DESPERATE TIMES (Part 2): NATIONAL UNITY

Welcome back, Gryphem readers.  Let’s get right to the discussion of our desperate situation and what we can do about it.

I am an ordinary American.  I served in the U.S. Navy, taught history and language arts in public schools, and am the father of six.  I have a love of history, a passion for freedom, and an obsession with integrity.  And as I told you last time, I have an idea.  It is an idea that has the potential to stop the coming catastrophe in its tracks, and change the United States and the world for the better.

Let’s start from the premise that the election of either of the presumptive presidential nominees of the two major political parties would be disastrous for our nation.  If you disagree with this premise, you need read no further.  But if the lack of a competent, ethical candidate at the top of either ticket bothers you, let me remind you of this.  We the American people are not bound by the choices which the major parties set before us.  We do not have to accept a presidential candidate that we do not support, that we do not respect, just because that candidate has been nominated by a political party.  We do not have to choose between the lesser of two evils.  We can opt for something else altogether.  And this time around, we should.

Polls have repeatedly shown that in a general election matchup with the Democratic frontrunner, Governor John Kasich is the only one of the final three Republicans who would win decisively.  Polls have shown that in a general election matchup with the Republican frontrunner, Senator Bernie Sanders is the only remaining Democrat who would win decisively.

In other words, the American people as a whole prefer the candidates who are running second and third to those currently on track to win the nominations.  So why aren’t the parties nominating those candidates? 

Good question.  Think about that while I explain a couple of important things you need to know.

Most Americans don’t realize that the concept of political parties is not in the Constitution.  In fact President George Washington, the only president who was not affiliated with any political party, advised strongly against the formation of political parties.  However, the two-party system has become so firmly entrenched that most of us cannot imagine American government without it.  Fair enough.  But let’s look a little closer.  Did you know that throughout American history the political parties have changed?

The first two American political parties were the Federalists (John Adams) and the Democratic-Republicans (Thomas Jefferson).  The Federalists faded away, the Whigs appeared, and the Democratic-Republicans were transformed into the Democratic Party by President Andrew Jackson.  When the Whigs began to die out, the Republican Party was born.  In only their second presidential election attempt, Republicans managed to win the White House.  They elevated Republican Abraham Lincoln to the presidency where he managed to save the Union and free the slaves.  After the Civil War we settled into a Republican versus Democrat dichotomy that has endured for more than 150 years.

That doesn’t mean the political parties have stayed the same for last century and a half.  On the contrary, the two parties have reinvented themselves several times.  Originally, Democrats were considered the more conservative and Republicans were considered the more liberal of the two parties.  That changed under the New Deal of the 1930s, and also during the Civil Rights reforms of the 1960s.  So American political parties can rise up, fade away, or change with the times.  They have done so repeatedly. 

I believe the profound dissatisfaction that a majority of Americans feel with the current situation indicates that the political parties are overdue for evolution and realignment, or possibly for replacement with new parties that will more closely reflect the opinions and needs of the American people.  It has happened before, and it will happen again.  Perhaps now.

The extremists of the right and the extremists of the left are the ones who drive the agendas of the two major political parties.  Those extremists do not share the values or priorities of the great majority of Americans.  Most Americans are dissatisfied with the frontrunners put forward by angry voters of both parties.  They do not want the intentional angst, the heated rhetoric, the hyperbole, the rudeness, the intolerance, the dangerous divisiveness, or the hatemongering they see on both sides of the political aisle.  Most Americans just want decent, honest, effective government.  The political parties are not only NOT the solution; the political parties stand in the way to prevent a solution.  Each party is allowing its extremist base to force anger and indignation to the fore, blame the other guys in every situation, and seethe about the evils of compromise.  All this prevents us from coming together, forces persons of goodwill to accept this extreme divisiveness or risk being excluded altogether.

Heated rhetoric, disunity and dysfunction may serve the powers that be in the two parties, but they are not in the best interest of the people of the United States of America.  It’s time to call their hand.  It’s time for a Real Change, a change in the political party power structure. 

How courageous are we willing to be?  How far outside the box are we willing to think?  If we are courageous enough, creative enough, amazing things might happen.

In 2016 we are in the midst of a “perfect storm” of voter disillusionment.  Political parties are presenting options not in the best interests of the people, and two candidates with the highest negative ratings since tracking began 30 years ago are the presumptive nominees.  If ever the Republican-Democrat juggernaut needed be toppled in favor of something that more Americans want and need, This Is The Time.

The majority of Americans would prefer to replace the presumptive nominees with persons of ability and integrity.  I am suggesting just that.  I am suggesting a third alternative to the divisive alternatives of left and right.

Among the final five candidates, two have risen above the partisan rhetoric and the politics of destruction.  Two of the candidates are persons of compassion, ability, and most of all, integrity.  Each of these is the kind of person most Americans want as their leader. 

Governor John Kasich is the kind of person most Americans want as their leader.  Senator Bernie Sanders is the kind of person most Americans want as their leader. 

I am suggesting a National Unity ticket of John Kasich and Bernie Sanders.

Don’t stop reading.  It’s logical.  It’s ethical.  It’s not politics as usual.  It could work.

A National Unity ticket is not new in American presidential politics.  Abraham Lincoln’s Vice President in 1864 was Andrew Johnson.  Lincoln was a Republican, Johnson was a Democrat.  Lincoln was the president who saved the Union; Johnson was a southerner from Tennessee who had remained loyal to the Union.  Together, the Lincoln-Johnson National Unity Ticket won.  Without that 1864 victory, the United States of America as we know it might not even exist today. 

