Let’s get a couple of things straight right up front.
1. Most activists give me the cold robbies, as Pogo would have put it.
2. The only political party that interests me is the one where the winning candidate sets up an open bar to celebrate.

Which clears the decks for me to comment on Congressman Nunes, (R) of California’s 22nd District. He’s a duly elected representative. He’s also a couple of centuries out of place. Congress Nunes is actually Courtier Nunes, somehow or other transplanted from the court of the Bourbon kings to California. He’s proven he owes allegiance to no one or nothing beyond his master. He has literally betrayed a sacred trust. A man in his position is sworn to uphold the national interest. His actions do not suggest blind partisanship, they suggest treason. I’m not suggesting he actually committed treason. For all I know, he and his secret source discussed nothing more dangerous than a recipe for secret sauce. I suspect otherwise. Nevertheless, unfounded suspicions are without merit. “Without merit” obviously brings us back to Congressman Nunes. Sidestepping his own panel members in order to give his master time to set up damage control is, at the very least, as unethical as larceny. But secret conversations with an unidentified source about the Russian efforts to subvert our electoral process? In the face of certain knowledge already in existence that Russia meant to influence that election? What is that if not treachery? What assurance do we have that Courtier Nunes wasn’t the secret source himself, rather than the other way around? If he received information, what did he impart in return? In the midst of all the ragblag about Nunes covert creeping about, where is the suggestion he be denied access to any further meetings? Forget his voluntary recusing. Kick the bum out. Then investigate him like the conniving sneak he is.

In the meantime, what’s a poor activist to do? If you don’t actually own Hogwarts’ Sorting Hat, you can forget headgear entirely. No hat’s going to trouble no congressman. Send him letters containing sharp language? Do you really believe he reads them? How could he? It’s dark under his rock. His staff will welcome the scratch paper. But the Congressman lives in a real world, where real people vote. And earn a living. If it became apparent to those voters that sponsoring – electing, if you will – Mr. Nunes leads to a loss of customers, how long do you think they’d continue to support him? Mr. Nunes depends on donations from corporations and such to pay for election campaigns. How many of those entities are going to stand by him if activists boycott them? Every politician in this country owes his/her office to wealthy donors, usually corporate. If you want to rid yourself of people like Nunes – not to mention those who want to poison our water or turn our crops into cancer vectors – do what any good detective does; Follow The Money. Then dry it up.


We had a really interesting Small World moment concerning the re-release of TARGETS. Granddaughter Caitlin enlisted a friend to pose for the cover illustration photo and, during the shoot, the young man’s girl friend was involved as consultant and perfectionist-in-chief to assure he looked his best. ( Cultural Note: No male should ever have his picture taken without a woman present to tell him what’s wrong. Two women is even better, although not mandatory. Yet. ) Anyhow, when the book came out, Cait gave a copy to the girl friend, who read it and then recommended it to her mother, who looked at it and said, “I already read that.” Then she pointed at her bookshelf and added, “I’ve read all his books; they’re right there.”  A person doesn’t have to be a writer to be gratified and energized by that sort of confirmation. Still, sometimes we get caught up in numbers  and forget that it’s the approval of one reader at a time that determines the public perception of our efforts. I’ll permit myself a quick brag here: TARGETS is doing nicely on Amazon’s charts. ( Way to go, Cait!) I’m truly grateful for the reminder that my audience – every writer’s audience – is made up of individuals engaged by the story. I’d wish every writer a similar Small World moment. I’d wish every reader authors who make you glad you picked up his or her book.


We’ve had lots going on around here. Anyone who’s seen the FB postings lately knows that my granddaughter, Caitlin, has my first novel ready for re-issue. She put the whole effort pretty much in perspective a bit ago. A friend asked her how it all works and she told him, “He writes the books. I do everything else.” She nailed it. My understanding of all things electric is that the less I mess with them, the less likely I am to get knocked on my butt. Electricity is not my friend. We nod in passing. We’re civil. I rebuff all attempts to narrow that gap. (I’m madly in love with my defibrillator, but that’s whole ‘nother thing.) Anyhow, as the official do-er of everything else, Cait’s put together a stellar new book jacket, worked out all the kinks in print-on-demand, scanned and proofread pages to within an inch of her life, etc.etc. What’s surprising and really amusing to me is that I’m almost as excited about this re-release as I was the first publishing. There won’t be anything like the fanfare, but the hooraw that accompanied that initial event involved all manner of people I didn’t even know. This is family, and it’s a lot more fun. When TARGETS came out the first time, I hustled up the best bottle of Champagne I could find for Carol and me. Come to think of it, that moment was precursor to the present system, only sort of mirror-image; whereas Cait does all the heavy lifting on getting the book out, I did the hard work finishing off the bottle after Carol had her sip. And because there’s so much family involved in this effort, there’s a warmer, richer feeling of accomplishment that goes with this.

