Helping Hands

So Adriel had just turned 50. I went for lunch at a crowded restaurant in downtown Lexington. The hostess (is “hostess” not allowed anymore, ok, maybe “greeter”?) a young woman, maybe a college student at nearby UK. No, we didn’t have reservations, but she would seat us anyway. She gave me a once over, and said “just follow me, young man.” Young man! What? I was pissed. When college age girls first start greeting you with “young man,” you know you are over the hill. Spent. Ancient.

Now that I have just turned 70…okay, 71 actually, I went to Home Depot and bought three pavers. These pavers are gray concrete, 16 inches square, weighing maybe 30 but not more than 35 pounds. I wheeled them out on a cart to my SUV and opened the hatch. Suddenly there appears a lady, about 35 or maybe 40. She reaches down and grabs a paver, saying “oh, let me help you with that,” graciously omitting the “old man”. I just let her load them and thanked her. I thought when someone wants to do a good deed, you should accept it gratefully and let them feel good about themselves. And then I knew I had entered geezerhood and looked the part.

Wilbur

Wilbur

So Adriel was working in Frankfort, Kentucky doing human resources and budget control work for the crazily led non-profit. One fascinating character I got to know was a young fellow, Randy, who worked in the home energy conservation project. Randy was married to a highly paid medical professional who worked, I think, for the Veteran’s hospital. Her salary kept their little family quite well, but Randy’s work history was a little less than stellar. She was sort of a back-to-the-lander and healthy living enthusiast. The couple had no children, but for pets they kept a couple of farm dogs and an old pony. And Wilbur, the pig.

Randy liked to come in to work early, as did I, and he would come to my office to whine a bit and share his troubles. One day he did not report to work. No calls or messages came for a couple of days and then he appeared in the early morning looking a little worn. He had been tossed from home and had found a place sleeping in the barn on a nearby horse farm. The farmer had provided him with shelter in return for some work with the horses. Randy had something of a horsey odor about him. He said the worst of it was the fleas, but other than that he claimed his life was now better and he was content.

“She is such a hippie,” he complained. “I was cooking up supper when she came in and I told her we would have a nice pork meal for a change.”

“Oh my God, it’s Wilbur, she shouts and boots my ass out the door!” I asked if there was any chance for an apology and a reconciliation. He said no. “A man can only eat so much goddam granola.”

I always liked Randy and he was very smart about energy conservation and the environment. A little while after his home expulsion he stopped coming to work. I kind of miss him and I hope he found some more suitable accommodations. Perhaps he took my suggestion and went back in repentance. But maybe not. He sure couldn’t bring Wilbur back.

Michael Sandel

Michael Sandel has a new book out for 2020: The Tyranny of Merit: What’s Become of the Common Good? I’ll be sure to read this. I have read his books Justice, and What Money Can’t Buy. A few years ago I took his on-line lecture course on iTunesU (Justice) which is said to be one of the most popular free web based courses. Of the several courses I’ve taken, the lectures by Sandel are far and away the most clear, insightful and rewarding. Sandel’s view of public morality is communitarian. Some things are public and must be equitable and shared. Personal liberty and freedom of thought are just that, personal and this realm of justice has ethical constraints and choices that belong to that realm. It seems to me that Sandel thinks public or shared activities are of a different kind. We should think about how we value our community and act as if public ethics are as valuable as personal morality. When I think about Sandel’s work I am reminded of the ancient Greek philosophers who wrote about virtue largely as a measure of one’s relationship to others.

Judge/Exec

By mid-morning I had arrived at the county courthouse in response to an “urgent” request by County Judge R. In Kentucky, the county Judge-Executive is the chief elected official and chair of the “Fiscal Court” which serves as the county’s ruling management and legislative body. I’m happy to say that the Judge-Executive has no judicial powers, and has had none for the last 40 or 50 years. Nonetheless, these county administrators yield considerable political power.
When I checked in at his office, Judge R was occupied in fixing a traffic ticket for a loyal constituent. I walked across the hall to the restroom to drain my radiator. Inside I was there were no stalls, but rather, I was presented with two commodes quite in the open, one occupied. There sat a pleasant fellow reading the county bird cage liner. Noticing my hesitation, the reader waved me on in with a hearty welcome. I am not at all shy, but I credit myself as remarkably brave in accomplishing my task with the appearance of poise and equanimity.
Relieved of my discomfort, I met with the judge. He apologized for keeping me waiting while he helped out an old friend who always reminded the winner of an election that he had voted for him and so did all his cousins, regardless of the truth. A fine old feller, the judge said, but half drunk half the time. Judge R took me to lunch at a diner near the river and after sharing a plate of fried vegetables (I declined the chicken), he set me on my task. This involved getting signatures on some document, I forget what it was, from two parties. It required driving to two separate towns in another two counties at some distance.