A Kasich-Sanders ticket, or Sanders-Kasich if you prefer, would pull in all the Republican voters cringing at the thought of what a Trump presidency would do to their nation and party.  It would pull in the enthusiastic Sanders supporters who see Hillary Clinton as corrupt and regressive and Bernie Sanders as fair, fresh and optimistic.  Most importantly, this National Unity ticket could pull in the 60%-in-the-middle, the majority of voters who consider themselves as neither left-wing nor right-wing, but just common-sense ‘do-the-right-thing’ Americans.

Imagine the excitement for voters!  Something truly new in American politics in this generation… a real alternative to the depressing options put forth by the parties… a chance to be part of history-in-the-making!  Voters would flock to the Kasich-Sanders (or Sanders-Kasich) ticket to be part of this historic uprising at the ballot box.  This might be remembered in history books of the 21^st and 22^nd centuries as the election in which the American people rejected the limited alternatives put before them by extremist parties; the election in which American voters rejected hyper-partisanship and came together as one American nation of left and right, young and old, going forward together; the turning point at which the deep divisions that once threatened to tear our nation apart began to heal; the time when we, led by two visionaries in John Kasich and Bernie Sanders, reinstituted government of the people, by the people, for the people.

This is bigger than who gets a four year term in the White House.  It is that, of course… but it could change the very fabric of the American political process for the better. 

Can the candidates come together and make this happen?  I believe they can, if they want badly enough to save this nation, and if they and we are willing to work across the aisle and around the aisle to do what is best for America.  We can do it despite the politically powerful types who tell us we cannot succeed.  We Can Succeed.  We can do it despite the threats of violence from extremists who will hate the idea of cooperation and compromise.  We Can Succeed.  We can and will succeed if we have enough imagination to envision a better world just around the corner, if we have enough love for America, enough hope for our shared future, enough faith in ourselves and our fellow citizens, enough energy and courage to take action and make it happen.

I am not naïve.  I understand the profound differences between Governor Kasich and Senator Sanders on matters of economy, foreign relations, and the proper role and form of government.  But there are bigger issues on which they can build consensus.  They are both men of integrity.  They both love America.  They both want the hyper-partisanship that is destroying us to stop.  What better way to halt that divisiveness in its tracks than to defeat the hyper-partisans of both extremes by working together?  What better role model for the children and young adults of a disillusioned America than a Republican and a Democratic-Socialist leading together, acknowledging the differences between them without condemnation, finding common ground as we move forward as One American Nation?

This could happen.  You could begin to create it.  It would be the hardest thing to do, politically, in generations.  But it could be done, and it could succeed, and it could Save America. 

You can be part of this campaign.  It is not only a campaign to elect a candidate (or candidates).  It is a campaign to break with destructive politics of the past and begin the healing of the United States of America.  It is a campaign for renewal of faith in freedom and integrity in our 21^st century world.  

I hope I have inspired you to think about this as a real possibility.  The challenge is daunting, and time is short.  But the consequences of failing would be catastrophic, and the rewards of success, without compare. 

There are risks.  No great thing is ever done without risk.  But don’t you think the effort and the risk are worthwhile?  Success promises to turn the tide of American decline, to reinvigorate us as one nation, together again. 

How bold are you?  How innovative are you willing to be?  How “all-in” are you willing to go?

If you think the Kasich-Sanders (or Sanders-Kasich) National Unity ticket really should happen, you need to MAKE it happen. 

For this to work, it first needs to be heard and embraced by the candidates.  About a month ago, I wrote to both campaigns, but I do not know how far it went in Vermont or Ohio.  I need you, Gryphem readers, to republish this wherever you can, in whatever way you can.  There are less than 100 of you who are regular readers, so the contribution of each is crucial!  One of you will send it to someone who will send it to someone else who will have the personal email or telephone number of Governor Kasich or Senator Sanders, or a member of their staff or family.  One of you will have a talk with a friend who will talk with another friend, who will get an editorial about the National Unity ticket published in the Washington Post or on CNN. 

YOU are the next link in the chain.  YOU need to spread the word.  Your task is to BEGIN.

We must speak up and demand better.  We must proclaim that INTEGRITY is more important than partisan positions or personalities.  We must publicize this dramatic new idea of National Unity fast and hard, because we don’t have long to make it happen.   

I am taking the unusual step of publishing my email here.  I do this not because Adelaar Gryphem is particularly important in this entire process.  No, my primary job has been to enlighten you by explaining the idea, to let YOU know about it, to let YOU carry it forward.  However, I will continue to do whatever I can to further the cause.  In the event that anyone needs further communication to clarify ideas, suggest strategies, or connect with this writer, I will be available.

Today’s post is not just an ordinary blog to read.  It is your Mission, if you choose to accept it.

Thank you for being a critical part of this historic undertaking.

For National Unity,

 

Gryphem

Gryphem@gmail.com

Desperate Times (Part 1)

Well, friends, it appears that the worst is about to come to pass.

This is not a partisan commentary.  I don’t like either option the political powers-that-be are about to set before us.  I am a conservative-leaning moderate with no love for extremists of either left or right.  I am frustrated by the increasing devolution of American politics into blame, condemnation, mindless posturing, and incompetence.

It has long been my hypothesis that for the past 30 years each President has been worse than the one before.  (By this I mean worse for the nation; this is not necessarily an indictment of the moral character of individuals who have held the office.) 

·         Reagan was great because he was amazingly positive.  He saw opportunities where others saw only obstacles.  He united us, gave us hope, broke the Soviet juggernaut, and gave a self-doubting America a new lease on life.  To a large degree, George H.W. Bush built upon the legacy of Reagan. 

