Photo of S Wyler with Harry Teinowitz
Photos of Danny Bonaduce
Photos of Markie Post
Photos of Lea Thompson
10 Pages of prose by S. Wyler [web site withdrawn]
Map and description of Kingman Reef
Senator Kennedy's home page
Photo of hut in the Caroline Islands
Virtual tour of the U.S. Capitol
A message board for Polynesian residents
Photos of a sailing voyage from Ireland to Tahiti
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IMPORTANT NOTE: DUE TO THE FACT THAT THE WEB SITE "http://www.roeandgarry.com" IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE, MUCH OF MY WRITING WILL BE INSTALLED HERE.
I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FOOLS WERE WHO TOOK ROE AND GARRY'S WEBSITE OUT, BUT I HOPE THEY GET THEIR JUST REWARDS: THEIRS IS THE CENSORSHIP OF THE LOWEST AND MEANEST ORDER. THE PEOPLE WHO CALL THE MOST FOR CENSORSHIP ARE USUALLY THE ONES WITH THE LEAST AMOUNT OF CREATIVITY AND ARTISITIC MOTIVATION. PLEASE REFER TO THE END OF THIS SITE FOR MORE INFORMATION. THANK YOU.
ADDITIONAL NOTE: IF YOU ARE ONE OF THE FEW OF MY WEB SITE VISITORS (and that includes YOU, Roe), PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TELL OTHERS ABOUT MY WRITINGS, AND ENCOURAGE THEM TO READ THE FOLLOWING PASSAGES.... THANK YOU AGAIN!
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14 April 1980 .
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Don't ask me to recall that languid day
When Donna and her lover sat alone
Beside a sloppy stack of brittle hay:
They laughed and cried and rarely thought of home.
Apollo's golden rays made light her hair
(That matched and mocked the barley's sandy hue)
As gentle Zephyr's feathers stroked the air
With fragrant touch that silently withdrew.
They often talked of things that mattered less,
And could have wished the worried world dead;
They played a sort of silly, sportive chess,
And spoke of little, the little that they said.
A banging clatter startles me awake:
My pounding ears erase a longing, love-lorn ache.
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JUST BENEATH THE BUNYA-BUNYA TREE
Note: The Bunya Bunya is a tree, native to Australia, common in California. It is also called the Monkey Puzzle Tree because a monkey can climb up to the top, but duing to its sharp spines, cannot get down.
His timid shoot parts the tender ground
Then proudly holds its leaflets to the sun;
But soon enough, a Spanish soldier's found
A place to tie his horse and sip his ron.
Now grumpy Jove will burst a pregnant cloud
And bathe his thirsty roots in liquid sweet;
Then decades later, there's a shady shroud
Which shields lazy lovers from the heat.
But piny thorns will pierce a toddler's hand
And send it howling to its mother's side...
Yes (so I'm told) an office must expand
Because of commerce and the civic pride.
Now on a stump sits a wond'ring bee
That thinks he's just beneath the bunya-bunya tree.
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DONNA AND THE JACARANDA TREE
The flaxen tendrils of your sun-dipped hair
Play funny games with the falling leaves
That lend their purple pleasure to the air
Around the blooming jacaranda trees.
You dance and play upon the royal blush
(Their snowy dress was fashioned just for you
And for you shoeless feet to softly crush
The violet blossoms on the avenue).
In June when jacaranda trees are seen
I hide my body in dark Plato's den
Thinking of what's been or might have been
While tending to the products of my pen.
So one more season's splendor will I miss:
And I may die and never touch her purple kiss.
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BUT SAY THAT DONNA LAUGHED
Of Capetown's beauty they all will insist
Or have me fly to Melbourne or to Spain;
But Grecian marble (that I'm told exists)
Warms not my soul, nor mitigates my pain.
Some Boyle's formula or obscure law
Will haunt the hidden channels of my mind
As values of equations see and saw--
While for a key, a lock I cannot find.
So sable hair will turn a livid white
As iron bodies rust away to dust,
And worn-out men will laugh away a fight
While only grinning, dreamily they lust.
So on this poet's grave beneath the chaff
Talk not of Rome, but say that "Donna laughed".
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03 January, 1996 . .
So Jenny dropped me like a ball of lead;
Dismayed by love, and crippled by defeats,
I greet my mice retreating from my door:
The scarlet candles flicker late at night;
Thou, Flaxen Goddess of the Central Skies:
Your rare and stainless beauty should be seen:
Your sandy hair glows platinum in the trees
Your aqua eyes explode out toward their marks
Yet crystal beauty needs the poet's hand--
Too shy to talk, too poor to take you out;
Upon your neck, a diamond Christian cross:
So like a ghost, you cross yourself and stand:
Now crossing lights illuminate the dome:
I kiss your lips, your crystal eyes I search;
We kiss all night and breathe each other's air:
Almighty judge of Heaven hear my plea! . . .
of Cleveland, Ohio
I need her badly, but our love is dead.
With eyes downcast, I walk the empty streets.
