Jim Putnam - Thinking Through My Fingers

Unexpected Change of Plans

We did not go to Asheville today.  I woke with a very runny nose and slightly sore throat.  I didn't feel particularly bad, but Marrianna and I discussed whether it was a good idea to visit either our eight-plus month pregnant daughter or Marrianna's 90 year old aunt when I have the beginnings of a cold.  We called Anastasia, and she suggested we postpone until next week.  So, that is what we have done.

As a result, Marrianna decided to use the energy she had stored in anticipation of seeing Anastasia to work around the house.  She cleaned and straightened two large closets, changed the seasonal pillows in the living room, and caught up on some paperwork.  I helped a wee bit in the closets, but otherwise I've not done much.

Felix wrote a comment to yesterday's blog entry that I want to say something about. 

It seems to me that the absence of black characters is itself, in the context, a depiction of racism?

The choice is whether to reply in another comment or to write the reply in this blog post.  I've decided to do it here, for two reasons.  I've had yesterdays piece on my mind for another reason, one that I think needs clarification.  The second reason is that I need to be more clear about my statement about racism that prompted Felix's comment.

First, in my first mention of the book "Hell at the Breech", I said:

Once in a while a book comes along that gives me a similar feeling; believable characters, excellent writing, and a very good story.  I began such a book this afternoon.  It is "Hell at the Breech," by Tom Franklin [2003, Harper Collins, New York].  This is a work of fiction based on a true incident late in the 19th century in Alabama.  This is a very well written novel, and though I'm barely a quarter through, it may be one of those novels that has me reading until it's complete.

I'm certainly glad I put that "may be" in the last sentence.  I didn't finish it in one sitting, or even a couple, closer to a half dozen.  It is a book that is interesting, but it isn't quite as good as my first impression.  My evaluation yesterday more accurately reflects my feeling:  It was good enough to carry my interest to the end, but dark enough to give me doubt about the inherent goodness of people.  It's worth reading, I still think it's well written, but it isn't a book that lifts one's opinion of people.

The book is primarily about class warfare between whites in Alabama in the 1898 time period.  As I said, there are no black characters, there are black people on the periphery of the story, and the racism of the whites is clearly evident.  For instance, one scene has a white man force a black man to back his horse and wagon off the road so that he can pass on the narrow, one lane path.  On the whole, however, it's whites against whites.  The war doesn't involve blacks in any sense other than perhaps a family is questioned about the whereabouts of one of the whites involved in the war.

Yes, there is racism, and Franklin shows that it is a part of southern life in 1898.  The larger point, it seems to me, is the enmity of white classes, one isolated by terrain, the other town folk.  Ten miles in those times was enough to completely isolate a group, and the town culture looked down on the Mitcham Beat folk.  It didn't require much to set the Mitcham Beat folk against the town folk.

That is why I think the book may be important.  It illustrates how easily war can be stirred against those of another social strata.  Yes, when the "other" is of another race, or in today's immediate circumstance, religious tradition, then war is too easily begun.  In this book, no one is without fault, no one clear of the stain of death and killing.  No one.

Hell at the Breech

Marrianna worked at the Chatham Arts Gallery a while today.  I had a few hours to do whatever I wanted.  I chose to finish my book, "Hell at the Breech" [Tom Franklin, 2003, William Morrow imprint of HarperCollins, New York].  This novel is set in Alabama in the late 19th century, and is a fictionalized account of the Mitcham Beat Wars at that time.

I am Southern born and raised, and I've been aware of the strong feelings of distrust between small town and poor rural whites for much of my life.  I have not, however known anything near what this story tells.  This is a story of the extent to which those feelings can become hatred and worse.

This story speaks of racism only through minor mentions of blacks.  There is racism, but it is treated as a normal aspect of life in Alabama in 1898, and the story has no black characters.  It's primarily, and strongly, a story of hate for one set of whites for another.  Franklin draws his characters much two dimensional for my taste, except for one boy, Macky Burke.  Macky is fully human, with strengths and weaknesses.  He is more tragic figure than whole, but he and the sheriff, Billy Waite, have the emotions and they are the ones who show the dark side and also a level of humanity.

It's a good story.  I'm not sure I enjoyed it; endured may be more accurate.  It was good enough to carry my interest to the end, but dark enough to give me doubt about the inherent goodness of people.  It certainly didn't leave me feeling good about people.  I think if I hadn't been told in the Author's Note in the front that this was based on a true story, with the usual caveat than "each character is fully a creation of the author's imagination", that I might not have read completely through.  

Marrianna and I are driving to Asheville tomorrow to see our daughter, Anastasia.  We will be home Monday.  I may, or may not, get anything written while we are up there.

