Bill Bryson’s “One Summer, America 1927,” when “America First” came to call

As I read Bill Bryson’s “One Summer: America 1927,” I realized that our history is comprised of an amazing number of knuckleheads and heroes. And sometimes, they are one and the same.

Charles Lindbergh, for instance. He became a hero overnight when he flew The Spirit of St. Louis over the Atlantic Ocean, the first solo flight by airplane. Many had attempted it. This scrawny bland fellow from Detroit accomplished it. Thousands of Parisians swarmed him when he landed at Le Bourget Airport. Ticker-tape parades in the U.S. followed. Crowds greeted him everywhere. He often took to his airplane to escape into the wild blue yonder.

By the time the U.S. entered World War II, he was disgraced by his embrace of eugenics and Nazism. He participated in the first “America First” campaign and proudly wore an air medal awarded him in Berlin by Herman Goering, one of the architects of the Nazi scourge. He survived to be one of the defendants at the Nuremberg Trials. “Lucky Lindy” tried to redeem himself by training American pilots in the Pacific during the war. But damage had been done. His name was stripped from all those streets and schools and airfields named in his honor.

You can still see The Spirit of St. Louis displayed at the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum along the National Mall in D.C. I’ve taken my family there many times. The plane, so flimsy and tiny when compared to modern aircraft. It’s quite possible those other aircraft wouldn’t exist without it.

Bryson has been one of my favorite writers since his 1989 book, “The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America.” Writing humor is no mean feat and he does it with aplomb in so many books. Humor helps you understand contradictions such as Lindbergh, Babe Ruth, and Al Capone. But that’s why I read, to be entertained and educated in the ways of the world. This book did that. I almost quit several times.

My sister Eileen gave me the trade paperback a month ago. She enjoyed it and knew I was working on novels set in the 1920s. I am of an age where reading big books with small type is difficult. I read to page 80 in bright light but put it down. Then I remembered I have a Kindle Reader for such challenges and I borrowed the book from Libby. Ah, a lit screen and large type. Heavenly. I still put it aside for other things until Libby warned me that I had only five days left on my loan. I hunkered down and read the rest, including a bit of the back matter. So much research!

Sitting in front of another lit-up large screen, I wonder about a century from now, 2125, when a book comes out about 2025. The year of Trump and A.I. Who will be the heroes and villains? As someone who’s been resisting Trumpism since 2016, you can probably guess my answer. “One Summer: America 2025.” A nonfiction tale, told with panache by someone. First we have to survive this period of U.S.-bred fascism and racism. First that. Will books survive?

Big Bill Thompson was mayor of Chicago in 1927. Chicago is in the Trump crosshairs as are all cities in blue states. Big Bill knew that to rule the people must be kept clueless so, writes Bryson, “he started a campaign to remove unAmerican books from Chicago libraries.” He even scheduled a bonfire to burn “treasonous books.” One city employee upped the ante:

“The head of the Municipal Reference Library announced that he had independently destroyed all books and pamphlets in his care that struck him as dubious. ‘I now have an America First library,’ he said proudly.”

America First? Will that be the fate of Chicago’s libraries now that Trump’s goon squads are on their way?

Word Back like you really, really mean it

Words are sacred.

Most writers agree with that. We use words to convey our deepest feelings. We also entertain and communicate with words, even persuade, or try to.

When threatened, we use them as weapons.

Under Trump and MAGA, creative people are under attack. Writers, artists, musicians, dancers, etcetera etcetera. The Bully-In-Chief employs bullying terms to attack. When Bruce Springsteen slammed Trump from the stage in Manchester, England, May 19, he said the following:

“In my home, the America I love, the America I’ve written about … is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent and treasonous administration.”

Straight and to the point. I’m sure the crowd cheered as our English cousins love straight talk and sneer at bullies. They do more than sneer, as we saw during the Battle of Britain in WW2. They have also written cogent opinion pieces on Trump’s bullying ways.

This from "Journal of a Grumpy Old Man" column April 2020, when Trump was running against Joe Biden:

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Trump fired back from his Bully Pulpit (sorry, Teddy, but Trump has bastardized your favorite word). As columnist Bill Goodykoontz put it in the Arizona Republic:

In a Truth Social post he [Trump] called Springsteen “Highly Overrated” and said, among other things, “This dried out ‘prune’ of a rocker (his skin is all atrophied!) ought to KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT until he gets back into the Country, that’s just “standard fare.’ Then we’ll all see how it goes for him!”

Monday’s post was different in that it actually calls for retribution in the form of an investigation against Springsteen and Beyoncé, as well as Oprah Winfrey and U2 singer Bono. Here’s a taste: “I am going to call for a major investigation into this matter. Candidates aren’t allowed to pay for ENDORSEMENTS, which is what Kamala did, under the guise of paying for entertainment. In addition, this was a very expensive and desperate effort to artificially build up her sparse crowds. IT’S NOT LEGAL!”

All nonsense, of course, typical Trump chum for the MAGA swarm. Still, you can see the difference. Springsteen his usually cogent self and Trump just the opposite. Makes you wonder about the 70-some-million people who voted for him.

As a May 20 Rolling Stone article wrote under the header “Revenge:” "The president has long wanted to weaponize campaign-finance laws against an array of celebs and Democrats.”

Revenge. He so wants to be part of the crew but doesn’t have a creative bone in his body. Rockers can’t wait to sue him for using their songs without permission which he will do anyway. I still get a kick out of MAGA GOPers using “Born in the USA” as a campaign song. They've never listened to the lyrics. I guess MAGA crowds never tire of Kid Rock and Ted Nugent.

Trump took over the Kennedy Center, fired the board, installed his flunkies, and called for a June performance of Les Miserables and 10 cast members said no thanks and Trumpers had a fit. The new director of the Center threatened to black list the actors so they never perform again. Where have we heard “Black List” used before?

At a May 20 Kennedy Center board meeting Trump said the following: "And then they rigged the election, and then I said, 'You know what I'll do? I'll run again and shove it up their ass.' "

Our creative Bloviator in Chief.

Our mission is to word back. Not grammatically correct but it’s a quick and easy way to remember the mission. When Trump and his minions serve up their tangled words, we must word back. All dumb Trump utterances deserve a response. Blog, podcast, write op-eds to your local paper. Send postcards, lots and lots of postcards filled with words put to constructive use. I have a stack of creative postcards sitting by my desk. I do two a day. I’m using those cool new USPS stamps that show a waving flag and “Equality Forever” and “Justice Forever.” A postcard blitz is set for June 1. Get busy. Don’t just sit there, word back! Like you really mean it.

Sad days for poets, writers, and historians in Washington, D.C.

A. Friend (not a real name) told me that she and her husband are traveling to Washington, D.C., this week to see the National Museum of African-American History. They want to visit it before the Trump people purge the exhibits and dismantle the building. A. Friend is not a Trump voter, not even a person undergoing what MAGA calls Trump Derangement Syndrome or TDS. She and her husband are just regular folks who visit museums and art galleries and historic sites during their travels. Over the years, she has sent me postcards from sites I never knew existed and I am the richer for it. 

