouraging and I had only a two day window to climb the mountain. I was afraid I would not get a shot at the peak at all. The following day the 7th was dark, rainy, and depressing.
The weather for 8th (the day I would make my attempt) was only slightly better. It would be sunny in the morning but there was a threat of rain in the afternoon. I was determined to get as early a start as I could.
I woke up at 5:00AM on the 8th and quickly ate breakfast at the Appalachian Trail Café. Even at 5:00AM it was crowded, filled with truckers and hikers like me.
I was back at my hotel at 6:00AM and promptly suited up for the journey. In a few minutes I was on the road to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate at Baxter State Park. It’s a sixteen mile drive and it takes roughly 30 minutes to get to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate. After clearing the gate it’s a 7.7 mile drive to Katahdin Stream campground. It’s all dirt roads when you go inside Baxter State Park and the speed limit ranges from 10-20 MPH so it’s slow going all the way. I didn’t reach Katahdin Stream Campground until 7:00AM
The ranger on duty there said it was Class 3 conditions on the trail—meaning the trail was open but it wasn’t recommended you go above the tree line. The summit of Katahdin itself was shrouded in fog. Somehow I knew I would be unsuccessful with this attempt but decided to go as far as I could and hope against hope.
It was 7:30AM when I signed in at the register at the start of the trail. I wasn’t alone. A team of three other hikers (two male and one female) were with me. They wanted me to break trail and I did but rather quickly I lost them somewhere (they later told me they had stopped for coffee).
The first mile of the Hunt Trail (which is part of the Appalachian Trail) is gentle on the legs. You are enshrouded by the peak colors of autumn in a narrow tunnel of yellows, reds, and oranges; your footfalls softened by the black, moist soil; the only sound effects being the bass roar of Katahdin Stream and, later, Katahdin Falls.
The air was bracingly cool and I was glad to be bundled up in my L.L. Bean equipment. I was wearing layers and felt quite secure in my Gore-Tex cocoon.
My pace was moderate and I was in no rush. I passed the first mile marker and quickly afterwards crossed below the Katahdin Falls. Once you do that is when the going gets tougher and you encounter the rocks. I thought Mt. Marcy in Upstate New York was onerous but Marcy is a walk in the park compared with Katahdin.
The granite boulders at Katahdin are something to behold and they get more ominous the higher up you go.
I took my first rest break at 8:25AM and munched on a candy bar atop this moss-covered boulder right in the middle of the trail. I was shaded by the dense stands of trees and content to commune with the silence.
When I resumed hiking the trail narrowed even further and for the first time in my high-pointing career I was forced to wade through a stream for quite a ways. Just before you reach the boulder fields at the midway part of the trail, the trail is subject to considerable run-off of water as you go up and down. The soil was a black viscous mud and the rocks were sunk into it. Water flowed over my boots and I silently thanked God for the Gore-Tex linings.
It was slow-going and hard on the legs. The higher I went the steeper it became. The other hikers who accompanied me had passed me by earlier but I had caught up with them. I thought I was doing well in terms of my pace but when I came to the boulder field at the 2.8 mile mark, I was wondering what was going to come next. I knew it wouldn’t be easy but I was unprepared for the labyrinth which confronted me. I was thankful for the painted trail marks because if I had to blaze my own trail I would have failed miserably.
You spend your time looking for the paint marks and trying to find footholds and handholds. It requires hands free climbing. There are places where metal spikes are driven into the stone by necessity because without them you can neither go up or down. I had never done such technical climbing in my entire high-pointing career. Somehow though, I got through the tougher parts but I knew it would be tougher still when I would have to climb down. If I had had a helmet camera on me and my friends, relatives, and loved ones could see what I was doing, their collective hearts would have gone into their mouths.
It was in the boulder field that the hike swiftly went to hell.
The top of the mountain was shrouded in fog and the winds were blowing around 20-30 M.P.H. I had my balaclava on but there were times when the wind would blow the cloth over my eyes and I had to readjust it. A couple times I slightly bonked my head on the rocks but nothing serious. I never tripped or fell.
I took my second rest break near the bottom of the boulder field at 9:25AM. Removing my gloves to undo my pack was not easy. The temperature was definitely in the low 20’s at that elevation and I had to put my gloves back on or else risk them getting frozen.
It was during that second rest break that I got these weird thoughts in my head. I kept getting these visions of me falling to my death; of me slipping and breaking a leg or an arm or something else and being stranded on the trail, dying of exposure. I had never had such thoughts in my entire high-pointing career. It disturbed me. Once my break ended I resumed the ascent. The fog prevented me from gauging how much further I had to go before I reach the tablelands and the final approach to the summit.
If I had been very close I was determined to persevere regardless of the conditions but where was I? I wasn’t lost. I was on the trail and moving upward. It was the not knowing that was sapping my emotional strength. I was also worried about the descent because the boulder field would be infinitely tougher going down than going up. I would need lots of time to navigate this place. My prior calculation called for me to summit around 11:00AM and it was getting near to be 10:30AM. I had already passed the 3.2 mile mark painted on the rocks on the trail. By my calculation I had gone 3.3 or 3.4 miles on a 5.2 hike.
The wind was now really kicking up and it was blowing so loud you had to shout to be heard. The three hikers who had accompanied were ahead of me and on their way to the summit. Another man had passed me by as well.
At 3.4 miles I stopped and tried to discern how much further I had to go before reaching the tablelands. At times the fog would part and I could glimpse more and more boulders to be traversed and in a moment I realized I had a long, long way to go.
I was feeling at the end of my physical and emotional tether. My fears were magnifying.
At that moment, a voice inside my head said to me, “Are you ready to die?”
And before I could answer that devastating question, the voice asked me, “Is it worth your life?”
I stood amidst the boulders looked up at the dark rocky mass and realized that I would never ever climb Mt. Katahdin. I cried out, “I quit! I give up!”
I didn’t pause long. I knew I had a ton of work to do getting down this bloody mountain. It was 10:30AM when I decided to turn around.
For the next four hours I would be trying to descend.
Going down the boulder field took the longest time. I couldn’t make any mistakes. Any trip or fall could result in serious injury. I went at a tortoise like pace and paused frequently to eye up the footholds and handholds. When I got back to the parts of the boulder field which had the metal spikes, I did a lot of serious praying.
Amazingly while I was engrossed in my personal ordeal, there were hikers who were still going up the mountain despite the vile weather conditions. It was the worst example of summit fever I had ever seen. I told everyone and anyone who would listen that I was turning back. At least 3-4 hikers kept going up but four others agreed with me and started back down.
For me the hairiest part of the descent came at the bottom of the boulder field when you reach the last set of climbing spikes. I remember looking out over the ledge and seeing the sheer rock face and the narrow ledge below. I knew this was going to be scary and it was. I remember placing my feet carefully on both spikes and then shifting my body so I would descend downward like going down a ladder instead of sliding down on my butt. I remember hanging onto the bar for dear life while gingerly lowering my left foot onto the small stack of rocks within the cleft. When my left foot touched down, then I released my right foot from the climbing spike and lowered myself to the rocky ledge. I went only a small distance when I saw one of the hikers who were going down with me, trying to do what I did. I had to pause and coach her on where to place her feet. She did it like I did and got down safely.
Even after I cleared the boulder field, I could not relax. The rocky upper portions were fraught with danger. I couldn’t afford any slips or falls lest I suffer broken bones or other crippling injuries. Sometimes I eschewed dignity and slowly slid down the rocks on all fours to brace myself. It looked silly but it worked. I never slipped, tripped, or fell throughout the descent. Going down the stream bed on the trail was onerous because I was worried about my footing. Plus my boots were getting soaked and my feet were wet. Still I put one foot in front of the other and kept slogging downward.
