Major Jack C. Plumb, Thank You

          It is Memorial Day, 2008, a day dedicated to citizens who have fallen in battle for the United States. Most of us alive now probably don’t know anyone who served or fell in battle. We may have brothers, dads, granddads, uncles, or father-in-laws who we should remember, even if we never met them.

          It is a three-day weekend that will be celebrated with early morning parades, twenty-one gun salutes, and flag waving, but most of us will not attend those events. We will sleep late. For most of us, it is a much-needed day off, a precursor to the season of vacations. Most of us will barbeque, drink beer, picnic, shop, or sleep, but probably only a small percent will remember. I am no different.

          However, The most disturbing thing I have seen so far about Memorial Day is neither over-ambitious flag waving nor flag burning protests. Political expression and tolerance of views that are not our own or that we may strongly disagree is what makes our democracy and country strong. Wrong, stupid, bad, even immoral ideas tend to reveal themselves in an open society, and are easily swept into the dustbin of history.

          “Memorial Day Clearance Sale, 3 Days only, Up To 50% Off.” WTF is a memorial clearance? Am I supposed to forget 50% of the brave men and woman who gave their lives (right or wrong) for freedom? Am I supposed to fill that memory with another plastic widget, doodad, thingamajig: a 13th pair of jeans or 10th pair of white walking shoes? When is enough stuff enough? I know our economy depends on it, but maybe the problem is that the economy is the only priority. We’ve traded comfort for enrichment, security for freedom, and fame for knowledge.

          We know our habits are changing the biosphere, but instead of changing our ways, we would rather believe in science or a miracle to solve it. Everyday in our schools, homogenous cliques beat the emotional shit out of our children because they are different. Preachers, ministers, priests teach of them or us. Torture is relative to the needs of the moment. Anyone can be kidnapped to Guantanamo and not even know why or have access to due process or even notify family.

          Lucky for us, in a free and open society, the pendulum swings very fast. We can change it and we have the power to choose to do so. It is not about the car you drive or your zip code; it is not about winning the lottery or enforcing morals; it’s not about dying with the most toys, or living the longest with fewest wrinkles. No, it is about accepting yourself with all of your flaws and doing better; it’s about treating others, as you want to be treated; it’s about feeding your wonderment and living your life to the fullest.

          On this Memorial Day, I know one person who I regret having never met, Major Jack C. Plumb. He is E’s father. He was killed in South Vietnam, at Ouang Ngai Province. Major Plumb was a Forward Air Controller for the 20th Air Support Tactical at Da Nang; he flew targeting and rescue missions, braving difficult weather and hostile enemy, while supporting the Americal Division. His engine failed and he was killed in a crash. His name is located at 45W, 028, on the Vietnam Memorial.

          I have seen his picture in photo albums, and from tales of his survivors, a wife and three children, I know he was tough, but fair. I know his favorite book was Catch-22, Joseph Heller; and his favorite film was Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. E says he had a dry, sharp rapier wit, and he didn’t suffer fools well.

          If I had met and got to know him, I think my life would have been richer. I know he loved Carling Black Label beer, so this Memorial Day, I am hoisting one, two, three, or more in his honor.

          Thanks Jack, thank you for your daughter, thank you for your legacy, and thank you for your sacrifice. This CBL is for you.

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At twilight,

Aglow in a swarm of firefly green,
dimming to cuff moments lived
along market street curbs
and early summer thunder,
I roll down the waves in your hair
onto the curves of your lips.
You smile at the lightening
in the moments I am near.

Iridescent bronze at satellite’s rise,
when eight-legs and four
chant in rapport
to dusk’s blithe diffusion.
On the edge of a marble fount
rushing past at gravity’s whim,
harmony and being alight;
alloy the myth of coupling’s fate.

I fuse your being
as foot steps through thicket
as a tempestuous breeze
consumes callow leaves.
You meld my soul
as symmetry in fathomless pools,
as impressions float in a glance
and transcend a firefly’s journey.

And, I thought I was paranoid.

          It’s been a couple of years since I visited Quito, Ecuador, but recently, I saw a similar pattern in my SF neighborhood, the Marina. Is fear winning? It is puzzling evidence, the first real indication of our sinking socio-economic status in the world.

          Quito is a beautiful city at almost 10,000 feet with a population of 1.4 million. Its classic architecture is Spanish colonial, but several modern skyscrapers abound on the North side. We stayed in a high-rise hotel in the north on the edge of the old colonial city. I remember the first night, because after a check-in cocktail, my toothpaste popped out of the tube; and in the morning, an hour before sunrise, the delivery vans and taxis chatter furiously with their horns. The old town buildings, in various states of decay or repair, are painted in bright earth tones, and a wall with a large gate encircles them, like vivid haciendas with concertina wire along the top ledge or broken glass bottles of green, brown, and clear embedded in the concrete. The city was cleaner than SF, except for a wash of diesel on everything; floors on transits and some public ways could be slippery. The culture seemed formal, not black tie or corporate formal, more rustic patriarch casual. We felt safe. One night while me and several compadres–mostly retiree’s or about-to-retires, zoo docents, and a couple of kids (in comparison) including myself–walk back to the hotel from a restaurant in old town, and we pass a single young man on almost every corner next to large houses or apartment complexes. They are early twenties in baggie pants, shirts, and baseball cap askew, like N. American hip-hop.