Trump's Nitwits have already purged some of the exhibits from this museum. They have never met a museum they didn't suspect of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion or DIE which is an ironic acronym on its face. MAGA terms it DEI because, well IED was taken (Boom!) and IDE was too close to "Beware the Ides of March" which sounds too Shakespearean which might remind Idiocrats of a college English class they were forced to take in 1997. 

I wish A. Friend and her husband Godspeed and good luck. Make sure to take your REAL ID with you just in case there is an ICE sweep on the National Mall.

More bad news from D.C.: Trump's goons have eliminated the National Endowment for the Arts Literary Program and canned its staff including Director Amy Stolls whom I have worked with. The administration had already rescinded grants to literary magazines and presses whose only crime was admitting to DIE. 

I am going to list them here because I have read some of their books and they might not have existed with the writer's non-profit publisher, often hanging on by a shoestring. Here are the names:   Alice James Books, Aunt Lute Books, BOA Editions, the Center for the Art of Translation, Deep Vellum, Four Way Books, Hub City Writers Project, Open Letter Books, Milkweed Editions, Nightboat Books, Red Hen Press, and Transit Books as well as such literary magazines Electric Literature, McSweeney’s, n+1, the Paris Review, and Zyzzyva.

I have read books from many of these presses. I will mention one. Brian Turner's first book of poetry was published by Alice James Books. Poet, essayist, and professor Turner won the 2005 Beatrice Hawley Award for his debut collection, Here, Bullet, the first of many awards and honors received for this collection of poems about his experience as a soldier in the Iraq War. His honors since include a Lannan Literary Fellowship and NEA Literature Fellowship in Poetry, and the Amy Lowell Poetry Travelling Scholarship. His second collection, shortlisted for the 2010 T.S. Eliot Prize, is Phantom Noise, also published by Alice James Books on New Gloucester, Maine, a teeming metropolis filled with radical outfits such as the Sabbathday Lake Shaker Community, Pineland Farms, and the New Gloucester Fair. And one publisher. 

Brian's bio a pretty standard description of a contemporary American poet. But what's that part about the Iraq War? Oh yeah, Turner is a U.S. Army veteran, and was an infantry team leader for a year in the Iraq War beginning November 2003, with the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division. In 1999 and 2000 he was with the historic 10th Mountain Division, deployed in Bosnia and Herzegovina. 

"Here, Bullet" knocked me out. The title poem will tell you more about war's realities than any non-fiction book. Go to the Alice James web site and buy the book. Better yet, buy all of his books and e-books which include individual poems. 

During my time as literature program specialist at the Wyoming Arts Council, I brought Brian to our fall 2012 writing conference in Casper to read from his work and congratulate the writers he had chosen for the WAC's literary fellowships. Later, he joined two other veteran writers on a panel to discuss the role of soldier/poet in "Active Duty, Active Voices," featured Iraq War veterans and writers Brian Turner and Luis Carlos Montalván. The panel was moderated by Casper College professor and military veteran Patrick Amelotte. Montalvan suffered from severe PTSD and wrote the wonderful memoir "Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him." He brought Tuesday with him to Casper that October weekend. I worked with the state's military coordinator to bring other service dogs and their handlers to the conference to demonstrate what they do. 

I wish I could just end this blog with another Liberal's complaint about our current situation. But I have a sad story to tell. In December 2016, the 43-year-old Montalvan was found dead in an El Paso hotel room. He had left his dog Tuesday with a friend. He killed himself and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. Delivering the eulogy was Democratic Sen. Al Franken. Montalvan had persuaded Franken to sponsor legislation expanding the military dog program which passed a different Congress during different times. 

During his time in Casper, Montalvan said his favorite poem growing up conservative Cuban in South Florida was "Invictus." You know the one. It celebrates bravery. William Ernest Hanley wrote it and it's always been a favorite to memorize because it rhymes and is in iambic tetrameter. Montalvan memorized it. It ends this way: "I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul."

Rest in peace, Captain.

No Kings in the USA!

 

Anti-Trump protests? Better term: We gather together to save our democracy w/u

Update 4/10/25: "Hands Off" was the official term for the April 5 protests. Sorry I forgot to mention it. Perfect label for a response to Trump & Company's hostile takeover of the USA.

I didn't attend any of our local "anti-Trump protests" as the header read in this morning's Daytona Beach News-Journal. I couldn't bring myself to gather the support materials I would need for an extended stretch in the Florida out-of-doors. I need to slather sunscreen over every exposed inch of my body to avoid the return of skin cancer. Yes, it takes years for a burn to turn into cancer and I may not be around for that future dermatologist visit but I always try to think of my long game. I'll need a hat and a jug of water. A clever sign, which I hadn't yet made although many ideas are floating around the Net. 

I also must transport my e-scooter on the rack attached to my SUV. I have to make sure it's charged so I don't get stranded on the way back to the vehicle parked at a handicapped space if I can find one. Once on site, I have to make sure there is an accessible restroom nearby and that I can get to it. My wife usually helps with transportation but she was out with old friends on Saturday.

So I didn't make it. But millions did. I loved the photos that appeared on social media. I was able to view old Wyoming friends at sites in Cheyenne, Laramie, Rock Springs, Casper, and other places. Joe Barbuto and his brave compatriots in Rock Springs endured lots of nastiness. The city was once a Democratic stronghold, back when union miners were Dems. It takes an inner fire to get out on the streets in very red Wyoming. There were opposition rallies although not well-attended since Trump needs no more help destroying our fine country. Some name calling, screams and shouts. But most responses from passing motorists were horn honks in agreement. 

I saw a video Sunday of an armed MAGA man getting out of his truck and threatening protesters with an automatic weapon. Not in Wyoming, though. Not wise in the Still-Wild-West to go around threatening citizenry when so many are armed. And these protesters were mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore as a movie character once shouted from the rooftops. Despite what you may hear in the MAGA blogosphere, the rallies were peaceful, police wisely keeping their distance lest they be branded as Gestapo wannabes. 

So Mike didn't go. Boo hoo. Millions did and that's what matters. As a long-time Facebook scribe kept reminding us, none of this matters if we don't get out and vote. It would be tempting to ask rally attendees if they voted in the recent special Florida election that sent a GOPer that not even GOP stalwarts like to a seat in Congress. Volusia County's turnout for Democrat Josh Weil was impressive. Still, the majority of registered Dems stayed home. Chris and I voted by mail. The GOP seems worried that there will be a record turnout in midterm elections. They are busily crafting legislation to keep us from voting. 

I have participated in many protests and rallies. I was an onlooker as a confused young man at Vietnam protests in D.C. and South Carolina. Later, I participated in a big way. I was so proud to help plan the Wyoming Women's March in Cheyenne, Wyoming, on Inauguration weekend 2017. Some labeled it Wyoming Women and Allies March. I was part of the security detail and served the hungry at the post-rally potluck with my heart-friendly low-sodium chili. The Laramie County Democrats fed 1,200. We plugged in so many crock-pots that we shorted out the electrical system at the Historic Cheyenne Train Depot. Lukewarm chili still can keep a person warm on a chilly January day. 