I took rest breaks at 11:30 AM, 12:30PM and 1:45PM. The last rest break was the best one because I was below the storm clouds and the air was warmer and clearer. I could see the fall colors on the surrounding peaks and find peace amidst the madness above me.
I took pictures to preserve the experience.
After the last rest break, I crossed Katahdin Stream and the rocks gave way to soft earth. Every step brought me closer to safety and it was 2:30M when I signed out of the trail.
A lovely blonde-haired married woman was waiting anxiously by the register. Her husband was one of those who had gone up the trail and had passed me by on their way to the summit. I told her what happened to me and she became apprehensive when I told her how onerous the weather conditions were. I felt sorry for scaring her but I felt that I owed her the truth. There were others who were waiting for their loved ones to come down at Katahdin Stream campground. I spent twenty minutes at the parking lot discussing what happened to me. I left at 2:50 and cleared the Togue Gate at 3:15 and was back in Millinocket by 4:00PM.
When I look back at this hike I wonder to myself whether I could have made it if the weather conditions had been better.
I can’t answer that. In some roguish way I’m sort of grateful that the weather high up the mountain was bad because it gave me the perfect excuse to turn back.
This was my second high-pointing failure. My previous failure occurred in Nevada in September 2008 when during a reconnaissance of the Queen Mine approach to Boundary Peak, my SUV suffered a flat tire while descending down the gravel road which leads to the highway. I barely made it to the highway where I luckily was able to flag down a passing motorist who helped me change the flat and I was able to return to Bishop, California. That was not a real summit attempt but a reconnaissance.
Maine was my first failure during an actual summit attempt. In retrospect part of me feels I should have tried the Abol Trail instead of the Hunt Trail although later that night when I was having a drink at the Scootic Inn bar in Millinocket, a local told me that the Hunt Trail was the least technical climb of all the trails to Katahdin.
Will I return to Katahdin? I don’t know. It will be many years before I contemplate a return if ever.
Still I am grateful to God for delivering me from this ordeal. I am also grateful to my friends on Facebook who prayed for me during the hike itself. Your prayers were answered. Amen.
My next high-pointing journey will be easier (I hope). I will go after Driskill Mt. in Louisiana, all 535 feet of it in May 2011.
See you at the highpoints!
OCTOBER 8, 2010-UNSUCCESSFUL
In my thirteen years of high-pointing, I had bagged all the Northeastern states save for Maine. I had delayed going after Maine because I wanted to go after other highpoints but for this year, I decided to try my luck at the terminus of the Appalachian Trail.
My attempt was part of a larger trip which included visits to Acadia National Park and visiting some Maine lighthouses in and around the vicinity.
I got into Millinocket (which is base camp for many a hiker going along the Appalachian Trail) on Wednesday October 6 and made a quick trip to Baxter State Park to get info on how to reserve a slot in the Day Use Parking Lot at Katahdin Stream. The ranger at the gate gave me great info and when I returned to town, I went to Baxter State Park HQ to reserve my parking slot.
I didn’t go into this hike feeling very confident. My main concern was the weather. Reports throughout the week were not encouraging and I had only a two day window to climb the mountain. I was afraid I would not get a shot at the peak at all. The following day the 7th was dark, rainy, and depressing.
The weather for 8th (the day I would make my attempt) was only slightly better. It would be sunny in the morning but there was a threat of rain in the afternoon. I was determined to get as early a start as I could.
I woke up at 5:00AM on the 8th and quickly ate breakfast at the Appalachian Trail Café. Even at 5:00AM it was crowded, filled with truckers and hikers like me.
I was back at my hotel at 6:00AM and promptly suited up for the journey. In a few minutes I was on the road to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate at Baxter State Park. It’s a sixteen mile drive and it takes roughly 30 minutes to get to the Togue Pond Entrance Gate. After clearing the gate it’s a 7.7 mile drive to Katahdin Stream campground. It’s all dirt roads when you go inside Baxter State Park and the speed limit ranges from 10-20 MPH so it’s slow going all the way. I didn’t reach Katahdin Stream Campground until 7:00AM
The ranger on duty there said it was Class 3 conditions on the trail—meaning the trail was open but it wasn’t recommended you go above the tree line. The summit of Katahdin itself was shrouded in fog. Somehow I knew I would be unsuccessful with this attempt but decided to go as far as I could and hope against hope.
It was 7:30AM when I signed in at the register at the start of the trail. I wasn’t alone. A team of three other hikers (two male and one female) were with me. They wanted me to break trail and I did but rather quickly I lost them somewhere (they later told me they had stopped for coffee).
The first mile of the Hunt Trail (which is part of the Appalachian Trail) is gentle on the legs. You are enshrouded by the peak colors of autumn in a narrow tunnel of yellows, reds, and oranges; your footfalls softened by the black, moist soil; the only sound effects being the bass roar of Katahdin Stream and, later, Katahdin Falls.
The air was bracingly cool and I was glad to be bundled up in my L.L. Bean equipment. I was wearing layers and felt quite secure in my Gore-Tex cocoon.
My pace was moderate and I was in no rush. I passed the first mile marker and quickly afterwards crossed below the Katahdin Falls. Once you do that is when the going gets tougher and you encounter the rocks. I thought Mt. Marcy in Upstate New York was onerous but Marcy is a walk in the park compared with Katahdin.
The granite boulders at Katahdin are something to behold and they get more ominous the higher up you go.
I took my first rest break at 8:25AM and munched on a candy bar atop this moss-covered boulder right in the middle of the trail. I was shaded by the dense stands of trees and content to commune with the silence.
When I resumed hiking the trail narrowed even further and for the first time in my high-pointing career I was forced to wade through a stream for quite a ways. Just before you reach the boulder fields at the midway part of the trail, the trail is subject to considerable run-off of water as you go up and down. The soil was a black viscous mud and the rocks were sunk into it. Water flowed over my boots and I silently thanked God for the Gore-Tex linings.
It was slow-going and hard on the legs. The higher I went the steeper it became. The other hikers who accompanied me had passed me by earlier but I had caught up with them. I thought I was doing well in terms of my pace but when I came to the boulder field at the 2.8 mile mark, I was wondering what was going to come next. I knew it wouldn’t be easy but I was unprepared for the labyrinth which confronted me. I was thankful for the painted trail marks because if I had to blaze my own trail I would have failed miserably.
You spend your time looking for the paint marks and trying to find footholds and handholds. It requires hands free climbing. There are places where metal spikes are driven into the stone by necessity because without them you can neither go up or down. I had never done such technical climbing in my entire high-pointing career. Somehow though, I got through the tougher parts but I knew it would be tougher still when I would have to climb down. If I had had a helmet camera on me and my friends, relatives, and loved ones could see what I was doing, their collective hearts would have gone into their mouths.
It was in the boulder field that the hike swiftly went to hell.
The top of the mountain was shrouded in fog and the winds were blowing around 20-30 M.P.H. I had my balaclava on but there were times when the wind would blow the cloth over my eyes and I had to readjust it. A couple times I slightly bonked my head on the rocks but nothing serious. I never tripped or fell.
I took my second rest break near the bottom of the boulder field at 9:25AM. Removing my gloves to undo my pack was not easy. The temperature was definitely in the low 20’s at that elevation and I had to put my gloves back on or else risk them getting frozen.
