tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68569771813882615762024-02-20T16:00:13.036-08:00Wondering Vetboxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-80975351170716557052013-05-10T17:34:00.002-07:002013-05-10T17:34:45.905-07:00<br />
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I have been frustrated by those who oppose abortion but seem to downgrade or ignore other life issues in their moral and political stances. The short piece below is a response to such thinking. </div>
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<b>Abortion and War</b></div>
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It is important to understand the historical context of the
1973 Supreme Court decision legalizing abortion in order to formulate and
effective strategy opposing abortion.
The legalization of abortion did not occur in a historical,
psychological, and social vacuum. It came at the end of the war in Viet Nam in
which this country’s strategy was primarily and broadly killing. The overall
effects of this war very well could have inured the U.S. population to
unnatural death. This war stretched to near the three-quarter mark of a century
that witnessed the greatest slaughter of human life in history. Is it any
wonder that a country as intimately connected with dealing massive amounts of
death would be ready to accept killing the unborn? I propose this question and
refer to this history not only to point out the consequences of war, but to
help us understand that the broad strategy of addressing all life issues needs
to be the focus of people opposed to abortion. If it is possible that massive bloody
conflict set the stage for legalized abortion then it is necessary to work
against all factors in our national psyche that are based on our habit of
killing as a means of solving problems. Historically, the United States
mentality considering such issues as international relations, the death
penalty, euthanasia, and abortion is that if something is threatening,
uncomfortable, or inconvenient kill it. We must change this attitude on all
life issues if we want to change our policy on any of them.</div>
boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-81864159595698294232010-02-20T11:45:00.000-08:002010-03-15T12:21:24.782-07:00A Moment in Glorious Combat--Revised<span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I haven't entered anything on my blog for some time. Recently, I began working in a writers group at the VA. This is my first story since I have worked with the group.</span><br /><br />I'm in one of the mortar platoon's sand bag bunkers that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Viet</span></span> Cong armor piercing rocket propelled grenades have partially collapsed. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">VC</span></span> had hit us <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">with</span> a company size attack around 2:00 AM. They've breached our defensive perimeter and, since the beginning of their attack, they've hit us and the Vietnamese village we secure with mortar and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">RPG</span></span> rounds. We continue to take small arms fire. Since a few minutes after the attack, I've been going to positions on the perimeter helping wounded and sending them back to "dust offs," <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">medevac</span></span> helicopters.<br /><br />In the bunker, one light bulb hangs from a horizontal metal ceiling support. The bulb is connected to a thin wire. The light it sheds gives the inside of the bunker a dim glow. Dust hangs in the air giving that glow a reddish, eerie hue. At the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">RPG</span></span> rounds explosion, parts of the walls and ceiling have fallen and cascaded down partially burying one man in a pile of sand filled bags. The pile is to the left of and near the bunker door. Wounded are moaning.<br /><br />The upper torso of this young man <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">protrudes</span>, dusted with sand, from the pile of sandbags. His stomach, chest, and head face up. His face is boyish with lips gently together and eyes closed. His body lay back on the sandbags with two bags slightly propping his right side turning his body slightly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">toward</span> the door. It looks as though the pile of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">sandbags</span> is birthing him. There's no movement, no sign of breathing. We cannot tell if he is dead or alive.<br /><br />Three other troops gather over him kneeling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">on</span> fallen sandbags. One presses his fingers on the right side of this fallen soldier's neck attempting to find a pulse. The faces of all three are tense. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">I sense</span> their longing to know that blood pumps through the young soldier's artery.<br /><br />His left arm, slightly bent at the elbow, rests near his body. I take and clasp this young soldier's wrist pressing the tips of my fingers into the flesh near his hand and along the outside of his tendons that travel down the middle of his forearm. I'm feeling for the artery there, feeling for some slight surge of blood that might pulse through his body. Is it there? Do I feel it? Is that a pulse or my imagination?<br /><br />After a few minutes, I drop his hand. I think, "fuck it" and move out of the bunker. As I do, the men around him extract this soldier from the sandy and heavy pressing womb at he the moment that may be the birth of his death.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-59695585653545085442009-07-09T21:42:00.000-07:002009-07-09T21:55:29.092-07:00I visited JoeTwo days ago I visited San Luis Obispo and Joe Martin's grave. I spent some time with Joe. It was a peaceful time sitting in my chair telling Joe hello from his friends from Company B and remembering the day that he died. The peaceful time there visiting and praying was a healing contrast to the day he died. 19 June 67 was a day that part each man in the 4/47th died.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-83603870197392838562009-06-18T11:18:00.000-07:002009-06-18T11:33:57.736-07:00Still on the roadI'm in New Mexico headed for Santa Fe and Taos. Rich told me to correct my last post. I appologize to who follow my blog. I implied that Rich was to only one. I'm on my way to Santa Fe, Taos, and Angel Fire. At Angel Fire I will visit the Victor Westphall Vietnam Veteran Memorial. This is the first US memorial for those who died in Vietnam. I have spent time at the Wall and visiting this memorial will follow one of the themes of my trip. The last memorial that I plan to go to will be Joe Martin's grave in San Luis Obispo, CA. The aniversary of Joe's death is tomorrow. He died in a battle near Long An Province, south of Saigon in 1967. That day was a tragic one for all of us in the 4/47th.