Friday, September 27, 2002

Coming home

Last week I flew back to Phoenix for my nephew Daniel’s Baptism. I didn’t get much sleep the night before I left and that was probably just as well. It meant I was too tired to be nervous about flying only days after the first anniversary of 9/11. Fewer people fly since 9/11, which meant that there was no one beside me to be disturbed if I happened to snore.

I scored a window seat, so I could survey the landscape as we made our decent over my native Arizona. They’ve just finished the late summer monsoon season, so there was fresh grass on the mountains that been scorched by the forest fires of this summer. There was even a little water in usually dry washes and river-beds that don’t usually have rivers in them. I noticed that instead of square sections, Arizona farms are disk shaped, due to the pivot sprinklers used to water crops in the desert.

When we came across Phoenix itself is when it hit me- that old saying about not being able to go home again. The reason you can’t go home again is because you can’t step in the same place in a river twice. The river is constantly moving and changing. Phoenix isn’t much like the western town I grew up in.

When I was a kid, we had a dirt road in my subdivision that they had to put oil on to keep the dust down. Across that road were horses and chickens. Today, Phoenix seems to be a vast expanse of concrete and winding freeways.

My folks picked me up and we left Sky Harbor International Airport and ventured out into the blinding sunlight and 104° heat. To my delight, my Mom bought tickets for my Dad and I to see the World Champion Diamondbacks play the Milwaukee Brewers that afternoon.

More evidence of Phoenix’s changes. As a kid we went to minor league games of the Phoenix Giants at a small stadium by the power plant. It smelled like soda and beer and sweat. Bank One Ballpark ("BOB") is more like the Mall of America, air conditioned and filled with shops, neon, and fast food outlets. Downtown used to be run-down, and nearly vacant. It used to be full of office workers, homeless people and police. Now it’s polished and "touristy," full of campy cowboy and southwestern statues and shops.

I loved it. Randy Johnson pitched 17 strikeouts for his 22nd complete game win this season. Junior Spivey hit a grand slam, Tony Womak stole two bases, and Steve Finely and Louis Gonzales caught pop-flies. Dad bought Daniel, Grace, and Ellen D’Backs clothes and we listened to the post-game show on the radio as we made our way up Central Avenue to the Squaw Peak Parkway.

The D’Backs have changed Phoenix too. As I graduated from high school, Phoenix was reaching critical mass. Growing up, it was home to Indians, Mexicans, and people who moved there after WWII or in the late 60’s. But, much like America, it grew almost uncontrollably and it’s different ethnic groups, religions, incomes and political interests were beginning to do one of two things; either cause conflict, or water-down and lose any sense of cohesive identity. Having a winning pro baseball team gives Phonecians something to rally around. Like the terrorist attacks have united the Nation, baseball has united Phoenix.

By the way, Kurt Schilling graduated from my High School, brag, brag. (As if I knew him) He was a Senior when I was a Freshman and Shadow Mountain High School had 2,300 students. My older brother Bart said he sat behind him in Algebra. Bart said Kurt struggled in math.

Monday morning I went for a hike in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve near my parent’s house. I got up at six, witch wasn’t hard since that’s eight, central time. I hiked up the east face of Shadow Mountain so that I could look out over the city and watch the sun rise over the Superstition Mountains. A coyote crossed my path under a palo verde tree. Of course, minutes later, so did a pair of joggers and their black lab. Further along the trail I smelled the sweet aroma of sagebrush and creosote and noticed a jackrabbit scurry across an arroyo under a mighty saguaro. Of course, minutes later, I also caught wind of a city bus and saw a police helicopter scurry across the sky.

As I flew back into Omaha, I noticed the colors go from tan to green as we came east over Colorado and Nebraska. A beautiful sight were the rolling hills. The square sections of farms reminded me of a great patch-work quilt, spread over an inviting bed or sofa. The sun was just setting as I drove into Charter Oak, St. Boniface’s steeple welcomes you home if you come in on L51 from the South. No sooner did I park in front of "Mallory Manor" (a.k.a. "the Butler House," or "the Weed House.) than Gracie came racing down the walk to give me a hug.

You can go home again. It’s just that where you call home may change. I still love Phoenix, but I really love coming home to Charter Oak, my home town.

Friday, September 20, 2002

September 11- one year later

My daily commute has to be one of the biggest perks to living back here instead of LA. In LA, we’d get on the freeway and plug along through traffic till we merged with another freeway and get off in time to sit through several traffic lights before we finally got to school. The colors we saw concrete gray and smog beige. Now, when I take L-51 South to Dunlap at sunrise, the colors are different every day. If I encounter any traffic it’s farm equipment or deer. Plenty of time to think and prepare for the day.