It was during that second rest break that I got these weird thoughts in my head. I kept getting these visions of me falling to my death; of me slipping and breaking a leg or an arm or something else and being stranded on the trail, dying of exposure. I had never had such thoughts in my entire high-pointing career. It disturbed me. Once my break ended I resumed the ascent. The fog prevented me from gauging how much further I had to go before I reach the tablelands and the final approach to the summit.
If I had been very close I was determined to persevere regardless of the conditions but where was I? I wasn’t lost. I was on the trail and moving upward. It was the not knowing that was sapping my emotional strength. I was also worried about the descent because the boulder field would be infinitely tougher going down than going up. I would need lots of time to navigate this place. My prior calculation called for me to summit around 11:00AM and it was getting near to be 10:30AM. I had already passed the 3.2 mile mark painted on the rocks on the trail. By my calculation I had gone 3.3 or 3.4 miles on a 5.2 hike.
The wind was now really kicking up and it was blowing so loud you had to shout to be heard. The three hikers who had accompanied were ahead of me and on their way to the summit. Another man had passed me by as well.
At 3.4 miles I stopped and tried to discern how much further I had to go before reaching the tablelands. At times the fog would part and I could glimpse more and more boulders to be traversed and in a moment I realized I had a long, long way to go.
I was feeling at the end of my physical and emotional tether. My fears were magnifying.
At that moment, a voice inside my head said to me, “Are you ready to die?”
And before I could answer that devastating question, the voice asked me, “Is it worth your life?”
I stood amidst the boulders looked up at the dark rocky mass and realized that I would never ever climb Mt. Katahdin. I cried out, “I quit! I give up!”
I didn’t pause long. I knew I had a ton of work to do getting down this bloody mountain. It was 10:30AM when I decided to turn around.
For the next four hours I would be trying to descend.
Going down the boulder field took the longest time. I couldn’t make any mistakes. Any trip or fall could result in serious injury. I went at a tortoise like pace and paused frequently to eye up the footholds and handholds. When I got back to the parts of the boulder field which had the metal spikes, I did a lot of serious praying.
Amazingly while I was engrossed in my personal ordeal, there were hikers who were still going up the mountain despite the vile weather conditions. It was the worst example of summit fever I had ever seen. I told everyone and anyone who would listen that I was turning back. At least 3-4 hikers kept going up but four others agreed with me and started back down.
For me the hairiest part of the descent came at the bottom of the boulder field when you reach the last set of climbing spikes. I remember looking out over the ledge and seeing the sheer rock face and the narrow ledge below. I knew this was going to be scary and it was. I remember placing my feet carefully on both spikes and then shifting my body so I would descend downward like going down a ladder instead of sliding down on my butt. I remember hanging onto the bar for dear life while gingerly lowering my left foot onto the small stack of rocks within the cleft. When my left foot touched down, then I released my right foot from the climbing spike and lowered myself to the rocky ledge. I went only a small distance when I saw one of the hikers who were going down with me, trying to do what I did. I had to pause and coach her on where to place her feet. She did it like I did and got down safely.
Even after I cleared the boulder field, I could not relax. The rocky upper portions were fraught with danger. I couldn’t afford any slips or falls lest I suffer broken bones or other crippling injuries. Sometimes I eschewed dignity and slowly slid down the rocks on all fours to brace myself. It looked silly but it worked. I never slipped, tripped, or fell throughout the descent. Going down the stream bed on the trail was onerous because I was worried about my footing. Plus my boots were getting soaked and my feet were wet. Still I put one foot in front of the other and kept slogging downward.
I took rest breaks at 11:30 AM, 12:30PM and 1:45PM. The last rest break was the best one because I was below the storm clouds and the air was warmer and clearer. I could see the fall colors on the surrounding peaks and find peace amidst the madness above me.
I took pictures to preserve the experience.
After the last rest break, I crossed Katahdin Stream and the rocks gave way to soft earth. Every step brought me closer to safety and it was 2:30M when I signed out of the trail.
A lovely blonde-haired married woman was waiting anxiously by the register. Her husband was one of those who had gone up the trail and had passed me by on their way to the summit. I told her what happened to me and she became apprehensive when I told her how onerous the weather conditions were. I felt sorry for scaring her but I felt that I owed her the truth. There were others who were waiting for their loved ones to come down at Katahdin Stream campground. I spent twenty minutes at the parking lot discussing what happened to me. I left at 2:50 and cleared the Togue Gate at 3:15 and was back in Millinocket by 4:00PM.
When I look back at this hike I wonder to myself whether I could have made it if the weather conditions had been better.
I can’t answer that. In some roguish way I’m sort of grateful that the weather high up the mountain was bad because it gave me the perfect excuse to turn back.
This was my second high-pointing failure. My previous failure occurred in Nevada in September 2008 when during a reconnaissance of the Queen Mine approach to Boundary Peak, my SUV suffered a flat tire while descending down the gravel road which leads to the highway. I barely made it to the highway where I luckily was able to flag down a passing motorist who helped me change the flat and I was able to return to Bishop, California. That was not a real summit attempt but a reconnaissance.
Maine was my first failure during an actual summit attempt. In retrospect part of me feels I should have tried the Abol Trail instead of the Hunt Trail although later that night when I was having a drink at the Scootic Inn bar in Millinocket, a local told me that the Hunt Trail was the least technical climb of all the trails to Katahdin.
Will I return to Katahdin? I don’t know. It will be many years before I contemplate a return if ever.
Still I am grateful to God for delivering me from this ordeal. I am also grateful to my friends on Facebook who prayed for me during the hike itself. Your prayers were answered. Amen.
My next high-pointing journey will be easier (I hope). I will go after Driskill Mt. in Louisiana, all 535 feet of it in May 2011.
See you at the highpoints!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Contemplating our Greatest Day...and its aftermath
This day sixty-five years ago was the most powerful moment in American history. It was on this day, aboard the battleship U.S.S. Missouri the Japanese formally surrendered to the Allied powers thus bringing World War Two to a close.
I call this the most powerful moment in American history because it was on that day we had the greatest army; the greatest navy; and the greatest air force the world had ever seen. Those forces consisted of men and women who were part of what we call now the Greatest Generation were commanded by some of the most stellar figures in American Military history: Douglas MacArthur, Dwight Eisenhower, Curtis LeMay, Bill Halsey, Chester Nimitz, Raymond Spruance, Omar Bradley, and George Patton.
Not only were our armed forces superior in the quality of its personnel; it also had the finest weapons including the ultimate weapon which compelled the Japanese to surrender in the first place: the atomic bomb—which America was the sole possessor at that time.
Not only was our military might supreme, our home front too was at its peak in terms of power and productivity.
American industry was operating at full capacity. Unemployment was nil. Our moral authority was at its pinnacle. The American people had full faith in its President and its Congress.
Now, today, sixty-five years later our country can no longer make those claims.
Today, we struggle with financial, moral, and ethical bankruptcy. Unemployment is rampant. Faith in our elected leadership is nonexistent—and justifiably so in many places.
How did it happen?
It certainly didn’t come from the outside. One cannot blame the Russians, the Chinese, the North Vietnamese, the Taliban, or Al-Qaeda.
No, the decline came from within—just as it always does in the course of human events.
For all the wars America has fought since 1945 the greatest, costliest, and most damaging war our country has fought has been with itself. When you examine the course of American politics, economics, and ethics since 1945 the most apt metaphor to describe what has transpired since then is war.
When you look at our society today, we are a nation at war with itself; a war with no victory and no end; just the mindless and senseless continuation of our own self-defeating purpose. And as long as that self-defeating purpose exists in the fabric of American society then there is no hope of future progress—just the long tortoise-like crawl towards national self-destruction.