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-4133078085073529282009-04-22T13:50:00.000-07:002009-04-22T14:00:26.557-07:00To RickThis is to my good friend Rick who faithfully checks this blog; almost the only one who checks my blog. I'm in Nashville where I went to see a great bluegrass group last night. I'll see some blues performers tonight. I'm feeling good, although I pushed myself too hard while traveling and got the old burning, stinging anxiety feeling in my chest. Ptsd stuff and it almost cripples me. I've had to slow down for about a month, but I will stay on the road till mid June. Hope that you and Marcia are doing well.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-2539946577997007782009-02-09T16:07:00.000-08:002009-02-09T16:44:08.221-08:00TravelingIt's been a while since I posted anything here. Traveling has been keeping me busy. I began my travels on December 20 with the idea that I would visit a friend in Wyoming whom I served with in Vietnam. On the way there, I realized that I had nothing pressing that necessitated returning home. So I kept going, first to Denver and Kansas City to visit cousins then to Madison, Wisconsin to visit a young woman whom I trained as a boxer. I enjoyed visiting Kerstin and her husband Kevin and bonded with her toddler, Meriam. After that I visited two more friend with whom I served in Vietnam. My plan was to go south and visit another vet friend in Texas; however, my plan changed and as I went south I turned east through Arkansas, Georgia, Virginia and eventually to Washington, DC. What kept pulling me was the Vietnan Veterans Memorial. I had never visited the Wall. In DC, I went there once alone and then a second time with three young people. Standing a distance from the Wall I told them stories of experiences that I had in war. It was good for them to hear these stories as the stories gave more meaning to the name on the wall. I'm sure telling those stories there helped me. I'm not sure how; however, I have a feeling that as I process that experience I will learn more.<br /><br />I did not remain in the saddness that the Wall represents. I stayed in DC luxuriating in art going to the National Art Gallery and the National Portrait and American Art Gallery. I spent three days there soaking in as much great art as I could. I experienced art from the late middle ages to the modernists. Vemeer and Pollack still remain some of my favorites. However, on my last day in DC I wanted to visit something especially meaningful and prayed for that gift. In the National Portrait Gallery I went to a certain gallery looking for one particular work in one photograph section. There I happened on the pictures of four individual womem--three younger women and a woman just a little older. They were pictures of women who had served in Iraq and all had post-traumatic stress disorder. I could feel the depression, anxiety that the pictures expressed. I could also relate to their feelings because I have two pictures that of myself that captured the same feelings. While I stood there in the small gallery I wanted to yell and direct people to look at those pictures. I wanted to say, "experience what these pictures say. This is important." I suppose that that is one of the goals of my life--to educate people about what war does to people.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-12828756256531575742008-12-29T19:20:00.000-08:002008-12-29T20:12:32.527-08:00A Poem From My Friend RickI have been visiting my friend Rick for the past few days. We both served in the same company while in Vietnam during 1967. This evening Rick brought out his "Vietnam Box," a box with a few <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">memento's</span> of his year in war. This poem was in the box, which he had not opened for more than ten years. He wrote it sometime before June 19, 1967, the day of our battalion's most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">disastrous</span> battle. He knows that he wrote this poem before that day because after the battle he could not write and remembers little of the rest of his year at war.<br /><em><strong></strong></em><br /><em><strong>For Love of God and Nation?</strong></em><br /><em></em><br />Why me? What did I do?<br />I gave no one cause to<br />even feel blue.<br /><br />Yet now I must go,<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">thru</span> the muck and the mire<br />and lord help my soul,<br />if I ever should tire<br />for this is a war<br />such as never before<br />where no man can rest<br />lest the enemy come out best<br />for tho they're farmers by day<br />come night they're away<br />to bring havoc on men<br />that could be my kin<br /><br />Why me? What did I say?<br />Why did my neighbors give me away?<br />To sweat and to toil<br />on the enemy soil<br />To fight for my life<br />For the love of my wife.<br /><br />They say for the love of God and my nation<br />I must go through hell and damnation<br />And try tho I may<br />I can't get away<br /><br />Why Me?boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-75793697294937534282008-12-26T14:09:00.000-08:002008-12-26T18:21:31.339-08:00From A Walk in the Garden of HeavenI have been re-reading Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace. Something in this passage resonates with me.<br /><br />"Whatever it is holds us in a spell of wonder when we are children, abandoned me when the war began. I don't mean just me or just youth, I mean something about this country. But I don't mean just this country, I mean the world. I've spent my time searching for what it is, like a suicide who refuses to die, an optimist who is empty, a buoy on th sea."<br /><br />George Evans. "A Walk in the Garden of Heaven," <em>Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace</em>. Maxine Hong Kingston, ed. Kiheri, Hawai'i: Koa Books, 2005. pg. 88boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-59602983540134323072008-12-01T11:06:00.000-08:002008-12-01T11:16:04.646-08:00A Church ServiceI remember attending church services in Vietnam only a few times. For the most part, we were in the field on small combat operations and away from such religious opportunities. However, one service has set an indelible mark on my memory. It was during the mid part of my tour. Our unit had been in the field for some time and it had been a mouth and a half or two months since I had attended mass. After this period, our company arrived at Doug Tam near the city of My Tho; the 9th Infantry Division southern most major base camp in the Mekong Delta. It was Sunday when we arrived at this camp and after we had unloaded our gear and set up in barracks, I felt a compelling need to find a chapel and the celebration of Catholic mass. I asked around and someone pointed me in the direction across the camp. He said that the chapel was quite a distance away. I set off in late mid afternoon for what I would find was a trek through the dusty base roads. It was a walk in the Delta humidity and hot sun. I was tired when I started and as I walked, I became more tired. On my trek I lost my way a couple of times and had to ask for directions.