My Sporadic Journal

         Perhaps it is just the lazy way out. I will admit to that much. I have a decent size yard. It isn’t an acreage but it isn’t a postage stamp yard like I see some places. My black Lab, Max, has enough room to roam the bushes of our back yard and chase an occasional squirrel that ventures out of the trees. We have four Live Oaks, two Dwarf Magnolias, two Post Oaks, three Crape Myrtles, a Redbud, and a Bradford Pear scattered along my perimeter fence. Mixed in there are a couple dozen shrubs that have grown fence-high (6-ft). Scattered around is various other ground cover plus a little grass.

         Now, I provide that inventory because it is germane to my point. One would think that with all this landscaping comes maintenance. You know, mowing the yard, trimming the shrubs and trees, raking leaves—generally manicuring the yard. Well, that’s the issue. You see I don’t. With the exception of mowing the grass, I let the other plants grow free. I don’t chop the Crepe-Myrtles back to sticks every year, and I don’t trim the trees much. The only tree trimming I do is to cull the low branches—that would be anything which extends seven feet from the ground. I guess you could say my style is freeform.

         I believe a tree should look like a tree. I believe the same with a bush or shrub. I trim the shrubs and bushes to provide visibility from the windows and to see our house numbers. Everything else is encouraged to grow naturally. I cull out the weeds and wild shoots that spurt up along the ground, but everything else is left alone to grow as nature would have it.

         Now, some of the oaks are evergreen, holding their leaves year round. But, many of our trees drop their leaves, covering our yard every year. I let them lay where they fall. They blow into unruly stacks and collections across the yard for it has been mowed for the last time this year and will remain uncut until growing season next year. Max enjoys wandering through the leaves and I enjoy watching them change color even after they have fallen from the trees. Eventually I will rake (or blow them) together into the extensive beds I have reserved for flowering plants and other ground cover. They serve as a mulch and eventually decay and are worked into the soil of the beds. The point is, I do not spend much time gardening and sculpting my yard. It is a yard designed and maintained by nature not Better Homes and Gardens.

         There are those in our subdivision who surely shake their head in disgust at the bushiness and shagginess of my yard. But, what appears unkempt to them is the natural design of nature. I love that look and detest the manicured topiary of the suburban home. My leaves bother some folks I am sure. My tree limbs protrude and hang awkwardly in some places. Some parts of my yard have too much shade and challenge the grass to grow. It a few spots the grass has lost the war and it lays bare. That doesn’t bother me for I’ve noticed the nuts falling from the trees appear to be much more prevalent there and the squirrels gather in those spots to feast. It gives variety to the landscape.

         I find letting my yard grow naturally also gives me more pleasure as I go through the seasons with my yard. Sometimes I can close my eyes or squint them up a little and imagine I am standing in the midst of a forest far from the clutter of the suburbs. Yeah, I like my yard, cluttered and unkempt as it may seem. Let the leaves fall wherever they may. Let them form big piles of mildew leaves that crackle when Max charges through them after the squirrels over on the bare ground. Let the Crepe-Myrtles grow long and stringy, producing bushels of tiny violet and scarlet flowers in the growing season. Let my tree limbs block out the sun in places. I like my yard grown over and secluded from my neighbors. Yup, I like it just as it is. You can call me lazy if you wish; I don’t mind.

         I can’t recall how many times I have heard someone proclaim, “We are living in historic times.” Well, of course we are. Every moment is a historic moment. Certainly not every moment is documented for record in some future journal, tale, or even legend. Not everything we do as human beings is memorable. Not every natural calamity or event will be remembered. Future ages will remember Sandy as a hurricane of calamitous proportion. But, give it a couple hundred years and it will only be familiar to those folks who study such things. Likely events such as Vesuvius and Pompeii will always be somewhat familiar. However, I presume that is so only because that event left dramatic physical evidence. Who can forget the frozen remains of the inhabitants encased forever in the ash and lava of the volcano's cataclysmic eruption. But, there will be no evidence left of hurricane Sandy. The roads, houses, and even boardwalks of New Jersey will be rebuilt in a few years and the landscape will carry few scars testifying to the costly natural disaster. But even those scars will cease with time.