This morning (9/11) as I drove in I listened to live coverage of the memorial services at the sight of the World Trade Center on National Public Radio. New York Governor George Pataki recited the Gettysburg Address. He reminded people at the memorial that Lincoln was at the dedication ceremony of battlefield that was to become a war memorial. Pataki noted that he had the same responsibility 139 years later.

Consider Lincoln’s words with new emphasis:

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war.

We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."

I was crying. As I passed Dunahm’s barn and headed for the railroad tracks, I was crying. That place that used to be the capital of the financial world is now a holy place, a resting place, and a memorial. No matter what they build there, a statue, new offices, a park. It will always be "Ground Zero."

It is for us the living to be dedicated to the task before us. How long until unity, service to others, volunteerism and patriotism go out of fashion again? So many returned to Church at this time last year, but how many have continued to attend? We’re resolved as a nation to not be pushed around, to not be attacked again, but how has our foreign policy changed? Have we taken up the mantle of responsibility that only the most affluent society, the only remaining super power can take up? Have we changed? Every Christmas there’s a cliché about living every day as if it were Christmas. Will we make every day ‘Patriots’ Day?’

The weekend before you read this, I traveled to Phoenix for the baptism of my brother’s first baby. I have to admit that for the first time in my entire life I’m nervous about flying in an airplane. I hope that that’s not the only kind of change we experience. I hope that we’ll take our freedom less for granted. I hope we’ll make an effort to get to know the people who live around us. I hope we’ll be more likely to give and less likely to make demands on others. I hope that we’ll not only show more appreciation for policemen and firemen but for postal employees and pilots too. I hope we’ll volunteer more. I hope we’ll try to find solutions together, rather than sticking to party lines. I hope we’ll pray more.

Looking at books of photos of 911 in Wal-Mart one is struck by how much Ground Zero resembled a volcano for weeks after the attack. The landscape was irrevocably changed

Friday, September 13, 2002

Where were you?

I was in my in-law’s living room watching the American Country Music Awards when a husky voice I was used to hearing sing ‘feel-good’ songs stopped me in my tracks and brought me to tears. That was the live premiere of Alan Jackson’s "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)." If you’re like me, that was the cathartic moment you needed to put you over the edge. Weeks of pent-up anxiety, anger, and anguish gushed out.

Where were you when the world stop turning on that September day
Teaching a class full of innocent children
Or driving down some cold interstate
Did you feel guilty 'cause you're a survivor
In a crowded room did you feel alone
Did you call up your mother and tell her you loved her
Did you dust off that bible at home

I was about to begin Drawing class. The kid who came in and first announced that "they crashed a plane into some building in New York" was nonchalant, as if he was cooler than the rest of us because he knew something we didn’t. He acted as if it was just an exciting scene in a movie or a video game, he wasn’t shocked or horrified at all, he was excited.

At first I assumed that it was a small private plane, either a freak accident or a bizarre suicide. Since I teach Journalism and used to teach History, I felt that it wouldn’t be out of line to take some time from Drawing class to look the news item up on CNN.com. I had been in Journalism class as a Sophomore in high school when the space shuttle Challenger blew up. Our teacher turned the radio on for us all day so we could witness history. Now was my turn to do the same. What I saw on the internet shook me to the core.


Did you stand there in shock at the sight of that black smoke
Rising against that blue sky
Did you shout out in anger, in fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry
Did you weep for the children who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don't know

One thing that struck me was what a beautiful day it was. It was beautiful here, but the sky was just as clear and just as blue over New York City. That made the American Airlines luxury liner even more striking. You see, my father had worked for American Air Freight for 45 years. He wore a blue American Airlines uniform years before he was married, years before I was born. There had never been a time I could remember when the shiny aluminum planes with patriotic red, white, and blue lettering hadn’t been a part of my life. Like John Deere green for many people around here, those planes represented America for me. They symbolized my Dad, family, security, everything right and good and fair. That made it like using a policeman’s own gun to shoot him to death

Did you open your eyes, hope it never happened
And you close your eyes and not go to sleep
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages
Or speak to some stranger on the street
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow…

Did you go to a church and hold hands with some strangers
Stand in line and give your own blood
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love

I remember driving home that afternoon and thinking, again, about what a remarkable beautiful day it was, and yet I had never known such a terrible, ugly day. I felt claustrophobic under a wide-open sky. I couldn’t escape that fact that there were no planes in the sky- as if there are ever many noticeable over rural Iowa anyway, but it still felt overwhelming. All the cold-war fears of WWIII that I grew up with came back, compounded by all the end-of-the-world fears from TV Evangelist’s false prophesies. That was compounded by a new fear, that I hadn’t ever had as a child or a teen. Fear as a parent for my children.