Emerging vultures strain their eyes to see
A wanted man (that wanted man is me.
The Sheriff grabs me as all heads are swerved:
Not dinner, but a process now is served.
Devoid of sense, subpeonas are their tools:
They sue on cue, creating fools' rules.
Alone, I walk past strangers less than kind:
My spirit broken, but not so my mind.
They scamper frightened, always wanting more....
And crimson flames turn blondish as I write....
So crystal-clear in goodness, as your eyes!
Your golden hair glows richer than the mint,
And brightens all around you with its tint.
Your name is King, and yet you must be queen.
A Texas county, and a high address;
A Negro hero, and a piece in chess;
A royal monarch, and a lowly snake;
A mattress size, a Mississippi rake;
A jumping salmon, and a talk-show host;
A bowling pin, an ancient Scottish ghost;
A Carolina hill, a fishing bird:
To you and me, much greater than a word.
As compass needles point to special place,
Your name is nothing--not without a face.
Like leaves of aspen quaking in the breeze.
Though far away, I see you as I write:
As distant fires in the inky night.
Your golden hair glows lighter with each step
As white as Russian snow upon the steppe.
Untouched by man--yet lovely, soft, and white--
As tungsten glowing hot inside a light.
As fire rockets shower shooting sparks.
Transparent beauty--as a windowpane--
So cleanly washed by sudden springtime rain.
As glazier's points must make a window stand.
Olympic runners cannot stoop to walk,
And I write poems instead of boring talk.
A poem speaks finer than proud pictures see:
Not better said by Kodak than by me.
Too sick of loosing, and too nice to bout;
Divorced from love, yet not deprived of sense,
I need to speak, yet sense I'm much too tense.
Transfixed by love, and crucified by hate,
I stand alone outside of passion's gate.
Divinely glowing, laughing at my loss.
Inside Saint Peter's, so enmeshed in prayer,
While shafts of Virgin light make bright your hair,
As unseen angels far above you pass,
Love's light is rainbowed by prismatic glass.
Your hair as brilliant as the sunburnt sand.
You climb the altar, gazing at your G-d,
With tearful eyes and willow's, wistful nod;
Much like the Virgin, or a haloed saint;
So filled with love, and so devoid of taint.
The focal point of every eye in Rome.
You lift your face and turn your head aloft:
Your flaxen hair, so radiant and soft.
Your faultless body, innocent and free:
Now under Christ, but not yet under me.
Yes, you are me, and I am surely you:
Like Jesus Christ--yes--I am a Jew.
And like a magnet, draw you from the Church....
Enchained in loving, like a braid of hair.
A perfect body, wrapped in sable fur:
Your naked curving melts into a blur.
In dreams, I run my fingers through your hair:
Forgotten dreams that float away with air.
As melting snowflakes fading like a song,
I wake to find your magic music gone.
I need her here much more than I need me!
As clear as air--as clear as air can be--
I love you, Julie, therefore, you love me.
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The aging farmer works beneath the sun
Without a wife, companion, or a son.
His only friend is G-d so far above
Who shares his saddness, lonliness, and love.
His weathered hand now holds his rusting hoe--
With pride and patience, nursing corn to grow.
His crippled forearm wipes his beaten brow
And leans against the safety of his plow.
Now heaven's spirits guide him on his way
And lifts the curtain hiding former days.
Forgotten through the pain of passing time.
(Now resurrected in the form of rhyme)
When happy pleasures filled his life with fun
From early dawn until the night was done.
Excessive lusting was a blinding joy:
He played with passion as a passing toy.
A different word or act upon the stage
May well have changed the misery of age.
Parading past, march follies of his youth;
He sobs in showers as he seeks the truth.
So now, as life's long drapery drops to close,
Regrets come raining as a broken hose.
His silent saddness, buried in the sod:
Unknown to man, but always known to G-d.
Thus thoughts turn quickly to the present good:
So filled with G-d as trees are filled with wood.
Yes, "better late than never"--change must come--
As sugar boils from the rotten rum.
His noble life becomes the golden mean:
His morals, sterling; and his honor, clean.
Profound in prayer, repentance makes him feel
That every line of scripture is so real.
For every word, he has to pause and search;
Though feeble now, the loudest voice in Church.
That Christan gospel fills his empty bowl:
Now rock-and-roll is poison to his soul.
Extreme in nothing, moderate in all:
His shaky script, a plain and simple scrawl.
Wtihdrawn from sin, his tortured soul unvised:
With unfirm hand, he pens a poem to Christ.
"Oh, save me, Jesus, from my shameful past;
And make contentment permanent and last."
Now blind to lust and deaf to sinful lies:
With faith in G-d, a Hoosier 'till he dies.
When all seems lost, the love of G-d is found:
In mortal life, and deep inside the ground.
Thus from our friend we must at last depart:
He died serene, with G-d within his heart.
A Christian cross adorns his simple grave:
As songbirds sing and amber cornstalks wave.
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8 April 1996
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I act in rhythm, as I speak in rhyme:
I'll seize the moment without wasting time.