·         Bill Clinton had personal moral failures, but he was not a bad president. He ran the country generally according to the Constitution and balanced the budget a couple of times.  (Many attribute those balance budgets to the conservatives in Congress.  Perhaps, but it was President Clinton who signed those balanced budgets.) 

·         George W. Bush started well.  He entered office with promises of refocusing on our own nation (as opposed to international intervention) and even the potential of a mission to Mars.  Not many remember those early days because eight months in everything changed.  President George W. Bush led us effectively through the crisis that was September 11, 2001.  He helped us regain our courage and our confidence as a nation.  But later, mostly in his second term, he went too far.  He sought and found ways around law and Constitution in his pursuit of better ways to find and stop potential terrorists.  When I learned that this man I once admired had condoned torture as an interrogation tactic, I realized he had gone over to the Dark Side. 

·         President Obama has been, in most ways, a train wreck.  He accomplished almost nothing in his first term, not even the one thing I hoped he would accomplish, closure of the detention facility at Guantanamo.  In his second term he got his ‘Affordable Health Care’ passed (barely), but it is by almost any measure not working, and the status of health care for most Americans is far worse today than it was two or three years ago.  President Obama undermined the Constitution, bypassing Congress and implementing many of his policies and procedures by executive order.  Besides all this Obama inherited an already catastrophically enormous national debt and instead of trying to fix that problem, doubled down on overspending.  Even if we were to start spending wisely next year, and we probably won’t, it would take us decades to recover.

I thought we had reached the bottom.  Practically bankrupt, more divided and hopeless than any other period in my lifetime, including the turbulent years of the late 1960s with its riots and wars.

But we have not bottomed out just yet.  Look what’s coming our way.

On the one hand we have someone who arguably may be the most corrupt politician on the national stage since Richard Nixon, who has sidestepped one scandal after another, lied with impunity, and manipulated people and systems with great disregard for laws and ethics, all the while proclaiming her compassion for the poor and disenfranchised.  She has been a model of Machiavellian efficiency. 

On the other hand we have someone who is potentially even less scrupulous and more dangerous.  A billionaire who has never worked to advance the best interests of anyone but himself, whose only moral barometers are increasing his net worth and absorbing more and yet more of the adoration of the masses.  He routinely insults everyone from the poorest immigrants to his most influential colleagues and even his own supporters.  He threatens to derail our international alliances, bomb the rest of the world into submission to “American” interests, and impose a thinly-veiled fascism on the people of the United States based upon his own view of how things ought to be.  His entire platform can be summed up as an anti-establishment, anti-immigrant, anti-intellectual, anti-everything-but-Donald.  His supporters are for the most part angry people who admire his willingness to take on the politicians and social architects who got us into all this trouble.  While their grievances are real, what they don’t realize is that this solution would be far worse than the problem it is supposed to solve. 

A Trump presidency would be reminiscent of the doctor who reported that “the operation was a success, but the patient died.”

I could go on and on about historical precedents, logical inconsistencies, and the appalling absence of ethics among the leading candidates this presidential primary year.  But you get the idea.  We can still hope, for a few more weeks, that one or the other political convention will be contested, that a better alternative will emerge.  But it’s becoming apparent to most that this election is going to present us with a Hobson’s choice between two unacceptable alternatives. 

No matter which side wins, America Is Going To Lose.  What can we do?

I have an idea. 

It’s a long-shot, an outrageous idea.  It’s an admittedly desperate move, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  We owe it to ourselves, our country, and future generations of Americans to try anything that offers a possibility, however slight, of averting the catastrophic outcome that we have almost (but not quite) come to believe is inevitable.

There is one chance we can come through this with our freedom and integrity intact.

Stand by for further details.

Gryphem 

Has this ever happened to you?

This morning I showed my ID card to the guard as I drove through the gate to the base where I work. I parked and walked into the office.

It was then that I discovered my ID card was missing.

I checked my pockets, satchel, and desk.

I got some items out of the safe while considering what to do next.

I retraced my route, looking for the card on the ground. I searched my car. 

I returned to the office and searched the entire desk area again. I searched trash cans in office and bathroom. I checked the area around the safe, even though I knew the card had been missing before I went there.

I went back to the parking lot and searched my car again, this time looking under seats and mats. I got on my hands and knees to search see if had landed on the asphalt under the car.

I walked to the gate and asked the guard if he remembered handing the card back to me after inspecting it when I drove onto the base. He did. 

Truthfully, I already knew the guard had given the card back to me. I was just stalling for time trying to think of new places to search.

I went back to the car to seek out new places where it could have fallen.

I discovered a space into which it could have slipped if I'd set it on the steering column. That must be where it had disappeared to, I thought. There was just no other place it could be.

I got tools from the trunk and dismantled the steering column housing to see if my ID card had fallen in there. It had not.

I went back to the office. 

I had a critical task that needed to be completed for my supervisor immediately.  To complete that task I needed access to the company website. Without my ID card I could not access the internet at all.

With no prospect of locating my card anytime soon, I persuaded a coworker to let me use his computer to access the internet on his computer. I completed the urgent task and averted the impending administrative crisis.

I told my coworker about the black hole at the center of the universe where stray socks and the occasional ID card go when they vanish.

Out of ideas, I reluctantly went to the command security office, where I asked (with more embarrassment than hope) whether anyone had turned in an ID card. No one had.

I returned to my desk, despondent, confused, and without a clue as to what to do next. I sat.

In my mind I reviewed where I had been, what I had done between the front gate and my desk.

I began to repeat every little step and movement of those fateful few moments, reviewing in my mind, acting the motions out physically.