I call this the most powerful moment in American history because it was on that day we had the greatest army; the greatest navy; and the greatest air force the world had ever seen. Those forces consisted of men and women who were part of what we call now the Greatest Generation were commanded by some of the most stellar figures in American Military history: Douglas MacArthur, Dwight Eisenhower, Curtis LeMay, Bill Halsey, Chester Nimitz, Raymond Spruance, Omar Bradley, and George Patton.
Not only were our armed forces superior in the quality of its personnel; it also had the finest weapons including the ultimate weapon which compelled the Japanese to surrender in the first place: the atomic bomb—which America was the sole possessor at that time.
Not only was our military might supreme, our home front too was at its peak in terms of power and productivity.
American industry was operating at full capacity. Unemployment was nil. Our moral authority was at its pinnacle. The American people had full faith in its President and its Congress.
Now, today, sixty-five years later our country can no longer make those claims.
Today, we struggle with financial, moral, and ethical bankruptcy. Unemployment is rampant. Faith in our elected leadership is nonexistent—and justifiably so in many places.
How did it happen?
It certainly didn’t come from the outside. One cannot blame the Russians, the Chinese, the North Vietnamese, the Taliban, or Al-Qaeda.
No, the decline came from within—just as it always does in the course of human events.
For all the wars America has fought since 1945 the greatest, costliest, and most damaging war our country has fought has been with itself. When you examine the course of American politics, economics, and ethics since 1945 the most apt metaphor to describe what has transpired since then is war.
When you look at our society today, we are a nation at war with itself; a war with no victory and no end; just the mindless and senseless continuation of our own self-defeating purpose. And as long as that self-defeating purpose exists in the fabric of American society then there is no hope of future progress—just the long tortoise-like crawl towards national self-destruction.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Requiem for Robin Roberts
The death of Philadelphia Phillies legend Robin Roberts is a sad loss to Phillies fans everywhere. He may have been the greatest right-handed pitcher in Phillies history (it’s either Roberts or Grover Cleveland Alexander). No other Phillies right-hander ever won more games than Roberts did.
Roberts was not only a stalwart pitcher for the Phillies but he was one of the best pitchers in the National League in the 1950s. He won twenty or more games in six consecutive seasons. In 1952 he won 28 games. No other National League pitcher has equaled that since. Pittsburgh Pirates slugger Ralph Kiner said that Roberts was the toughest pitcher he ever faced.
Roberts won 286 games and lost 245. His winning percentage as a pitcher was .539% which was 33 points better than the teams he played for. That was the tragedy of Robin Roberts’ career. If Roberts had pitched for the New York Yankees or the Brooklyn Dodgers, he would definitely have won 300 games. Instead he toiled nineteen seasons for mediocre teams—a diamond in the rough. There are other great baseball pitchers who suffered the same fate. Nap Rucker for the Brooklyn Dodgers during the 1900s and 1910s; Washington Senators immortal Walter Johnson is another example.
Every fourth day the Phillies would give Roberts the ball and every fourth day he would take on the best pitchers of the other seven National League teams. (His head-to-head match-ups with Dodgers great Don Newcombe were epic battles). Sometimes Roberts didn’t pitch every fourth day. During the final week of the 1950 Season where the Phillies were vying with the Dodgers of the National League pennant, Roberts had to pitch three times in five days. Name a top pitcher today who would be willing to do that for his team?
Roberts was a class act on the mound. One of his flaws was that he gave up a lot of gopher balls. One reason for that was he never threw at batters. In an era where the purpose pitch was a vital tool in a major league’s pitcher’s arsenal, Roberts eschewed the bean-ball. That meant hitters could dig in on Roberts. Roberts was a class act off the field too. He was an ardent advocate for the Baseball Players’ Association and when baseball was integrating racially he was a positive presence to African-American players who became his teammates.
When we lose players like Robin Roberts we are losing something more. Roberts was the last vestige of an era of baseball where there were no steroids; no illegal drugs; no Astro-turf; no games interrupted so that a top rock and roll band can perform its newest hit single and other associated nonsense like that. We’re going to miss him.
Rest in peace.
Roberts was not only a stalwart pitcher for the Phillies but he was one of the best pitchers in the National League in the 1950s. He won twenty or more games in six consecutive seasons. In 1952 he won 28 games. No other National League pitcher has equaled that since. Pittsburgh Pirates slugger Ralph Kiner said that Roberts was the toughest pitcher he ever faced.
Roberts won 286 games and lost 245. His winning percentage as a pitcher was .539% which was 33 points better than the teams he played for. That was the tragedy of Robin Roberts’ career. If Roberts had pitched for the New York Yankees or the Brooklyn Dodgers, he would definitely have won 300 games. Instead he toiled nineteen seasons for mediocre teams—a diamond in the rough. There are other great baseball pitchers who suffered the same fate. Nap Rucker for the Brooklyn Dodgers during the 1900s and 1910s; Washington Senators immortal Walter Johnson is another example.
Every fourth day the Phillies would give Roberts the ball and every fourth day he would take on the best pitchers of the other seven National League teams. (His head-to-head match-ups with Dodgers great Don Newcombe were epic battles). Sometimes Roberts didn’t pitch every fourth day. During the final week of the 1950 Season where the Phillies were vying with the Dodgers of the National League pennant, Roberts had to pitch three times in five days. Name a top pitcher today who would be willing to do that for his team?
Roberts was a class act on the mound. One of his flaws was that he gave up a lot of gopher balls. One reason for that was he never threw at batters. In an era where the purpose pitch was a vital tool in a major league’s pitcher’s arsenal, Roberts eschewed the bean-ball. That meant hitters could dig in on Roberts. Roberts was a class act off the field too. He was an ardent advocate for the Baseball Players’ Association and when baseball was integrating racially he was a positive presence to African-American players who became his teammates.
When we lose players like Robin Roberts we are losing something more. Roberts was the last vestige of an era of baseball where there were no steroids; no illegal drugs; no Astro-turf; no games interrupted so that a top rock and roll band can perform its newest hit single and other associated nonsense like that. We’re going to miss him.
Rest in peace.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Health Care: If You Can Keep It?
When contemplating the passage of the Obama Health Care Bill I am reminded of a story about the Constitutional Convention of 1787. The Convention had adjourned, the Constitution had been approved, the doors were opened and the delegates filed out into the streets of Philadelphia.
Benjamin Franklin was being carried out on his sedan chair when an anxious citizen ran up to him and asked, “Dr. Franklin, is it a republic or a monarchy?”
Franklin replied, “A republic, Sir, if you can keep it,” meaning that he and the other delegates had done the best they could to create a new form of government for the fledgling United States of America but it was now up to each and every American citizen to do the best they could by exercising the rights given unto them by this new constitution to ensure that the country remained a republic.
The same metaphor applies here to the Obama Health Care bill. The Obama Administration and the Democrats in Congress worked long and hard to create legislation to augment and improve the health care system in America. After a year’s worth of negotiation, amending, deal-making, compromises, political infighting, vitriolic debate, and parliamentary wizardry, a bill was passed. Now it is up to the American people to do their part to either make this landmark legislation work by exercising the options and rights granted unto them by this legislation or else allow it to be tortured on the gibbet of American political obloquy.
Those who cry out that the bill is an example of tyranny or else complain about the methods used by Democratic congressional leaders to get the bill passed err. The fact that the bill was watered down, amended, and substantively changed from the original concept proposed by the Obama Administration; the fact that G.O.P. congressional members were granted time to debate the issue and say their piece about the legislation, and try their best at blocking the legislation exposes the lie that tyranny was afoot.
