On a cold day
in April, 1973, I drove quietly up Old 27 so as to pay my last
respects to the American dream. Passing the small, struggling old
farms of central Michigan, I was on my way to East Pleasant Valley
Road, to park in view of my grandmother's house on the day it was to
be burned to the ground to make way for a new subdivision.
Homesteaded in
1862, the work on the house was finished in 1868 when my great-great
grandmother dealt with the hardship of her husband's untimely death
by paying a workman $8 to finish the upstairs. He had asked for $12,
and in the quibbling that ensued, never finished two adjoining
bedrooms which were used ever afterward as an attic. In my
childhood, this was a vast and dusty treasure trove of outdated items
and memorabilia that ranged from my great grandmother's old pump
organ to the Atwater Kent battery powered radio that would eventually
give way to the 1937 Coronado 810 console that sits on my porch
today. The Coronado was purchased when the power lines went through. No
Sunday visit to Grandma's was complete without cajoling my dad
into a tour of the attic and a game of "what's this?", as we
would pick up one odd object after another and be told that it was an
old apple peeler, and old flour sifter, an old kerosene lamp, and on
and on. The old farmhouse had been an enduring and much beloved
fixture in my life for as long as I could remember, and coming to
grips with the terrible truth that it was not also a permanent
fixture, as I had always supposed it to be, proved difficult to say
the least.
Along with the
house, there was the old barn that was of the slant roof variety
common before the more modern hip roof style took precedent in the
1880's, and it, as well as the chicken coop and brood house, a milk
house built over a free flowing artesian well, and a neat carriage
house that in more recent times had been converted into a garage, all
gave testimony to the well earned reputation for carpentry that had
distinguished the Hutchinson side of my family. All of these
buildings were still strong and solid well into their old age, and
even after my grandfather's prolonged illness required slowly
shutting down the operation of the farm in the mid and late 1950's,
my grandmother managed to keep everything up to an acceptable level,
and did so with the intent that one day someone would come along who
would put it all back up in operation.
After
Grandpa's death in 1963, this all took on an added poignancy. I was
nine at the time and the thought never occurred to me that I would be
the one to resurrect the last remaining family farm. All I knew was
that I loved this place like no other. By this time, it had been
reduced to 60 acres, but those 60 acres were glorious. The Little
Salt River meandered through the west side of the property, and there
was an island that was the result of an oxbow in the old river. Grandpa
had a built a little white, wooden footbridge to the island
for my mom and my aunt and uncle, and my sisters and I used it just
as they had. The grazing cows kept it mowed, and it looked like a
primeval garden. I guess it was. On the far end to the east, there
was an 11 acre stand of virgin, uncut timber that rose majestically
above the new growth woods around it, and which was populated with
rabbits and raccoons. There was a beautiful giant oak tree that
stood between the woods and the back forty, and this was a picnic
spot like no other on a warm summer day, and I took great pride in
knowing that it had served the same purpose for three previous
generations of farmers and teams. The house sat on a high hill
overlooking the river flats, and I remember working my courage up for
the thrill of that first ride down this hill on the Flexible Flyer I
got for Christmas one year. I was not disappointed. And in those
days it never dawned on me at all that this paradise ever would -- or
ever could -- just cease to exist and be gone forever.
I have heard
it said by many others, and I have said so myself, that it must be
incredibly hard being a kid growing up in today's world. Or in the
world of the 80's, 90's and 2000's when we were raising our family. But
it wasn't exactly a picnic growing up when I did in the 1960's,
either. I was aware at the time that it was a blessing that the
middle of Michigan was a quiet and peaceful area that not only seemed
to be, but was, removed and isolated from all the turmoil that seemed
to engulf the rest of the country and the world. However, it wasn't
like we were unaffected by it either.