I stood, picked up my satchel, and recreated the movement of taking it off my shoulder and placing it on my desk.

I saw an opening in the back of the satchel that I'd never noticed before. 

It was too small for anything more than a few sheets of paper, and it was partially sealed with Velcro. 

I looked into that small opening and discovered a portal to the black hole at the center of the universe.

I put some coffee on to brew.

I went to my car and put the steering column back together.

I returned to my desk and drank my coffee. Enjoyed my coffee.

Now I'm going back to search for all those missing socks.

- Gryphem

Jimmie Fletcher - A Eulogy

A bit more than a month ago, my father died. It was not unexpected, but no matter how much you expect it, the death of a parent is always a blow. I was surprised to be asked to present a eulogy at his funeral. I didn't see how I could do it, but I knew I had to give it my best shot. This is the result, and I had the honor of presenting it to a room full of family, friends, and people who cared about my father. It does not do justice to the good man my father was, but maybe in some small way it will help keep his memory alive. And if it reveals the connection between my real name and pseudonym, so much the better. I am proud to be the son of Jimmie Fletcher.
- - - - -

JIMMIE FLETCHER
by Gary Fletcher (aka Gryphem)

When I was asked to present a eulogy of my father, I knew it would be an impossible task to portray my father in a few minutes’ time. No number of words could ever convey all that my father was. Fortunately for me, most of you knew him. So I will simply try to help you remember him for a moment.

I have always been proud of my father. All my life I have lived in awe of him, really. I never told him that, because we just didn’t say that sort of thing. I think he knew, though... at least after I became an adult.

My father was larger than life. He came from a humble beginning to do remarkable things. He was modest, without pretensions, yet always completely confident in his own judgment and abilities.

He never tolerated foolishness or disrespectful behavior, yet he was full of compassion... for his family, friends, students or coworkers... even random people who crossed his path.

He was professional in the extreme. He took every responsibility seriously, willingly giving his time and energy until it hurt to be sure the job was done and done right... whether the job was improving student learning, speaking on behalf of the Gideons at a church he’d never seen before, planting trees in our yard, or winning a football game.

But he never let work get between him and his family. Somehow he managed to do it all. He might have gone to a lot of meetings or classes in the evenings, but when he was home he made up for it with quality time.

Usually that quality time involved doing things together. Sometimes it would be a fun activity like playing catch or going for a bike ride. Sometimes it would be a job, like cleaning the pool or mowing the lawn. Sometimes it involved a trip to the woods to shoot, or fishing Shingle Creek or the canal, or even going to the dump to drop something off.

My brother and I would jump at the chance to run an errand with Dad. When he had to go to the convenience store for a gallon milk in the evening, as he often did, he would usually call one of us to ride with him. Just for the ride, and maybe some light conversation if we were so inclined. Whenever he called me to ride with him, I felt important. Whenever he called Tony, I felt a little jealous. Fortunately he was happy to let both of us come along to watch when he played softball on the church league. Those were fun times.

When all the activities and errands were done, when Dad had no meeting and his Sunday School lesson was ready to go, and when there was time left at the end of the day, sometimes we would watch television and eat ice cream. He loved Andy Griffith and Hogan’s Heroes, The Beverly Hillbillies and Tim Conway and college sports. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t bond in front of the television - as long as the programming is worthwhile and you are watching and talking together. And especially when there is ice cream involved.

My father enjoyed seeing new places, especially if they were fun or historically significant. Our family took weekend trips to Daytona Beach, rode over to Clearwater to watch the Cincinnati Reds in Spring Training, and drove as close as we could get to the Kennedy Space Center to watch the Apollo missions take off. We took annual trips to my grandparents’ homes in Kentucky and sometimes fit in side trips along the way.

One of my earliest memories is a road trip through Virginia in 1961, in which we visited Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello. Another is when Dad worked on the C&O Railroad, and he took me for a ride in a caboose. We rode that caboose from Raceland to Greenup, Kentucky, and it impressed me so much that I remember it clearly more than 50 years later.

One particularly eventful summer we went from our home to our grandparents’ by way of Tallahassee, Montgomery, Nashville, and Frankfort, touring all four state capitols. Another time we found the cabin where Abe Lincoln had been born. My parents instilled in me, during these early trips, a lifelong love of history and travel.

My father was a devout man. He didn’t much care for ritual, but his convictions ran deep. His firm understanding of right and wrong influenced his every decision. He always tried to do the right thing, regardless of adversity or consequences. And if, once in a while, he fell short - which was rare, but let’s face it, we’re all human - he believed in grace, forgiveness, and new beginnings.


My father believed shortcomings were to be acknowledged, corrected to the best of one’s ability, and put in the past. Each responsibility, he believed, was a sacred obligation. He held everyone, including himself, to the highest standards, expected the best... to put it plainly, he was kind of a perfectionist. Yet he was a realist. When people fell short of his expectations, he did not condemn. He simply sighed and expected better next time.

My father loved his people. He loved the family he grew up with, including two of his brothers who are here with us today. He loved my mother deeply. And she loved him just as much. /// Although this is all about my father, I must take one moment to commend my mother for the magnificent care she has given my father for these past eight years. She has kept him the center of her life, even while he has been in the nursing home, visiting him daily (sometimes more than once per day) for all that time. What an example of devotion! Thank you, Mom. /// As I was saying, Dad didn’t make an elaborate show of his feelings but they were strong. There’s an old saying, “Still waters run deep.” That was my dad. He and Mom loved my brother and me, too, and did their best to give us a good start in life... even if we didn’t always listen as well as Dad thought we should. Actually, I think we were listening far more intently than he ever realized.