Tyranny is the absence of debate, amendments, negotiations, and offers to the opposition to have their input in the process. If the Obama Administration is a genuine dictatorship then Universal Health Care would have been passed in its original form without any subsequent amendments.
Was the bill flawed as many of its opponents said during the debate? Of course it was. Name any legislation that isn’t flawed? Even the Constitution when submitted to the states in 1787 was a flawed document that needed a lot of fine-tuning during the next two hundred and twenty-three years of its existence. The nice thing about legislation in a democracy is that it is never etched in stone. Democracy allows lawmakers to amend, add, and subtract at will. As one CNN observer recently noted, every year will see the new law being amended and changed (just as you see changes in Social Security, Medicare, and tax laws). Democracy at its absolute best is a supremely flawed form of government. Those who seek perfection will only find disappointment. If legislators were to await perfection then no real work would ever get done.
And what about those who cry out that this legislation will bankrupt the country? The fact is America is already bankrupt and has been since 1983 when the country became a debtor nation instead of a creditor nation—a dark day in American economic history. Our present state of bankruptcy has been perpetuated by both the Republicans and Democrats alike. Will the health care bill add to the deficit? Of course it will. Expanding national health care coverage is not cheap and as for the criticism that it is fiscally irresponsible? I would like to say this: where was any talk about fiscal responsibility when the Bush Administration insisted on conducting a bloody and expensive two-front war in Iraq and Afghanistan while insisting on cutting taxes and deregulating America’s financial systems? Where was the fiscal sanity in that? Why weren’t the same politicians who cavil about the health care bill’s costs saying the same things when America was being bled white financially, politically, and emotionally during the past decade?
It’s all well and good to preach about fiscal responsibility but I have not seen any of the opposition practice those policies.
It is my personal theory that what frightens the bill’s opponents the most is that the Obama health care bill turns the political tables on them. If the new health care bill survives a court challenge and attains the same political untouchable status that Social Security and Medicare now possesses then it places severe constraints on future Republican fiscal practices. If the bill and its new systems take hold and prove to be effective then future Republican congresses and Presidents will be handcuffed politically. They will not be able to casually rape and gut funding for these new programs like they can with other liberal social programs. That means there will be less money available to distribute to conservative sacred cows in the future. In short if the Obama health care plan survives and takes hold then any attempt at destroying it will mean political suicide.
The bills opponents can talk about repeal in the legislature but that nothing but political hot air. Any repeal will require absolute two-third’s majorities in both houses in order to overcome a presidential veto. Right now the G.O.P. doesn’t have the votes and it remains to be seen whether they will be get those votes in the upcoming mid-term elections in November. (For the record the last time the G.O.P. achieved two-thirds majorities in both houses was during the 19th century). They’re only chance is in convincing enough Democrats to defect in both houses of Congress to achieve repeal and that will have to wait until next year when the next Congress goes into session.
Actually conservative invocation of the dreaded “S” word (i.e. socialism) in describing the bill is nothing new. They invoked it when Social Security was established and again when Medicare was created as well. Both times they vowed to overthrow it but failed to do so when the opportunities arose. President Dwight Eisenhower said it best when asked by conservatives in 1953 to overthrow the New Deal policies of the Roosevelt and Truman administrations. He said, “Should any political party attempt to abolish Social Security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again in our political history.”
If conservatives have any hope of overturning the health care bill then their best avenue of attack is in the courts. In fact conservatives shouldn’t even waste time filing suit in the district or appellate courts but should take their case directly to the U.S. Supreme Court (which you can do legally. You can bypass the lower courts and appeal directly to the Supreme Court if time is of the essence—which it is for the bill’s opponents). In fact I would not be surprised if the Supreme Court decides to take a look at the bill and try to overturn it. One only needs four justices to grant cert, i.e. agree to hear a case. The Supreme Court’s conservative bloc (Justices Roberts, Alito, Scalia, Thomas, and Kennedy) has already shown its willingness to tilt politically with President Obama; which means that there is far greater potential to overturn the health care bill by a Supreme Court ruling than there is by congressional repeal.
Is the health care bill apocalypse now? Is it the end of the world as we know it—and none of us are feeling fine? The answer is no. The bill is nothing more than a good old American compromise—just as the Declaration of Independence was…and the Constitution…and the Compromises of 1820 and 1850 were...and the Civil Rights Act of 1957 as well (please read Robert Caro’s book Lyndon Johnson: Master of the Senate and you will see why).
When I look at what has happened I am reminded of words folk singer Leonard Cohen spoke onstage at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival. Cohen was performing before a crowd of 600,000 and he said words to the effect that, “You’re a nation but you’re still weak. Still have a lot of growing up to do before you can stand on your own two legs as an adult.”
America (when compared with other countries) is still a young nation with a lot of growing pains; a nation still striving to achieve maturity (leaving death threats and smashing windows of legislators who voted for the bill is not mature behavior). We, as a People, still have a lot of growing up to do before we can proclaim ourselves a fully developed nation.
Yet the passage of the Obama health care bill represents a giant leap forward in the growing process and a proud moment in our democracy because the passage of the bill reveals that the democratic process has not been lost; compromise has not been abandoned; the Republic lives; God reigns; and the Constitution still works.
Benjamin Franklin was being carried out on his sedan chair when an anxious citizen ran up to him and asked, “Dr. Franklin, is it a republic or a monarchy?”
Franklin replied, “A republic, Sir, if you can keep it,” meaning that he and the other delegates had done the best they could to create a new form of government for the fledgling United States of America but it was now up to each and every American citizen to do the best they could by exercising the rights given unto them by this new constitution to ensure that the country remained a republic.
The same metaphor applies here to the Obama Health Care bill. The Obama Administration and the Democrats in Congress worked long and hard to create legislation to augment and improve the health care system in America. After a year’s worth of negotiation, amending, deal-making, compromises, political infighting, vitriolic debate, and parliamentary wizardry, a bill was passed. Now it is up to the American people to do their part to either make this landmark legislation work by exercising the options and rights granted unto them by this legislation or else allow it to be tortured on the gibbet of American political obloquy.
Those who cry out that the bill is an example of tyranny or else complain about the methods used by Democratic congressional leaders to get the bill passed err. The fact that the bill was watered down, amended, and substantively changed from the original concept proposed by the Obama Administration; the fact that G.O.P. congressional members were granted time to debate the issue and say their piece about the legislation, and try their best at blocking the legislation exposes the lie that tyranny was afoot.
Tyranny is the absence of debate, amendments, negotiations, and offers to the opposition to have their input in the process. If the Obama Administration is a genuine dictatorship then Universal Health Care would have been passed in its original form without any subsequent amendments.
Was the bill flawed as many of its opponents said during the debate? Of course it was. Name any legislation that isn’t flawed? Even the Constitution when submitted to the states in 1787 was a flawed document that needed a lot of fine-tuning during the next two hundred and twenty-three years of its existence. The nice thing about legislation in a democracy is that it is never etched in stone. Democracy allows lawmakers to amend, add, and subtract at will. As one CNN observer recently noted, every year will see the new law being amended and changed (just as you see changes in Social Security, Medicare, and tax laws). Democracy at its absolute best is a supremely flawed form of government. Those who seek perfection will only find disappointment. If legislators were to await perfection then no real work would ever get done.