As the sun was setting I crossed the river bridge and headed back to the courthouse. The old building was open and His Honor was on the phone making another deposit to the favor bank. He thanked me profusely for bringing the executed documents and apologized for keeping me so late.

I told him it wasn’t a problem. In that job I often worked well into the night but it did concern me a good deal that in that county a disagreement was generally settled by gunfire. The local County Attorney got pissed at his son-in-law a few months prior and put two slugs in the young boy. An employee of mine was on the grand jury for that one but it failed to indict: she told me that after all, the boy lived. Another employee of mine had done his own shooting I discovered. Ten years before he shot the Postmaster dead on the steps of the Post Office. Told me the fellow was foolin’ with his wife and anyway, he drew first.

I said I was glad to help but I was eager to cross the river to home before it was fully dark. But why? Well, hell Judge, this whole county is armed to the teeth and ready to fire. I can see in my memory clearly the judge and I were standing in the dimly light hall as he locked up. He said you know, you’re so right, that’s why I always carry Lil’ Alice here. Out of his coat pocket he pulled a small pearl handled pistol and waved it high to I could see. Well, that was a comfort.

Our Towns: A 100,000-Mile Journey Into the Heart of America by James M. Fallows, Deborah Fallows

I have read James Fallows for years and listened intently to his radio reports from China.  He discovered great hope and vibrant change in a developing China.  As he found in China, there is hope and increasing development in a changing America.  Not in the great cities, but in small town USA, in the rebuilding of rusting manufacturing towns, in college towns, and in the farm towns of the great plains.  For the highly educated urbanites of our country who showed themselves to be so out of touch with “fly-over” country and blue-collar workers, this book is a must read.  It shows the resilience and determination of town and village dwellers to rebuilt the American Dream. 

Two things stood out for me.  First, there is far less nationalism and xenophobia in places where immigrants have settled and have proven themselves the key to a rebirth of small-town America.  I have myself witnessed more immigrant hatred among those who have no acquaintance with refugees and other immigrants. 

Second, I see that college towns and especially those places with career and technical colleges are fueling a revitalized economy and have made small towns livable and attractive.  What we used to call “Junior Colleges” like the excellent Palm Beach Junior College (now Palm Beach College) that I attended briefly are focused not on social class climbing but on the type of education urgently needed in our workforce.

All in all, I think the book works best as a travelogue rather than as social commentary.  It is an enjoyable read but light on making a point.

Semicolon: The Past, Present, and Future of a Misunderstood Mark by Cecelia Watson

A good dictionary is descriptive, and we turn to it to see how words are actually used. On the other hand, grammar books are prescriptive and often proscriptive. We look there for the rules of writing.  We look there for the rules of writing. There simply has to be some conventionality in writing otherwise readers would be constantly trying to learn some new scheme of communication.  The problem with the semicolon is that there seems to be little agreement even among grammarians on how it should be used. The confusion over leads some writers to avoid the semicolon altogether.  Cecelia Watson argues that when used effectively the semicolon is an important, maybe even necessary tool of good writing.  Watson reviews the evidence from several writers, but the quoted passage from Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail proves her point.  MLK writes to the white preachers who advise him to slow down his efforts and to wait for change. In a truly astounding sentence, he cites example after example of the daily indignities suffered under racial apartheid.  Each clause is a shameful instance of humiliation and injustice and each powerful statement is separated by semicolon after semicolon like a drumbeat. This is mimesis at its best: the sentence makes the reader wait and wait while the long listing of travesties pound away until the conclusion—”then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.” 

Cecelia Watson doesn’t choose sides in grammar wars over the semicolon or give her own rule but argues for good sense in writing rather than strict laws of writing.  In fact, she thinks a grammar scolding is just an ad hominem attack in disguise, a technique of one-up-manship.   It is much like the silly battles over the oxford comma.  Best to use it when necessary to avoid confusion, otherwise it doesn’t matter.

It’s amazing that there is so much to argue about in a point of punctuation.  There has been not one, but several court battles over the use of a semicolon in a law.  Cecelia Watson has written a whole book about a punctuation mark; it is a good book; it is readable; and it is marvelously wise.