I watch CNN but I'm not sure I could
Tell you the difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love

Pastor Gebhardt was at a pastor’s conference, so our Elders and St. John’s asked me to speak at a memorial service. All I could think about was FDR. Not so much what he said after Pearl Harbor, but what he said when he was first inaugurated. He was talking about the Great Depression and essentially he told Americans that if facing this makes us reevaluate our values, if it forces us to come together and help each other, and if it leads us to seek God for His help and His sovereignty, then it will be a good thing, not evil. Sure enough, Romans 8:28 has played itself out in our nation over the past year.

Yesterday, Charter Oak’s American Legion organized our churches to ring their bells in honor of the victims of September 11, 2001.From now on, each time you hear the bells, why not take a moment to pray for our nation and for your neighbors? Next Wednesday (9/18) morning at 7:30, why not join together around the flagpole at Charter Oak-Ute High School and spend a few more minutes praying. The third Wednesday in September is "See You At The Pole Day." (For more information visit www.syatp.org.)This year it comes one week after the first anniversary of what Congress has decided to call "Patriots’ Day." What better way to show our patriotism than to pray for our nation and it’s leaders?

And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love

Friday, September 06, 2002

The Tin man is rusty

There it goes. Summer. Last Monday was the unofficial end. Oh sure, it’s dang hot this week, and autumn doesn’t officially begin until September 23, but you and I both know that the jig is up. The kids are back to school, the tomato, zucchini, and cucumber crops are tapering off and there really isn’t any more good fresh sweet corn. The last big BBQ, the last family reunions, the last trip to the lake, that was last weekend.

Here’s how my goofy brain works; it’s Labor Day so I think about Memorial Day, the other book-end on summer. Whenever I think about Memorial Day I think about three things, veterans, the Indianapolis 500, and the Wizard of Oz. That’s not so weird. For decades the Wizard of Oz and the Indy 500 always came on TV that weekend, so stay with me.

Okay, so I’m thinking about Frank Baum’s "The Wizard of Oz," that makes me think of Labor Day again. "What? Where is he going with this?" You’re saying to yourself, trust me, I’ll get there.

The Wizard of Oz is actually an allegory. An Allegory is a story where everything symbolizes something else, right? Come to find out that Dorothy represents all of us, at least we average Midwesterners. The Wizard represented politicians, the Emerald City is Washington D.C., all our hopes and dreams for a better life are pinned on the Wiz.

The Cowardly Lion is the Church, it’s supposed to reign in our lives, but too often Christians are too complacent or too frightened to take a stand for what’s right. The Scarecrow is Farming, Agriculture, the American Farmer. Scarecrow was probably the smarted person in the story of the Wizard of Oz, but too often we in rural America sell ourselves short. I hear students everyday put themselves down because they’re from Iowa or from a small town, when in reality we’re no less intelligent or sophisticated then anyone else in America.

The Tin Man is more rusty than ever these days. He represented the American worker. I don’t know if it’s the 50’s fear of Communism, the 60’s and 70’s corruption and unrest, or the rampant greed and materialism of the 80’s and 90’s, but it seems like people just don’t respect labor anymore. In the 90’s, less than 15 percent of workers belonged to unions, in the 1950's of nearly half did.

It could be that all we ever hear about is the "new economy," information and service have replaced manufacturing. It could be that we encourage our kids to get white-collar jobs to make more money. It could be that more and more blue-collar jobs are held by immigrants. Sometimes we whites wish life and America would just stay white. Whatever the reason we forget about the working man. Even if politically you’re opposed to labor unions, you should still recognize and respect the contribution of workers.

We think of farmers on thanksgiving and veterans on Memorial Day and Veterans Day, but on Labor Day, we think about Boats, Brauts, and Bud Light.

Let me give you a refresher course. In the 1890’s Pullman Illinois was a "Company Town." That meant workers lived in homes rented to them by the Railroad they worked for. Pay was low and rent was high.

It reminds you of the line from Tennessee Ernie Ford’s old tune "Sixteen Tons"-

"Saint Peter don’t ya call me ‘cause I can’t go, I owe my soul to the company store."

At any rate, Eugene V. Debs came in and organized the American Railway Union. They went on strike for better by, lower rent and a day off once a year. President Grover Cleveland broke the strike and Debs went to prison, his ARU was disbanded, and Pullman employees were forced to sign a pledge not to unionize again. Unions were pretty much eliminated until the Great Depression.

In September 1892, union workers in New York City took an unpaid day off and marched around Union Square in support of a national holiday for workers.

1894 was an election year. President Cleveland seized the chance at conciliation, and Labor Day was born. He was not reelected.

Think about your folks. Whether they’re farmers, teachers, mechanics, hair-dressers, sell insurance, drive truck, or work at the plant, they were working to keep a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food on the table. Labor day is summer’s last hurrah, but it should also be a day when you say thanks to people who work hard to make life better. Without the Tin Man, you’d never get out of the woods.