         The making of an historic time is not often easily recognized. As Columbus set sail in the tiny vessels voyaging across uncharted waters to India, he had no idea he would be opening a new world that would likely be heralded forever in the libraries of the world as an historic moment. Those who watched from the docks of Spain witnessed only a small and insignificant fleet of merchant ship sailing out of port. When Martin Luther pounded the nails into the door of Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany, posting his rebellious position outlining his “Ninety-Five Theses”, he had no idea he was ushering in the Reformation--a new age in history. It seemed only a simple but courageous act of personal faith and commitment.

         However, when Neil Armstrong hopped onto the Lunar surface, he well realized he was a part of history. He had thought long and hard of what he must say at such a historic moment before he uttered the words that will likely become immortal, “That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.” When Truman issued the order to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, he was well aware of the historic significance of that act. However, I must believe it’s significance, although substantial, was certainly underestimated. So I suppose history in the making is actually a function of memory. Historic moments are those events we remember, which means each of us shares the greater history of mankind and each of us has a personal history of our own which is much more fragile and sensitive to time and exposure.

         My place in history will last a couple of generations. For the most part it will survive in the memory of my descendants. My writings may last a little longer, depending on the care in which they are given to those who follow after me. But that is the nature of history. It is always in the care of those who are living. At times it is rewritten, stretched and massaged by others to a degree that it resembles very little the happenings as they really were. But history also has a way of correcting itself in time, that is if the memory lasts that long.

         I feel we are living in a day that is immersed in history. The presidential election that will take place in five days will determine the future of the United States. Some would scoff at my concern, shake their head, and dismiss it as being over-reacting. Perhaps that is so. However, I have the sinking feeling that we are at a divergence of a great river in history. The rapids of events will sweep us forcefully in one way or the other—ways that are enormously different in direction and philosophy. I will never really know the effect of this presidential election. Surely, I will know the winner. However, it will likely take a generation or two to determine the impact. But, if we take the course that President Obama wishes to guide us, I fear we will not recognize this nation as the example our forefathers envisioned when we were established. Will that course lead us to destruction? I have no idea. We are a great nation and will likely survive if taken along that course. But, I feel we will be markedly different. And, it is a difference I do not want my children’s grandchildren to face.

         My grandson, Ryan, is twenty years old. He has voted for the first time in his life. Rightly or wrongly I have instilled within him a sense of responsibility to participate in the political process of this great country of ours. We have discussed and watched newscasts, debates, and interviews of politicians of all caliber and positions. I don’t really know if he has registered the historic significance of this time. Years from now, as he sits and discusses issues with his grandson, perhaps he will realize the significance of this moment. He is living in a moment in history. It will be written and recorded in history books. He will gauge the treatment of historians of his age with his memory.

         But, perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps the only history at this moment is the temporary impact that it has on one old man. Perhaps it is just the history as recorded in my memory. Well, I suppose that is the way history is. Sometimes you never know. You have to just wait a couple of hundred years to look at it in context with all the other history out there. Guess I’ll just have to wait it out to know.

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         It happened on or around May 10, 1945. It was recorded as “Death of a Tank.” The short piece of film was taken by a military field correspondent during the Battle of Okinawa. It chronicles the last moments of a tank and its crew during that conflict. To this day is it a dramatic testament to the sadness and tragedy of war.

         The short film shows the account of an American Sherman tank that has been flipped on its back after running over a Japanese land mine. The tank is burning with most of the crew pinned inside. The frantic attempts of accompanying infantry to dig the hatch free are not successful and the ammunition stored within explodes, totally destroying the tank and killing the men inside, that is if they hadn’t already burned to death. I found this very same account in a book I purchased, Okinawa: The Last Battle – WWII. My interest in the book was due to the fact that my father served with the 6th Marine Division in that campaign. My research brought me to the book. But, in the book are a series of photographs that document the last moments of the tank.



         However, there is more to that story. As a young man my father told me a story of an event that happened to him on Okinawa. The years have worn on the story and it is vague in areas. But, my memory is that my father was assigned as a scout for the tanks on Okinawa. He accounts for a time when he was moving into position with the tanks. As a scout he did not ride in the tank. His job was to act as outside intelligence. He would spot for it, watch its back, and protect it as well he could. He carried an M1 rifle and a radio as part of a two man team.