<br /><br />When I arrived at the chapel, I walked in to this round wooden building. It had a low rising dome and windows set in around the exterior wall of the structure. Glass windows were unusual in this war zone as explosions from incoming mortar rounds could blow them inward. Although it was not large, it was an impressive structure in the midst of long barracks and other rectangular military buildings most of which were covered with canvas roofs. I was hot, dusty, and tired and felt frustrated after the long walk. Inside the chapel, the altar was set in front of the wall near the door through which I entered. The floor was laid in long planks and the ceiling was open with its beams exposed. A semi-circle of wooden pews, maybe ten rows deep, surrounded the altar on three sides. I quietly took a seat near the door at the right of the altar. In my distraction, I hadn’t taken the misselette from the table next to the door. The misselette is a book with the mass prayers and bible reading for the mass of the day. One man kindly walked to me and gave me a misselette. I must have looked uncomfortable and unfamiliar with the proceedings so this man, a young guy like me, opened the book to the proper page. I reacted in a frustrated way. Some of my religions pride poked out and I said to myself “what’s this guy doing, I’m know what’s going on.” In a few minutes, I began to relax and I settled in for the service. It was early in the mass, the time just after the opening prayers. A soldier got up, walked to the altar, and read the first two readings for the day, one from the Old Testament and the other from the New. I don’t remember the message of those scripture readings nor that of the Gospel passage that the priest read; however, I do remember a few words from the priest’s sermon. They are engraved in my mind.<br /><br />The priest, a taller man with short graying hair who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, stood squarely at the ambo at the left of the alter. He spoke about love to the soldiers present. However, his words in no way reflect the Christian message in I Corinthians 13: “Love is patient; love is kind; . . . it does not rejoice in wrongdoing . . . Love never fails . . .” This priest’s words sent another message as he boldly proclaimed a moral stance, “It’s alright to kill as many Vietnamese as you can and you can have sex with as many women as you want. But just make sure that love your buddies!” At first his words sounded appealing. They gave me permission to do things that my teachers and ministers taught were wrong. Then the full impact of what he said set in and I thought, “this man is nuts!” “How could he say such thing and from the alter.” His words shocked me. I was in a daze for the rest of the mass, almost reeling from his words that had little to do with the Christian love instilled in me as I grew up. After the mass, I left the chapel and as I walked back to my barracks anger permeated me as this priest’s words that condoned violence, even unnecessary and indiscriminate violence, and the sexual use of women swirled in my head. I knew that acting on what he said would profoundly inhibit the experience of love for which I longed.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-1324938972155334142008-11-27T11:39:00.000-08:002008-11-27T11:44:17.789-08:00A Thanksgiving Poem<div>Anne Porter's poem, "A List of Praises," is a finely worked Thanksgiving poem especially if we consider that thanksgiving and praise are two sides of the same coin.<br /><br /><b><br /><br />A List of Praises</b></div> <div><b><br /></b></div> <div><b>Anne Porter</b></div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing,</div> <div>Give praise with <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1227813956_1">Gospel choirs</span> in storefront churches,</div> <div>Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, </div> <div>Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun,</div> <div>Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, </div> <div>A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry </div> <div>living wild on the Streets through generations of children.</div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away </div> <div>With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle</div> <div>As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning,</div> <div>Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh</div> <div>Of the wind in the pinewoods, </div> <div>At night give praise with starry silences. </div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with the skirling of seagulls </div> <div>And the rattle and flap of sails </div> <div>And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell</div> <div>Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. </div> <div>Give praise with the humpback whales, </div> <div>Huge in the ocean they sing to one another.</div> <div> </div> <div>Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas, </div> <div>Give praise with hum of bees, </div> <div>Give praise with the little peepers who live near water.</div> <div>When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries</div> <div>We know that the winter is over. </div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with mockingbirds, day's nightingales.</div> <div>Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle </div> <div>And glossy tulip trees</div> <div>On quiet side streets in southern towns.</div> <div> </div> <div>Give praise with the rippling speech</div> <div>Of the eider-duck and her ducklings</div> <div>As they paddle their way downstream</div> <div>In the red-gold morning </div> <div>On Restiguche, their <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1227813956_2">cold river</span>,</div> <div><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1227813956_3">Salmon river</span>, </div> <div>Wilderness river. </div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow.</div> <div>Far, far from the cities, </div> <div>Far even from the towns, </div> <div>With piercing innocence </div> <div>He sings in the spruce-tree tops,</div> <div>Always four notes </div> <div>And four notes only. </div> <div><br /></div> <div>Give praise with water, </div> <div>With storms of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1227813956_4">rain and thunder</span> </div> <div>And the small rains that sparkle as they dry,</div> <div>And the faint floating ocean roar </div> <div>That fills the seaside villages, </div> <div>And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains </div> <div><br /></div> <div>And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood,</div> <div>And with the angels in that other country.</div> <div><br /></div> <div><br /></div>boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-85662919858873598432008-11-16T14:43:00.000-08:002008-11-17T20:09:38.961-08:00Viet Cong Tax CollectorI’m carrying the radio for my squad leader, the PRC-25 known as a “prick 25.”