I remember the
strange, sinking feeling that November day in 1963 when Mr. Brock
told our fifth grade class that President Kennedy had been shot in
Dallas. Like I suppose millions of other kids across the country at
that moment, we were asked to lay our heads down on our desks and
quietly pray for our president and our country. And, like I suppose
millions of other kids across the country at that moment, we did. After
what must have been the longest half hour in history, we
received the bad news that the president had died, and that we were
to leave school quietly and go straight home.
I ran into
Phil Huffine on the way home from school. He was two years older
than I, but he lived just around the corner from my house, and we
were friends and hung out together. I was always small for my age
and I had a big mouth, which made me a target of the neighborhood
bullies. And while Phil was a fat kid and not a tough one, he was
still a lot bigger than me and looked out for me. I didn't tease him
excessively about his size, and he didn't let me get bullied, and so
it worked for both of us. In light of the shocking news of the
president's assassination, I suppose looking out for me was what he
had in mind when he caught up to me and asked me if I wanted to come
over to his house and do stuff. "Stuff" at Phil's house
usually meant looking at his comic book collection or bugging his
older brother, Duane.
Since
Grandpa's death, Grandma spent a lot of time at our house, which worked
out well since my mother had recently gone to work for my dad
in his auto repair shop. She was sitting on the edge of her chair
watching the news on the big, black and white Silvertone in the
living room instead of "As the World Turns" as she usually
did. Her big collie-shepherd, Buster, lay next to her on the floor,
and even he looked concerned and worried. I asked if I could go to
Phil's house, and she thought it might be a good idea if we just
played as usual in light of the darkness and uncertainty that was
gripping the nation. I was to stay at his house so she knew where I
was, and I was told to be home before dinner time.
We walked into
Phil's house just as his mother turned off the TV. She'd had as much
of the assassination news as she could take, and told us we could do
pretty much anything that didn't involve watching the TV. The
Kennedy news would be all that was on the three networks until after
the funeral took place on Monday. This was Friday afternoon. On
Sunday afternoon, we would take Grandma to St. Johns for my Great
Uncle Archie and Great Aunt Grace's 50th wedding anniversary
celebration, and while my folks were getting ready, I sat by myself
watching the big Silvertone as Jack Ruby stepped up, put a gun into
the midsection of Lee Harvey Oswald, and pulled the trigger. The
news came over the car radio on the way home that Oswald had died,
and the fact that I had witnessed a man being shot to death on TV
became the most haunting aspect of this strange, surreal weekend for
me.
We went
upstairs and heard the radio on in Duane's room. He yelled at us to
come in, and we did, and he was sitting at the desk in his room
listening to the coverage that his mother had just banned downstairs.
He was visibly upset and obviously shaken. "Nothing will ever
be the same again," he said. And he was right. Nothing ever
was.
Duane Huffine
was a top student and an excellent athlete. He ran track and did so
very successfully as I remember. He was two years older than Phil,
which made him four years older than me, so I was always quiet around
him, while he gave it to Phil as big brothers do. I was always
appreciative of the fact that he was usually nice to me unless I did
something that particularly aggravated him. And it wasn't lost on me
that the reason bigger kids didn't bully me when I was with Phil was
more because of Duane than it was Phil. One time when we were at the
school playground, Danny Crumm and a friend of his who were both
Duane's age started picking on us and, as usual, I made a smart
remark that resulted in us getting beat up. Phil got the worst of it
and went home with his nose bloodied. When Duane asked Phil what had
happened, he told him, and without saying a word Duane grabbed his
jacket and was out the door. He was back in about half an hour and
only said, "Don't worry. They won't bother you again." When Phil asked
him what he had done, Duane just told us to forget
about it. And we weren't bothered again.
With LBJ in
the White House, "Vietnam" went from being an obscure
country in southeast Asia that many Americans were vaguely aware of
at best, to the lead story on the news every night. The struggle of
the black population to achieve civil rights was a close rival. As
the war steadily escalated to a presence of well over 500, 000 US
troops by 1968, so did the objections of the American public.