         On this particular day, my father was behind the tank and running to its rear, attempting to jump aboard and hitch a ride. Before he could accomplish this task the tank ran over a buried Japanese land mine. The explosion tossed him well to the side as it flipped the tank, setting it on fire. After his head cleared, my father ran to the tank with others and attempted to extract the crew from the tank. One member of the tank's crew had been thrown clear; however, the others were trapped in the burning tank.

         Efforts to free the trapped crew were unsuccessful. Those trying to free the men labored in vain as they listened to the screams of the trapped crew within the burning inferno. Eventually the ammunition within the tank exploded and the crew perished. My father’s story tracks well with the account recorded in Okinawa: The Last Battle—WWII. Could this be the same tank as the one in my father’s story? Could the Marine digging furiously (photo 2) to free the tank be my father? It certainly resembles him. I had no way of knowing. Except for a strong suspicion, I had no further proof.

         Years later as I worked at my desk one Thursday afternoon in October of 2012, my telephone rang. On the other end of the phone was a lady who verified who I was and who my father was. It seems she was following up on an inquiry I had placed on a service site for Marine Corps veterans. At one period in my research I had covered the Internet with possible leads to men who may have served with my father during the Okinawa campaign. It was several years before anyone responded. However, on the other end of the phone was the daughter of a veteran who had served with my father. She was also looking for men who had served with her father. The connection was made.

         Old photographs in my archives of my father’s days in Okinawa had always been a mystery. I never had the opportunity to ask him who these men were. The names written on the backs of the photos were unfamiliar. Nevertheless, one name, Cuddy, was repeated several times and one man was always either standing near or close to my father in the few photos that I had. The voice on the phone confirmed this name, W.C. Cuddy. Finally I had a person to attach to the story—a piece of the puzzle that comprised my father’s life. I was thrilled to discover her father was still alive. At 88 yrs. of age his mind was sharp and still inquisitive. For all these years he had been wondering what happened to his buddy Boutwell. Near the ending of the Okinawa campaign Cuddy was assigned to other duties and he lost touch with Boutwell. He never knew what happened to Dad after Okinawa. His attempts to find him were unsuccessful—until now.

         Later that same evening, Cuddy called me and I filled him in quickly on what my father had done and where he had gone after Okinawa. It was a pleasant conversation but brought several questions to surface which were critical in helping to paint the picture of Dad’s Okinawa experience. Of great interest to me is that he helped add to the story of the Death of a Tank.

         I had sent Cuddy a photo that was a mystery to me. I recognized one person in this photograph and that was my father. He knelt with some other men in front of a Sherman tank. Cuddy informed me the men in the photo were the crew of the tank and he and my father. My father and Cuddy were intelligence/scouts assigned to the tank. The call sign of the tank was “Square 2”, the same tank as in the photos in Okinawa: The Last Battle—WWII (photo 2.)

         Cuddy refined the story. A line of Sherman tanks were moving down a trail. The trail had earlier been cleared of buried mines. However one was missed. “Square 2” was the second tank in line. “Square 1” had just passed. It is believed that the first tank ran over the mine but did not depress the trigger and the mine did not detonate. When “Square 2” ran over the mine the tank caused the mine to detonate this time. The explosion flipped the tank on its back, covering the hatch. The only way to get the men out was to dig a trench to the hatch and let them escape. The rest of the story matches that told by my father.

         Just a couple of parting notes to complete the story. In the previous photo of the tank crew with Dad and Cuddy, the man standing second from the end on the right is named B.B Woodall. He is an American Indian from the Navajo tribe. He was the driver of the tank ("Square 2".) Notice also, the man standing on the end on the left. I do not have his name; but, notice he is the only one with a service revolver on his right hip. Now, direct your attention to the photo of the dazed crew member in the Death of a Tank story (third photo.) That appears to be the same revolver. I surmise this unnamed man was the sole survivor of the doomed tank crew.