Seems like ancient history now. We thought those days were behind us.

Thanks to all those who participated this past weekend. I will be there next time.

For my blogs on the 2017 rallies in Wyoming:

https://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2017/01/wyoming-womens-march-and-potluck-draws.html

https://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2018/01/i-wonder-if-ive-learned-anything-after.html

H.L. Mencken predicted it, Hunter S. Thompson would have nailed it

Baltimore's H.L. Mencken may have been the most quotable of newspaper reporters. Some comments are crass and insensitive. Others dug deep into the heart of darkness. Here's one:

On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.

You may know Mencken by his Broadway/Hollywood persona -- E.K. Hornbeck, the cranky cynical reporter in "Inherit the Wind." Here he is blasting attorney Henry Drummond (a.k.a. Clarence Darrow) who is representing the defendant in the Scopes Monkey Trial. Hornbeck is the devil sitting on Drummond's world-weary shoulders. Here's how Hornbeck sees it:

Looks like you're going out in a blaze of glory counselor. You were pretty impressive for a while there today, Henry. "Your Honor, after a while you'll be setting man against man, creed against creed" etc, etc, ad nauseam unquote. AHH, Henry! why don't you wake up? Darwin was Wrong! Man's still an ape. His creed still a totem pole. When he first achieved the upright position he took a look at the stars... thought they were something to eat. When he couldn't reach them, he thought they were groceries belonging to a bigger creature... that's how Jehovah was born.

I would love to hear Mencken on Trump & Co. And Hunter S. Thompson, the Sage of Woody Creek, Colo., where are you when we need you?

I guess it's just us. Just little ol' us.

On rewatching "Band of Brothers" and viewing "The Pacific" for the first time

Here’s how I used to think about World War 2. It was our father’s and mother’s war. My father joined up early in ’42 and served as a radioman in the ETO with the U.S. Army Signal Corps until 1946. My mother trained on the U.S. Navy nurse program and would have served when she graduated in ’46 but the war was over. They were my heroes, members of what Tom Brokaw labeled The Greatest Generation. Time marched on. We forgot about the war. The fascists had been licked and would never return. The Boomers got old and complacent. 

Next thing we know, the fascists are back, at home and abroad. The fiction of conspiracy novels became the facts of 2023.

So, again, I think a lot about World War 2. The Nasties of 1939 Germany, Italy, and Japan are back except they are right here in our neighborhoods. Trump is Il Duce. Storm troopers rampage at the U.S. Capitol. Chinese militarists plot mischief in the Pacific. Hungary elects a right-wing strongman beloved by the MAGA crowd..

I was glad to see that Netflix returned “Band of Brothers” and “The Pacific.” I’ve watched the first one several times and was impressed. So I watched it again and was struck by the sacrifices made by Easy Company as they fought the Nazis across Europe. The Nazis were our enemy and they and their fascist ideology needed to die.

As for “The Pacific,” that series bowled me over. Saddened me too, for all of those young men who died on islands they never knew existed growing up in small-town America. The savagery of the marine battles for Guadalcanal and Peleliu, Iwo Jima and Okinawa, were recreated in gory detail. Men who were there wrote memoirs about their experiences that they couldn’t get out of their souls. The Japanese militarists had to be defeated, their twisted philosophy had to die, for the world to have a semblance of peace.

We’ve been told over the years that there was nothing like the scope of World War 2 and the world would never see its like again. The U.S. wasted its treasure and young lives in Vietnam and Iraq and Afghanistan. Such a waste. It left a vacuum that China aches to fill over the next centuries. They think in terms of centuries while we measure our lives in microseconds. We must think in longer intervals to survive what’s coming.

When you see glowing footprints on the night beach, it means I was there

When I moved away from Daytona Beach, Florida, the beachside still had sand dunes and you could drive the entire World's Most Famous Beach. I drove the packed sand many times. At night, I drove and then parked between high-tide-line and dunes to discuss the state of the world and Catholic doctrine with my girlfriend. Sometimes, the whitewater was lit up with a bioluminescence provided by nature. Sometimes I was the one who was lit up.

The Florida I loved has become joke fodder for late-night comedians. I will give you this: the governor is a joke as are his right-wing minions in the legislature. 

I've been reading interviews with people who have moved to Florida from other places. They are asked whether they are fine with the decision or regret the choice. Some love the Florida they discovered during a family vacation and vowed to return for some old people fun in retirement. Some have had it up to here with the likes of killer hurricanes, retiree-chomping alligators, and nitwit politicians. They are decamping to other warm-weather beachside communities in the Redneck Riviera, Texas, or the Carolinas, both the North one and the real one in the South. 

I just read an online article on Max My Money with this header: “Boomers – Florida Doesn’t Want You” 10 Places In Florida Where You Won’t Survive On Social Security. Gosh, it’s tough the be unwanted. These 10 snobbish Florida locales include Miami, Naples, Palm Beach, and Sarasota, none of which have surf. I grew up surfing in Florida and that's how we graded the livability of any place. Key West is on the list. It also has no surf but it does have Hemingway’s house and Tom McGuane used to hang out there when writing “92 in the Shade.” In 1982, Christine and I honeymooned in the Conch Republic following our May wedding at St. Brendan the Navigator Catholic Church and the Ormond Beach Knights of Columbus Hall. In Key West, we drank at Sloppy Joe’s, counted the toes on Hem’s cats, snorkeled offshore. Tourists! 

My Florida is a large triangle from Daytona to Gainesville to Orlando and back to Daytona. That’s the Florida I know best. When this Baby Boomer retired from my 25-year career with the Wyoming Arts Council, Chris and I looked at retiring in Florida. Too expensive. Not enough choice in dwellings. Crackpot governor. We stayed put and watched from afar Florida’s human comedy.

My youthful encounters with Florida retirees were from a distance. We surfers gathered at Hartford Approach and watch them walk the beach. You could tell the long-termers by their leathery skin and hip bathing suits. Many were daily walkers, on the beach early like surfers. Better rested than most surfers, up until 2 a.m. and jolted out of bed at 6 a.m. by friends shouting through the window to get your ass up. We knew a lot of these old-timers, men and women both. New Yorkers under Yankee caps, Canadian accents. 

Then there were the sojourners in town for a weekend of a week or maybe the entire winter. They were in couples or groups, mostly kept to themselves. They yelled at us when we drifted out of the surfing area. 

Those seniors of the 1960s and 1970s are all gone now, every single one. Their footprints live on. You can see them glowing late at night on the beach. Their memories of what lured them to Florida.

It can't happen here! Oh yes it can!

Susan Stubson of Casper has been writing Wyoming-based op-ed columns for many years. Most have to do with her family and her husband Tim who once was a state legislator and ran unsuccessfully for a Wyoming's lone U.S. House seat in 2016. Susan is a fine pianist and I've been on hand to hear her perform. She once sat on the board of the Wyoming Arts Council where I worked for 25 years. You could not find a more determined advocate of the arts and arts education. 