A lot of
things seemed to come to a head in 1968. The civil rights movement,
which had been the domestic equivalent of Vietnam in terms of the way
it disturbed and divided the nation, lost its leader when Dr. Martin
Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis in April. The specter of
Dallas in 1963 raised its ugly head when Bobby Kennedy's campaign for
the Democratic presidential nomination was cut short by assassination
in Los Angeles in early June. And serving as the backdrop for the
great unrest that swept the country was the reality of the Tet
Offensive in Vietnam, which took place at the end of January and into
February, and which demonstrated that even the presence of an army of
500,000 could not contain the communists. The word "unwinnable"
became linked to Vietnam, and the intensity of the demonstrations in
the streets approached open warfare between police and protestors,
most notably at the Democratic Convention in Chicago, but in numerous
other locations as well. And the race riots in Baltimore and Chicago
and dozens of other cities rivaled those of Los Angeles in 1965 and
Detroit in 1967.
It surprised
no one that Duane Huffine, a straight A, straight laced, clean cut
and patriotic young man, enlisted in the Army shortly after
graduating from high school in 1967. What surprised Phil Huffine and
I was how much he had changed and how different he was when he came
home on leave in what I believe must have been the fall of 1968. I
don't know what Duane did, and if I knew exactly where he served I've
forgotten it, but I do remember that he grabbed Phil and me by the
front of our shirts, drew us up into his face, and said angrily, "If
either of you is stupid enough to enlist in the Army like I did, I
will personally kick your ass." Since there were few persons on
planet earth that I respected like I did Duane Huffine, this was an
unveiled threat that I not only found shocking, but took to heart.
From about
this time, the Vietnam War loomed in my consciousness like a great
and terrible storm on the horizon that grew nearer to me as I became
older and more aware of what it truly was. A meat grinder, an
abomination, a horror, and such other things it was called, and I
agreed. In the fall of 1968, I was a sophomore in high school and
turned 15. Duane Huffine is a personal example I cite here, but he
was only one of many guys coming home from Vietnam with the same
message for those of us a few years younger and in danger of heading
down the same path: "Don't."
My
"radicalization" had begun. I soon discovered that
radicals, that is those who opposed the war, showed up in some
seemingly unlikely places. One was my elderly and stern Geography
and World Affairs teacher, Mrs. Ruth Woods, and another was my own
even more elderly grandmother.
In the fall of
1968, Mrs. Woods did a class project on the Vietnam War in which we
were split into teams and had to research the enemy casualty figures
for the North Vietnamese Army and Vietcong, as reported by the United
States Military. The numbers we came up with were astounding, and
there is debate to this day as to whether, or how much, the numbers
may have been padded to make it seem that we were winning a war that
was, in actuality, a perpetual stalemate. The number we came up with
through 1967 was around 800,000 enemy dead. In total, it was widely
held that during the course of American involvement in the war, well
over 1,000,000 North Vietnamese regulars and Vietcong had been
killed, and even if there is truth in the Defense Department's later
claim that these numbers were inflated by as much as 30 percent, it
still meant that Mrs. Wood's point was well taken: With an estimated
total population of 15 million, the US should have already killed
virtually every North Vietnamese man who was of military age. Yet the communist forces kept growing, and the casualties
inflicted
kept mounting, and more and more American troops were called into the
fighting. "Where are all the communist soldiers coming from?"
Mrs. Woods asked rhetorically. Pulling down the retractable map of
Asia above the blackboard, she tapped her pointer on Communist China.
Moving the pointer to Vietnam she said, "Since some of you may
be asked to go here in a few short years, and I thought we should
explore why so many are now saying that this war is unwinnable. You
may face some very hard decisions, and I won't tell you what I think
you should do, but I will tell you that any decision you make should
be an informed decision."