         So, what does all this prove? Not much—somehow it makes this all seem a little more personal. History can be so impersonal when it is reduced to facts and illustrations. It brings that time back to life. It brings personalities and emotions into play. It reminds me that at one time may father was young and vital. He developed and nourished friendships, bonds, brotherhoods. It helps me to understand in some little way the measure of this tragedy that came into his life. And, my contact with Cuddy has connected me to the circle. Other than that, I still don’t know what it proves. But, I’m glad I know.

         Political correctness drives me nuts. First of all, I feel it is a very hard thing to define. Therefore I did what any 21st century seeker of knowledge would do; I Googled it. Ah, yes, at once I received a listing of 1,060,000 responses to my inquiry. So, I chose the first definition in the list, because I certainly do not have the time to investigate all 1,060,000 responses, knowing full well that about two pages into the responses I somehow would be wading through the porn listings.

         Anyway, my researched definition of the term ‘politically correct’ provided a definition which says “conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated.” Wow, I guess that just about says it. But, it is a totally nebulous and subjective task. In fact I believe it is a totally useless phrase. Society already has guidelines established to achieve this effort. I was taught by my parents to not be rude, to respect my elders, if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all, and to think before you speak. All these efforts sought the goal to respect your neighbor and be sensitive to their feelings.

         Being politically correct requires a person to conform to the norm. If you are different than a group of folks different than yourself, for whatever reason, you are to conform to their norm as well as you can. You are politically incorrect to bring up a thought or idea not embraced by that particular group, and you are certainly politically incorrect to use any term or word that has been stricken from their lexicon. Conformity is the golden rule in being politically correct.

         For years Six Flags Over Texas amusement park has been a cornerstone of family entertainment. Flying outside their entrance are the six flags which have flown over Texas in its history, being Spain, France, Mexico, Confederacy, Texas Republic, and USA. That is history; it is a part of Texas heritage. Unfortunately, as some see it, one of the flags was the Bars and Stars of the Confederacy, which has been labeled a racist and politically incorrect symbol. The Stars and Bars has been removed from statehouses, courthouses, college campuses, local, state and federal facilities in an effort to not offend the sensibilities of those who are offended by that symbol. OK, I get it; slavery was a bad thing. I think it is a detestable and unacceptable practice and favor it to be eliminated from the face of the earth.

         But we pursue this effort of conformation too far. In our attempt to not offend anyone’s sensibilities we revert to censorship and attempt to alter the facts of history. To change the name of Six Flags Over Texas to “Five Flags over Texas and That Other One” is silly. To ban every high school in Texas, Alabama, Virginia, Georgia, Tennessee, North and South Carolina, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Florida from using the Rebels as their mascot is overkill. To ban the music and lyrics of “Dixie” from being a school fight song is going too far. Everyone knows and realizes the South lost the War. There is not a Southern state who was a part of the Confederacy who today would opt out of being a part of these United States. We are all proud of being Americans--a part of the fifty states. However, the fact of the matter is that the brotherhood and family of the South runs deep. It is, to me, an insult to suggest these people abandon their heritage and conform to something they are not, in order to not hurt the feelings of someone who is totally insensitive to the heritage of the southerner.

         But political correctness has gone much further than racial relationships. It now includes theological preferences. A Christian can no longer be a Christian in public. He can no longer wear a cross on a coat lapel or place a Bible on his desk, even if he refrains from speaking about his faith. This is especially so if the individual works for a government institution or if his place of work receives any iota of government funds. This nation has been proclaimed as not being a Christian country. Our president announced such in a speech given on foreign soil. The symbols of a Christians faith are considered offensive to society as a whole. A Christian may not be political and spiritual at the same moment, which is politically incorrect. A Christian may not be educated as a Christian, all symbols and indications of Christianity must be removed from his person before he granted acceptance in the public schools. I recently wrote a blog where I mentioned I was a Christian. Comments to my blog focused not on the subject of the blog but rather on my deluded and hypocritical position of being a misguided and ignorant Christian. This indictment to faith is focused on Jew, Muslim, and other faiths equally.