<br />It’s a gray day as we stand in a dry rice paddy. The large row of high bushes with long thin leaves next to us is brown and dry. Clumps of brown dead rice stalks dot the baked and cracked paddies that were in recent months green, lush and filled with water. One of our platoons has sent out a patrol to reconnoiter the surrounding area.<br /><br />The static squelch of my radio handset indicating a transmission breaks the relative quiet. I begin listening to the transmitted interaction. The leader of the recon patrol, a young sergeant, radios in; “We’ve got a VC tax collector here! He was walking down the road with an old M-1*. He’s an old skinny little guy and he keeps talking in Vietnamese, smiling, and bowing to us. Where shall we take him for questioning.” The voice, an officer on the other end of the transmission, says, “he’s dead.” The squad leader radios back, “you don’t understand; I have a prisoner here. I need to bring him in.” The voice on the other end that’s flat, showing little emotion, and yet malicious says, “I do understand. “He’s dead.” Finally, the squad leader calls back, pleading, “He’s a prisoner, according to the Geneva Convention he deserves protection, where shall I take him!” The officer sends the same reply, “he’s dead!”<br /><br />I’m feelin’ sorry for the old man, picturing him in my mind, and I’m wishin,’ “I hope they don’t shoot the little guy.” I feel sorry for the patrol leader whose received tacit orders to commit a summary execution and think; “I sure wouldn’t want to live with that guilt if he kills the man.” In a few minutes, shots ring out and I’m continuing to hope, “they shot in the air, broke up the M-1, and let the guy go.” Then reality sets in and I realize that someone, likely the patrol leader, is standing with his weapon over the body of an old skinny Vietnamese man who wanted to live. Now, the man’s dead. There’s a hole in his head and I’m hatin’ the voice and the man who gave the order.<br /><br />In writing this anecdote, I realize how much anger and hate are still present in me. Moreover, I realize how much I need to forgive.<br /><br />*The M-1 is a World War II vintage American military rifle.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-17587344193798974142008-11-04T11:40:00.000-08:002008-11-04T11:56:52.044-08:00The Common GoodVincent Miller, in an article in the National Catholic Reporter, speaks of our country's loss of the humane and essential ideal of the "common good." Below is a short excerpt from his article.<br /><br /><br />"Our instincts for the common good have been dulled by an economic system that reduces us all to individuals. Gone are mutual aid societies, local credit unions, and even company pensions. We’re all on our own now, masters of shrinking 401k accounts. We turn to credit cards in rough times rather than sharing with family and neighbors. Standing alone with our [desire for] tax cuts, we are all going down the tubes together."*<br /><br />*Vincent Miller. "Catholic 'common good' notions embedded in Obama politics." www.ncronline.com. Nov. 1, 2008.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-50253337757154644242008-09-06T18:37:00.000-07:002008-09-06T18:45:13.530-07:00Night In BlueBrian Turner sums up a year in war.<br /><br /><br /><blockquote><p><strong>Night in Blue*</strong></p> <p>At seven thousand feet and looking back, running lights<br />blacked out under the wings and America waiting,<br />a year of my life disappears at midnight,<br />the sky a deep viridian, the houselights below<br />small as match heads burned down to embers.</p> <p>Has this year made me a better lover?<br />Will I understand something of hardship,<br />of loss, will a lover sense this<br />in my kiss or touch? What do I know<br />of redemption or sacrifice, what will I have<br />to say of the dead—that it was worth it,<br />that any of it made sense?<br />I have no words to speak of war.<br />I never dug the graves in Talafar.<br />I never held the mother crying in Ramadi.<br />I never lifted my friend’s body<br />when they carried him home.</p> <p>I have only the shadows under the leaves<br />to take with me, the quiet of the desert,<br />the low fog of Balad, orange groves<br />with ice forming on the rinds of fruit.<br />I have a woman crying in my ear<br />late at night when the stars go dim<br />moonlight and sand as a resonance<br />of the dust of bones, and nothing more.</p><p><br /></p>*Turner, Brian. "Night in Blue," in <span style="font-style: italic;">Here Bullet</span>. Farmington, Maine: Alice James Books, 2005. Pg. 64 </blockquote>boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-61472284117903012502008-08-31T12:08:00.000-07:002008-08-31T13:03:30.162-07:00DehumanizationThe military trains<span class="q"> soldiers to look upon the enemy as less than human.</span> Something that is less than human is easy to kill. In war I participation in and observed other soldiers speak in and act in dehumanizing ways. As my wartime experience went on, the destructive nature of my attitude brought me shame. When I observed other speaking and acting in ways that dehumanized people I was repulsed.<span class="q"><br /><br />Dehumanization is not something that is limited to war. Elements in our society promote dehumanization in a number of arenas. This allows us to kill "easily" in arenas from war to the death penalty to abortion. On a significant level, the American way is expressed in the words, "If you can't deal with it, kill it." Jennifer <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Fulwiler</span> recognized a pattern of dehumanization in herself and in society. Her article, "A Sexual Revolution," in the magazine"America" speaks passionately and reasonably about why she chose to convert from a stance that supported abortion to a stance that embraces the unborn child.<br /></span><a target="_blank" href="http://americamagazine.org/"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_0"><br /></span></a> <p> <b>A <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; cursor: pointer; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_1">Sexual Revolution</span></b><br /></p><p>Back in my pro-choice days, I read that in certain <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_2">ancient societies</span> it was common for parents to abandon unwanted newborns, leaving them to die of exposure. I found these stories to be as perplexing as they were horrifying. How could this happen? I could never understand how entire cultures could buy into something so obviously terrible, how something that modern society understands to be an unthinkable evil could be widely accepted among large groups of people.</p> <p>Because of my deep... </p><p> To view the rest of the article, click <a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.americamagazine.org/content/article.cfm?article_id=10904&o=32712"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_3">here.