Sunday's New York Times op-ed section featured a column by Susan, "What Christian Nationalism Has Done to My State and My Faith is a Sin." It takes guts to write a column like this for the most Liberal of Mainstream Media. She could have written it for my modest blog and a few Wyomingites, liberals mostly, would have read it and nodded their heads. But a NYT op-ed -- that gets attention. This is an era when getting attention from Christian Nationalists is a dangerous proposition.

She opens her column with an anecdote from her husband's 2016 campaign:

I first saw it while working the rope line at a monster-truck rally during the 2016 campaign by my husband, Tim, for Wyoming’s lone congressional seat. As Tim and I and our boys made our way down the line, shaking hands and passing out campaign material, a burly man wearing a “God bless America” T-shirt and a cross around his neck said something like, “He’s got my vote if he keeps those [epithet] out of office,” using a racial slur. What followed was an uncomfortable master class in racism and xenophobia as the man decanted the reasons our country is going down the tubes. God bless America.

Those of us paying attention during the 2016 presidential election had similar experiences, especially if you were active in the Republican Party. But it goes way beyond that. Those "God, Guns, Trump" signs still adorn pick-up bumpers in the Wyoming capital of Cheyenne. We are 180 highway miles from the Stubson's city of Casper. We are rivals and different in many ways but Susan's description of WYO GOP antics was on full display here during the legislative session. I refer you to WyoFile's coverage of the session to get insight on the debacle.

Read Susan's column and despair. The problem of Christian Nationalism is right out there in the open. Trump turned religion and hate into commodities, one being trumpeted by those who ban books and drag shows across the country. It is magnified when you live in a rural state such as Wyoming. Doesn't have to be that way but that's the course Republicans decided to follow. Wyoming Rev. Rodger McDaniel wondered on Facebook recently if Florida wasn't the Berlin of the 1930s. You know the one, the creeping evil theatre-goers experience when they go to "Cabaret." If you know your history, you see how it happened -- one tiny bite at a time. Fascism isn't a special-effects movie monster -- it's your preacher or priest, your neighbor, your cousin. 

“When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”

This quote has been attributed to Nobel-Prize-winning writer Sinclair Lewis but researchers do not vouch for the exact attribution. But it’s worth repeating in these times. For more of Lewis’s biting critique of life in the U.S., look up some of his other quotes or read “Babbitt,” “Main Street,” or "It Can't Happen Here." For some strange reason, this last one about a dystopian America shot up the bestseller charts after the 2016 election. 

Kristin Hannah's historical novel features the brave women of the French Resistance

I’m reading “The Nightingale” by Kristin Hannah. It’s the story of two sisters in a small French village occupied by the Nazis. The elder sister, Vianne, has a child and a husband captured during the Nazi blitzkrieg. The younger one, Isabelle, is the rebel of the family, kicked out of a number of boarding schools and now working for the French Resistance. The sisters live very different lives. They share a hatred of the Nazis and possess strong wills to survive the war. The more compelling story is of the Resistance. The author has said that the novel is a tribute to these brave women. They faced dying during guerrilla raids or arrest which also meant death or a trip to a Nazi extermination camp. I just finished a chapter where Isabelle with her Basque guide takes four downed RAF pilots from Paris over the Pyrenees to the British embassy in neutral Spain.

Imagine traveling undercover to Jackson in a train jammed with Nazis and then hiking over the Tetons to Driggs in late October, struggling up talus slopes and crossing waterways, all the while dodging Nazis on one side of the border or Franco’s fascists on the other side. Or maybe it’s a postapocalyptic jaunt where the bad guys are some of the right-wing goons who invaded the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6. Well-armed and stupid. Rain and snow will fall as you travel. It will be cold and you’re wearing running shoes and a light jacket.

You get the picture. These people were braver than brave. Their country had been overrun. Friends and family members had been killed by the Nazis. They must pay.

I don’t know what I would do. I’ve hiked Wyoming and Colorado mountains in all kinds of weather but I am always prepared. I am in my 20s (used to be), dressed for the climate and wearing good boots. I have five days of food in my pack and one of those tiny stoves. Good topo maps. Pretend I have a loaded Glock at my side, prepared for attacks by Bloaters (“The Last of Us,” episode 5).

Just think about it. The French Resistance had so much less and did so much more.

I’m looking forward to the film version of “The Nightingale.” Dakota and Elle fanning play the sisters. I hope the creators do it justice. You can see a teaser here.

Saturday morning round-up: Insurrections, a Plant Pandemonium, and Waterloo Bridge

Saturday morning round-up

Watched the first hearing Thursday night of the Jan. 6 Insurrection Committee. Compelling television. I'm not being facetious when I say that its production values were excellent. That's the way it is in visual media and politics. I cringed watching the previously unseen video footage. I was saddened by the testimony of Capitol Police Officer Caroline Edwards. It occurred to me that one must possess a certain amount of empathy to be affected by the life-threatening injuries suffered by Edwards. You see her being crushed beneath the bicycle rack that served as the first line of defense. Such rank cruelty was visible throughout. American vs. American. It turned my stomach. Will it change minds? I don't think so. Hearts and minds were locked into place when Trump swaggered into the White House in 2017 during the usual peaceful handover of power. We didn't know how much would change during the next four years.  

Rep. Liz Cheney of Wyoming served as co-chair of the committee. She was only one of two Republicans seated on the committee. The rest of them are in thrall to Trump. Cheney was excellent. Made me proud to be from Wyoming. I e-mailed congratulations to her office after the broadcast. This Democrat objects to almost all of Cheney's actions in the House. She supported too many Trump policies. But she deserves credit for taking a stand for the Republic.

Today is Plant Pandemonium at the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens. Hundreds of flowers will be planted in the beds in front of the Conservatory. Flowers were always meant for these spaces but we ran out of summer during the first year we opened so the director decided to sod the space and we would get to it later. Then Covid happened. Supply chain issues exist in the horticulture world too. We plant thousands of seeds each winter, some as small as the period on my keyboard. Their seedlings are spoken for. We have nine acres of grounds as well as the Paul Smith Children's Village and planters in the park and around town. Thanks for staff and volunteers out planting today. Drink plenty of fluids. Wear sunscreen. Laugh a lot.

Finished reading an intriguing book by Aminatta Forna, "Happiness: A Novel." I was attracted by the title and the author's bio. I want to voyage to different worlds when I read. The novel is set in London and features a psychiatrist from Ghana who's an expert in PTSD and an American divorcee who works as an urban biologist. They are going to meet up -- the author teases you so bravo to her as I kept reading to see what happened. There are gruesome stretches. Innocents are tortured and killed in the world's killing fields. Animals are injured and killed by brutal, unthinking humans. But we meet a wonderful cast of characters, cab drivers and cooks and hotel doormen, many of them African immigrants, whom the main characters befriend. You know those Africans and Asians and Latinos you observe on your business trips to big cities? They all have a story. Forna makes sure to tell them and see the rich biospheres of a city, a place where humans and foxes and coyotes try to exist side-by-side. I was impressed by many scenes that take place on and around the Waterloo Bridge. Books and films have used the bridge for a backdrop. One of them, "Waterloo Bridge" is a wartime drama (flashback to World War I) in which two mismatched people attempt to match up. Drama and heartbreak ensue. This can happen in novels too. 