Yes, well past midnight, as the nighhawks moan,
I'll wait until you're riding all alone.
I'll pop the weasel, or like Jack and Jill,
I'll catch you as you're riding down the hill.
While watchdogs growl, now drooling on their meat,
I'll burst from black and mount the empty seat.
You'll turn around, and then you just might see
That fool upon your tandem may be me.
We'll ride the hilltops like some silent twins,
Then pierce the valleys as our love begins.
As nighttime fairies dance in purple hoods,
I'll start a fire deep within the woods.
The rising flames reflect upon your face
Exploding embers flying into space.
A great romance in poetry or prose:
Our love will warm us as the fire grows
I'm no musician, but I know a song:
You'll play guitar, while I just hum along.
Upon his torso, Toker taps a tune:
His magic music fills an empty room.
Hear portly Samson sing his ancient songs:
His voice is straining, but his heart belongs.
His ballads, old; although his words, sincere;
His morals firm, and brain devoid of fear.
But Cathy's music rides a different road:
It limps along just as a crippled toad.
Your words, misleading, as your singing rands:
Your sex is fragile, though you wear the pants.
Your face is hidden, but your words are clear:
You mouth your garbage without thought or fear.
Most every woman leaves her brain behind:
You left your pillbox as you left your mind.
In love (as life) you cannot break the dike:
You need a man to steer your broken bike.
About your nagging, I don't give a hoot:
If I turn right, you'd better follow suit.
I do not love you, and you're not my friend;
But that will change before this story's end.
Your basket's empty, but my pump is full:
A horny cow, you must be full of bull.
Those hell-bent homos rave across the land:
If straight, I'll kiss your lips; if not, your hand.
A faithful servant, and a willing slave:
Within my walls, dear Cathy must behave.
Your words are sharp, although your reason's blunt:
You'll milk my meatman while I cream your ----.
So savor summer's sweetness (silent said):
Rude Richardson's river's running red.
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The following was written in 1994 or early 1995...
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Thou, dark-haired goddess of the Eastern sky
So perfect is your face, it makes me cry!
With eyes so black, and teeth of bleached-white pearl,
Surpassing every woman, maid, or girl;
Exceeding all with all your flawless charm--
You calm the madman; and the thief, disarm.
Your jet-black eyes now mirror every ray--
Like Chinese lacquer, shining night and day.
I dreamed of you while sleeping on the sod:
Your eyes from China, and your face from G-d.
Your love and beauty force the lame to write
And call the millions to the joyous sight
Of Indonesian Jenny filled with love
Of godly spirits from the stars above.
Hear angels singing at your blessed birth
And fill the land with poetry and mirth!
Now from the Pope, you get the silent nod:
Right next to Jesus, not too far from G-d.
Too beautiful too stoop to plant your rice:
Yet, bend you did, although your hands were nice.
No sugared coffee filled your empty cup:
'Twas rice for breakfast, rice for lunch and sup.
So poor, the peasants locked-in to their fate
Of growing rice so green, so tall, so straight.
In pointed hats, they smile ear to ear
And sow their rice from year to year to year.
They work so hard, toiling day and night,
And plant their padi by the starry light.
A bowl of rice, then, is their only pay:
In tented hats, they sweat their lives away.
My Indonesia, tropic land of love!
As lovely as the wispy clouds above!
With snow-white beaches and your dark-green woods,
You nurtured Jenny to her maidenhood.
Ten thousand islands sleeping in the sun:
The natives rest there while the tigers run.
Despised by darkness, much maligned by men,
The moody leopard hides within its den.
So filled with saddness is the bold baboon
Who howls vainly at the yellow moon.
Komodo dragon--stupid and so lame--
Too slow to love, too ugly to be tame.
The silly serpent slithers in the sand
And climbs a tree with neither foot nor hand.
The leafy flutter, like a lullaby,
Now prompts a daydream and a sleepy sigh.
Asleep, I dream and see (or seem to see)
The silent sunset of the Sulu Sea.
Beneath the checkered shade, my Javanese,
Within the shadows of Pandanus trees,
Your darkened face stained scarlet by the sun...
Awake by light! My perfect dream is done!
The call to prayer now echoes through the wood
And draws the natives from the forest's hood:
They run like rabbits from exploding bombs,
And heed their G-d, Muhammed, and Islam!
But those who read, must read the Arab script,
Then scream to G-d, and shake as if they're whipped.
High All-- rules all that lives and breathes;
And governs over mountain, land, and seas.
But Jenny hides and goes off on her own:
Aloof, defiant--though she's all alone.
Unclothed, she sits within the muddy rice--
Enchanted by sweet songs of paradise
Which from the heavens rings in golden tones,
And permeates the wind with rhythmic moans.
They sing of loving hope and distant lands
Ten thousand stars beyond the sunburnt sands.
Enamored by the melody of song,
She leaves the land to which she must belong.
Intoxicated by the rhythmic sea,
She swims across, wishing to be free.