And what about those who cry out that this legislation will bankrupt the country? The fact is America is already bankrupt and has been since 1983 when the country became a debtor nation instead of a creditor nation—a dark day in American economic history. Our present state of bankruptcy has been perpetuated by both the Republicans and Democrats alike. Will the health care bill add to the deficit? Of course it will. Expanding national health care coverage is not cheap and as for the criticism that it is fiscally irresponsible? I would like to say this: where was any talk about fiscal responsibility when the Bush Administration insisted on conducting a bloody and expensive two-front war in Iraq and Afghanistan while insisting on cutting taxes and deregulating America’s financial systems? Where was the fiscal sanity in that? Why weren’t the same politicians who cavil about the health care bill’s costs saying the same things when America was being bled white financially, politically, and emotionally during the past decade?
It’s all well and good to preach about fiscal responsibility but I have not seen any of the opposition practice those policies.
It is my personal theory that what frightens the bill’s opponents the most is that the Obama health care bill turns the political tables on them. If the new health care bill survives a court challenge and attains the same political untouchable status that Social Security and Medicare now possesses then it places severe constraints on future Republican fiscal practices. If the bill and its new systems take hold and prove to be effective then future Republican congresses and Presidents will be handcuffed politically. They will not be able to casually rape and gut funding for these new programs like they can with other liberal social programs. That means there will be less money available to distribute to conservative sacred cows in the future. In short if the Obama health care plan survives and takes hold then any attempt at destroying it will mean political suicide.
The bills opponents can talk about repeal in the legislature but that nothing but political hot air. Any repeal will require absolute two-third’s majorities in both houses in order to overcome a presidential veto. Right now the G.O.P. doesn’t have the votes and it remains to be seen whether they will be get those votes in the upcoming mid-term elections in November. (For the record the last time the G.O.P. achieved two-thirds majorities in both houses was during the 19th century). They’re only chance is in convincing enough Democrats to defect in both houses of Congress to achieve repeal and that will have to wait until next year when the next Congress goes into session.
Actually conservative invocation of the dreaded “S” word (i.e. socialism) in describing the bill is nothing new. They invoked it when Social Security was established and again when Medicare was created as well. Both times they vowed to overthrow it but failed to do so when the opportunities arose. President Dwight Eisenhower said it best when asked by conservatives in 1953 to overthrow the New Deal policies of the Roosevelt and Truman administrations. He said, “Should any political party attempt to abolish Social Security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again in our political history.”
If conservatives have any hope of overturning the health care bill then their best avenue of attack is in the courts. In fact conservatives shouldn’t even waste time filing suit in the district or appellate courts but should take their case directly to the U.S. Supreme Court (which you can do legally. You can bypass the lower courts and appeal directly to the Supreme Court if time is of the essence—which it is for the bill’s opponents). In fact I would not be surprised if the Supreme Court decides to take a look at the bill and try to overturn it. One only needs four justices to grant cert, i.e. agree to hear a case. The Supreme Court’s conservative bloc (Justices Roberts, Alito, Scalia, Thomas, and Kennedy) has already shown its willingness to tilt politically with President Obama; which means that there is far greater potential to overturn the health care bill by a Supreme Court ruling than there is by congressional repeal.
Is the health care bill apocalypse now? Is it the end of the world as we know it—and none of us are feeling fine? The answer is no. The bill is nothing more than a good old American compromise—just as the Declaration of Independence was…and the Constitution…and the Compromises of 1820 and 1850 were...and the Civil Rights Act of 1957 as well (please read Robert Caro’s book Lyndon Johnson: Master of the Senate and you will see why).
When I look at what has happened I am reminded of words folk singer Leonard Cohen spoke onstage at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival. Cohen was performing before a crowd of 600,000 and he said words to the effect that, “You’re a nation but you’re still weak. Still have a lot of growing up to do before you can stand on your own two legs as an adult.”
America (when compared with other countries) is still a young nation with a lot of growing pains; a nation still striving to achieve maturity (leaving death threats and smashing windows of legislators who voted for the bill is not mature behavior). We, as a People, still have a lot of growing up to do before we can proclaim ourselves a fully developed nation.
Yet the passage of the Obama health care bill represents a giant leap forward in the growing process and a proud moment in our democracy because the passage of the bill reveals that the democratic process has not been lost; compromise has not been abandoned; the Republic lives; God reigns; and the Constitution still works.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Gilda Di Memmo: Cent Anni
Today marks the centennial of the birth of the late Gilda Di Marcello: the youngest child of Vincenzo Di Marcello and Maria Censoni—and their longest living child; a sister to Frank, Anna, and Sophie; the wife of Frank Di Memmo; mother of seven children: Mary, Rudy, Caesar, Joseph, Frank, Pasquale, and Jean; grandmother to twenty-two grandchildren; great-grandmother to at least forty-seven grandchildren; and a great-great grandmother to at least eleven great-great grandchildren when she died in October 2001.
She was also a beloved aunt to all her nephews and nieces; not only bestowing her love upon them but also to their children and grandchildren.
She was an amazing woman; a window to a world which now seems ancient and mysterious to the computerized techno-gadgetry of today’s Facebook world. She lived in simpler, sterner, more stoical times. She lived in an era which (at least in her eyes) must have possessed a greater clarity than the era we live in today where the truth seems ephemeral; right and wrong becomes mercurial and inter-changeable; and reality dissolves more easily into unreality.
She was a living witness to a tsunami of changes which boggle the imagination. She survived two World Wars and several lesser wars. She saw Lindbergh fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean and Neil Armstrong walk on the moon; she also saw the atomic bomb blow up and the Twin Towers fall down. She saw women’s skirts and necklines go up and down; she saw people’s hair grow longer and shorter; she heard music get jazzier, funkier, louder and more outrageous. She saw TV in black and white; then color; and then in cable.
Through all this she remained herself always: soft-spoken, loving, loyal, eternal, doting, and quietly smiling.
My earliest memory of Gilda came when I was roughly six or seven years old. My parents took me and my brothers to visit her and her husband at their home in Ridley Park, PA. I believe my father was helping pour a slab of concrete in their backyard. I was left inside the house alone with Aunt Gilda. (When I was a little child, I was bewildered by her name. It sounded so weird to me. I remember my six year old brain would say to itself, ‘what’s an Aunt Gilda???’)
I remember in the parlor of the house Aunt Gilda had an organ. I remember being fascinated with that organ because when I used to attend SDA church at Laurel Springs I remember being fascinated with the organ that was used during the services. I always wanted to play with the keyboards but was never allowed to do so. Imagine my joy when Aunt Gilda, seeing my fascination with her organ, allowed me to sit in the chair and play with the keyboards?!?!
And so there I was a giggly, antsy kid goofing about on the keyboard, making Frankenstein and other horror movie noises and laughing hysterically at my own mischief; and all throughout my childish doodling I would look back at her and see her sitting there in a corner easy chair smiling silently and indulgently at me; a most loving and doting smile—as if to suggest that I was neither the first nor the last little child to goof about on her organ?
Gilda was a shy woman—by her own admission in letters she wrote to me while I was doing genealogical research on the Di Marcello, DiBiase, D’Ambrosio, and Di Memmo clans. But there was a spark there; a flame kindled from what George Washington called that inner celestial fire called conscience. She lacked a full-fledged education but she had a native intelligence and an artistic spirit which expressed itself in subtle and wonderful ways. One cannot help but wonder what she would have become if she were growing up in today’s world where young women have greater intellectual and professional opportunities than Gilda did back in the 1920s.
(In my first genealogical book there is a 1927 photograph of Gilda at age 17 posing with her brother Frank and her parents. She was wearing what a young teenage girl was supposed to wear during that era. In 1996 one of her grand-daughters would tell me that particular photo in my book was her favorite one. She told me, shrieking with laughter, “My grandmother the flapper!”)
She married young. She was only eighteen years old when she married Frank Di Memmo. She would devote the rest of her life to matrimony; motherhood; grandmotherhood; great-grandmotherhood; and great-great grandmotherhood—not a simple task.