Time has a lot to do with that, as well. When TARGETS was first published, the Vietnam war was still an open wound on the American body politic. Everyone assured me that no one wanted to think about it, much less read a novel about it, particularly one that dealt with the even darker underside of that piece of misery. It’s hard for me to grasp that that was almost two entire generations ago. Even so, the novel went on to be the first one about that war to be selected by the Book Of The Month Club and be granted generally favorable content in other quarters. What excites me about this re-lease is how pertinent the story is to the events of the present. I watch the fumbling, confused behavior of my country in this apparently endless Middle Eastern inferno and I see every stupid mistake from the Vietnam era repeated – not occasionally, but incessantly. It also fascinated me to learn that Ken Burns, a man I believe is the most distinguished maker of historical documentaries ever, is releasing his examination of the Vietnam war in September. Perhaps – perhaps – enough people will watch it and learn from our history so we don’t have to keep repeating it. The original intent of TARGETS was to illustrate that war, no matter how many people are affected, is a matter of individual involvement. When we hear of armies clashing we see only furor. It’s when you get down to one man killing another (or woman killing woman, in our modern equal-opportunity savagery) we confront the truth. When death is given numbers it becomes mere arithmetic. It’s face-to-face where the work gets done. No one comes away from it the same as he went in. I tried to write a novel that gave war a human context. In that worst of environments, we fall in love, we laugh, we win and lose petty, pointless arguments, we exult, we writhe. The second release of TARGETS gives me one more chance to go to readers and say, “This is what it was like for the people who lived where steel met steel every day, every night.” I want them to experience that place and, hopefully, find a way to prevent people living like that ever again.

Different Path, Different Times, Same Old Hell

In a couple of weeks or so we’re releasing the first novel I published. It’s about the counterintelligence war in Vietnam. Today not many people are even aware that battle was fought, much less the constancy and intensity of it. That underscores the fact that the Vietnam war is as misunderstood today as it was then. I’m convinced that historians of the future will look at the swamp that is our present-day state of the nation and trace it directly back to that debacle. The book, TARGETS, is a microcosm of the times and the actions of those caught up in them. I haven’t changed a word of it for this new release. It wouldn’t be fair to me, much less to the reader. I want people to read the book in order to know the thoughts of the participants of that time. For anyone who lived through all that worldwide tumult, our perception of everything, including ourselves, was forever changed. I hear constantly that America lost its innocence in WWI. Similarly, I’m told America became a world power in WWII. I believe the Vietnam War stripped America of its sense of community. The novel explores how the characters change, just as the culture that produced them was changing. We seem to have shifted from a nation of individuals proud of our ability to work together into a nation of factions determined to rule. In that sense, TARGETS may present a clearer image of the war and the times than would a novel of firefights and massed troop engagements. The thoughts of a man advancing through hostile fire do not linger long on (nor do they probe deeply into) mankind’s role in the universe. Stalking another human being, on the other hand, provides one far too much free time to consider not only that man’s dreams, but one’s own.

Essentially, that’s the goal of the work, an examination of how professionals and amateurs, Americans and Vietnamese, responded to the cauldron of the Vietnam experience. In reviewing it for this release I was surprised and excited to recognize several themes paralleling today’s political upheaval. The decisions made by our most recent leaders are almost perfect replications of the stupidity that created the Vietnam war and led to our eventual loss there. Perhaps someone will read the book, recognize that rather nasty coincidence, and do something about it. That’d be nice.