My father was characterized by Strength... Determination... Intelligence... Integrity... Compassion... and one other very significant characteristic: Humor. Dad had a powerful sense of humor that made people enjoy being around him. How could you not enjoy hanging around with someone who was having so much fun himself? I can still hear Dad interrupting himself by chuckling as he was trying to tell a story about some “good ol’ boy.” My brother has done a good job of sharing some of Dad’s sense of Humor. I want to add a few bits.

No one could beat Dad at cards. Never in my life have I seen anyone who won more consistently than my father. Whether it was Hearts or Rook or some other game, he always WON. It was uncanny. But winning often never diminished the joy of victory to Dad. He would raise the final, winning card high above his head, slap it down onto the table and laugh and laugh. Our misery in losing all the time was tempered by the contagious happiness he displayed in winning.


Sometimes Dad was funny when he didn’t even mean to be. When we traveled to interesting places I used to collect souvenirs. Usually they were things I picked up off the ground. I picked up geological specimens from various parts of the Appalachians between North Carolina and Kentucky, sea shells from Florida beaches, pebbles of bits of gravel from historical sites. Dad never understood this. One Kentucky trip I had picked up more than the ordinary amount of souvenirs. I had filled an entire shoe box. When we were packing the trunk of the car for our trip home he came across it. “What’s this?” he asked. “My souvenirs,” I replied. “It’s a box of rocks,” Dad said with confusion in his voice. “They’re important,” I said. “You need to get rid of these,” he said, “We don’t need to be carrying a lot of rock hundreds of miles.” A discussion followed, in which I made an impassioned plea to keep my box of treasures. It ended when Mom stepped in. “Oh, let him keep them,” she said, “It isn’t hurting anything.” Dad just looked at ground and shook his head in bewilderment as he wandered away. More to himself than to us he was muttering, “It’s a BOX of ROCKS!” We had to act serious at the time, but it was hilarious.

Dad sometimes accused me of being quirky... and he was right, of course... but he could be kind of quirky too. When Mom took custody of Dad’s wallet when he went into the nursing home in 2007, she found a voter registration card, some family photos, and one other very unusual item. It was a very old laminated newspaper clipping. What, you might ask, would be important enough to my dad that he laminated this clipping and kept it in his wallet at all times, even decades later? Would it be the announcement of his victory in the Superintendent election of 1976? No. Would it be the obituary of a family member? No. Would it be something of vast historical significance, like the moon landing? No. Would it be about some family member’s great success, like a college graduation? No. It was a short clipping from the Sentinel with a picture of Dad holding a big fish and a few lines describing the scene. Those of you who have known my dad a long long time might remember that way back in 1964 (the first year we moved to Kissimmee), he caught a record size catfish - 27 pounds and 37 inches. Dad was so proud of that catch (He caught it using 8 pound test line!) that over 40 years later he was still carrying around the laminated newspaper clipping to show to anyone who might seem interested. Now that might seem kind of unusual, but I don’t care. I am happy that he caught that big fish, and I love that he was so proud of it.

I want to share with you a few more short stories about my dad.

When Jimmie was about 12 years old, living on the farm in Kentucky, he had the task of rounding up the cattle from the hillside. He was having a lot of trouble finding them. He was asked, “How do you expect to be a farmer if you can’t even find the cows on a hillside?” He replied, “I don’t. That’s why I go to school” (He graduated from high school at age 16, by the way.)

When Jimmie was a young teacher and track coach in Greenup County, he had a particular student in one class who continually frustrated him - not listening, interrupting, not following directions and so on. Well, one day when that student was being particularly annoying, Mr. Fletcher, who was also Coach Fletcher, reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out the starter pistol he had there in preparation for an after-school track meet, and fired it. Let’s talk about results: Humor and improved classroom discipline all in one act of ingenuity. (Of course, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea today. Times change...)

To bring this to a close, I want to share one last story. I was 15 years old, and a sophomore in high school. As an administrator in the Osceola County Schools, Dad sometimes had to travel. This time he had to go to Miami. He invited me to come with him and I, of course, jumped at the opportunity. Besides being a trip with Dad, I thought I might get the chance to do some driving as I had my learner’s permit and needed some time behind the wheel.

We were cruising the Florida Turnpike somewhere in the wide open spaces of southern Osceola or Okeechobee County when Dad offered to let me take the wheel. He pulled over and we changed places. I was not a bad young driver, but I was an inexperienced young driver. Almost all my driving experience to that time had been in a 4-speed manual 1971 Pinto, but the car we were taking to Miami was a big new Ford LTD which was about twice as long as the Pinto, with about a thousand times more power. It was automatic, with power steering, power brakes, power everything. About as different from the Pinto as a car could possibly be.

You probably see where this is going... which is more than I can say about the two of us that memorable day in 1974.

Behind the wheel, I accelerated gently and eased out onto the highway. Traffic was light, conditions were pleasant, and everything was right with the world as I sped down the highway for several miles. But inevitably, I eventually found myself drifting too far to one side of my lane. I turned the wheel - what I thought was gently - to the right. My correction would’ve been just right in the Pinto, but in the power-everything LTD, it was too much. I swerved across the line a bit. Now embarrassed, I turned the wheel back left with some enthusiasm. Bad move. The power steering took us all the way into the gravel margin in the center of the highway.

Fortunately there was no traffic in the immediate vicinity, because then I really panicked. I threw the wheel back over to the right and we bounced across two lanes of Turnpike onto the right shoulder. Fully in the grasp of fear and adrenaline I was preparing to throw the car into its steepest swerve yet when Dad reached out and grabbed the wheel with his left hand. He arrested the swerve to the left and told me to brake slowly. I of course hit the brake too hard, but had the good sense to let up and try again, more gently. While I operated the brake, Dad drove with one hand from the passenger side. He guided us to a safe stop on the right shoulder.