          Our group gets too close to one, and he looks away and raises his shirt to reveal the operator end of a silver with black grip 45. Yikes, we pass quickly, and one of the about-to-retires, an HP sales technology manager, says he’s probably been hired to guard the cars.

          I am on the 30-Stockton on my way to free-write at Café Roma; it is a beautiful blustery day, 65 degrees, and status clouds over the Gate are on an on-shore flow. I choose a light sport coat. I am on the north side of the bus headed east on Chestnut, and I look up from tuning the iPod to the Pine Leaf Boys, Blues De Musicien. An armed guard is standing outside of the Bank of America. At first, I think he is just taking a break, but he is standing almost at attention, parade rest. He is wearing a white shirt and arm patch under full body armor, and with no drink, cigarette, or snack, he does not appear to be on a break. He is wearing dark sunglasses and scanning all persons who pass the bank, left to right, right to left, up and down, and down and up. I catch his eye staring and he returns the stare until I look away. WTF, is he guarding cars? He is a private security guard, but I didn’t realize BofA in the Marina needed Blackwater-esque security.

          I must be underestimating all those Marina moms with strollers, young turk/player spawning males, special effect auteurs, finance suits, and tourists are potential bank robbing terroristias? WTFx2, what next AR-15s, Kalashnikovs, and RPGs?

          And, I thought I was paranoid.

Shades of Memory

Concrete interstate and docile sky
stream overpasses of rolling farms,
ranches rend to cookie-cutter homes,
fresh flour sidewalks, and sod.
Rubber retread slag off 18 wheels
flaps like flattened grackle wings;
as tedium on tread and round,
mile marks thrum a lullaby.

Through rearview mirror eyes,
luminous numbers, letters pass,
foresee a breath and verve.
Bypass stripes and asphalt end
where gravel, grass, and soil begin,
a late mist, post oak meadow,
rust and barbs on wire detour
pallid shades of memory.

Names and dates grip stone
or bronze, and with a paper,
charcoal rub, an exact account
of remnant moments;
recent colors, forms, and texture,
scent, taste, and sound are like
the edge of grounded clouds;
they succumb to heat and light.

And all the memories that remain,
rain and wind, ice and heat,
seasons, lime, and silt allure
impressions–husks, leaves, legs,
scales and skin, fins and shells–
an ancient sea, long dry,
rolls a limestone breaker,
quiet and still in time.

Laisez Les Bon Temps Roules! 24 Hours in Austin

          24 hours in Austin, two friends from the publishing world link-up, and a last-minute dash to attend the ceremony yields good food, champagne, and a warm buzz along the nerve network.

          I first met Andrea at a college textbook publisher. I remember she kept a lawn duck in her office and would dress it to match the seasons. Her boss kept a plastic green skin, oval eye alien garden gnome with pipe, Oswald. The fetishes were therapy for the everyday stress of crisis team management, book budgets and schedules, righty/lefty intellectuals tapping fingers as they wait around the never-ending-meeting oak (veneer) table of state for their turn to express superiority, grandeur, and all forms of wankery. Where on occasion, marketing managers and authors roam the halls like malcontent zombies to satiate the habit for sweat, blood, and brain; and joining them, the ubiquitous perfect white smile, elegant suit, tie, and shoes, dry warm confident handshake of vendor presidents, CEOs, and salesman who stop in monthly like moon pies of sickeningly sweet nectar, sometimes they energize the day and other times conspire a 24-hour or longer hang-over.

          “How are we doing?”

           “I’ll check on those pages.”

          “Did you like the almond bark, pineapple paperweight, or hand towel with our logo at Christmas?”

           “Can we do anything for you?”

           “Are you free for lunch today?”

          I met Gene, a production editor, when Andrea brought her to San Francisco for a visit. She is about 5’2”, graying hair, glasses, and a warm irreverent smile that she is not afraid to use at every opportunity. Gene is sweet and adorable; not in anyway a wet feather, she is an enthusiastic force of nature.

          During their visit, I am not sure how, but somehow, I became the duck, Papa Duck. I played the tour guide and kept our quack of ducklings moving along. She rewarded me with a healthy assortment of rubber ducks (yikes: Lucky Black 7, Frankenfurter of Rocky Horror, and etc.), so she is always welcome in my waddle line.

          Andrea and Gene’s individuality complement the hearts they share, and whenever two beautiful souls manage to find each other, we all benefit. Life’s worries simply float past like shed duck feathers on a pond; they sink and disappear into the waves of memory.

          I toast, “longinquitum vitae et magnum gaudium,” long life and much happiness. And as they honeymoon in Paris, “Laisez Les Bon Temps Roules!” Let the good times roll.

           (And yes, with editorial attitude living close to the edit, I am sure I will hear about corrections.)