</span></a><a target="_blank" href="http://americamagazine.org/"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_0"><br /></span></a></p><p><a target="_blank" href="http://americamagazine.org/"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1220212274_0"></span></a><br /></p><span class="q"><br /><br /><br /></span>boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-31229310470667122342008-08-26T11:05:00.000-07:002008-09-01T09:53:45.697-07:00SadiqBrian Turner, an American Iraq war veteran, in his book of poems, <span style="font-style: italic;">Here, Bullet</span>, writes concerning Iraq and the war there. His poetry is sensitive to Americans fighting the war, their enemies, the Iraqi people, and the Iraqi society and culture. In “Sadiq” (Friend) he speaks of what is the central reality of war.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sadiq</span> *<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> It is a condition of wisdom in the archer to be patient</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">because when the arrow leaves the bow, it returns no more.</span><br /> --Sa’di<br /><br />It should make you shake and sweat,<br />nightmare you, strand you in a desert<br />of irrevocable desolation, the consequences<br />seared into the vein, no matter what adrenaline<br />feeds the muscle its courage, no matter<br />what crackling pain and anger<br />you carry in your fists, my friend,<br />it should break your heart to kill.<br /><br />* Turner, Brian. “Sadiq.” <span style="font-style: italic;">Here, Bullet</span>. Farmington, Maine: Alice James Books, 2005.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-34849138274221837992008-08-17T15:54:00.000-07:002008-10-17T20:26:40.446-07:00Other ShotsThere are numerous ways to become a casualty in war.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Other Shots</span><br /><br />He was from the 1st Cavalry Division. On his first patrol with that division, one of his squad members hit a trip wire connected to the firing mechanism of a booby-trapped white phosphorous grenade or artillery round. The explosion spread white phospherous over every member of the squad. The blast and the burning chemical decimated the squad. White phosphorous; also know as WP and Willie Peter, burned at a low temperature. When particles of WP hit a person, they burn through the skin into the body. The burning is impossible to put out unless the part of the body affects is submerged in water. In effect, white phosphorous burned a person who it hits exteriorly and interiorly until the burning is stopped. In many cases, those whom white phosphorous hit die. This young soldier was the only person to survive that booby-trap attack. Badly wounded, the 1st Cavalry sent him to Okinawa for recovery. After his recovery, the Army sent him back to Vietnam and to our company.<br /><br />It was a normal day in the Delta in an area that contained banana trees and other taller trees that shaded us from the sky. The terrain was flat and grassy. In our company size operation, we had walked in formation spread out from the men around us about ten meters apart. Spreading out minimizes the number of wounded and killed in case someone tripped a booby-trapped. Grenades have a “kill radius,” measured from the point of explosion, of five meters. Their wounding radius is fifteen meters. Artillery rounds have a vastly wider kill and casualty radius. We traveled through this area all morning until near eleven o’clock when, from our front, two shot rang out. They were incoming and we hit the ground. The VC put those rounds over our heads or in our midst to slow us down. We must have come up on and surprised an enemy unit that did not want to engage us.<br /><br />After the shots, our commander sent orders for us to break while a squad size patrol went out to recon the area from where the shots came. Sitting on damp ground we got out our C Rations and started eating lunch. I had a B-3 C Ration unit and began eating my canned ham and eggs chopped meal. It was a meal that I liked, but one that almost everyone else hated. While sitting and eating, another shot rang out. The sound was not too far behind me. I couldn’t see what was happening; however, after the shot I heard men speaking urgently and loudly and saw someone run to the area where the sound came from. In a short while, word filtered up to my platoon that the new guy from the 1st Cav had “accidentally” shot himself in the leg while cleaning his weapon. Eyewitnesses said it was a strange almost surreal scene: the guy raised his M-16, pressed it into his thigh, and pulled the trigger. In a few minutes, a dust off, that is a medevac helicopter came in and took the man away. We didn't see him again. I hope that that wound kept him out of the war. I know of another man who during my tour “accidentally” wounded himself. I have no condemnation for those whom, in the devastating war-time environment, take such an action.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-39855328746621865242008-07-06T13:22:00.000-07:002008-07-06T13:50:28.219-07:00Disillusionment--A Scene From My Memoir<span style="font-weight: bold;">After Basic Training<br /><br /></span>Traditionally, after basic training, the Army gives soldiers a thirty-day leave. For us, this happen in the midst of an airline strike. By this time, I knew that when I returned to Fort Riley I would be in an infantry unit. Several of us, enough to nearly fill a bus, took a Greyhound from Kansas, home to California. It was a long trip going through the hot weather of the western states. During the trip, we passed around liquor and I imbibed. I considered drinking a masculine activity and I wanted others to think of me as a very masculine soldier. Moreover, I wanted to bolster my own sense of masculinity. One morning I took a drink of vodka, for the rest of the trip I had a stomachache. So much for my young image of masculinity.<br /><br />There was, on the bus, a young soldier, a buck sergeant wearing a three stripe chevron on the shoulder of his dress khaki uniform shirt. He wore a 1st Cavalry Division insignia on the other shoulder. The 1st <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cav</span> was already in Vietnam. In ’65 and ’66 they had seen heavy combat and had taken many casualties, particularly in the Ia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Drang</span> Valley. The Ia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Drang</span> was the first major battle between <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Viet</span> Cong and American forces. This young sergeant wore a Combat Infantrymen’s Badge (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">CIB</span>) on his chest along with a few ribbons. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">CIB</span>, in particular, denoted that he had seen infantry combat. The Combat Infantryman’s Badge is a silver badge containing, in the foreground, a three inch long by half inch wide blue rectangular box that itself contains a silver rifle. The background is a two inch long silver wreath that protrudes about three-eighth inch above and below the blue box. The wreath is placed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">eqidistant</span> from each end of the blue box. This quiet young man with his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">CIB</span> rode along with us new “green” soldiers. I, along with others, was somewhat in awe of this young serious looking and unsmiling sergeant. Three of us new untested infantry soldiers approached this man and attempted to ask him about his experience in Vietnam. He said something about the year in Vietnam being a year without sleep. Then he cut us short looking at us with a sad yet angry countenance. In an almost off hand, but severe voice he said, “you can have that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">fuckin</span>’ war!” He said nothing more then turned and walked back to his seat.<br /><br />That encounter left me feeling somewhat afraid and confused. I grew up with John Wayne WWII movies, other war movies, and the television series Victory at Sea that glorified the American infantry soldier in both life and death. The media definitely did not portray our WWII soldiers with the dour countenance and attitude of this soldier. TV, movies, and the culture itself portrayed them as heroes. I was shocked at his obviously angry demeanor and attitude toward the war. This incident readied me for the disillusionment with the war in Vietnam that I developed early on during my one-year tour.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-63599327828523016132008-06-29T16:56:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:27:33.320-07:00First Memoir EntryThe memoir/autobiography class that I was a part of ended in the middle of May. During the class, I began a memoir about my year in Vietnam. It is about half done. Below is the opening scene that depicts a pivotal incident in my year of war.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Prayer</span><br /><br />It was late April or early May of 1967 and late at night in the hold of the USS Benewah, a barracks ship and our base of operation anchored near the South Vietnam city of Vung Tau. Our infantry company had just begun patrolling the Rung Sat, a tidal swamp and “free fire zone” a few kilometers outside Vung Tau in the Mekong Delta. Anyone we came upon in this area was enemy. I had been with the men of B Company in the second squad of the second platoon since August of ’66. We had trained together at Fort Riley, Kansas and we sailed to Vietnam together arriving in that country on 28 January 1967. I was close to a number of men in my fifty-man platoon. I felt particularly close to the twelve men in my squad. We knew each other.<br /><br />Our platoon had not seen major combat nor had it any combat related injuries since arriving in country. However, we knew that the enemy was near because our sister units had taken some casualties, mainly from booby-traps. We had stumbled on one or two VC base camps during first few operations in the Rung Sat. Moreover, we had taken rifle fire during at least one incident while walking through one of these camps. The day before our unit had returned from an uneventful three-day mission. It was somewhere near 0200 as I lay awake in my top bunk. I hadn’t been able to sleep. At 0500, we would move out on Navy landing crafts that would land us for another three-day patrol.<br /><br />This night, lying awake I prayed in the semi-darkness of the Benewah’s hold. Colored lights, red or yellow, set at the exits of our below board holds cast an eerie and faint yet distinct glow over the whole barracks area. I looked around at the sea of upper bunks and the men in those bunks who each lay over the bunks of two other men. My parents had brought my two brothers and I up as Roman Catholic and from early on I had taken my faith and spiritual life serious. Prayer continued to be important part of my life before and after being drafted into the Army. This night my prayer became especially important. Anxious, I lay on my bunk talking to God. At first, I don’t remember that I asked for anything specific; however, it is easy to conceive that I prayed for my safety and that of the people in my squad and platoon. By then a prayer for a successful mission killing the enemy was definitely not part of my existence. However, as I lay there I drifted into a deeper and more tranquil prayer that, in a short time, became extremely intense and emotion filled. At that point, I had received a gift of prayer; my prayer focused away from myself. It focused on the lives of my companions. In an intensity that took my focus off of my life and drew my focus to my friends I begged God to give me the courage to risk my life even to the point of dying for the other men in my unit. My focus converged on my squad; however, later in my tour God answered my prayer in an expanded manner. God’s focus, I would come to find, is not so parochial. I continued to pray that night and quiet reigned as I rested until our platoon sergeant rousted us and we finished packing our gear. After putting on our gear that included an M-16 assault rifle, three grenades, ammunition, food, water, a protective flack vest, and possibly a can of machine gun ammo or a radio, and various other things that we needed, we walked up the stairs that led to the main deck. Reaching the deck, we walked down a gangplank to a pontoon floated dock and boarded a landing craft that would transport our platoon into the Rung Sat swamp and another three days of patrolling. We were off to another mission that we realized could mean contact with our then enemy. We felt a certain excitement and dread that goes along with the threat of wounding and death.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-85044930946927440712008-06-21T14:01:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:29:21.436-07:00I Train BoxersI have known Fernando for six or seven years and, along with his manager, Joe Burke, have trained him for over two years. At times, I irritated Fernando while I work with him and offer corrections to improve his boxing form and technique. Almost daily, he tells me, with a smile, that he “hates” me. However, he still listens to what I say. Fernando and I are friends. He will have his sixth professional fight in Mississippi late in July.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Train Boxers,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Professional and Amateur</span><br /><br />A few weeks ago, I called<br />Fernando, our pro.<br />Can’t remember what prompted<br />The call.<br /><br />He answered in his<br />speedy Spanish tinged English.<br />The words I heard sounded like<br />“I love you.”<br /><br />Immediately, I responded,<br />“I love you too.” Then,<br />self-consciously, I asked,<br />“did you say something<br />about love?<br />He said, “no.”<br /><br />I heard that clearly and<br />quickly changed the subject.