Around Here It’s Always Your Turn

I read a couple of columns recently that jarred me. I’m not always in accord with all she says, but I’ve found her to be a rational progressive. She’s the sort of person about whom one can always say “Her heart’s in the right place,” even when one feels her mind may have skipped out for a bit. On this occasion she extolled the wonders of modern China. It reminded me of another writer, Lincoln Steffens, who wrote similarly about the Soviet Union. His most famous quote is “I have seen the future, and it works.” I thought about Mr. Steffens’ bright-eyed myopia, and wondered if the China columnist ever read any history. Just as no one can deny China’s accomplishments. no thinking person can look at them and not wonder at the tyranny responsible for it. All that accomplishment came from the sweat and blood of people with no voice in any election, no right to assemble, no right to protest working conditions and near-universal corruption, and God help the man who tries to exercise free speech – assuming that  man has government permission to believe in God. The column glowed with reference to China’s high-speed trains. Airports were orderly; the restrooms were clean. I lament America’s rush to third-world status when it comes to our denial of the fact we have an infrastructure that crumbles a bit more every day. My contempt for our own politicians is already beyond measure, yet they manage to increasingly disgust me in ever-new ways. But is the lockstep mass we call China any sort of role model?

Actually, that question is the heart of my disappointment about the newspaper column. I’m not worried about China. It’s huge and belligerent and malevolent; it’ll cause massive agony before its own excesses bring it down. That’s how it went for Mr. Steffens’ glorious empire. It’ll happen again. My concern is that we’ll forget who we are. We’ve appointed ourselves as the doctor to the world, here to cure everyone’s problems. In the meantime, we’ve seen our own middle class – which was the crown of America’s achievement – ground to dust. We elect fools who’re so intellectually stunted they can’t spell USA, much less care about it. On top of that, they’re lap pets for the creepiest oligarchs since Rome went aground. The working stiff who goes to work, does his best, raises a family, has no more chance today than a buffalo did before Teddy Roosevelt came along. The really ironic thing about that is, yeah, Roosevelt saved the buffalo; he also broke the trusts that were bent on turning the American working man into a cipher like today’s average Chinese. So it bothers me when someone even hints that a tyranny has lessons for us. We’re a nation in trouble. If we’re going to deal with it properly, we ought to look at ourselves and figure out how we skidded into the ditch while we were riding off into our future. We need to work on America’s problems. Let the rest of the world work on theirs. We don’t need any Maos or Stalins or Cromwells. We need us, plain old us – voters, volunteers, contributors, neighbors. I believe “Americans” is the word I’m looking for here. Don’t tell me immigrants are destroying America. We’re all immigrants. The new guys didn’t come here to package up your job and ship it overseas. The guy – or woman – you voted for set that up. Don’t tell me Republicans are stupid. Don’t tell me Democrats are stupid. Just get off your whiny butt and help someone make things better. You’re not going to change the world, but instead of moaning about setting suns and such, you can certainly ask yourself at the end of a day “Did I take a minute to live outside myself today?” and, if you don’t have a good answer, try harder tomorrow.

Discovering The Unexpected

I just got back from a trip deep into Baja California. Like most North Americans who visit there, I’d seen Tijuana and on down to Ensenada, which is on the order of visiting El Paso and thinking you’ve seen Texas. This time I flew to a town called Loretto. It’s on the east coast of the peninsula and it took me back to the Mexican communities I remembered from seventy years ago. Forget the new cars, the (semi) supermarket, and the occasional phone addict wandering the streets. There was the imposing church looming over the clean-swept, tree-shaded square with its the bandstand. The old hotel to one side featured antique door timbers thick enough to reject cannonballs and walls that looked older than the western mountains. The shops were a revelation. You want souvenirs and trinkets? You can find them. But the people of Loretto don’t seem even faintly interested in turning over their economy to the tourists. Friendliness comes first – the need to make a peso is never forgotten, but it has its place. We left Loretto that same afternoon to drive north a hundred miles (on a well-maintained highway) to my cousin’s beach house. When you read about “starkly beautiful,” the phrase was invented to describe Baja California. The house is located in an area that was once a stomping ground for Hollywood stars. The luxurious hotels they frequented are deserted now, like derelict elite who’ve seen their popularity turn to dismissal. The new development – in economic terms – is a trickle of travelers who want sun, sand, clear, clean water, peace and quiet. There are dozens of wonderfully comfortable houses in the area, built by people from all over the world, who need a place to get away from crowds. They bring their own electricity (it’s a desert; solar does a lot of the heavy lifting, generators the rest), consume bottled water by the cubic yard, and provide their own entertainment. That’ll change, unfortunately, although Baja’s a far larger hunk of real estate than most of us gringos realize; it’ll take a while to mess it up properly. For now, however – and for me, in particular – I’m glad to have seen it as it is. My hat’s off to those turistas who treat the place with such grace and consideration and especially to the people of the land, who welcome them with such openness and warmth.