My
grandmother's radical nature was a little more subtle, as she had my
patriotic, World War II era parents to contend with, and it was never
her nature to be confrontational. During a car ride on a Saturday
afternoon in the fall of 1968, I made the comment that I thought a
lot of what the demonstrators were protesting about the war was
legitimate. This seemed an outrage to my parents, and brought on a
lesson in patriotism that centered around blind trust in the
government, especially in matters of war, and then morphed into a
conversation about how much they had enjoyed their own military
experience on Long Island, where my dad had been stationed. As they
were talking, Grandma leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I
don't see anything wrong with protesting the war. I'm still
protesting the last three." By that time we were approaching
the Giant Super Market, and my mother had turned the conversation to
the disgrace and dishonor the long hair and beards worn by so many of
the protestors brought upon the nation. When Grandma spotted someone
with just such long hair and a beard coming out of the store, she
piped up and said, "Why, look at that young man! He looks just
like Christ! Worse than that yet!" She had made her point and
silenced my mother, while my dad laughed so hard that he almost ran
into the building.
In the
"revisionist history" of this time, we are rightfully
supposed to be appalled at the fact that so many of our proud sons
coming home from Vietnam were spit upon and ridiculed. What has been
lost sight of is the fact that much of this reaction from the
patriotic "God Bless America" public was due to the fact
that so many of these young veterans came home cursing the war and
denouncing the nation's participation in it: denouncing the nation
itself. The anti-war movement really took off and really began to
rock the streets of America when it became impossible to pass it off
as merely the cause of hippie college kids strung out on drugs, sex
and rock and roll. And the word "revolution" had taken on
a more ominous tone due to the disillusioned and angry Vietnam vets,
who were professionally trained soldiers, and who were now quietly
and rapidly swelling the ranks of the revolutionaries. High school
age children like myself began to be swept up in the events of these
times, as we began responding to the fact that our big brothers,
older cousins, and those of our friends, were coming home
disillusioned, more than a little crazy, and very angry; and they
were telling us why. Some didn't come home at all, and many of those
who did were saying to us, "Hell no, don't go!" And by
1968, a much bigger crowd was taking to the streets and singing along
with Buffalo Springfield, "Stop, children, what's that
sound? Everybody look what's going down!"
What was going down?
By
the dawn of 1968, the
Civil Rights Act of 1964 had been law for approaching 4 years, and
the Voting Rights Act of 1965 for nearly 3. The protests and demands
of black Americans had turned to not if equality and justice
would ever become a reality, but when. Dr. Martin Luther King
Jr. had, by this time, become a public figure of wide renown who was
widely and greatly respected across a broad spectrum of the American
population, and particularly among the youth of the nation. For
those too young to remember Dr. King, it is impossible, even through
the films and recordings of his speeches and sermons, to properly
capture the full charisma of the man or the influence that he grew to
wield beyond the civil rights movement. While his "I Have a
Dream" speech, given at the March on Washington in August of
1963 is his most famous, a lesser known speech today entitled "Beyond
Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence" is easily his most
controversial. In this April, 1967 address given at Manhattan's
Riverside Church, he denounces not only the war in Southeast Asia,
but human injustice of all kinds. Let his own words speak to us in
this excerpt:
A true
revolution of values will soon cause us to question the fairness and
justice of many of our past and present policies. True compassion is
more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and
superficial. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars
needs restructuring. A true revolution of values will soon look
easily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth. With righteous
indignation, it will look across the seas and see individual
capitalists of the West investing huge sums of money in Asia, Africa
and South America, only to take the profits out with no concern for
the social betterment of the countries, and say: "This is not
just." It will look at our alliance with the landed gentry of
Latin America and say: "This is not just." The Western
arrogance of feeling that it has everything to teach others and
nothing to learn from them is not just. A true revolution of values
will lay hands on the world order and say of war: "This way of
settling differences is not just." This business of burning
human beings with napalm, of filling our nation's homes with orphans
and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into the veins of
peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody
battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged,
cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice, and love. A nation that
continues year after year to spend more money on military defense
than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.
Many feared him to be a
particularly marked man from the point of this speech on, and, one
year later, on April 4, 1968, on a motel balcony in Memphis,
Tennessee, Dr. King was shot to death.
