On Veterans Day

In the past day or so, we’ve seen a few deer and even fewer hunters. Neither was in any sort of proximity to the other. It almost reminds me of the days, long ago, when the folks I hunted with were stuck in a pattern in which the grouse hunters kept spooking deer and the deer hunters, on their way to and from deer stands, flushed grouse. Even when hunters swapped quarry, the pattern held.

The Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter have their Christmas tree up and partially decorated. Lights have been strung on their outdoor tree. This morning the Better Half brought home poinsettias for the top of our piano. Christmas decorations are going up unusually early this year it seems. I believe lots of folks are doing what they can to boost their spirits. I hope whatever they try, works for them.

poinsettias on the piano

Photo by J. Harrington

On this Veterans Day, I find myself pondering about what those who have served US think about the state of the country they served. We’re within a week of a government shutdown if Congress fails to enact funding legislation. It’s the second or third time this kind of crisis has come up in the past year or so? Pope Francis has recently relieved a Texas bishop for being obstructionist. We would be better served if we had such decisive leadership in Congress. Elimination of a dozen or so of the most radical extremists might be all it takes for Congress to reach the kind of necessary, but distasteful, compromises needed for government to function.

I don’t know if Neville Chamberlin was the first or most obvious example of why it’s useless to negotiate with terrorists, but he did make it clear that giving in to the Nazis’ demands only yielded more Nazi demands. Both my father and my father-in-law became Veterans to help fix that mess. I’m projecting here, but I doubt either of them would be very admiring of what we’ve made of the world they, and their peers, gave back to US. By this time next year we will have made it clear whether their, and their compatriots, sacrifices were in vain or not.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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