(Gilda laughingly told me in a letter in the 1990s that it was hard for her to keep track of all the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren she had). Her progeny seems biblical in its scope. (That’s why in the dedication of my second genealogical book I quote Genesis 15:50 as a tribute to Aunt Gilda).
My relationship with her grew during the 1990s because my genealogical work. I still have her letters and I still savor the memory of the periodic phone calls I made to her during those years.
She was always encouraging, loving, positive, and uplifting. There was never a time when I saw her or spoke to her when she failed to make me feel better about myself. I assume she did that with everyone.
I remember in one letter I sent her I showed her a song I wrote called "I Can’t Find Myself (For Myself)". The song was a typical Matthew DiBiase lyric: introspective, self-deprecating, and a little bit crazy. In her response she sent me one of her lyrics and she gently admonished me that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself in my lyrics—saying, “Remember we are all God’s children and if God is King then that makes you a prince.”
Even as I’m writing this I still chuckle at the sentiment but guess what? It worked. It had the desired effect of making me feel better. That was Gilda. She was always making you feel good; feel more alive; spreading love and watching it flow. When I visited her and we would sit together, she would always reach out and squeeze my hand, showing love and affection.
I remember one family reunion in April 1996. She had come to Central PA from Michigan and everyone came to see her. Aunt Gilda was sitting in the living room and her granddaughter Malissa Richardson was showing Gilda her brand new baby son Travis. While Travis remained cradled in her lap, Gilda kept patting his head and smiling at her newest great-grandchild.
Gilda in her final years struggled with deafness—though one of her grandchildren told me it was a selective deafness. When I saw her during those final years it always amused me that when the conversation bored her she would sit silent and unhearing but when the conversation interested her (or else when someone she loved or cared for or respected dearly was speaking) then she would cup her hand to ear and strain to catch every word that person was saying. I ought to know. She always did that when I was speaking during family conversations. It touched me. It made me feel good that a least one person was listening to what I had to say.
When she died in 2001, I mourned. Not only was our collective looking-glass to the ancient past taken away from us (as well as the last link to our Italian heritage) a dear, dear friend was lost to me; a wonderful transcendent human-being was no more; a loving presence and persona in a world which has now become increasingly ugly, brutal, savage, and cruel was taken from us—and the world was a less beautiful place because of it.
I went to her funeral (there was no way I was going to miss it. I owed it to her). I took off from work to do this. She was buried on a glorious autumnal day alongside her husband. Her memorial service was a glorious requiem to her memory. Whoever choreographed the service and planned it deserves a medal. Her funeral was everything a memorial service should be: her entire family was allowed a chance to make their contributions; all the generations of her descendants left their mark on the service. Gilda died with dignity and was laid to rest with the love, tears, and memories that she richly deserved. As funerals go this one was a fitting end to a magnificent woman.
I would like to end this tribute with a story of my own. In the days between her death and her funeral I wrote a poem in honor of her memory. The words fell into place rather quickly and I had a typescript ready to go when I arrived at the funeral hall. It was my intent to read it if there was an appropriate time to do so.
As it turned out there was ample opportunity for me to read the poem. People were allowed to come up and say their piece about Aunt Gilda. Many did so. I waited. When it seemed like the last person had said their piece and it felt like it was my turn, I fingered my typescript which was folded neatly in the inner pocket of my suit. I grasped it when I heard a little voice inside my head say quite clearly and distinctly, “Leave it be. Everything that needed to be said has been said.”
I didn’t move. I held my piece because the voice was right. Everything good that needed to be said about Gilda DiMemmo had been said. The poem remained in my suit pocket. To this day I do not regret not reading the poem. My inner voice was correct, my words would have been unnecessary.
The life of Gilda Di Memmo lives on in the memories of her descendants. That is as it should be. She was an amazing woman who gave life and light to so many.
May God rest her Soul.
Amen.
She was also a beloved aunt to all her nephews and nieces; not only bestowing her love upon them but also to their children and grandchildren.
She was an amazing woman; a window to a world which now seems ancient and mysterious to the computerized techno-gadgetry of today’s Facebook world. She lived in simpler, sterner, more stoical times. She lived in an era which (at least in her eyes) must have possessed a greater clarity than the era we live in today where the truth seems ephemeral; right and wrong becomes mercurial and inter-changeable; and reality dissolves more easily into unreality.
She was a living witness to a tsunami of changes which boggle the imagination. She survived two World Wars and several lesser wars. She saw Lindbergh fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean and Neil Armstrong walk on the moon; she also saw the atomic bomb blow up and the Twin Towers fall down. She saw women’s skirts and necklines go up and down; she saw people’s hair grow longer and shorter; she heard music get jazzier, funkier, louder and more outrageous. She saw TV in black and white; then color; and then in cable.
Through all this she remained herself always: soft-spoken, loving, loyal, eternal, doting, and quietly smiling.
My earliest memory of Gilda came when I was roughly six or seven years old. My parents took me and my brothers to visit her and her husband at their home in Ridley Park, PA. I believe my father was helping pour a slab of concrete in their backyard. I was left inside the house alone with Aunt Gilda. (When I was a little child, I was bewildered by her name. It sounded so weird to me. I remember my six year old brain would say to itself, ‘what’s an Aunt Gilda???’)
I remember in the parlor of the house Aunt Gilda had an organ. I remember being fascinated with that organ because when I used to attend SDA church at Laurel Springs I remember being fascinated with the organ that was used during the services. I always wanted to play with the keyboards but was never allowed to do so. Imagine my joy when Aunt Gilda, seeing my fascination with her organ, allowed me to sit in the chair and play with the keyboards?!?!
And so there I was a giggly, antsy kid goofing about on the keyboard, making Frankenstein and other horror movie noises and laughing hysterically at my own mischief; and all throughout my childish doodling I would look back at her and see her sitting there in a corner easy chair smiling silently and indulgently at me; a most loving and doting smile—as if to suggest that I was neither the first nor the last little child to goof about on her organ?
Gilda was a shy woman—by her own admission in letters she wrote to me while I was doing genealogical research on the Di Marcello, DiBiase, D’Ambrosio, and Di Memmo clans. But there was a spark there; a flame kindled from what George Washington called that inner celestial fire called conscience. She lacked a full-fledged education but she had a native intelligence and an artistic spirit which expressed itself in subtle and wonderful ways. One cannot help but wonder what she would have become if she were growing up in today’s world where young women have greater intellectual and professional opportunities than Gilda did back in the 1920s.
(In my first genealogical book there is a 1927 photograph of Gilda at age 17 posing with her brother Frank and her parents. She was wearing what a young teenage girl was supposed to wear during that era. In 1996 one of her grand-daughters would tell me that particular photo in my book was her favorite one. She told me, shrieking with laughter, “My grandmother the flapper!”)
She married young. She was only eighteen years old when she married Frank Di Memmo. She would devote the rest of her life to matrimony; motherhood; grandmotherhood; great-grandmotherhood; and great-great grandmotherhood—not a simple task.
(Gilda laughingly told me in a letter in the 1990s that it was hard for her to keep track of all the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren she had). Her progeny seems biblical in its scope. (That’s why in the dedication of my second genealogical book I quote Genesis 15:50 as a tribute to Aunt Gilda).
My relationship with her grew during the 1990s because my genealogical work. I still have her letters and I still savor the memory of the periodic phone calls I made to her during those years.
She was always encouraging, loving, positive, and uplifting. There was never a time when I saw her or spoke to her when she failed to make me feel better about myself. I assume she did that with everyone.