As
Dr. Martin Luther King
Jr. had earned the respect to be referred to simply as "Dr.
King," so Robert F. Kennedy had earned the affection and
familiarity to be referred to simply as "Bobby." And as
Dr. King did not shy away from the highly charged word "revolution"
in the speech cited above, Bobby Kennedy created in the public mind
the idea that this revolution could be won from within the political
system rather than through the violent overthrow of it, as was
supposed by so many of the radical left extremists of the day. Sensing
correctly the political vulnerability of LBJ in his narrow
defeat of Eugene McCarthy in the March 12 New Hampshire Primary,
Bobby announced his own candidacy for president on March 16, and
until his death by assassin's bullet on June 6, the chants of "Bobby!
Bobby!" grew louder and louder, and the crowds he drew grew
larger and larger, until he was filling venues like the rock stars of
his day, and was greeted with the same kind of emotion, devotion and
enthusiasm. In the aftermath of the King assassination, Bobby had
picked up the mantle of the civil rights movement and, like a
snowball rolling downhill, his campaign picked up not only blacks and
other minorities, but the poor and disenfranchised, and captured the
imagination of Americans who saw in him the legacy of JFK not only
completed, but perfected. As Martin Luther King captured the vision
of a society "Beyond Vietnam," so Bobby Kennedy captured
the vision of bringing this society about with a presidency "Beyond
Camelot." In California in early June, his defeat of the once
highly favored McCarthy signaled that he had gained the support of
the youth anti-war movement as well. The juggernaut of his campaign
now looked unstoppable, as he closed his victory speech with the
words, "Now it's on to Chicago and let's win there."
Moments later he was
fatally wounded.
In
the summer of 1968, I
encountered another unlikely radical in our pastor at Eastminster
Presbyterian Church, Ross Macdonald. Ross was a Canadian from
Hamilton, Ontario, and a terrific minister who had built our little
church into a very viable Christian community during the few years he
had been there. He was an avid baseball fan, which endeared him to
those of us who were afflicted with the same passion for the game, so
much so that we even tolerated his affection for the Los Angeles
Dodgers and tried to be sympathetic, as he still bemoaned their move
to the west coast from Brooklyn. Our church youth program was
outstanding, and through selling Christmas tress and by operating a
food concession wagon at local fairs and festivals, we made enough
money each year for a summer retreat to some distant locale, and in
1968 the destination chosen for this was Cambridge, New York, where
we would spend half a day working on a painting project at an old
folks home and the other half having fun. Which we did.
The radical part came into
play as we made our way to Upstate New York via Hamilton, Ontario,
where Ross's brother, Murray, pastored a much larger Presbyterian
Church. Hamilton was the halfway point in our journey, and Murray's
church was kind enough to put us up overnight both coming and going.
The church had a gymnasium and the gymnasium had several large rooms
that were set up as dormitories. The girls were sequestered in one
of these rooms, and we boys shared space in a couple of others with a
group of young men who apparently lived on the premises. There were
maybe a dozen or so. Maybe more. We didn't think too much about it,
and thought maybe it was another church group on retreat. One of
Murray's sons was a year or so older than I was at the time, and
offered to take some of us boys on a ride up to see the city lights
from a high hill overlooking the city. The view was breathtaking,
and as we sat there talking, I asked our host how Canada viewed the
Vietnam War. He laughed and said, "We consider it a big joke." Suddenly
sensing our ignorance, he asked, "Don't you know who
those guys are staying in the dorms? They're Americans, like you but
a few years older. Don't you get it? They didn't go to the Army
when they got drafted, they came here. I shouldn't have told you, so
nobody say a word, okay?" We agreed and we didn't.