We turned the car off and sat for a moment. We caught our breath, let the adrenaline subside, and took stock. No real damage had been done. I figure I had been one more swerve away from flipping the car and rolling down the turnpike sideways when Dad took control. But here we were, safe. I looked at him. He looked at me. I said, “I’m sorry.” He said, “I know.” Then a minute later he asked... “So do you want to keep on driving or do you want me to drive?”

My dad was like that. Strong, capable, ready to let me take the wheel. Ready to rescue me if I failed. Supportive, ready to take control if I needed him to do that. Brave enough to let me try again if I was ready. That’s how he was.

Jimmie Fletcher was a great man. I am proud to say he was my father. I will miss him. Thank you, Dad.

Beirut Airport 1984

Stationed on board a large amphibious ship, I didn’t get ashore too often while on operational deployments. My job was on board the ship – on the bridge, in the Combat Information Center, or other places from which sailors fight battles. There were a couple of exceptions.

USS Guam (LPH 9) was well into her second deployment to Lebanon in early 1984. I had been on board Guam when she delivered a Marine Amphibious Ready Group ashore in Beirut in 1982, with the mission of keeping peace between warring factions. We had stayed for many months as an offshore command and control facility (the current term would be “sea-base”). In effect, we drove the ship slowly around a navigational box off the coast of Beirut, Lebanon, and flew helicopters between the ship, the Beirut Airport where the Marines were, other ships in the Eastern Mediterranean, and nearby shore facilities. It was weeks of boredom made tolerable only by the dazzling view of the Shouf Mountains in the distance and the occasional bursts of life-and-death “excitement.”

One of my jobs as a Navy Lieutenant in the Communications Department was to take care of the communication security materials, the ‘codes’ that enabled us to talk on the radio without anyone else being able to understand. For security purposes, each month the shipment of materials had to be hand-delivered to users afloat and ashore.

One month in early spring the time came to deliver new materials to the Marines at Beirut Airport. The fighting had subsided, in fact was in a lull. There had been few bombings, fewer sniper attacks, and no real action to speak of for well over a month. We were glad of that, but at the same time beginning to get a little bored. Stir-crazy. Were we still needed in Lebanon? Were we ever going to get any liberty ports during this half-year deployment?

Normally we had a member of the Marine Detachment ashore fly out to the ship to pick up the communication materials, but this was my chance. I suggested to my boss that this time I should deliver the materials ashore myself. To my surprise, he agreed.

It was early morning, sunny and warm in the Eastern Med. I pulled on my flak jacket and flight helmet, grasped the satchel full of communication codes firmly, and walked rapidly across the flight deck from the ‘island’ of the ship to the green Marine CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter turning on the deck of USS Guam. After a deployment and a half of looking at that shoreline from the sea, I was finally going to set foot in Lebanon. The flight deck crew signaled, the helo blades rotated faster and louder, throbbing so powerfully that we felt more than heard their rhythmic pulsation. The helicopter lifted itself off the deck, tilted to one side and was suddenly a hundred feet over the ocean waves.

The first maneuver was a steep turn toward the shore. We raced landward. The ship grew smaller by the second.

I had been on helicopters before, and I immediately noticed a difference. This time the acceleration was more urgent, the turns were more deliberate, than I had experienced. With speed and resolve, the pilot brought us in low over the waves. We raced toward the beach… that strand of white between sea and land… it used to seem so far away when I had stared at it longingly week after week, month after month, from a safe shipboard distance of two to four miles. Now that same beach was drawing closer so quickly that I barely had time to take in the whole scene… I remember it in bits and pieces… waves, glistening sun, helo shadow pacing us, snow-capped mountains, whitecaps, sand.

Suddenly, we were over land. The pilot brought the helicopter sharply up in altitude so we didn’t collide with any structures near the shore. He directed the helo toward a cluster of tall buildings that seemed to be racing toward us at great speed. Then we were among them, 8 and 12 and 15 stories tall… and as I looked toward the rooftops I was looking up.

The next 30 to 60 seconds was the most thrilling ride of my life – better than any roller coaster. As a safety precaution, the helicopters flying into Beirut Airport practiced evasive maneuvers, even when there was no present indication of danger. We flew up to rooftop height, dropped back down, flew literally between six and eight and ten story abandoned apartment buildings, turned to port around a blind corner... When we emerged without warning over the landing zone our airspeed suddenly fell to zero and we dropped to the ground so fast that I really didn’t have time for my stomach to catch up until we were on solid ground. Rotors continued to turn as I grabbed my bag of security material, stood, and took a moment to regain my equilibrium. I checked my flak jacket, secured my helmet, and watched as sailors and Marines debarked ahead of me. One by one they went, in rapid succession, following the direction of a Marine who slapped each one on the shoulder in turn and shouted “GO!”

Suddenly he was hitting my shoulder. “GO!” I jumped to the ground and ran, head-down, across the landing zone to the small building off to one side where I checked through with the LZ manifest coordinator.

Still a little dizzy, I caught my breath and got my bearings. I could see some snowcapped mountains in the distance between buildings off to the right. The beach, then, was to the left. (Sailors like to keep track of that.)

From the chief on duty I got directions to the Communications Center, and set out.

Once away from the intensity of the helo ops, the pace of operations slowed dramatically. In fact, it was fairly relaxed. Well, relaxed for a combat zone, anyway.