Arriving on our nation's tainted soil,
You study hard, and then begin to toil.
Refusing to give-in, you keep your poise,
And shut your ears to cold Chicago's noise.
Impossible to blend in with the rest,
One thousand fine, much better than the rest.
Above the woman, liar, and the rich:
So humbly proud--to brave to be a bitch.
Your charcter now shines like crystal gold:
Affecting all--the youthful and the old.
Like Aphrodite and Athena too,
You melt the snows and turn the skies to blue.
With magic motions of your lovely hand,
You calm theseas and harmonize the land.
I love you, Jenny, as the morning sun
Will love the evening when the day is done.
I love you, Jenny, but my love is far
As distant China, or some nameless star.
You're beauty's perfect, exceptional, and right;
Though mine is too, and always must be--white.
Your room and clothes you pleasantly arrange,
But face and sex and race you cannot change.
Unshackled from your Oriental shield,
You wander naked through the rice-filled field.
Yes, all of us are bound to certain groups
Which humble us to jump through fired hoops.
Thus lacking frameworks, buildings must collapse
As luckless gamblers throwing twelves in craps.
With bearded monkeys, yams they love to taste,
Their naked tits hang lower than their waist.
They hunt by night, beneath the monsoon rains;
They kill their foe, and then they eat his brains.
One prays to snakes, another sees a ghost
In shrunken heads dangling from a post.
You type and read and praise your IBM,
But deep within your heart, you're just like them.
Chicago women are the worst of those
Who wear silk stockings and expensive hose.
Expressionless and deaf an somewhat dour,
The women--as the oranges--have gone sour.
They never cook; to clean, they hire maids;
One half of them are fat, the rest have AIDS.
They date a man, but then refuse to pay;
And cut their hair just as they all turn gay.
With cars and clothes, they sport their pompous wealth:
But all their money can't buy love or health.
Enchained by love, yet with my love still free;
Yes, all their golden specie can't buy me.
They live in fear, without a day enjoyed:
Their reason, bankrupt; and their sense, devoid.
So lacking brains, they talk until they bore,
Then spread their leech-legs like a Lesbos whore.
Their mink and ermine perfumed bodies wrap,
Yet still they're stinking when they take a crap.
Such ugly bitches! Women without worth!
All prutrid people from their useless birth!
You use your background as an ancient crutch:
Witholding feelings which we love to touch.
Your reticence is wrong, and yet your race
Must bend to norms of courtesy and grace.
We need each other like the moon and sun;
You work to live, but you should live for fun.
Your character is faultless as your style;
So may I share your padi for a while?
So patient will I be for us to meet:
So patient, then, 'till love grows obsolete.
I hope and pray that you may share your heart;
One final rhyme--and then I shall depart.
Alas, this verse, must like all verses, end;
I need you, Jenny, and I need a friend.
10 October 1996
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Well, hail Bisbee! Hail, King of Clowns!Hello there, Buzzboy! Cheers, my honest friend!
Your face is hidden, yet I hear your sounds!
You laugh with Rosen, and with Wert you sing;
And play your chess as howling primates swing.
A building's built...another falls in flames;
A baby's born...a senior dies in shame.
Great Rome is raised...and then, at last, it burns;
And Kilman's married as the world turns.
She gains a ring, but looses Father's name;
You win a wife, but banish bachelor games.
Your mind and heart keep marriage burning long:
Your love, the fire; reason keeps it strong.
A healthy marriage (well, besides your birth):
The greatest thing for you on planet earth.
We strive to reason, yet we play the game:
Though every marriage different, all the same.
This simple poem may seem to contradict;
But women's action's no one can predict.
A woman's brain is like a puzzle box:
Perplexing always, as the furtive fox.
Like mental prisoners deep within their cell,
No man on earth can know a woman well.
To praise a woman's beauty isn't wrong:
Art follows her like music follows song.
A woman's body, like that sylvan song,
Seeks bold attention, dragging men along.
But those enchanted by a body's spell,
In lengthy marriage may not do so well.
What is in August may not be in May:
Good looks may fade and stay a single day.
Much more important is a woman's heart:
She'll soothe your soul, or seek to tear apart.
A woman's beauty, like a coat of paint,
Attracts at first--and then, attracts complaint.
Of greater value, hidden from the eye,
Is what lies buried underneath the lie.
Unvarnished beauty, like a mine of gold,
Upon the surface scanty merits hold.
But digging deeper proves its real worth,
As specks of gold are sifted from the earth>
A noble woman never grows too old:
Her body weakens but is never cold.
Some men are fooled by what they see and hear:
Their facile minds ignore the false, sincere.
A woman shows her kindness if she can--
But less to woman than to fawning man.
A girlfriend more beautiful than most
Becomes your wife if you become her host.
Some gorgeous women wander as you grieve,
But kind and righteous women rarely leave.
A worthy woman--genuine as gold--
Retains her freshness, never growing old;
Her stainless beauty mirrors every ray,
And like a lighthouse, shines both night and day.