Think Fingers

I've been trying to put words to thoughts all afternoon without success.  Giving up on that, I'll do what I should have done to begin with, give it to the fingers.

I read something Unreal Nature posted without comment November 10th.  It has been twisting around my thoughts since.

I have been walking in the woods, and have lain down on the ground to rest. It is the middle of October, and around me, all through the woods, the leaves are quietly sifting down. The newly fallen leaves make a dry, comfortable bed, and I lie easy, coming to rest within myself as I seem to do nowadays only when I am in the woods.

And now a leaf, spiraling down in wild flight, lands on my shirt front at about the third button below the collar. At first I am bemused and mystified by the coincidence — that the leaf should have been so hung, weighted and shaped, so ready to fall, so nudged loose and slanted by the breeze, as to fall where I, by the same delicacy of circumstance, happened to be lying. The event, among all its ramifying causes and considerations, and finally its mysteries, begins to take on the magnitude of history. Portent begins to dwell in it.

And suddenly I apprehend in it the dark proposal of the ground. Under the fallen leaf my breastbone burns with imminent decay. Other leaves fall. My body begins its long shudder into humus. I feel my substance escape me, carried into the mold by beetles and worms. Days, winds, seasons pass over me as I sink under the leaves. For a time only sight is left to me, a passive awareness of the sky overhead, birds crossing, the mazed interreaching of the treetops, the leaves falling — and then that, too, sinks away. It is acceptable to me, and I am at peace.

When I move to go, it is as though I rise up out of the world.

– from the ending of Wendell Berry’s essay, A Native Hill (1969)

I've no answer why this has stuck with me, but it's still there.  Interestingly, I've also read this in a book I'm currently reading, "The Edge of the Frame" by Janet Frame [1962, George Braziller, Inc, New York].  I wrote a bit about it Monday, just few days ago.

Toby was dreaming of the Lost Tribe.

He was a tree.  He was sitting on the bin in the corner at home.  His arm was shaking, not a human arm, but a branch with twigs for fingers and scabs and cuts where age had scarred the bark.  He felt so strange, as if he were an entire forest, with the Lost Tribe inhabiting him as if his head were a secret gully somewhere up-country, just below the snow line, before the clumps of tussock and snow grass begin to shine in the wind and sun.

So his withered feet dropped off, like dead twigs.  He dived now and swam deep in the curving waves until he reached the bed of the ocean, where all forms were of shadowy dreams and ribboned sleep, and the sun was only a green inkling, an intuition of light in the brain. [pages 4-5].

I have no idea why they have wrapped themselves around one another until almost indistinguishable.  For me, I read the Frame quote before the Wendell Berry quote in Unreal Nature, and they stuck together.  Actually, Janet Frame's words were published in 1962, Berry's 1969, so they were also written in that order.  This afternoon, I can't find the connection yet somehow I know they are connected beyond what my mind has put together.

Interesting on another level, Janet Frame isn't nearly as acclaimed a writer as Wendell Berry, yet here, for me, in this one instance, they are equals.  Neither will ever know that I've combined their work into one within my mind.  And now, you know and perhaps you can see them as equal also.

It's time for me to change.  We have been invited out for dinner with friends. 

Science?

There is an interesting article in the Time blog today.  Its title, "Did A Time-Traveling Bird Sabotage the Collider," was intriguing, so I linked and read it.

Admittedly I don't know much about that kind of science, but this seems very off-center to me.

... two esteemed physicists have formulated a theory that suggests an alternative explanation: perhaps a time-traveling bird was sent from the future to sabotage the experiment. Bech Nielsen of the Niels Bohr Institute in Copenhagen and Masao Ninomiya of the Yukawa Institute for Theoretical Physics in Kyoto, Japan, have published several papers over the past year arguing that the CERN experiment may be the latest in a series of physics research projects whose purposes are so unacceptable to the universe that they are doomed to fail, subverted by the future.

Unacceptable to the universe.  That's very close to saying that God doesn't want humanity to know something and is deliberately sabotaging a science experiment in order to keep the knowledge unknown.  Further down in the article, Nielsen actually is quoted as saying almost exactly that.

... but, Nielsen tells TIME, "you could explain it [simply] by saying that God, in inverted commas, or nature, hates the Higgs and tries to avoid them."

It's very difficult for a layman like me to comment.  I am unable to conceive of a universe, or God, who would deliberately sabotage a science experiment.  But, who knows?  I will simply say, I am unconvinced.

Another interesting article I read this morning was this one, "Japanese Roots: Just who are the Japanese? Where did they come from, and when?" by Jared Diamond.  Jared Diamond has written some interesting books, and this is an interesting article.  I am not sure why these two articles are associated in my mind, but here is one possibility.  It is as impossible to tell the future, especially the desires of the universe in the future, as it is to know the past.