Read it. 

The 2017 Women's March gave us hope in the dark and dismal early days of Trump

I feel almost giddy as this week spells the end of Trump in the White House and a new president installed. A new day for Washington, D.C., and America. A new year. Promise is in the air.

On the night of Nov. 3, 2016, all hell broke loose. Hillary Clinton led the results, at least in the beginning. And then came Florida and Pennsylvania and it was all bad news from there. Chris and I left the Democrats' celebration party early. She went to bed. I watched the West Coast returns even though my heart was broken.

I joined a group of millions across the globe in the 2017 Inauguration Day women's marches. We held one in Cheyenne attended by locals aided by protestors from around the state, western Nebraska and northern Colorado. The crowd was estimated by the Cheyenne Police Department as 1,200 but it may have been more as the police are usually conservative in their crowd estimates. It was a big crowd in our Capitol City with a population less than 70,000. Did this old bleeding heart good. Read my recap of the event here. 

We only had a tiny idea of what the next four years would bring. Nature's way of causing us further trauma. It culminated in the Jan. 6, 2021, storming of the U.S. Capitol by by raging Trumpists. Many have been arrested for their attack on the seat of this country's duly-elected legislature. They stormed democracy when they stormed the building. Those filmed images will stay with me forever.

Come on Jan. 20, 2021!

What comes next after the Jan. 6 coup attempt at the U.S. Capitol?

We witnessed a coup attempt Wednesday at the U.S. Capitol Building.

Trump and his goons incited other goons to storm the Capitol and disrupt the approval of electoral college votes. They ended up trashing the place and killing a policeman. The mayhem delayed the counting of the votes until 3 in the morning on Jan. 7.

My daughter watched some of that day's CNN reports with me. She asked questions and I had no answers. 

She left for school and my mind wandered. I had attended two Vietnam War protests in D.C., in 1970 and 1971. D.C. Police were everywhere. At the May Day 1971 protests, promoted as "Days of Rage," President Nixon called in the National Guard and 82nd Airborne. Helicopters filled the air. Buses were lined up in a cordon around the White House. Federal drug enforcement undercover cops tried to blend in with the crowd, ready to bust pot smokers but there were too many of us so they just studied the freaks and took detailed notes.

These were the preparations for a bunch of longhairs. We were angry but unarmed. Would some have rushed the White House or Capitol and trashed those places? Maybe. They were angry about Vietnam. But were we prepared to interfere with a lawful election? Hell no. Many young men were angry when Nixon was elected in 1968 and 1972. We knew that it meant more Vietnam and a continuation, possibly forever, of the military draft. Most of us were there for peaceful protest.

Some Days of Rage protesters disrupted traffic and blocked the employee entrance to the U.S. Justice Department and engaged in various other acts of civil disobedience.

The police and military were more than ready for them. May 3 ended up being the biggest arrest cache ever in D.C. The jails overflowed and officials had to corral the longhairs at RFK Stadium (football season was long over). 

Where were these duly-appointed guardians of our democratic republic on Jan. 6, 2021? Nowhere to be seen. Until later in the day, after the worst was over.

This was an inside job and just the beginning of an old-fashioned coup. Are we ready for the next attack that may come on Jan. 17 or possibly Inauguration Day? 

We better be.

Paranoia strikes deep, into your heart it will creep

Happy New Year.

We are glad to say goodbye to 2020, the Year of the Pandemic. It also was the year that a majority of voters and Electoral College tallies booted Trump from office.

But not soon enough.

He's done plenty of damage to our democratic republic since Nov. 3. Call it a massive temper tantrum or Trump's reveal of his fascist inner self. He always wanted to the Da Boss or Der Fuehrer, as if he could ever be a leader to those of us with a heart and soul. 

Interesting reading in the New Yorker about America's authoritarian tendencies. Adam Gopnick writes in "What we get wrong about America's crisis of democracy." His main point is that authoritarianism is always with us and it behooves all of us to battle it all of the time. 

The default condition of humankind, traced across thousands of years of history, is some sort of autocracy... America itself has never had a particularly settled commitment to democratic, rational government. 

He goes on to talk about demagogues such as Barry Goldwater and Joseph McCarthy. Roy Cohn even rears his ugly head, as he did in "Angels in America." Cohn counseled McCarthy "in all things conspiratorial" and, not surprisingly, was Donald Trump's mentor.

As Steven Stills wrote and Buffalo Springfield sang: 

Paranoia strikes deep, into your heart it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid. Get out of line, the men come and take you away.

You are not paranoid to see an autocrat behind every tree. In the Trump administration, they are political appointees in very important positions. They also are GOPers elected to Congress and, alas, to the Wyoming State Legislature. Although they talk about them a lot, they don't believe in democratic principles. They are always with us, Gopnick says. He notes this:

The temptation of anti-democratic cult politics is forever with us, and so is the work of fending it off.

Damn. Just as we thought that all of our work is done here. Biden is in, Trump is out. Depending on what happens next week in Georgia, Democrats may even control both houses of Congress. Can we now rest on our laurels, as bloated as they may be from 10 months sitting in easy chairs avoiding the plague?

No.

The authoritarian Goldwater said something about eternal vigilance. That's what we have to be -- eternally vigilant. No rest for the weary, those of us whop have been involved in progressive politics most of our lives. We work hard to get Democrats elected and then relax. While we're at play, the bad guys are marshaling their forces, raising money, and forming PACs and think tanks to capture the next election cycle. Scary news this morning: Trump is the GOP front-runner for 2024. He will be merely 78 at election time, the same age President-elect Biden is now. If Trump wins (God forbid) he will be 82 when he gets impeached in 2028, the same age Generalissimo Francisco Franco was when he died in 1975 just in time to be a buzz-phrase on SNL: 

And this just in -- Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead!

After a year such as this one, it's painful to hear that our work is not done but just beginning. We can never let up. Retirees such as me cannot go to Florida and play pickleball all day. We can go to Florida but, the first thing to do after buying up all the sunscreen in Walgreen's is seek out fellow Democrats and get involved. Voting is important but just a tiny piece of this. Work for candidates. Volunteer for good causes. Attend city council meetings and, when necessary, speak up on behalf of accountability. Write biting letters to the editor and use humor when appropriate -- this will make friends among progressives and befuddle authoritarians such as Trump who were born with no sense of humor. 

Democracy is not easy. If it were, everyone would have it.

March of the Red Caps

A young man in a red cap opens the heavy convention center doors for me, an old guy propelled by two legs and four wheels. I thank the man in the red cap, so polite he is. He nods. I see the writing on his cap: Keep America Great. I shake my head and power through. Keep America Great? Initials KAG, cousin to MAGA. Red Cap is a fool to think that Trump made America great and will continue the greatness. I am a fool to think that Trump can't be reelected to KAG for four more years or maybe more. Once inside, Red Cap struts down the carpeted hallway and is joined by other Red Caps who march to the local GOP Trumpfest. I head to an evening to celebrate the arts in the reddest of red states. The arts can save us, so says this man who moves with difficulty. He believes that a Brahms concerto or a Joy Harjo poem can save us from the Red Caps of the world.