At
least I didn't until we
were back home. One night after a youth group meeting, I asked Ross
about the young men at Murray's Church, and he quickly ushered me
into his office and shut the door. He was evasive and never said
that he knew what we both knew about the young men in Murray's dorms,
but he did tell me that the Presbyterian Church had what he referred
to as an "underground railroad" that helped move young men
from the United States into what he called "living situations"
in Canada. He told me that all I needed to know was that, given the
horrible escalation in the war over the past year or so, and the
great political uncertainty in the country at that time, I had what
he called "another option" than military service. Finally
he let down his guard a little and said, "Look, I'm a Canadian
citizen and I don't have the emotional investment in this stupid war
that your folks do. I'm also a guest in this country and I like it
here. However, I do have a commitment to do what is right and what
is Christian for you boys, and the point of stopping at Murray's was
to let you see that you have this other option. Keep it quiet,
respect it, and just know that it's there if you need it and choose
to use it." My usual big mouth aside, I suddenly found myself
mature enough to keep this quiet, and it was some years later, when
none of this mattered anymore, before I finally discussed this with
my friends who were there in Canada with me. And who at some point
had the same quiet talk with Ross that I did. Eventually, this would
influence me towards studying for the Presbyterian ministry, but
that's a story for another time.
The November election in
1968 was between LBJ's vice president, Hubert Humphrey, the
Republican, Richard Nixon, and third party "segregationist"
candidate, George Wallace. Like many others, I feared a Humphrey
presidency would prove to be merely an extension of the failed
Johnson Administration, and that for me this would result in either a
military career in the jungles of Southeast Asia or a lonely new life
in Canada. Wallace was essentially campaigning as the "anti-Dr.
King," as many white Southerners saw support for the passage of
the Civil Rights and Voter's Rights legislation by the Johnson
Administration as a betrayal of the Southern "Dixiecrat"
base. Fortunately, a majority of white people elsewhere had come to
accept civil rights as an idea whose time had come, and Wallace's
strident presence in the election actually helped gain support for
civil rights by demonstrating the ugliness of the bigotry against it.
Nixon campaigned on the promise to "deescalate" the war
and eventually end it through what he promoted, in true Nixonian
fashion, as a "secret peace plan." And he vowed to restore
law and order to the streets.
Mercifully, 1968 finally
ended. Richard Nixon was elected president and eventually the
Vietnam War ended, and the progress towards racial equality was not
turned back to the days of Jim Crow, though there were some like
George Wallace who tried to make this happen. However, the
"revolution of values" that Dr. King spoke so eloquently
about never happened either, and virtually all of the injustices he
spoke of in April of 1967 are with us today. Many are worse now than
then, and we've managed to add some new ones. Before he left office
in 1961, President Eisenhower warned the nation to "beware of
the military-industrial complex," and if he was to speak his
words of warning today he would likely add the abortion-eugenics
complex, the medical-pharmaceutical complex, the banking, financial
and insurance complex, and the corporate agriculture-genetic
modification complex. I'll let you cite your own examples. There
are many.
The war did deescalate and
by the time I came of draft age in 1971, the draft lottery was in
place and the draft itself was coming to an end. I drew number 230
and only those with numbers of 215 or lower were ever even called
for physicals. Those who were a couple of years older than I, had
experiences similar to my cousin, Dave, who spent his time in the
Army painting rocks at a base in the Arizona desert. The men in his
unit were never even assigned rifles and carried wooden replicas in
their marching drills. Deescalation meant men coming home from
Vietnam with no replacements going over.
History does not look
kindly upon either the presidency or the person of Richard Nixon, but
I remember him kindly and perhaps even owe him my life. His first
term in office became defined by the horrific incident at Kent State
University, and his resignation shortened second term by the
Watergate scandal, but in the end he did much to bring a nation tired
of war and dissent back to a more peaceful way of life. As two of my
closest friends and I rode around town listening to the church bells
ring in celebration of the ceasefire in Vietnam on the night of
January 27, 1973, I was proud that the first vote I ever cast in a
presidential election went to Richard Nixon. I am not ashamed of it
now.