We may believe we can determine origins of everything, and we may honestly believe that the universe has a will, but truthfully, we don't know.  And the most exciting thing about both the future and the past is that we have the intellect and curiosity to explore each as best we can.  We may never know with any level of confidence, but it is very important that we try to get there.

Thinking About Conscientous Objectors

Several years after I retired from the U.S. Air Force, I joined the Silver Spring Presbyterian Church (SSPC).  I was active in the congregation and ordained as Elder in 1984.  Around that time, I met Bill Yolton, who was Director of the National Interreligious Service Board for Conscientious Objectors (NISBCO).  Bill, our pastor Margee, and I had several very interesting, and often intense, conversations about Conscientious Objectors.  My AF career had me aligned against COs.  Bill and Margee showed me another way.

Bill Yolton is easily the most dedicated person to peace that I have ever met, or expect to meet.  He is still an activist for peace.  I searched and found his name on the Board of Directors for the National Campaign for A Peace Tax Fund.  Reading his Statement of Conscience brings him back in sharp focus.

An aside:  Bill was the pastoral guide for our Pastoral Search Committee as we tried to find a new pastor for SSPC when Margee left.  Once in a meeting, I wanted to look up something in the Bible.  His Bible was on the table next to me, and I reached for and opened it.  You've heard the phrase "It's all Greek to me."  This literally was.  His Bible was in Greek.

Now, to answer the question I suppose must be in any reader's mind, "What does any of this have to do with today, or with the title of this blog post?"  Today, I read several articles about Major Nidal Malik Hasan.  Kevin Drum has one, and he references a major article in the Washington Post by Dana Priest.  There is also a survey on the Time web site asking "Should Muslims in the U.S. military be required to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan?"  I answered "Yes".  As of now, I am a part of a very large majority, both in the U.S. and world.

However, after I answered, Bill Yolton came to mind, and I know his answer would be No. So, if a quick answer to a survey brings a reminder from over twenty years ago to my mind, obviously I need to think about my response.  My first thought was that the military is a volunteer force now, and if someone volunteers, it follows to me that he or she is obligated to fight where directed.  And it seems that approximately 75 % of responders to the survey agree.  Still, I know Bill would say No.

I urge readers to read Bill's Statement of Conscience if you skipped over it above.  This is an exceptional man, and one that could be a mentor to many of us.  As I've said recently, my belief in the God he speaks of has changed, however, though I know Bill would disagree, I believe the principles he writes about are easily those of a non-believer.  Non-belief in God does not diminish the ability to care about one's brother.

That leads to other questions.  Is it a fact that Muslim believers care more about their Muslim brothers and sisters that they would not be effective?  If that's true, why aren't Christians equally fervent?  Are we going to have wars solely against those of another faith?  Isn't that what the Crusades were?  Wouldn't keeping Muslims from fighting Muslims be another Crusade?

In the end, essentially I have to go against Bill again.  If we are going to allow wars at all, especially wars against predominantly Muslim countries, we cannot arrange sides so that only non-Muslims fight Muslims.  Let us instead all make a giant leap forward.  If Muslim cannot honorably fight Muslim, then let us say that they are correct, and Christian cannot fight Christian either.  Let's agree that we cannot fight our brothers.  And then, let's begin to understand that we are all brothers and sisters.  And with that, wars will end for no one can fight his brother.  And, as I close, I hear an old song rising from the background, Perry Como singing softly "Dream Along With Me."

TV and Book Stuff

Marrianna and I have become very attached to British Mysteries.  For a couple of years it was the Inspector Morse series, followed by Inspector Lewis.  I very much like Inspector Lewis and look forward to each episode.  For the past two weeks we have watched another British mystery on PBS, Masterpiece Contemporary.  I'm never sure whether these shows are actually better than US mystery or if I have succumbed to the British aura of being better.  I have to say that I think these shows have much higher quality acting than anything I've seen from US producers.

For me, it is interesting how attached we become to the characters, especially Inspector Lewis.  Of course we know they are scripted and acted by some very good actors who may not be anything like the character they're playing.  But following each episode we discuss the plot and characters as if they were real.  That, to me, is a sign of believable characters, good writing, and excellent acting.

The last Masterpiece Contemporary was a two part story.  Marrianna had the plot twist deciphered almost exactly, and during the week between episodes we discussed it several times.  There was a question left in the story at the very end.  The editor was handed a series of photos that, if he published them, would destroy the reputation of a man and create havoc for a village.  Other than the full truth being exposed, there was no reason to publish them.  The man who had been hanged forty years earlier deserved punishment, though legally hanging was not the sentence he should have received.  For me, the hanging was justified, but legally it should not have occurred.  So, the question left at the end was, did he publish them.