Genius and Anxiety: How Jews Changed the World, 1847-1947

Music historian Norman Lebrecht thinks that Jewish genius, the notable exceptionalism of Jewish leaders and intellectuals, results from the ever-present angst of Jews in the modern world.  I write here in the present tense, which is a little annoying, just as it was throughout this otherwise fascinating book, Genius and Anxiety: How Jews Changed the World, 1847-1947.  To explain the remarkable accomplishments of the Jewish people some writers have looked for an explanation in genetics or education or perhaps the cultural values of bookishness. Lebrecht makes the case for the otherness, the perpetual state of Jews as not quite fitting in, of not quite losing immigrant status, citizens but never truly accepted.  It is the ability to think differently, to use a Talmudic reworking of common modes of thought that Lebrecht views as keys to Jewish success. 

But all in all, this book quickly moves away from the genius question and proceeds with a compilation of mini-biographies of outstanding Jews during a 100- year period.  There are some surprises here.  Leonard Bernstein of course was a musical genius and a true maker of the modern world of music.  His personal behavior was, well, gross.  “Nice to meet you, Lennie,” would often be reciprocated with a sloppy tongue kiss.  Theodor Herzl, the real father of Zionism was not at all religious, not at all a good Jew and did not circumcise his own son who eventually becomes a Christian.  Herzl flirts with schemes other than reviving a Jewish state in Palestine, such as in Cyprus, and even in Uganda.  I am imagining singing in a temple in Kampala:  Let us forget thee, O Jerusalem! 

The great Jewish genius of this period is of course Albert Einstein.  The surprise of this peaceful man is his loyal friendship with Fritz Haber. Unfortunately, Haber is only loyal to Germany.  Haber was fully assimilated, even jingoistic
German Jew, who is becomes the developmental father of gas warfare. Haber’s research lab even creates the terrible insecticide that, after Haber’s death, is modified into the chemical Zyklon-B which destroyed so many Jews in the death camps.  Haber’s excessive patriotism toward Germany is eventually rewarded with rejection by the state he loved and served as the Nazi movement grows.  I imagine that he did not die a good death as he did not live a good life, but nonetheless, Einstein’s friendship endures.

The most interesting individual in this surprising and engrossing history of Jewish genius, is the little-known Eliza Davis.  A bold 19th century character, Davis meets everyone’s favorite author, Charles Dickens.  After the meeting, Dickens receives a letter from Davis, who is probably the first Jew he ever met.  The letter expresses, at first, admiration for the great novelist and then proceeds to take him to task for the repulsive and racist depiction of the criminal Fagin.  Didn’t think Fagin was quite that bad?  Well, that may be that Davis eventually convinces Dickens to revise the first edition in order to tone down the character and to stop referring to Fagin as “the Jew”.  Davis asks Dickens if he referred to other wicked characters as “the Christian.”  It seems that Dickens has been afflicted by the common prejudices of the time that can come people who simply have no acquaintance with a culture not their own.  Long before, Shakespeare had created the character of Shylock even though he could never have known any Jews at all.  All Jews had been expelled from England in the 13th century and were not permitted to enter England until 1657. 

I give the Lebrecht book my highest rating, despite the relentless use of the present tense.  And as I write this, I realize that the author may have used the present tense, not for the sense of drama, but rather to make an important point.  Anti-Semitism exists and now reasserts evil manifestation across the world, it exists in the ever present, it is with us from even before the destruction of the Second Temple, and nonetheless, Jewish genius survives and even prevails.

The Torture of Travel

I can’t possibly understand the fascination with travel. Books about travel? I guess any form of misery is a good topic for deluded writers. Travel is torture. If you have never sat in coach on an overseas flight, then I suppose you can only imagine what it is to be condemned to be fastened to the stocks in the public square, although for my part that would be preferable. Ask yourself, BTW, if the condemned to the stocks got bathroom breaks as required by wage and hour laws. Or just tryout an airline restroom after 12 hours in flight. Unthinkable. Or even a road trip through Nebraska, or the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Misery. Speakers of English know this is torture or ought to know it. The word “travel” is a blood relative, in fact a descendant of “travail” another apt description of travel in any form. From Middle English “travailen” from Latin “tripaliare” meaning “torture.” But wait there is more, “tripaliare” is from “tripalium” the Roman form of stocks, a gruesome device whereby the victim was spread-eagled on three stakes. Picture it:

drawing credit: By ManuRoquette WikiMedia Commons










Hume Passes On

David Hume would certainly have rejected the description of a death as “passing on.” He was famous as a non-believer. James Boswell visited the dying Hume in order to see if he had, as so many do, gotten right with religion in extremis. Boswell asked if Hume even feared no longer existing, but the reply was that he was not concerned with the fact that he did not exist before the beginning of life, so why should not existing bother him at the end of life.