Republicans are aghast that anger rages in America

Republicans are aghast that someone would be so angry as to take a shot at Congressional reps practicing for a baseball game in Alexandria, Virginia.

I am aghast that they would be aghast at this turn of events.

Republicans and their Fox News mouthpiece have been stoking American anger for decades.  This led to the simmering stew of hatred that begat Trump.

A Republican rep says that America is "fraying around the edges" earlier this week on CBS This Morning. And who is responsible for that turn of events? A Bernie Sanders fan who was a little frayed around the edges, frayed enough to go shoot up a baseball field? He was angry. Many are angry. And they have guns.

What do these Republicans expect? They stoked grassroots anger for eight years during the Obama administration. And the recipients of this barrage of hate were not all Republicans. A fair number of Democrats and Independents watch Fox, listen to Rush Limbaugh, and voted for Trump.

So who's to blame? All of us. For inciting hatred and letting it slide -- or stoking it with snark. For not countering hatred with love and tolerance. For not doing something to make the world a better place.

I am as guilty as you are. I have been poking fun at conservatives online since 2005. For eight years, I assumed that we were a civilized nation with a minority of ignorant, regressive haters. I was smug. I made fun of those Obama haters who carried misspelled signs to Tea Party rallies. I even invented a character called Tea Party Slim, whom I imbued with the many TP utterings I heard at rallies and on the Internet.

All of that only stoked more hatred and resentment. Our leader, Barack Obama, provided an example for us to look up to. Meanwhile, he did little or nothing to stem the tide of resentment. Obama didn't fight hard enough for the America we wanted. Neither did I.

It's game on now. The enemy is obvious. Our government is trying to kill us and our planet. For the second time in my 66 years, I know who to fight. During Vietnam, my government wanted to kill all of its young men in pursuit of a rotten Cold War policy in Vietnam. Our government would rather kill its sons than admit it was wrong. That's why the trauma of Vietnam will never end. Let's hope Ken Burns informs us of the real reasons behind Vietnam this fall on PBS. I am not optimistic.

Now our government wants to maximize riches and marginalize the rest of us. We are on our way to be serfs, a return to the Dark Ages of Europe. Ironically, Europe is experiencing a golden age.

Response is to #Resist with the tools we have. We have wit and grit. #Resist on your own and with like-minded people. Marginalize those who urge violence. Many of those people are not our friends and may be insurgents in our midst. Now that an apparent anti-Trump person shot up a baseball field and some Republican reps, look for law enforcement to plant operatives in #Resist groups. It may have happened already. This sounds paranoid. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't following you. Read some of the first-hand account of the antiwar and Civil Rights movements. They often were the targets of COINTELPRO units of the FBI. They were provocateurs who knew that to turn a protest violent invited a violent response from the police. No better way to discredit dirty hippies than to show them getting beat up by the police. The 1968 Police Riot in Chicago was caused by those dirty hippies (and Yippies) that were getting bloodied by Mayor Daley's Finest. At least that's how Middle America saw it and turned to Tricky Dick and Kissinger for a solution for Vietnam.

You saw how that worked out.

Angry Americans have now turned to a spoiled rich boy who gets his way because the Republicans in Congress have fallen into lockstep behind him. Shame on them. Shame on us for letting it happen.

#Resist

Is corporate America really our enemy?

I watched the entire Super Bowl, from its hope-filled opening to its bitter end. I saw an hour of the pre-game show but didn't watch the post-mortem, when Trump's boy, Tom Brady, celebrated in style. Or I assume that he did.

Funny how this football game became a forum to challenge #45. Big corporations paid big money to air their inclusive views on race, immigration, history. Budweiser told the story of its German immigrant founder, including a scene at the docks where nativist Know Nothings harass him and other "foreigners." 84 Lumber aired the story of a Latin American mother and her young daughter and their trek to the U.S., to reunite with the father. Unfortunately, the imagined Trump wall almost got in their way. Air B&B addressed intolerance by exhibiting the many faces of our neighbors. All of the ads featured Americans of varying colors and creeds and statuses. The America that exists now, not the fear-plagued, hateful nation summoned by Trump. Creative people imagined these ads, wrote them, shot them, acted in them, edited them. Creativity is one of our greatest strengths. It can reveal, in creative ways, the xenophobic ways of the fascist, who hates creativity and humor and the First Amendment.

At the end of last night's game, I wondered: Will it be the corporations that save us from Trump? You must be a huge entity to afford Super Bowl ads. To be a huge entity, you need to appeal to the largest possible audience. For years, Coke and Bud and McD's have featured a rainbow of talent in their commercials. Look at ads from your childhood in the 50s-70s. White people. Look at commercial TV now and you see America as it actually exists. We have African-Americans and Latinos, Somalis and Salvadorans. We have hearing-impaired people signing a language that it as foreign to most of us as Urdu. We have people in wheelchairs.

This apparently irritates Trump supporters, who tend to be rural and white. They look around their small town and see people like them. They watch cable TV and see a changed America, one that is foreign and scary. It's mainly urban and young. They go to Denver and Salt Lake City and Albuquerque and see this America in living color. It's intimidating. Almost like a foreign country.

Many of my city friends laugh when I say that I'm a city boy. I say I live in a capital city, the largest one in my state, one of only two Metropolitan Statistical Areas. If asked, I say that the population is 68,000, the size of some suburbs in their state. They think I'm funny.

Back to corporations. Many liberals see them as the enemy. They are trying to take over the world, make everybody live in a cookie-cutter world. They are the enemies of craft brewers and locavores and indie bands.

But corporations employ smart people and see what's going on. Corporate brewers buy up craft brewers and try to duplicate their appeal. Fast-food giants try to be like the mom-and-pop neighborhood bistro, offering artisan this and handmade that. They know things are changing. But we sneer at them, superior beings that we are. Meanwhile, they hire people of color who are dependable and smart. These companies understand that Trump's prejudices will kill their businesses.

Look around you. See who works at your favorite restaurant and coffee shop. Investigate their politics. See who they are connected to in public. You can hate Starbuck's if you want, but it is an open-minded company, one that challenges the Trumpsters. Buy a coffee there and one at your locally-owned coffee shop. Thing is, your local shop may be owned by rabid Republicans just following a proven business model. Maybe Starbuck's is more attuned to your beliefs.

Some wingnuts are calling for a Budweiser boycott. Last summer, Bud changed its flagship beer's name to "America." I didn't drink any America. I thought it was silly, and that only bikers and cowboys would fall for it. But now I will drink a Bud for every Fat Tire or 90 Shilling I drink. Not sure if my heart can take too many fast-food meals, but there must be something I can eat at Wendy's. It's important to support those companies who dared to challenge a despot on the biggest sporting event of the year

Learning to Breathe, Part IV

Read Part III here.

In Part IV, our concluding episode, the Hailie Salassie automaton comes to life and chases down some fascists. 