Attractive women can be read like books:
Their gracious smiles amplify their looks.
A priceless person--honest, good, and clear--
Her inner beauty makes her outside dear.
But really now, which man could quite agree
To love someone, in spite of what they see?
An ugly woman is a hellish sight:
Some faceless, flattened road kill in the night.
But much, much worse is cosmetic bitch,
Whose plastered portrait parodies a witch.
Poor pancaked puss might make my stomach sick:
Her murder mask is many miles thick.
Yes, pretty covers never prove their books;
But men see women's virtue less than looks.....
But women too see superficial traits
Both when they date, and when they choose their mates.
Her vanity and money's false success
Are valued more, while virtue's valued less.
Because their greed upon their reason feeds,
Maturity and judgement's hard indeed.
With increased wealth, their understanding fails;
As muscled morons vegitate in jails.
The more their wealth, the less they want to give:
As coarser gold is trapped inside a sieve.
Your ledger's loss is wealthy woman's gain:
Her ruby ring is bigger than her brain.
So drunk on diamonds, cracked from crazed cashiers:
They hate to drink, although they love de Beers.
Dear Debbie's debts do dominate and daunt:
Damned dumb debentures drive the debutante.
When women spend, they're witches at the mart:
They'll praise your bank, not gold within your heart.
Diseased from cash, from greed too poor in health:
So poor in mind from poverty of wealth.
No wealthy home can wall her off from G-d,
Protect her from His wrath or painful rod.
A vengeful Lord may freeze her with a frown;
Then huff and puff and blow her craphouse down.
All men need love--yet women want that gold:
The wider wallet gets the greater hold.
For Gacy, Chessman, Dahmer, Richard Speck,The frigid woman--hard as solid rock--
The lack of loving made their lives a wreck.
Who ran from them? Yes, each and every one;
But who would love them? No a single one.
The gentle woman--no--she's not a slave
Because she listens and she can behave.
Consider Gretchen--wife of Danny B.--
She keeps her kindness when they disagree.
Opinions count--but so does tact and grace:
She weaves her words, lets Danny save his face.
When tempers flare, dear Gretchen blocks the blaze;
And saves her marriage with a well-turned phrase.
She cools his anger, forcing wrong to right:
With skillful speech, she stops a flaming fight.
With eloquence, she quenches violence,
And brings a madman back to common sense.
When women work and leave their room and board,
Domestic duties often are ignored.
The modern marriage mixes sexist roles,
But soaring eagles must not crawl with moles.
The blue jay, blue; the cardinal, brilliant red;
The crow is black; the thrush, like gingerbread.
Distinct their color, and their special hue:
All species, separte--and their sexes too.
The rooster crows, while eggs are laid by hen:
Some jobs for women, others done by men.
The grizzly bear rejects the rabbit's fur:
Reversals of our roles must not occur.
The plan of G-d is perfect as it should:
Unknown its aim, but every aspect, good.
Equality in sex is never true:
The legal line in private runs askew.
When out in public, women act restrained
By social custom where the male's reigned;
In private, women seek to seize command,
And always try to gain the upper hand.
Though some hold jobs--endure the daily grind--
And thus, in public, prove their stable mind;
When back at home, they show a different face:
Yes, women's moods depend upon their place.
In Latin countries or in Catholic lands,I work in peace, much like a resting bone:
They kiss in public, walk while holding hands.
In Protestant-- in frozen Northern climes,
Romantic cravings are considered crimes.
When sterile morals putrify a life,
Ambivalence and boredom equals strife.Some stroll like strangers, never touch outside--
Becoming pregnant in their beds inside;
Then stride like angels when they're out-of-doors--
Those stinking, bitching, two-faced bastard whores!
Is marriage better when a woman's wise?
Or must you muzzle snobbish, haughty highs?
With grace and fashion, Roosevelt was kind:In certain fields, women act with grace--
No selfish meanness marred her married mind.
Good Helen Keller and the Singing Nun
Mixed work with wisdom, virtue, tact, and fun.With strident courage, gorgeous Sally Ride
Explored the stars with angels as her guide.
Then all went wrong (although no warning came):
Her spaceship stopped, and vanished into flame;
In total silence, in that hostile place,
Without a trace, exploded into space.
But grave disasters, as such wanton wrecks,
Are faults of humans, not the faults of sex.
Although she failed, women now progress
With wits and valor, proving great success.
Yet all too often, women use their brain
In selfish cunning or in private gain.
Those greedy women, like some reckless beasts,
Must raid the cupboard and commence their feasts.
So filled with food, and drunk with freedom's strength,
They flap their wings to run the runway's length.
Intoxicated by the thrill of flight,
Such war-borne women wrongly want to fight,
Desert their sex, and act like any man,
Attempt the heights that only angels can;
Compete with husbands dressed in ties and suits,
They soar the skies, forgetting all their roots.
Without discretion, wits--as well as cash--
A harried husband's bankrupt in a flash.
A genius wife's a chain around your neck:
Yes, too much smartness makes a woman wreck.