The Good News Is…

Thanks to granddaughter Caitlin, the old dog’s showing off his new trick. She’s brought out my novel Light The Hidden Things on real paper and ink.

If the truth be told, however, she’s the one who put the show on the road. Of course I’m proud of my work. That’s not the issue. I’ve been pecking away at this writing thing a long time. She simply stepped up a while back and said we should start publishing my stuff electronically. No grandpa should ever tell a granddaughter she’s wildcat crazy, so I didn’t. On the other hand, I’ve known her longer than she cares for me to yammer about, so I know she’s as smart as she is good-looking. If I told her she was loony I’d end up eating the words. I was also quite aware she knew as much about independent publishing as she knew about underwater welding. So she turned the Moondark Saga into ebooks that keep growing in popularity. Then she moved Light The Hidden Things into the game, got good reviews, pushed it hard. Now the paperback version. Sure, I hope it sells well enough for her to feel all her hard work and self-education and determination is validated. But if it doesn’t – if it’s a dead flop – all of us who’ve watched her will feel her effort’s more than validated. It’s prideful work. And the rest of us are proud.

I should also note that I’m particularly pleased that Light The Hidden Things is her choice for a first foray into print publishing. It’s the most purposeful thing I’ve ever written and it’s aimed at women. Specifically, the women who guide the men who’ve been taken down by Post Traumatic Stress. My experience of the affliction is limited and anecdotal, but one thing I’m sure of is this:
A professional can work marvels for any of those men, but the ones who have a wife, a lover, what-have-you beside them are the ones who are going to experience the fastest, most complete recovery. It’s something interior that women have in abundance and men don’t even really comprehend. (If that’s chauvanistic, call a cop.) Just as PTSD wounds a man’s self – a place far deeper than any weapon can penetrate – so the healing power of a woman’s love can reach that place. So, of course, it’s a love story. I hope it’s more. I hope it opens eyes. I hope it brings renewal. I hope it creates and buttresses resolve. I hope it lights the hidden things.




We lived in a lot of places when I was a kid. The Depression was heavy on everyone’s back and men like my father went wherever there was a chance to earn some money. Sometimes I stayed somewhere else while my father and mother scuffled around looking for a place to live and work. When things got better and he had steady work he also got promotions – and that meant we moved some more. All that came home to me this Sunday when I went up to the local Strawberry Festival to see what was going on. Our middle son, Conn, joined me. I had the dog Terrible along on her leash and at one point we stopped at the town center park to watch a lion dance and do some professional level people-watching. (Writers are inveterate observers. Non-writers ignore this at their peril.) A young woman passing by stopped to get acquainted with the dog. She had on a t-shirt that said Woodland Park Zoo and a couple of stickers from the same place. I mentioned I’d volunteered there years ago. We talked zoo stuff and then she mentioned she’d worked at the Pacific Science Center prior to her present job. That’s where Conn and his wife worked for several years. Now Conn and the lady (Heather Teagarden – as we’d learned by this time) talked jobs and mutual friends, plus the fact that Conn’s son works there presently.

That sort of constancy is so alien to my own growing up it dizzies me. I hear my grandchildren – all adults now – talk about friends from elementary school. I can remember the names of the towns where I went to school. That’s pretty much it. Conn’s wife, Betsy, still visits with ladies she knew as a grade-schooler. The point I’m making is that, as a family, we’ve found our balance early on and hung onto it. As individuals. No one went to classes on How To Be Family. It worked out, that’s all. I don’t regret the way things got fragmented when I was a kid. Those were the times. People did their best and sometimes the odds were just wrong. Still, when I see the stability and love that abounds around the old man today, I sometimes wish things could have been different. But if they had been, maybe I wouldn’t realize how lucky I am.

Back Yard Report

We’re pretty heavily into summer in these parts. Trouble is, our June’s as fickle as your favorite memory of your favorite high school tramp. (Speaking of which, the name Harriet can still rattle my brain like a rock in a boxcar and that was a long, long time ago.) However – June. We crowded up to 90 yesterday. Next week we anticipate some days that’ll have to stretch to make the mid 60s. In the rain. Fickle. The bright spot is the birds.