But the superficial peace
of 1973 did not mean a revolution in values had taken place in
America due to the Nixon Administration. To the contrary, it merely
meant that those forces which had made blood flow in the jungles of
Southeast Asia, and which profited from this and the numerous other
injustices listed by Dr. King, now offered a small slice of the money
pie to those who had previously supported this revolution of values,
and who had called for the change necessary to bring it about in the
person of Bobby Kennedy. For a period of some years after, those of
my generation would point fingers at each other and hurl that
greatest of insults, "sellout." And eventually this
stopped because eventually we all did.
In
the fall of 1971, I
turned 18 years old and in January of 1972, changes in the law would
make me an adult. I began my first year of college that fall because
it was something that it seemed everyone else thought I should do,
and I was a very miserable student and had the grades to prove it. I
began stealing an afternoon or so a week in which I would drive my
1965 Triumph Herald up to my grandmother's farm, and I would take the
little car down the tractor path along the back forty and end up
under the big oak for a quiet time of thought and meditation. I
desperately needed a change in my life, and as I thought about what
this might be, I would look across the landscape of the old farm,
sometimes walk the river flats, and, on this crisp and sunny October
day, with the old growth woods in full and glorious color, I suddenly
realized I was looking at it. This was where I wanted to be. This
was what I wanted to do. This was home.
Many times I would come to
the farm when my Grandma was at our house in Alma. It was only 7 or
8 miles, but it was just far enough to be inconvenient to check on a
regular basis, so I got so I would do it as an excuse to go there. I'd
take Grandma's extra key from its secret hiding place, and I
would check out the house, always neat as a pin and clean as a
whistle. I'd look in the garage, check out the barn, sometimes open
up the chicken coop or the milk house. On a warm day it was always a
good thing to turn on the power to the pump at the deep well by the
barn,
and wait as the angle iron mechanism of the old pump worked itself
slowly up and down until the cold, crystal clear water would come
tumbling out of the spigot. Grandpa's heavy glass beer mug was still
in the little wooden box he had built for it Lord knows how many
years before, and a mug of this water seemed to have the power to
quench any thirst.
On
this day, Grandma was
home and I decided to stop and say hello and talk to her about the
future. It was a very interesting talk. She told me that her old
age had become a time of waiting and wondering about what would
become of the farm. This seemed like a preordained que, and I
proceeded to spill out to her all I had been thinking about: How
much I loved the farm, how much I wanted to see it fixed up and up
and running again in some fashion. We talked for a long time about
the way the world was then, and about how much at it had changed
since she was born in 1890. Even I was smart enough to know that
operating the farm as a farm as originally intended wouldn't work,
and it was impossible to make a living doing this. But with a good
job and with some time to learn and grow into the responsibility,
neither of us saw any reason why I wouldn't be able to at least
preserve the beauty of the property and the idea of the old farm, if
not the actual reality of it. And it would be a glorious place to
live.
So, the plan we came up
with worked like this: We would go through the winter and neither of
us would say anything to anyone about this. Before spring, she would
change her will so that in the unhappy event of her death, I would
inherit the property. She realized that this would result in some
wailing and gnashing of teeth from the heirs to her estate -- my
mother, my aunt and the descendents of my late uncle -- but since
none of them had any real affection for the property or a desire to
preserve it, she was willing to endure that. They would have to be
happy with what she divvied up for them from her small savings and
personal effects. I would move into the farmhouse in the spring, and
she would continue to split time with my family in Alma, with the
farm continuing as her primary residence. We would evolve a plan for
transferal of ownership when I was ready, and she would teach me how
she currently managed the property by renting out acreage to cover
the insurance and the taxes. I confided in her that I did not like
going to college, and she told me to make my own decisions and run my
own life, and to trust in God that it would all work out according to
His plan.