         I recently made the comment that my belief system indicates to me that homosexuality is an unnatural act which is contrary to the laws of nature. Of course, I was immediately blasted with angry comments calling me insensitive, hateful, racist, and ignorant. I suppose my idea was not politically correct. However, my assertion is not a totally unfounded claim. It is a fact that if events were to evolve such that there were only two people left on earth, the only way our species would survive is if one were a man and one were a woman. Nature would otherwise bring about the extinction of the human race. In nature, only a human male and a human female can produce another human being. You can pass all the laws you wish in order to make unions between the two legal. That will never overturn the law of nature. Even the Supreme Court cannot change that law.

         Now that does not mean I cannot live with homosexuals and lesbians and respect their worth as human beings. On the contrary, I respect their right to do as they wish. If they wish to marry, let them marry. I have no problem with legal unions of two people. If they want to live next door to me, they are welcome. Their relationship with each other does not factor into their worth as a person to me. But, when political correctness requires that conformity to their sensibilities requires that I compromise my core beliefs, it goes too far. And, their criticism that I am bigoted, racial, uncaring, and insensitive is in fact grossly insensitive to my very being. No amount of sensitivity and conformity can change the fact that homosexuality is unnatural. And, in some sense of measurement of right and wrong, is wrong. I am more than willing to tolerate same sex relationships. But, I can never accept them. To ask me to do so is to ask me to conform to the degree that it changes who I am. I can only ask the same tolerance of me from them.

         Political correctness has spread to the gender issue. This is certainly obvious when a mailman is now a mail carrier, a waitress is now a server, and a stewardess is now an attendant. There are no policemen; there are only law enforcement officers. And, there is neither a Mrs. nor Miss. anymore—they are all Ms. I’ve seen a new version of the Bible where all indications to God have been changed to She—interesting. And, our simple description of people has been altered to keep from hurting someone’s feelings. A man is no longer referred to as being crippled or even handicapped; he is now disabled or disadvantaged. My neighbor is no longer short; he is vertically challenged. Nor is my kid dumb; he is educationally challenged. Back in my grandfather’s day a black man was known as being a Negro; today he is referred to as African American. An American Indian is known as a Native American; although, I am told they prefer to be known as an American Indian.

         The list goes on. A bald man is folically challenged; a bum is a homeless person. The homeless are known as outdoor urban dwellers. If you are dishonest you are now ethically disoriented. Since I am fat, I am now referred to as being a person of mass. A freshman in college is now known as a first year student. A housewife is known as a domestic specialist. Mankind is now referred to as human kind; and a manhole is now known as a maintenance hole. If I am ignorant, I am factually unencumbered. If I’m down right stupid, I’m intellectually impaired. The dead, in turn, are living impaired. And, lastly, a tree is no longer simply a tree; it is now an oxygen exchange unit.

         Somewhere along the line this madness of political correctness must stop. We must stop trying to conform ourselves into what we are not. If we as a people will simply refuse to be rude to one another, respect each other as people of worth, and learn a little tolerance we would not need these efforts of political correctness, which proves only to make us something we are not.

         I’ve come to the conclusion that we are a society of watchers. We like parades. But, we don’t particularly like being in the parade. We’d rather stand on the curb and watch it. Now that isn’t particularly a bad thing—no, not at all. It’s just an observation. After all, we can’t all be the drum major out front or even the last clown in the troupe. Being a watcher is a necessary thing. In fact you got to have a multitude of watchers or the parade just doesn’t work. Occasionally, however, don’t you think all of us has an urge to be a part of the parade? I think so.

         This insight comes to me today after I checked my stats in Writing.com, where I have the bulk of my written material stored. The site has a feature that permits one to see how many people have peeked at your material. It does not indicate that they spent much time in there—only that they made the visit. But, at least you know someone is watching. What I would like to see is more folks joining the parade—I mean I’d like to see a few more people make a comment or two.

         I wouldn’t usually say anything about this, except for the fact that it appears an unusually high amount of folks are visiting and then backing out of my port. Here’s what I mean. Over the last fourteen days I’ve had 3,800 visits to my material. I would hope a few of those visits were more than drive-by glances. I mean it would be nice if a few folks had actually read one or two of those 3,800 views. However, I don’t have a clue if anyone is spending any time reading my material. All I know is that only 13 folks stopped to take the time to make a comment. That’s a pretty low showing of 0.3% of the total 3,800 views.