“Here he comes.” Bobby the cowboy pointed the front doors of the depot. They opened, and an entourage stepped out. Several photographers, three uniformed policemen and, finally, the lanky and lucky Mr. Lindbergh. He blinked when the sun hit his eyes. He was dressed in a gray suit. He didn’t look like a famous aviator. He didn’t look like a guy whose baby had been kidnapped and killed. He didn’t look like a guy who was Hitler’s buddy.

“Let’s go boys,” said Doherty.

He stepped forward and others followed.

Weaver had rigged the truck’s tailgate to serve as a lift. He and Doherty rolled the Lion of Judah to the tailgate, Weaver hit a lever on the side of the truck and Ras Tafari dropped slowly to the ground. They rolled the statue off of the tailgate onto the pavement.

Weaver always referred to his creation as Halie Selassie, Lion of Judah. He had tried and failed to get his statue to walk. But he did figure out how to make him move. Doherty didn’t understand it all. A coal-fired boiler turned some gears that turned other gears that powered wheels on the bottom of the statue. Smoke escaped out of an exhaust pipe at the back, which added an ominous fire-and-brimstone element to the scene. Weaver had also rigged a phonograph which played a recorded version of Selassie’s League of Nations’ speech from speakers on the truck cab roof. Not a bad set-up, and effective as long as the automaton didn’t get too far ahead of the truck. He and Weaver had even used their sound system to play music at hobo jungles and tent camps. One night Weaver tried to get Ras Tafari to spin with the music. He played with the gears but the best he could do was get Ras Tafari to stop and go in four-four time. That was at an encampment near Des Moines. They had a fine time that night with the dancing and the moonshine. And Weaver had his reefer.

Weaver walked next to his contraption, making sure it kept on course. Ras Tafari had his eyes on the fascist Lindbergh. Doherty stood in the open door of the truck. He waited for Weaver’s signal. Their goal was to drown out Lindy’s speech. And to cause a commotion. Lindy now stood behind a microphone in front of the depot. He and his entourage had certainly by now seen the coal-powered Selassie coming their way. The automaton’s exhaust added to the day’s haze caused by dust from farmers’ fields hundreds of miles away. A fire burned in Cheyenne. It joined thousands of other fires burning all over the world. And this was just the beginning.

Lindbergh stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Charles Lindbergh.” A smattering of applause. Two men held up signs that read “Defend America First” in big black letters. A group of women dressed in old-fashioned black mourning attire huddled by the microphone. One held up a sign that read “Mothers Against War.”

Weaver turned, grinned and smartly saluted Doherty. That was the sign. Doherty dropped the phonograph's arm on the record. Scratching noises erupted from the truck-top speakers. Lindbergh paused. Some in the welcoming crowd turned to see the truck. Their gazes alighted on Ras Tafari chugging toward them. Doherty thought he heard a gasp.

“It’s OK, ladies and gentlemen,” said Lindbergh. “Just a stunt. Communists try to interrupt me all of the time. They fear my message.”

Hailie Selassie addressed the League of Nations in Geneva on June 20, 1936. He told them that “God and history shall remember your judgment,” just as his automaton told the crowd in Cheyenne three years later.

Doherty now could hear only Selassie – the distant emperor was doing a terrific job of drowning out the words of America’s heroic aviator.

“What answer shall I take back to my people?” Selassie said.

Lindbergh talked on. Some in his entourage glanced nervously at the mobile and articulate Ras Tafari. A man in a suit walked over to a policeman and had some words with him. The policeman nodded. He gathered two of his officers and walked toward Weaver and Ras Tafari. Doherty had seen this happen before in other towns. Officials become alarmed and attempt to stop Ras Tafari as he delivers his message. Smarter ones go to the truck and tried to interrupt the broadcast by confiscating the equipment or smashing the record. After this happened twice, Weaver and Doherty got wise. Doherty now locked himself inside the truck cab. The cops would stand outside and stare, not knowing what to do. One enterprising cop in Grand Island, Nebraska, ripped the speakers off of the top of the truck. They got wise to that and, next time someone tried that, Doherty sent a jolt of electricity along the wires. The cop screamed and went flying off the truck, landing on his keister on the asphalt street. He then took out his billy and broke the truck window and then the phonograph. They got arrested that time.

But here in Cheyenne? The cops walked over to Ras Tafari. The burly police chief barked orders at his minions. They stood in front of Ras Tafari. They put up their hands and yelled, “Halt.” Ras Tafari must not have understood because he kept on rolling. It’s tough to tell the Lion of Judah to halt. The automaton reached the cops’ hands but kept right on going. The cops tried to lean on Selassie, but were finally pushed back and then parted, each moving to the side of the automaton. The one closest to Weaver grabbed him and his compatriot came over and grabbed Weaver’s other arm. Weaver didn’t resist – he knew better. One of the officers said something to Weaver. He shrugged, pointing over at Selassie and shaking his head no. The police chief came over. He barked at Weaver who shook his head again and probably said, “There’s nothing I can do Mr. Police Chief sir.” Meanwhile, by the depot, Lindbergh continued to speak and here at the truck, Doherty chuckled.

Then, the unexpected. Ras Tafari, obviously impatient to meet Lindbergh, sped up. Lindbergh didn’t seem to notice but his entourage did. They began to drift away. One man in a dark suit walked up behind Lindbergh. The man whispered something to Lindy, who looked up to see the automaton closing on him fast, not at running speed exactly, more like a brisk walk. Lindy shook his head and returned to his remarks. The crowd made a path for Ras Tafari. The police chief now walked over to the truck. He banged on the closed driver’s side window with his fist. Doherty had taken all precautions. Windows up, doors locked.

“Come out of there now,” the police chief said, “or you will be arrested.”

Doherty did what he always did. He put his hand to his ear and said, “I can’t hear you.”

“Turn it off,” yelled the police chief, pointing at the photograph.

“What?” yelled Doherty?

The police chief had a decision to make. He looked at Doherty and then over at the automaton. He saw that America’s hero was in danger of being run over by the emperor. Doherty knew that the man would love to smash the window and then smash his face. But he also knew that police chief’s don’t let Lindbergh get killed in their town. It wouldn’t look good and it wasn’t the right move as far as job security. Fuming, the police chief took one final look and yelled, “I’ll get you” and then sped off toward the depot.

The two photographers on the scene were having a field day. They were lined up and ready to snap the moment when Lindy got run over by the Lion of Judah. This would be big news and they’d get paid well for their shots.

But Lindy was wise to the situation. He let Selassie get to within two feet and backed away from the microphone. Ras Tafari was still moving and closing fast. Lindy shook his fist at the automaton. The automaton kept coming. Weaver looked over at Doherty and smiled. This was the best yet. Lindy backed up. The automaton advanced. The photographers were getting their shots. The crowd murmured. The police chief came to Lindy’s aid. He inserted himself between the aviator and the emperor. He and Lindy both gave way. The police chief wore a determined look. He wasn’t sure about the look on Lindy’s face. It wasn’t anger. More of a bland acceptance. He just backed slowly while Selassie chugged. The police chief barked at Lindy. He took one more look at the automaton, turned and walked quickly for the depot doors. He disappeared inside. Now it was just the cop and the statue.