12 MORE PAGES...TO BE CONTINUED......
The following is a letter which is in the process of being written to Senator Kennedy. It is not currently finished...
[IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS LETTER IS INTENDED TO ACCOMPANY A SERIES OF AUDIO TAPES WHICH ARE BEING PREPARED FOR SENATOR KENNEDY AND MEMBERS OF THE MEDIA]
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Senator Edward M. Kennedy
The United States Senate
Washington, DC
My dearest Senator Kennedy:
As the symbolic and perfunctory head of the Democratic Party, I speak to you. You have lost your youth, your status, your power--and nearly--your life. Yet you, Sir, remain--to this day--the perennial figuehead of the G.O.P.P.--the Grand Old Party of the People. You have failed time and time again to win the trust and confidence of the nation at-large, yet you have re-surfaced (no pun intended) as the proverbial Cape Cod turtle whose hardened shell predisposes it to receive the ungracious knocks and poundings of a hypercritical public. Ja, mein Leib, you have survived! You, my Friend and Leader, are the Sole Survivor! Ya vives!
But today, my dearest Senior Senator, I have written you--not to ruminate over your personal life--but rather, to spotlight that dark, creeping cancer that has rooted itself inside the heart of the Democratic Party, and threatens to destroy the total organism of our nation.
I have never in my life considered the Republican Party as my party. They are too aloof, too wealthy, and too arrogant for me. Yet I cannot choose Democrats for friends either, because of their stand on social standards, freedom of religion in schools, and abortion. Those three issues alone are enough to drive me away from the burden of brotherhood with those Donkey Drivers of America.
In recent years, serious problems in the Democratic Party have come as a result more from the inside of the party than from outside. Voter dissatisfaction with the "People's Party" finds its roots, not in the Republican threat, but rather, from the lack of change to conform to the mainstream political matrix of the United States. Since Lyndon Johnson, there has been no real Democratic landslide, a showing of overwhelming public support for the Democratic candidate. This has come primarily as a offshoot of political apathy, but also as a response to an increasingly conservative climate in America has made it more-and-more difficult for liberal candidates to survive. Johnson's landslide was due mainly to a collectve public guilt following the JFK assassination, along with a desire to see a "Kennedy man" return to power. The charisma of JFK was so intense that when Johnson nearly destroyed the nation with Vietnam, people felt betrayed and humiliated that Johnson didn't "measure up" to his expectations from the plebicite. [Added 9/9]
This is not to say, however, that Kennedy was a good President. In fact, he wa only average; but the image in people's minds was so inflated by fiction, that he seemed close to holy. The reality was, that had JFK never been assassinated, he would have either fallen from scandalous reports of his sexual behavior, or had died from Addison's disease, his chronic back problems, or a heart attack before his term was finished. His assassination was a horrible thing, but no one wants to confront the notion that he was a crippled man whose sense of government was limited by both physical and mental restraints.
Bobby Kennedy was an entirely different matter. Had he lived and become President, he probably would have exceeded his brother in statesmanship and political worth. Of course, his attention to the affairs of government was not good, and he certainly had an inferior legislative program to LBJ, but in reality, his charisma would have carried him through.
Of all of the Kennedys--good and bad--one gets the sense that certain of you have been ignored by the course of history, while others have had a much more disporportionate share of the limelight. Certainly, Rose was not ignored, yet she will never recieve the historical attention that will be accorded to Joe. Notwithstanding natural forces that are beyond human control, Rosemary was given the worst treatment of all of the Kennedys; one feels that she was an embarrassment to the wealthier of the New England clan. I cannot help but feel that she (along with numerous others) was rolled over in the attempt to look as "politically correct" as possible to the public. Eunice, too, was not treated fairly by the judgement of time. Her sterling Catholic morals remain the best testement to the former greatness of the Irish clan. Had some of her prudence rubbed-off on you, you might have risen to the Presidency in 1982 instead of Reagan. [added 9/15, revised 9/25]
Because of fears or lassitude, it seems that in recent years, the Kennedy clan has gone "underground". You rarely hear about your son Patrick, even though he should be (at this point) the most powerful of all of the Kennedys. If he would play his cards right, he could be the next President--or at the very least--the next Vice-President. With all due respect to either party, Patrick could do a better job in the White House with one leg than Clinton could do with three. [Added 9/25]
THIS SECTION UNFINISHED...
But change will come--and come quickly!
The Republicans currently have control over both houses of Congress, the Supreme Court, and certain portions of the Executive Branch. They control a vast majority of the states' governorships and state houses. The complete and final catastrophe of the Democratic Party (a catastrophe which has been both caused and averted by Clinton) could still occur if the President were impeached and removed from office. Nothing--not war nor a national holocaust--could be worse for you.
Therefore, let us briefly examine the Lewinsky "affair" (no pun intended) and attempt to find an exit from that darkened movie theater of horrors which has so enshrouded our nation in a dim fog of iniquity.