         However, that got me to thinking about this whole concept of watcher v. parader thing. In a world of watchers, I guess 0.3% ain’t bad. I mean, like the Dallas Cowboy football stadium has a seating capacity of 80,000 persons. Now, I suspect there are at least four or five hundred people on the field during any given game. That figures to about 0.5% of the folks being down on the field—this doesn't take into consideration the million or so couch-potatoes watching at home. The rest of us are watching. Watching is what most of us do best, myself included. Every now and then I take a turn at jumping in the parade for a short time. But, mostly I’m like the folks who visit my stuff in Writing.com; I mainly watch.

         That’s why I don’t get offended when no one leaves a comment on a particularly outstanding piece of writing. I don’t puff up pompously and condemn a complacent and apathetic audience. Nope, I realize they are only doing what they do best, watching. That’s what they do. Heck, that’s what I do. Now, does anyone want to comment on this blog? It’s OK if you don’t….and again, it’s OK if you do too.

         We voted in the little town in which I live. The process began with early voting where folks wandered in over a two week period and marked their ballots. The finishing touch was done yesterday when the polls opened and folks stood in line on election day. They tell us that we had a large turnout of voters. When everything was said and done, 2,506 people had exercised their constitutional right to vote.

         Now, the little town in which I live claims to have 36,700 people living here. Of this number, the US Census tells us over 25,000 are eligible voters. A quarter of those are probably indisposed by circumstances that prevent them from exercising their right, which leaves about 19,000 able bodied voters. This means this high turnout of voters represented only 13% of the folks who could vote in my fair city, which means most folks chose not to vote.

         That is sad. Sad that so many people who have the precious right to choose the leaders who will form and guide their government determine not to do so. I would be seriously distressed and worried about the direction of our affairs had I not learned a long time ago a simple truth. It is not critical for everyone to vote; it is critical only for everyone to have the right to vote.

         As a graduate student working on my Master’s degree, I had the unfortunate task of taking a couple of research methods courses (statistics), which I hated and endured as if they were water-boarding. It was there I was first introduced to the magic of the random sample, which tells us basically that we don’t have to get responses from all the people; we only need to get enough to make it a valid sample. You see, there happens to be some kinda of statistical law that if you randomly receive answers from a small group of people in the area you are surveying, you can know the mind of the whole group without asking everyone. It applies exactly the same way for elections, which after all is really just a political survey. Now, I’ve done this enough times in my professional career to know it works. In a community of 20,000 people, if I can get responses from 100 of them, I can accurately tell you what everyone thinks about a particular subject—well within five percentage points.

         So, this morning, as I was perusing the election returns, seeing which one of my guys won and who lost, I was again disappointed to see that only 13% of my neighbors cared enough to get out and vote (and this was purported to be a large turnout.) Sometime during the day someone will probably say, “If just more folks would have gotten out, maybe Joe could have pulled it off.” I won’t say anything, but I will know that Joe was doomed after the first hundred votes were counted and he was behind. What makes me sad is not that poor Joe lost the election, but that so many people ignored the precious freedom we share which allows us to vote our conscience. There are places where that is not possible.

         It is the random sample that elects our leaders. Our president was elected by the random sample, which consisted of 130 million people (53%.) Even if everyone eligible to vote had voted in the last presidential election, the result would have been the same—just like poor Joe in my local election held yesterday would have lost even if everyone had voted. So, what is my message here today?

         Well, I guess I’m here to remind you that it doesn’t really matter how many folks vote. What matters is that everyone has the right to vote. My father and the young men and women fighting for America today, as well as ages passed, are not necessarily fighting for elections or voters, but for people to have the right to vote. As long as someone gets to the polling booth the random sample will survive. That is what is so moving about the photographs of the Iraqi citizens leaving the polling places in 2005 showing us their blue fingers. That blue finger represented their right to vote. And, amazingly, that random vote will accurately tell us what the whole group wants. You may not like that, but that’s the way it is.