I remember in one letter I sent her I showed her a song I wrote called "I Can’t Find Myself (For Myself)". The song was a typical Matthew DiBiase lyric: introspective, self-deprecating, and a little bit crazy. In her response she sent me one of her lyrics and she gently admonished me that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself in my lyrics—saying, “Remember we are all God’s children and if God is King then that makes you a prince.”
Even as I’m writing this I still chuckle at the sentiment but guess what? It worked. It had the desired effect of making me feel better. That was Gilda. She was always making you feel good; feel more alive; spreading love and watching it flow. When I visited her and we would sit together, she would always reach out and squeeze my hand, showing love and affection.
I remember one family reunion in April 1996. She had come to Central PA from Michigan and everyone came to see her. Aunt Gilda was sitting in the living room and her granddaughter Malissa Richardson was showing Gilda her brand new baby son Travis. While Travis remained cradled in her lap, Gilda kept patting his head and smiling at her newest great-grandchild.
Gilda in her final years struggled with deafness—though one of her grandchildren told me it was a selective deafness. When I saw her during those final years it always amused me that when the conversation bored her she would sit silent and unhearing but when the conversation interested her (or else when someone she loved or cared for or respected dearly was speaking) then she would cup her hand to ear and strain to catch every word that person was saying. I ought to know. She always did that when I was speaking during family conversations. It touched me. It made me feel good that a least one person was listening to what I had to say.
When she died in 2001, I mourned. Not only was our collective looking-glass to the ancient past taken away from us (as well as the last link to our Italian heritage) a dear, dear friend was lost to me; a wonderful transcendent human-being was no more; a loving presence and persona in a world which has now become increasingly ugly, brutal, savage, and cruel was taken from us—and the world was a less beautiful place because of it.
I went to her funeral (there was no way I was going to miss it. I owed it to her). I took off from work to do this. She was buried on a glorious autumnal day alongside her husband. Her memorial service was a glorious requiem to her memory. Whoever choreographed the service and planned it deserves a medal. Her funeral was everything a memorial service should be: her entire family was allowed a chance to make their contributions; all the generations of her descendants left their mark on the service. Gilda died with dignity and was laid to rest with the love, tears, and memories that she richly deserved. As funerals go this one was a fitting end to a magnificent woman.
I would like to end this tribute with a story of my own. In the days between her death and her funeral I wrote a poem in honor of her memory. The words fell into place rather quickly and I had a typescript ready to go when I arrived at the funeral hall. It was my intent to read it if there was an appropriate time to do so.
As it turned out there was ample opportunity for me to read the poem. People were allowed to come up and say their piece about Aunt Gilda. Many did so. I waited. When it seemed like the last person had said their piece and it felt like it was my turn, I fingered my typescript which was folded neatly in the inner pocket of my suit. I grasped it when I heard a little voice inside my head say quite clearly and distinctly, “Leave it be. Everything that needed to be said has been said.”
I didn’t move. I held my piece because the voice was right. Everything good that needed to be said about Gilda DiMemmo had been said. The poem remained in my suit pocket. To this day I do not regret not reading the poem. My inner voice was correct, my words would have been unnecessary.
The life of Gilda Di Memmo lives on in the memories of her descendants. That is as it should be. She was an amazing woman who gave life and light to so many.
May God rest her Soul.
Amen.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Merlin Olsen: Farewell to a Football Hero
You know you’re getting old when your favorite football players—the ones you remember watching on TV Sunday afternoons or Monday nights when you were a kid—start dying on you. The death of former Los Angeles Rams (that goes to show you how old I am, I lived in a time when the Rams were in Los Angeles and not St. Louis) defensive tackle Merlin Olsen is a sad loss to football fans everywhere.
Merlin Olsen was something we’re not used to seeing in today’s sports: a true hero. We live in an age where we’ve become accustomed to seeing great athletes behave badly and un-heroically. Olsen was a true hero. From 1967 to 1976 Olsen (along with Deacon Jones, Lamar Lundy, and Rosey Grier—later to be succeeded by Roger Brown) was a member of the Fearsome Foursome one of the greatest defensive lines in NFL history. Olsen anchored the line thus allowing teammate and fellow Hall-of-Fame member Deacon Jones to do what he did best: sack quarterbacks. Olsen was magnificent in containing the run—leading all Rams players in tackles. His greatness as a defensive lineman was so manifest that football historian Sean Lahman in his book "The Pro Football Historical Abstract" ranked Olsen the third greatest defensive lineman of all time after Bruce Smith and the late Reggie White.
Green Bay Packer legend Jerry Kramer who played offensive guard opposite Olsen in many a tense match-up had this to say about Olsen in his best selling book "Instant Replay", “Merlin [Olsen] is simply a great football player. Merlin’s not as quick as Alex Karras, but he’s stronger. Both of them have great lateral movement. Merlin has tremendous hustle; he never quits. Alex sometimes will ease up if his club is far ahead or far behind, but Merlin never lets up. He’ll run right over you no matter what the score is. When I play against a guy like that there’s a lot of mutual respect, and there’s never any holding or kicking or clipping, just straight, clean, hard football.” Later on in the book when Kramer had to face Olsen in a playoff game Kramer would tell the press, “Merlin Olsen is very big, very strong, has great speed and great agility…gives at least 110 percent on every play, and these are his weak points.”
The fact that an opponent would say such things about Olsen speaks volumes about his overall impact on the game.
Sadly Olsen never played for an NFL champion. The Rams were either losing to the Green Bay Packers or the Minnesota Vikings in the playoffs during those years.
Despite Merlin Olsen never stopped being a great player, a great human being, and a true football hero.
Rest in Peace, Merlin.
Merlin Olsen was something we’re not used to seeing in today’s sports: a true hero. We live in an age where we’ve become accustomed to seeing great athletes behave badly and un-heroically. Olsen was a true hero. From 1967 to 1976 Olsen (along with Deacon Jones, Lamar Lundy, and Rosey Grier—later to be succeeded by Roger Brown) was a member of the Fearsome Foursome one of the greatest defensive lines in NFL history. Olsen anchored the line thus allowing teammate and fellow Hall-of-Fame member Deacon Jones to do what he did best: sack quarterbacks. Olsen was magnificent in containing the run—leading all Rams players in tackles. His greatness as a defensive lineman was so manifest that football historian Sean Lahman in his book "The Pro Football Historical Abstract" ranked Olsen the third greatest defensive lineman of all time after Bruce Smith and the late Reggie White.
Green Bay Packer legend Jerry Kramer who played offensive guard opposite Olsen in many a tense match-up had this to say about Olsen in his best selling book "Instant Replay", “Merlin [Olsen] is simply a great football player. Merlin’s not as quick as Alex Karras, but he’s stronger. Both of them have great lateral movement. Merlin has tremendous hustle; he never quits. Alex sometimes will ease up if his club is far ahead or far behind, but Merlin never lets up. He’ll run right over you no matter what the score is. When I play against a guy like that there’s a lot of mutual respect, and there’s never any holding or kicking or clipping, just straight, clean, hard football.” Later on in the book when Kramer had to face Olsen in a playoff game Kramer would tell the press, “Merlin Olsen is very big, very strong, has great speed and great agility…gives at least 110 percent on every play, and these are his weak points.”
The fact that an opponent would say such things about Olsen speaks volumes about his overall impact on the game.
Sadly Olsen never played for an NFL champion. The Rams were either losing to the Green Bay Packers or the Minnesota Vikings in the playoffs during those years.
Despite Merlin Olsen never stopped being a great player, a great human being, and a true football hero.
Rest in Peace, Merlin.
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