First of all, it should come as no surprise to the voters who put Clinton in office that he is a lecherous man. They all had ample warning, as he admittted to his unethical relationship with Gennifer Flowers long before the 1996 elections. We all knew that he was capable of such dishonest acts. But in my opinion, it is not Clinton, but rather, the voters who are to blame. Everybody knew whom they were electing. (Unfortunately--I am ashamed to say--I did not vote in that particular election. In previous elections, I voted mostly for Democrats; but in recent years, I have seen no candidate who so closely embodied my beliefs to induce me to vote for him. As for Clinton, he had never approached the spotless integrity of Jimmy Carter--whom I voted for--nor the aggressive vitality of Lyndon Johnson.) Clinton's popularity is due to one basic factor: there is no one else so powerful to fill the vacuum of his Presidency. But in one sense, this is fortunate, because I would shudder to think of Clinton as a raving, power-hungry man.
[LETTER FRAGMENTS OF THIS SAME CORRESPONDENCE...]
I am, perhaps alone in the belief that Clinton's speech of the week before last was one of the finest speeches in the History of Man. It was a brilliant coup and a masterful work of art. Once, about two years ago, while listening to the radio, I heard the Chicagoland broadcaster, Harry Teinowitz comment that a certain letter which he had read was short, pithy, and to-the-point. Now, as brevity or terseness of writing has never been one of my strong points, I felt a bit angry at Harry and his comment. In my writings and narratives, I always seem to feel a need to elaborate and add more and more detail, as I fovever want to define and explain things that may be vague or misunderstood; yet, in fact, in certain specific cases, an economy of words is much to be desired. And, most definately, on one bleak Monday night earlier this month, our President's sparsness of words was shown to its best advantage.
Clinton most definately seemed seriously repentant for his former sins, and without excessive sugar, apologized to his wife and the public at-large. He did not invoke the glorious name of Jesus Christ, leaving both Muslims and Jews to share in his honest recovery. And though he considered his repentance a personal mattter, he made it abundantly clear that he sat before the Lord's judgement, and had to abide by the Rules of the Universe. Clinton's joyous Victory over sin and possibly--over damnation--is a Victory for all of us.
Clinton's speech was great in many respects. He was forceful without rage; poignant without sweetishness; brutally honest without embellishment; and repentant without sissified behavior. He was balanced without excessive emotion, and showed the public that he could be strong while being repressed by a variety of demonic forces. It was an excellent show of rhetorical florish that marks Clinton as a good politician and even-tempered soul.
The real issue here is not "obstruction of justice" or perjury, but rather, the sex act itself, which should be avoided (as Clinton performed it) by all properly thinking human beings. We all slip and let down our guard at some point or another: temptation strikes us all with equally forceful capriciousness, and creates no small havoc in our brains. It is only the corageous few who have the necessary wisdom and the rectitude to quell our mental tornadoes, put down the Devil, and be One with the Lord.
Yet one important matter still remains....it remains for the United States Congress to impeach President Clinton. The police actions of Judge Starr are both preposterous and illegal--illegal because only Congress has the authority to try a sitting President or to question the propriety of his actions in any way. The Executive Branch cannot investigate itself, as this would be a violation of the Balance of Powers which the framers of the Consitution had intended. No President can or should answer to a faceless "Independent Counsel" which is impudently wields its bastardly power over a pressured (and seemingly powerless) President.
Impeachment should not be feared, but welcomed--welcomed as an opportunity for President Clinton to clear his name and propound his mandate before the full House of Representatives. It will not be a time for a continual lugubrious depression, but an occassion for great speeches and oratory from some of the finest minds in the country. Yes, it is an inherent hypocricy for the sinner to judge the sinner, yet the criminal should speak out against a fellow criminal, no matter how trivial the crime. Chairman Hyde is still capable and must be capable to judge Clinton's crimes--however bizzare the proceedings might seem to us.
Finally, however, the matter will boil-down, not to a question of Law, but to a question of relativity. There is not one Member who believes that the whole episode should be summarily dismissed without a review, but there is not one Member who believes that Clinton's crimes are the worst which have been committed in the White House. The whole thing will be seen in the total context of what did and what could have happened. [Added 9/25]
If all goes well, the impeachment process will die in the House of Representatives, but if the Republicans press the matter to its maturity, Clinton will be reviewed and tried by the Senate, who, if their judgement is sound, should find him innocent from a lack of solid evidence showing that he committed any crime.