I found the Comm Center with no trouble. The entrance to the fortified earth-covered facility was a dark opening between heavy timbers, where I found a reinforced steel door in the shadows. Via intercom I identified myself and was “buzzed in. Quickly I effected the exchange for which I had come ashore. I did have a nice conversation with the Comm staff, whom I’d only know by radio to that point, but it was short. They were busy, and I was more interested in getting back outside those steel bulkheads. Part of the appeal of this trip ashore was to get away from all the steel bulkheads and decks for a while. And to enjoy a short respite from the intense regimentation of shipboard life, to have even a few hours with nothing to do and no one in a position to task me… I had some hours before my return flight, and I intended to enjoy them.

It was a pleasure and an adventure to walk on solid ground again. When a sailor comes ashore after months at sea, he experiences a strange sensation. In spite of all evidence it seems, inexplicably, like the land is moving. This creates a tendency for sailors fresh off the ship to fall down, which amuses landlubbers to no end. Especially Marines. So I took care and, with a bit of concentration, did not stumble.

It was a gorgeous day, beautiful by any measure but especially so to one who hadn’t stood on solid ground, or seen a real plant, or remembered the smell of the sun on stone, for months. The sun gleamed brilliantly above snowy peaks in the east. I squinted and felt the warmth on my face. The sound of the surf was there if I listened carefully, far off to the west. A gentle breeze wafted scents of hot sand and grass. The sounds of the city were there, distant in the north and east.

After all those months smelling steel and paint, fuel and electronics, fresh air. After all those months hearing ship engines and helo rotors and radio transmissions, peace and quiet, and far-off sounds of ordinary human activity. After all those months of job and watchstanding and unrelenting schedules, a morning off. Really, it was too much to absorb. I really enjoyed trying.

A wide vacant field appeared before me, sandy with clumps of grass and tiny colorful wildflowers. With time on my hands and no worries in the world, I found no reason not to wander there… looking at flowers, feeling the calm, breathing deeply, experiencing the good life…

It may be that memory has played a trick on me as I think back on this from the distance of years, but if it’s not literally true, it ought to be. In my memory, I was humming the theme from “The Sound of Music” as I stood there in the sunlight, in the wide open space, unobstructed view of the Shouf Mountains to the east.

The strange sounds registered first on a subconscious level. I didn’t actually hear, or maybe just didn’t realize that I was hearing, anything. But I began to feel an incongruous uneasiness. At some point I became aware of the strange, tiny little sounds around me. I realized suddenly they had been there in the background, for several seconds at least. I stopped and listened for the next one… There it was! What was it? I could see only flowers. Was this some kind of strange Lebanese insect pinging in the grass? There was another one, on the other side. I turned. Then a particularly loud one went “Ping” at the base of a wall bordering the field. I was a little amused, and totally mystified.

At that point that a Marine in full battle gear came running from beyond a building to the southwest. What the heck? Was something about to happen? I realized he was running toward ME!

Ten or fifteen meters away he paused. “Follow me, Sir!” He waved me for me to follow and took off running to the northwest. It was phrased respectfully, but there was no doubt that it was an order. Though he was a Corporal and I was a Lieutenant, I instinctively knew that I had to do what he was telling me.

Thank God some part of my mind understood the most important thing that morning, something I will now share with you. It is this: Regardless of rank, in spite of confusion, no matter about questions or opinions or preferences or any other irrelevant nonsense, when a Marine gives an order, Follow It!

I followed the Corporal’s order, then I followed the Corporal. We ran to a small wooden structure build into the ground. Quickly down some stairs, we stopped in a small room with narrow openings near the low ceiling. The walls were of large timbers. There were bunks, tables, and a lot of Marines who had arrived ahead of us. Peering through the openings at eye level to us and ground level to the world outside, I had a view of our surroundings. This included the field where I’d been standing.

“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is a bunker, Sir,” the Marine responded.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“That was sniper fire, Sir,” the Marine responded.
“Oh.”
What more was there to say?

After what seemed a long time, the ‘all-clear’ signal was given, and we came up out of the bunker. The place was still beautiful. It was no longer innocent as it had been before. But it was more than ever a place of life, a place where I learned to feel life in a whole new way. Once more, sincerely but without sentimentality, I thanked the Marine who had come to get me. We went our separate ways.

I still had some time, which I did enjoy. I walked the compound carefully, listening for ‘pings,’ with one eye always toward the unseen snipers up there in the Shouf. I met some other junior officers from my ship and we talked about the irony. How remarkable that the snipers decided to start shooting again on the day we happened to be ashore.

In early evening the time came for my return flight to the ship, and I made my way to the LZ. I checked in, watched the erratic inbound flight path and sudden landing of the helo, and stood ready to board. I heard the direction to go, waved a greeting to several shipmates who would be on the next flight, then ducked, ran, and climbed on board the helicopter.

Almost without warning we were off, ascending upwards past empty apartments with broken balconies, swinging hard around the corners as if we were hugging a curb, flying high then low through the man-made canyons. Suddenly we emerged into the slanting orange sunlight, raced fast across the beach toward the sun setting over the sea, outbound over the waves in the evening light. Before we knew it we were safely back on the flight deck of USS Guam.

I later learned that my flight from the Beirut Airport to the ship was the last one of the day. Apparently, about the time my helo took off, the sniping resumed… with a few random shells thrown in for good measure. Flight ops were cancelled immediately, and those shipmates I’d left at the LZ were destined to wait for a return trip until the next morning. I was a little envious at first, that they were experiencing more of Beirut than I had. But upon reflection I decided that I’d probably had the most intense experience of them all. And besides, I was just happy to be alive and well.