Well, it turned out that
God's plan was far different from the one we envisioned. On the
night of January 29, 1972, while carrying a roasting pan heaped with
her famous fried chicken up a steep flight of stairs to a dinner at
the Shepherd Oddfellows Hall, my grandmother suffered a fatal heart
attack and, as her life ended, mine changed forever. I told my
parents about what Grandma and I had talked about, and my mother
derided me first for making up such a tale, and secondly for actually
being stupid enough to think that I could do something so far beyond
my level of talent and intelligence as to take an old farmstead and
turn it into a viable life for myself. In another time and another
place, I would do exactly this, and I would do it in part just to
show her that I could, but, again, this is another story for another
time. My mother, her sister, and her sister-in-law unanimously
agreed that the farm was to be sold, the contents auctioned, and the
proceeds split evenly between them. Esau sold his birthright for a
bowl of lentil stew, and my mother and her family sold mine for
$60,000. Grandma gave me the 1937 Coronado on the porch, so I still
have that. I've rebuilt it, and in the summer, I listen to the
Detroit Tigers on it like Grandpa, and sometimes I still wonder why I
can't do so on the same front porch that he did.
And so there I was, on a
day a year removed from when I should have been moving into my
future, instead parked and looking at the old house as it stared
blindly back at me from it's smashed out windows, and, as the flames
began to crawl up its sides and emerge from its interior, I watched
it become irretrievably and forever a part of my past.
Dr. King told us over 45
years ago that "A nation that continues year after year to spend
more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is
approaching spiritual death." In those years, this has
continued unabated and it continues unto this very day. Those who
remember the tumultuous times of the 1960's honestly are aware that
none of the reforms he so envisioned have been truly realized; that
racism is a reality that still swells our prisons with black faces as
it did then, that poverty is an even greater reality, that the
distance between rich and poor grows rather than shrinks, that war is
still the way of settling differences, and that all of these things,
now as then, remain unjust. The question then becomes, just when did
America encounter the spiritual death that Dr. King warned of, and
when was the day America died? Many say it was the day President
Kennedy was assassinated, or the day when it was Dr. King, or the day
shortly thereafter when it was Bobby. In the end, it is the day in
which one's heart is finally broken, and so for me, America died on a
cold April day in 1973.
In
contrast to the
"revolution of values" called for in the 1960's, it is a
travesty of our times when a machine politician from Chicago, cut
more from the political cloth of Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, is
claimed instead to be descendant to the legacy of John F. Kennedy,
Bobby Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King. When terms such as "hope"
and "change" are bandied about as hollow political slogans,
and such an injustice as murder of the unborn can be added to the
list of injustices so attested to by Dr. King, it makes one realize
how far we have fallen since hope was a revolution of values, change
was the courage to attack a corrupted political system, and Christian
men were willing to be martyred for their faith in God and in an
America that demanded something better than politics as usual. It
has been said that Dr. Martin Luther King was the last Christian to
proclaim the gospel in the public square, and, if this is so, then
Bobby Kennedy was the last Catholic politician to put the social
teachings of the faith ahead of his own political agenda; indeed, to
make it his own political agenda. And he did so that government of
the people, by the people, and for the people might have one last
chance to not perish from the face of the earth. Surely those who
remember the man and remember the times can paraphrase Lloyd
Bentsen's words to Dan Quayle in the 1988 vice presidential debates:
"Mr. President, we knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend
of ours. Mr. President, you're no Jack Kennedy." We also knew
Dr. King and we knew Bobby. They were friends of ours. And he isn't
them, either.
In
1968 those with hope who
demanded change stood in the streets shoulder to shoulder in
solidarity. Hope was killed on a balcony in Memphis. Change died
from wounds received in the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel in Los
Angeles. In the aftermath of these times, America has become a
spiritually dead land of political zombies who roam our streets
devouring the brains of the public, as they substitute rhetoric for
action and claim sin as the realization of our goals. For 45 years
we have walked the road to hell paved with our own good intentions,
and if this is the moment in history to stand up once again in
solidarity and try to do something about it, then we should realize
the truth and the reality of what this means: Radicals may be found
where you least expect them, but solidarity ain't no party. It's a
revolution.
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