“It is us today, it will be you tomorrow.” Selassie ended his speech and applause rang out from the august body sitting on their asses in Geneva. They would do nothing, of course. They would congratulate the dark-skinned emperor on his fine speech and then adjourn for lunch. Selassie would return to the safety of England. Italians would continue to gas illiterate tribesmen. Franco killed Basques in Spain. Japanese raped and killed women in Nanking. Hitler put Jews and communists in concentration camps.

The automaton collided with the depot wall, tilted slightly and then changed direction. It was hard to say how far he would go. The fire would go out, eventually, the smoke would dissipate. Selassie would once again be a big mute mass of metal. He and Weaver would spend at least one night in jail. He’d call one of his old union buddies to bail them out.

Lindbergh, meanwhile, would be on his way to Laramie and Rock Springs and Ogden. Maybe they’d catch up with him, there. Maybe not. But they would, somewhere along the line. He had his mission, they had theirs.

Doherty unlocked the truck and stepped outside. The cops had cuffed Weaver and marched him toward the truck.

“I’ll go peacefully,” Doherty said.

The cowboy returned. “Can I take care of the statue while you boys are being detained?”

"Sure,” said Weaver. “How do we get in touch?”

The cowboy’s grizzled face beamed. “I’ll know where you are.”

“OK,” said Weaver.

The cop urged Doherty forward. “You’re in trouble, boy,” he said.

“No, you are,” said Doherty. “You just don’t know it yet.”

#          #          #

On Monday, Jan. 30, the author talks about the roots of this story. 

Learning to Breathe, Part III

Read Part II here.

In this episode, Doherty and Weaver wonder about the motives of the three cowboys hanging around outside of the train depot. 

Three cowboys stood across the street, eyeing Doherty and Weaver. They spoke to each other briefly, and then set off toward the truck.

“Might want to get out that billy club,” said Doherty.

“You get the tire iron.” Weaver nodded.

It had come to that, more than once, in their journey from New York into Wyoming. Sometimes it was fists. Sometimes billy clubs and tire irons. They knew where their weapons were stashed and moved toward them. Doherty and Weaver were not harbingers of peace but of war. They brought sad tidings to the heartland.

Two of the cowboys looked like brothers – tall and thin, youngsters. The third cowboy was older, short and stout, with a dark beard and mustache. They all wore dungarees and battered cowboy hats. They didn’t say anything, not at first.

“Hello,” said Doherty.

“Howdy,” said the older cowboy. “What ya got here?”

“Hailie Selassie, Lion of Judah.”

“He’s putting up a fight against those fuckin’ fascists, the Italians. They’re using poison gas.” He tapped his chest with a calloused hand. “I got gassed in France by the Huns.”

“We’ve both been gassed,” said Doherty.

The older cowboy looked him up and down. “You been in the fight, ain’t ya?”

Doherty nodded.

“You too,” said the older cowboy to Weaver. “You got iron in your face.” He turned his head to spit a stream of tobacco into the dusty street. “These two boys,” he said nodding first at one of his companions and then the other. “They ain’t been in the fight. You’ll be good hands when the next war comes, won’t you boys?”

They both nodded.

“They don’t say much,” said the older cowboy. “What you got planned for that pansy-ass Lindbergh?”

Doherty gestured at the statue and then the banner. “That’s our message,” said Doherty. “It’s aimed at Lindbergh and his appeasement pals. We usually get some pushback from crowds. We always get other people who know we are facing a mess and have to do something about it.”

The cowboy reached over and grasped Doherty’s left hand. “Fights?”

“Sometimes.”

“This black fella,” he said, nodding at Weaver. “He can hold his own?”

“Jesus taught us to turn the other cheek,” Weaver said. “Sometimes you run out of cheeks.”

The cowboy laughed. “True enough.”

“He’s also one hell of an artist,” Doherty said.

“He do that statue?”

“Made from spent Italian artillery shells.”

“No shit?” He walked over to the truck bed and ran his hand along the statue. He peered closer and looked over at Weaver. “I see numbers from the shell casings. That is something. Come over here, boys.”

The young men joined the older cowboy. All three of them eased their way around the truck bed, looking at the statue. When they rejoined Weaver and Doherty, the older cowboy asked: “How can we help?”

“Well,” said Weaver. “We want Lindy out here where he can see our message.”

“He coming out?”

“We don’t know,” said Doherty. “We just knew he was coming into the station for a stop on his speaking tour.”

“Let’s see if we can get him out,” said the older cowboy.

“I can go into the depot and yell fire,” said one of the younger cowboys.

“No, boy, we’d have a stampede then. The cops will come and the first to be arrested will be our Negro friend here.” The cowboy pointed at Weaver.

“I’m not a Negro anymore,” said Weaver. “I’m Rastafari.”

“Huh?”

“Jamaican,” Doherty said. “It’s a religion they have down there.”

The cowboy nodded, but Doherty could tell that he didn’t understand.

After a moment of silence, the cowboy asked, “So how are we going to get Lucky Lindy out here?”

One of the young cowboys said, “Maybe somebody could go in and ask Mr. Lindbergh nicely to come outside.” He gave a tentative grin.

Everyone stared at him. The older cowboy sighed. “These boys are still wet behind the ears. You going to ask those Nazi dive bombers to nicely stop bombing you when the war starts?”

“No,” said the young cowboy.

The older cowboy spat a stream of tobacco juice into the street. 

“What if we go inside and announce that there’s an air show?” That was the other young cowboy. He smiled.

“Sure, why not,” said the older cowboy. “Lindbergh flew into our airfield when I was a kid. Didn’t get to meet him but saw his plane. I bet he loves air shows.”

Doherty looked at Weaver. “What do you think?”

“Might work. Lindy is an airplane guy.”

“He is that,” said the older cowboy. “That’s a fine, idea, Bobby. You surprise the hell out of me sometimes.”

Bobby beamed. His brother looked down, scuffed his right boot against the pavement.

But Lindy didn’t have to be lured outside. That’s where the cameras were, and Lindy liked the cameras. The sun pushed back the dust cloud, brightening up the day. 

Doherty surveyed his impromptu group. The future was a dangerous place, He would walk into it with a black sculptor from Detroit and an odd trio of cowboys. So many of them, all over the world, regular folks tired of being stepped on. Bullies like Lindy and Hitler and Mussolini and Franco and the bosses of industry. Their time was done. He had witnessed their deeds in Madrid and San Sebastian. Doherty was angry. He often was up nights, awakened by visions of shell bursts and open wounds. He was surprised to be 28 and alive. He’d been a paid soldier for the capitalists and a piss-poor mercenary in Spain. He had to laugh at that. Yes, he had a satchel filled with his book of poems. He gave one to each person who put two bits or more into the collection box. It was his cry for justice, no matter how small. All he knew was that the world’s bullies needed a shellacking and he was here to start the payback.
To be continued...
Read Learning to Breathe, Part IV, on Friday, Jan. 27. Next week, the author talks about the background of this story.