<br />But my words still remain.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-62590972864774150742008-06-14T11:14:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:33:28.813-07:00Women's WorkI walk near a group of women<br />from a graduate class of which I<br />am of the oldest part.<br />One class assignment is<br />a discourse based in<br />stringing beads.<br /><br />These women, five or six,<br />mostly younger,<br />the oldest perhaps thirty, sit<br />on marble steps leading to an old<br />Distinguished building.<br />Columns stand adjacent to its entry.<br />As they string their beads,<br />One of the women, holding<br />beads and twine in her<br />spread skirt, looks up and good-<br />naturedly calls my name.<br /><br />Thinking her greeting an invitation,<br />I walk up the stairs and<br />attempt conversation.<br />Yet, in their midst I feel<br />something primal, something timeless:<br />women stringing beads, making garments,<br />mending, weaving baskets, grinding maze,<br />working together.<br /><br />And together, they<br />converse, they laugh,<br />they sit quietly while<br />I feel alien.<br />It’s not a man’s environment.<br /><br />Gently, I ease from their midst as<br />these women go on with<br />their sacred communal work—<br />Their ancient women’s ritual.<br /><br />Looking back now I surmise:<br />they did not comprehend<br />their shared depth of being as they sat<br />so peaceful, so self-possessed. Yet,<br />as did mine, their spirits knew.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-14430951927752603572008-06-09T21:05:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:35:09.205-07:00For HealingShortly after the last major incident that I experienced in Vietnam, I wrote my grammar school and high school friend Tom Fernandes. Tom, who was in the Air force, was stationed in Puerto Rico. It was less than a month after above incident that I returned home. I visited Tom’s family about two weeks later.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For Healing</span><br /><br />From the war,<br />I’d letter a sent far away.<br />To a friend of the night battle I wrote.<br />Of fear, destruction, death, and<br />Mutilation I told.<br />Someone to share with I needed.<br />To worry my parents I couldn’t.<br /><br />I left war and visited his family at home.<br />We had a nice conversation ‘til<br />Of the letter I told<br />And of the night I spoke. They went<br />From sociable and friendly as I talked<br />To blank and silent.<br /><br />Emptiness<br />Is what I felt and, as I walked from their house,<br />I swore I’d never again speak<br />Of the war.<br /><br />I didn’t ‘till, later, some twenty years<br />And almost crippled from the pain,<br />Healing required words from the<br />Memories that I contained.<br /><br />Robert Jostboxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-78688966384990325182008-06-05T14:08:00.000-07:002008-06-11T20:30:32.030-07:00A Conversion StoryA friend of mine, Joe Burke, told this story in front of the congregation of his parish. He shared the story with a few of us at King’s Gym in Oakland where Joe and I train boxers together. I found the story so moving that I decided to post it on my blog.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">James Whitcomb Reilly and Johnnie Hayes</span><br /><br />As Part of our Centennial Celebration, Saint Anselm's has formed an outreach program to contact people in the parish for input on how to better move us forward in our spiritual journey in the years ahead. The committee members, like myself, have been tasked as an advance guard to tell a brief story about when they most felt a part of this parish or maybe felt most welcome. This story is about other things as well but you can draw your own conclusions.<br /><br />My story is about two people: James Whitcomb Reilly, named after the Hoosier poet from Indiana, and a pastor at Saint Anselm’s of many years ago, Father John Hayes. It is also in part about us as a congregation and how we are all in this together in our faith journey to God.<br /><br />The story begins when I and my wife Patti moved with our first born to San Anselmo in 1960. The move was prompted by our rent reaching the astronomical amount for a two bedroom flat in San Francisco of $115.00 a month. Imagine! We came to join my brother-in-law and sister-in-law Jim and Betty Reilly who had proceeded us with their own growing family.<br />With the arrival of our third child, we quickly outgrew our first home in San Anselmo, a two-bedroom, on Morningside Drive. In 1964, we moved to Barber Avenue where we still live and where we welcomed three more children. We and the Reillys both topped out with three boys and three girls each. The move’s timing was perfect because my in-laws were in their mid sixties and had been working all their lives since their early teens. They were more than ready to retire and move into our first home on Morningside Drive. My in-laws had good years in San Anselmo with their grandchildren and their son and daughter-in-law and daughter and son-in-law near them.<br /><br />Then Reilly got terminal cancer. He would be the first of our clan to die. Reilly was first generation, one of nine children born south of the “slot” in San Francisco. He finished grade school with the good nuns. He was blue collar, hard working, and hard drinking. He was not religious and in fact was often quick to put down the church. But some of that early formation with the good sisters and his very Catholic parents stuck. Reilly was more than a little afraid of his impending death. He hadn’t been in a church except for weddings and funerals in sixty years.<br />Now enters Father Hayes. I thought Father was not unlike the Irish priests I grew up with. They were strict, conservative, not very approachable, preached much about hellfire and damnation, and gave us large doses of guilt.<br /><br />How Reilly and Father Hayes got together is a miracle in itself, but get together they did. From their first meeting, Reilly was a changed man. The two had much in common. They were from the same era, both very Irish and, both liked a sip of Murphy’s or Jamison if the right occasion called for it. And they both could frequently find that right occasion. Father met Reilly frequently, heard is confession, and gave the last rites. I know the sacrament has a new name that I’ve forgotten.<br /><br />Well, Reilly with the grace of God and the help of Father Hayes ended his faith journey at peace and with a clean slate. Reilly could give Father Hayes no greater compliment than to say after on one of their visits, “that Johnnie Hayes is a real priest.” Bottom line, he was a real priest.<br /><br />Was a soul saved? For sure! Did our loving God put Reilly and Johnnie Hayes on the right place at the right time? Most certainly! Did Johnnie Hayes give Reilly a helping hand when he most needed it in his life? For sure he did. And a strong hand it was.