(…spots are the birds? Feel free to resort to small arms to resolve your issues. Blame any bloodshed on in the election year.)

I’m a determined bird watcher. What’s not to like? How else can you scam people into believing you’re a semi-scientist and an ecology prince while you sit on your butt and look intense? We could mention writing, but I’m talking to people who understand things, right? Right. Anyhow, I’m onto an interesting development among our avian friends. (Us birdwatchers like to say “avian friends” every so often so folks don’t forget we’re really bright.) I’ve been loading a handful of hummingbird feeders at this place for decades. I can’t get enough of the quarrelsome, staggeringly beautiful, little devils. Our most common species is the splendid Anna’s. I’m so glad they’re not Harriets. Never mind; I digress. What’s interesting is that in the past two years, the Townsend’s warblers that sift through here spring and fall have learned to take advantage of the high-energy sugar water. So have two varieties of chickadee and towhees. I think that’s a pretty intriguing example of adaptation, not to mention learning by the second wave of the feeders who mimic the early adventurers. On a more exasperating note, I’m seeing similar changing habits affecting my cherry trees. I long ago abandoned any hope of harvest time. It used to be crows, jays, robins, and squirrels stripped my trees. This year – for the first time – I’m also seeing finches, towhees, and even juncos gorge on the fruit.

Anyone will tell you I’m universally admired for my uncomplaining equanimity in the face of hardship and abuse. Nevertheless, the phrase “eating crow” is taking on a new, sinister, luster.

Noises From The Cutting Edge

The only thing about this blog business is I always feel like I’m shouting into the wind. It’s not that I don’t know I’m talking to a small number of people; that’s not the issue. In the first place, I don’t treasure my chatter all that highly. In the second place, I give you my friend Ku Yuo Liang’s line: An Irishman will strike up a conversation with the empty bar stool next to him. The utter falsity of the proposition is apparent, of course. We do not drink alone. Nevertheless, there’s a dead-on perception that “conversation” implies a second party. This blogging thing carries no guarantee of such an inflated number.

On the other hand, writing stuff down gives the author a chance to sound off. Us sinners – and them as has been sinned agin – get to stand up. Testify. It’s good for the young, good for the old, good for them as has a soul. And maybe – just maybe – putting the thought out there reaches someone who says, “Yeah; me, too.” Who knows? With a sufficiently persuasive argument, the empty bar stool may join in. (For those of you who think that observation too fanciful to contemplate, I give you the present presidential race.)

So there was a column in the Seattle Times recently that caught my attention. (Full disclosure: I read the editorial pages daily and diligently. Where else can one find journalism’s erudition and stupidity so explicit and so tightly encapsulated for examination?) Among the many phrases I found startling was this: “There is no meaningful distinction between saying ‘abortion is wrong’ and ‘I don’t like abortion.'”

Take that, democracy. Take that, you lying creeps who pretend to accept the will of the people, yet harbor disagreement. No matter how hard you pretend to accept that will, you’re a liar and the really intelligent people know it. If you have any reservations about the course chosen by the national majority, there’s no meaningful distinction between your reservation and mutiny. The writer is making it clear that neither “wrong” and “don’t like” are permitted True Believers. To the True Believers, no matter how actively you accept their premise, if you disagree with it in any degree, you cannot and will not be afforded complete acceptance. You are now and forever a likely apostate. You will be watched accordingly.

Again, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m a Marine. I’ve gone places and done things I thought were ill-advised, but my country said Go and Do and I went and I did. Some find that contemptible. My only answer – in all its pride – is that I served at the pleasure of the American government, an elected government. That’s not a shield. I could have walked away at any minute, no penalty and no regret. But I believe in that elected government. And I doubted its choices constantly. But when you tell me that my government and my people can’t make a distinction between “my personal vision” and “the needs of the country” (as stated by that elected government) and that such a distinction isn’t meaningful, makes all the difficulties of armed service empty.

My comrades and I served without stint but frequently with questions. I will not accept that my efforts – or those of my contemporaries – were debilitated by that. I scorn the writer’s position that we are less than he because we weren’t sufficiently indoctrinated to unquestioningly do our job to his moral satisfaction. The soul of America is dedicated to honest debate and full acceptance of the rule of the majority. When we fail at that, we fail as Americans. It happens when we sign on with those who insist we can’t disagree and simultaneously work together.