To the best of my knowledge, no sailors or Marines died in Beirut that day. But that is largely because of a young Marine who did not hesitate to put himself at risk for a few critical seconds to get a well-intentioned but oblivious Navy officer into a bunker.

I do not remember the name of that Corporal. I wish I did. It may have been routine for him, but it was not for me. Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks about the fact that he saved my life. Because of him, I have lived another three decades, so far. Without him, no good thing that has happened in my life since 1983 would’ve been possible.

There was a time when I gave Marines a hard time, like a lot of sailors do. I don’t do that anymore. This is one member of the US Navy who has nothing but respect for Marines.

Semper Fi, shipmate. And Thank You.

The Last Surviving Veteran of the Crimean War

I came across a fascinating bit of history yesterday, something that I had never known before. Because I was so impressed, it occurred to me that Gryphem readers might also want to learn about the longest living survivor of the Crimean War. I hope you will find this as fascinating as I did.

I was looking into the roots of the current conflict between Russia and Ukraine in Crimea, on the northern shore of the Black Sea. You probably know that the current conflict is not the first war fought in or for Crimea. In fact, there was a major international conflict known as the "Crimean War" back in the 1850s. It was power struggle primarily between Czarist Russia and an alliance of the Ottoman Empire (Turkey), France, and Britain.

Timothy was a veteran of the Crimean War. Timothy was on board British Royal Navy Ship HMS Queen at the siege of Sevastopol in 1854-55. Only 15 or 16 years old at that time, Timothy survived the Crimean War and went on to serve on board a number of other Royal Navy ships for the next 38 years. Timothy finally retired as a guest of the Earl of Devon to Powderham Castle in Devonshire (southwestern England) in 1892. That’s interesting, but I think what follows makes it more so.

The First Amazing Fact:

In 1926, when Timothy was 87 years old, it was revealed that Timothy was, in fact, female. Apparently, no one had ever noticed before. Wow.

But that’s not all. There is the question of whether the Earl and Countess of Devon knew what they were getting into when they offered lifetime accommodations to 53-year-old Timothy. Because Timothy was destined to live a very, very long time.

The Second Amazing Fact:

Timothy lived long enough to receive nationwide recognition as the oldest surviving veteran of the Crimean War. At the time of her death Timothy actually was the oldest resident of the entire British nation. Timothy was witness to the invention of the telephone (at age 37), publication of the first Sherlock Holmes story (at age 48), the end of World War I (at age 79), the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II (at age 113), and the successful conclusion of the Falklands War (at age 143), to name but a few events. Timothy survived to the ripe old age of 165 years old, finally passing away peacefully in 2004.

All completely true.

Anticipating your curiosity, I sought out a picture of this amazing Crimean War veteran and witness to three centuries.

Here is a picture of Timothy taken in her later years at Powderham Castle.

Doesn’t she have a nice smile?

Now you know.

- Gryphem

A little skepticism is a good thing.

I received the email below from a colleague: 

This is the only time you see this phenomenon in your lifetime.

August 2014 will have 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays. This happens only once every 823 years.  The Chinese call it 'Silver pockets full’. It is based on Chinese Feng Shui.

The only time in my lifetime?  Then I had better pay attention!  Right? 

Not so fast.

The guy who sent this to me is reasonably intelligent, a second career professional with a major government organization.  If he had stopped for a  few seconds to think about that "astonishing" claim, he would've realized something was wrong.  I think the “silver pockets full” thing mesmerized him, gave him evocative words and a mental image to distract him from critical thought - much like a magician distracts his audience with dramatic gestures.

According to this email the month of August has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays only once every 823 years, and this phenomenon is so unusual that it has a special Chinese name.  Now think about it.

I probably would have dismissed the whole thing without thinking it all the way through myself, except that the last day of August happens to be my birthday.  So I thought, "Oh, my birthday is on Sunday this year."  Then I took a step back and did a mental double-take.  "My birthday has been on Sunday before... more than once,”  I thought.  This is particularly memorable to me because when my birthday falls on Sunday, the next day is always Labor Day.

So what did that email say?  That I only get a Sunday birthday once every eight centuries or so?  Let’s think about that.  By the 28^th day of a month, any month, we have already had four of each day of the week (28 divided by 7 is 4).  So the 29^th, 30^th, and 31^st are always the fifth of their own particular day of the week.  

"I know that every time I have a birthday it is on August 31^st,” I thought.  Obviously.  “And I know that every time I have a Sunday birthday there are five Fridays (the 29^th), five Saturdays (the 30^th), and five Sundays (the 31^st) in the month of August." 

Bottom line:  August has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays, on average, once every seven years - every time August 31^st happens to fall on a Sunday. 

There’s more.  Up to that point I had not considered the other six months with 31 days each.  Hmmm... there are seven months with 31 days each, and whenever the 31^st of any one of those falls on a Sunday it will have five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays.  That means that this five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays thing happens, on average, about once each year.  Not once every 823 years, with a funky Chinese name.

Then there is that “Feng Shui” comment… Doesn’t feng shui have to do with the physical arrangement of objects within an environment?  I may not understand it completely, but I’m pretty sure the focus of feng shui is spatial rather than temporal.  Maybe the writer of this bit of amazing fiction should’ve referred to the Mayan calendar instead.

The morals of the story are these: 

(1) Don’t believe everything you read, especially if it comes to you in an email, and

(2) Pay Attention!  Stop and think before you pass along nonsense.  It clutters our inboxes and our minds, and it doesn't make you look good.

Of course, everything on the Gryphem blog is completely reliable.

- Gryphem