<br /><br />You can well imagine that Johnnie Hayes will always have a soft spot in the hearts of the Burke and Reilly families. It gives me pleasure to share this story with you, to thank our loving God for the putting in motion the events I just related. And though the priest too has been gone for some thirty years it is only fitting to end by saying—God Bless You, Johnnie Hayes.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-24772153220297167012008-06-01T13:01:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:36:58.089-07:00We NeedThe poem, “We Need,” portrays the circumstances surrounding a mid-day flashback and the particulars of this flashback. My first blog posting, "Nature and the Unnatural," depicts the flashback incident more fully. The incident in "We Need" occurred during a normal workday. Bill, William Burns, who helped me during this traumatic recall, did two or three tours in Vietnam and later went to Africa as a mercenary. He suffered from numerous physical ailments.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">We Need</span><br /><br />We sat at the table<br />during break, Bill and<br />I and a woman co-worker.<br />Twenty-five years later<br />he and I talked<br />of survival, not battle.<br />We talked of the monotony,<br />the lack of sleep, the<br />heat, the humidity,<br />the weight we carried,<br />being continually in water,<br />and the need for constant<br />awareness.<br />Then, while they<br />talked, I felt my<br />head slow drop<br />and my mind go back.<br />I was in that tidal swamp<br />Standing in water between<br />my ankles and knees.<br />The heat of the mid-day<br />sun reflected off the<br />water’s glistening surface.<br />I didn’t know how I’d<br />go on standing on the<br />edge of hell in the<br />Rung Sat. Then Bill hit<br />the table saying,<br />“Come back Bob!”<br />At his funeral I spoke<br />saying: “It’s good to be<br />with someone who<br />understands.”<br /><br /><br /><br />Robert Jost<br /><br />Credit: First Published in <span style="font-style: italic;">Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace</span>, edited by Maxine Hong Kingston, KOA Books, Kihei, Hawai'iboxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-88143951684509692192008-05-30T12:09:00.000-07:002008-06-30T19:35:55.787-07:00That NightMalcolm was a young fighter who I trained in the "South Side" barrio of Tracy, California. He was a tough kid. His mother moved her family to Tracy in order to put her children in a more healthy environment than the one they experienced in Oakland in the early 1980. The first time I saw Malcolm fight, this was before I coached for the Tracy Boxing Club, I knew he had the making of a fine fighter. Without much skill he stood toe to toe throwing punches with an older and more experienced fighter. Malcolm had "heart." When we finally got together, Malcolm developed into an outstanding boxer. He had over a hundred amateur fights and for a time he was ranked eighth as a welterweight in the US. His pro career spanned sixteen fights. He was sixteen when I first began working with him. We are still friends.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">That Night</span><br /><br />It wasn’t the Gloves.*<br />It was two days before<br />You fought, just you and<br />I in that cold, rundown<br />Gym on Sixth Street.<br />I was tired of catching<br />Punches on the pads**, so<br />I sat down and put you on<br />The bag. At that point<br />I knew you ready.<br />Your dark, glistening,<br />Fully muscled back<br />Was a work of art.<br />Your body moved with<br />The grace of a ballet<br />Dancer. I called for the<br />Punches and you responded—<br />You were in full control.<br />I just sat back and admired.<br /><br />The Gloves, the noise, the<br />Lights, the excitement, the<br />Money in the rings, your two<br />Amazing wins and your<br />One loss in the finals<br />That broke my heart,<br />Those were for the<br />Crowd and the cameras<br />And the papers and the others.<br />That Night,<br />Two days before you fought<br />While we worked in that<br />Cold, run down gym<br />On Sixth Street was just<br />For me and you.<br /><br /><br /><br />*The Golden Gloves Boxing Tournament<br />**Hand held punching padsboxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856977181388261576.post-56629777983221674072008-05-29T09:09:00.000-07:002008-05-30T15:02:39.630-07:00Posting AgainA friend told me yesterday that it has been twelve or thirteen days since my last post. I did not realize that it has been that long. I finished my spiritual memoir class earlier in the month and looked around the house realizing all that I have let go. So I've been cleaning up the house, repairing my vehicle, continuing to train boxers, and backpacking. On Monday I returned from a five day backpacking trip. It was a good trip. I walked thirteen miles into Henry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Coe</span></span> State Park last Friday reaching <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kingbird</span></span> Pond around 9:30 pm . I stayed there for a day doing some fishing. The fish I caught were mostly small except for one--an eighteen or nineteen inch large mouth bass, the largest large mouth I have ever caught. I left <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kingbird</span></span> walking four more miles to Jackrabbit lake. I caught quite a few fish there.<br /><br />I'm drawn to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">backcountry</span></span> by the fishing and the physical challenge; however, while there I appreciate the quiet and peaceful setting. The park consists of rolling hills with oak forests, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">chaparral</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">manzenita</span>, and other dry country vegetation. Some of the steep protected canyons are lush with green flowering trees. This time of the year the grasses that cover the hills are dry, although there are a few wild flowers. The golden poppies are obvious and beautiful in this dry terrain. About two-thirds of trails and roads that I covered are steep, some reaching fifteen to twenty percent or more. Some of roads and trails, especially along dry Orestimba Creek, are comfortable and flat. The steep trails present some challenging hiking that equate in difficulty t0 those in Sierra <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nevadas</span></span>. Most of the park is semi-desolate. I love the place. Although I am active while hiking and fishing the desolate terrain and the quiet and peaceful setting draws me into relaxation, meditation, and prayer. I try to make walking a meditative process by staying in the present. Sometimes I spend hours in quiet recognizing God's presence in and around me and praying for people that I know. Although I was tired when I returned home, the last day I hiked eighteen or nineteen mile back to my car, I feel refreshed by the whole experience.boxpackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08931422624483461921noreply@blogger.com1