Once in a while a book comes along that gives me a similar feeling; believable characters, excellent writing, and a very good story.  I began such a book this afternoon.  It is "Hell at the Breech," by Tom Franklin [2003, Harper Collins, New York].  This is a work of fiction based on a true incident late in the 19th century in Alabama.  This is a very well written novel, and though I'm barely a quarter through, it may be one of those novels that has me reading until it's complete.

There is another novel on the table next to my reading chair.  I picked it up in a used bookstore last week because the title intrigued me, "The Edge of the Alphabet", by Janet Frame [1962, George Braziller Publisher, New York].  Ms Frame has a long list of books in her credits, none of which I've read.  I hope this one lives up to the interest generated for me by its title.

I had never heard of George Braziller Publisher and thought perhaps since Ms Frame's book was published over 45 years ago the house may have ceased publishing.  Wrong.  I Googled the name and it is still active.  Just another reminder that good works don't have to be published by the big names.

If I should ever become very rich, there are two dreams I keep under wraps but with money would flourish.  One is to collect books and the other collect beautiful automobiles.  We have a lot of books, but not nearly as many as I would like.  Collecting books can be very expensive.    Collecting automobiles is even more expensive, but I can dream.  I would begin my dream collection with a 1966-67 Jaguar XKE.

Automobiles are definitely beyond me, but books can be indulged once in a while.  I have a very good copy of the first edition of Mary Poppins I picked out of a pile and bought for 25 cents.  I've seen an appraisal for another one I don't think is in as good condition at $270.

Dinner is almost ready.  It's time to stop dreaming, feeding the inner self, and to feed the physical one.

Musings on Sunday

Since I have absolutely no idea what I want to write, just know that I want to write as I said yesterday, more regularly, I intend to squeeze the brain and hope for the best.

Marrianna and I have taken up a small game while riding in the car.  It's a game begun by Anastasia on a long trip, and it has become almost second nature for us, to the point that we play the game even on short trips around town.  We call it License Plate Scrabble and the game is to find words using letters on other automobiles' license plate.  The words have to use the letters in the same order as they are on the plate.  Some letters are easy, but others are impossible, or at least it's impossible for me to pull a word from my vocabulary.  PLN, for instance, is easy, XJS not so much.  I fall into a trap of only trying words that begin with the first letter rather than allowing the mind to find a word with the letters in order that begins with another letter or letters.

Very likely for most, and certainly for me, the most fearful part of aging is losing mental capability.  Small games like this one give us some small but significant confidence that our minds are still working.  Marrianna does the puzzles in the paper every day.  I try to find something to write.  I write as much for myself as for the reader.  Perhaps that is partial reason why I have so few readers on an average day.

Has anyone wondered how certain parts of living got to be that way.  Why does an hour have sixty minutes?  Why are there 24 hours in a day?  How did those numbers become established?  I recently read an article explaining how the Greenwich Latitude became the international standard.  And I seem to remember a book available a while back that was supposed to explain how things got to be what they are.  I'll have to look that book up and find a copy.  All of a sudden I wonder why.

A friend once sent an explanation why railroad tracks are their width.  It goes all the way back to Caesar.  I like the story, even though it may not be true.  It illustrates so nicely how we are often constrained by what has occurred many centuries ago.

In most cases that constraint is good, or at least not particularly harmful.  I was taught when very young that it was not a good thing to develop a habit.  I should not do anything out of or through habit, but instead should always think about what I was doing, and why.  I suppose almost everyone has heard the warning, "You better hope your face doesn't freeze that way."  But, when I go to somewhere and watch people it's obvious that their faces have frozen.  Years of living have set their faces into a certain frame, and it is easy to tell many of those years have been good or bad.  Some faces turn into a scowl when relaxed, others are much more pleasant.  I try to keep a smile on mine, though I'm not successful.

I wear a sweatshirt with the Disney character "Grumpy" embroidered on its front.  A friend was shopping in the Disney store with her daughter and found the shirt, held it up, and both she and her daughter said it was a perfect shirt for me.  I don't agree, but many people have told me it is the perfect shirt for me, so there must be something to it.  Every time I wear the shirt people tell me they need one for themselves or someone they know.  I'm doing my best to get to a place that someone will tell me "That's not you at all."  It hasn't happened yet, so I have lots more smiling to do.

I didn't have much when I started, and truthfully there isn't much solid material here, but once more I've written more than I expected.  Sitting and letting the fingers think works.  I'll try to keep it going.

UPDATE:  Marrianna and I were watching 60 Minutes this evening.  Andy Rooney, their resident curmudgeon, finished the program.  Marrianna said to me that I would be an excellent replacement for Andy Rooney.  According to her, I am as good curmudgeon or Grump as he is.  I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not.