Now that the Impeachment process has started, we all wait breathlessly for the outcome. Orrin Hatch, in his characteristic moderation, calls for "censure" instead of for Impeachment. No one, however, seems to realize that the Consititution makes no provision for censure. The founding fathers did not intend for a President to be censured on trivial matters; therefore, they installed an "all or nothing" proviso that requires that the President be impeached or let go. The reason for this is simple: if the Congress had the means to rebuke every President for every infraction of Law, much of the Congress's time would be taken up in procedures against the President, and little would be accomplished. The drawers of the Constitution seemed to be saying: either throw his ass out of office, or keep him in with all of his faults and problems--there is no middle ground. [Added 9/15]
Unfortunately, there may be no choice but to censure. Even though the founding fathers would frown on censure as fairly useless, they did not specifically prohibit it. Diplomacy is the heart of politics, and it is this time that it should really shine. Okay, Orrin--get to work!!! [Added 9/25]
Anyone who watched the "60 Minutes" episode on 9/13 saw a good piece of journalism. The editors covered all the bases in their in-depth treatment of the Clinton scandal. Leslie Stahl was her usual beautiful self and asked some provoking questions without seeming harsh or cruel to the person being interviewed. The interview of the trio of former Watergate prosecutors was also very well done. It was interesting to watch the expressions of the Catholic priest as he saw the two Republicans on either side of him call for the castigation or censure of Clinton. The priest seemed to know more of human nature than his companions and desired to see Clinton let go. It was clear to him that the charges against the President--though by no means trivial--were no cause for his removal from office. [Added 9/15]
It is so very strange how small and seemingly insignificant things can produce monumental changes in society's supposed iron-clad fabric. For example, one Russell Eugene Weston, no paragon of mental stablity to begin with, was thrown over the brink by his mother's demands that he kill all of the cats on her property. After the iniallation of two of the Lord's blessed creatures, his overpowering guilt forced him to the doors of Congress to exterminate the two innocent policemen whom he thought guilty of his crimes. In his twisted, tortured brain, those two cops represented the two most evil people in his life--his parents. They had to pay for his crimes of hate, and thus, he wrongly and illegally ended their lives. Instead of lashing-out at his ignorant mother, he sought a release in violence of the most henious sort.
Liars like Roe Conn, who spread their anti-cat cancer over the airwaves, are akin to the worst of our species. If you cannot love a furry, innocent creature with sweet, wholesome eyes, who can you love? These seems to be little hope for the human race if the disease of cat haters is allowed to propagate and flourish. People who disseminate anti-cat rhetoric are selfish monuments to all that is ugly in the world.[Stricken 9/25]
Roe, if you are reading this--and I know you are, then you should try and right the wrong that you did when you unfairly cancelled your website and left me in the lurch. You must realize that my numbers (those website visitors who are registered at the bottom of this page) are exceptionally low, amounting to only two or three "hits" per week. In fact, you are probably the ONLY person besides myself who is "visiting" this web page. When I was on your website, I was realizing at least ten times that amount. I am not saying that you have some obligation to me to publicize my name; however, there was an implicit agreement that you were to keep your website active regardless of contrary circumstances, and it is now that I am insisting on you to perform your duty to reinstate your website immediately.[Added 9/25]
Nothwithstanding all of your illogical actions, I have some idea that this web page is being distributed by you to others in the media, because I have heard some indirect comments which lead me to believe that you are "faxing" these web pages to others without telling them who or where they are from. Call it lunacy, but I think that there is some great game-playing going on, and I don't really enjoy it. Roe, I think you can do better than that. Why waste your time in "faxing" when you could be telling your friends the "URL" of my website directly!... It would not be at all prohibited for you to "talk me up" and drop my name at the appropriate time and location. But, ah! What's the use! I have stopped trying to understand the illogical behavior of you folks in the media because it frustrates me and drives me up against a brick wall that is impossible to penetrate. I realize that most of your suspicions are fueled by fear and jelousy and the desire to maintain the status quo. And there is no doubt that a very small portion of your fears are justified; however, there is no question that I am going to get to you somehow and someway, so putting-off a sensible diologue betweeen us is hurting YOU more than me. You fear what you do not understand, and YOUR FEARS WILL NOT HELP YOU! We both could profit from a better, more open relationship. Your ratings, your image, and your psychological balance could all be helped by my creative input; ignoring me will serve no purpose at all![Added 9/25]
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[TO BE COMPLETED SOON..]
I do not herein attempt to choose the next President--that is for the voters of this country to do; however there are some nagging probabilities in my mind which I wish to extract for the benfit of the reader of this monograph. Here, I shall endeavor to objectively predict the outcome of the 2000 presidental race. Not everything here will come true, but I believe that much of it has a solid basis in fact and the predictable tendencies of the American voter.
THE FOLLOWING PROJECTIONS ARE BASED ON HYPOTHETICAL SITUATIONS; THEY ARE NOT BASED ON THE WILLINGNESS OF THE CANDIDATES TO RUN OR NOT TO RUN, THUS CLINTON IS CHOSEN TO RUN FOR VICE-PRESIDENT EVEN THOUGH HE WILL MOST LIKELY NOT CHOOSE TO DO SO...
FOR PRESIDENT....FOR VICE-PRESIDENT...TICKET WILL...REASON
Hatch.............................John McCain.....................WIN................Both likeable personalities
Hatch.............................Jon Kyl............................LOSE...............................Kyl is unknown
Hatch................................B. Nighthorse Campbell.......LOSE..................Campbell is unknown, acceptance of NAs is still limited
Hatch................................Lauch Faircloth...........LOSE..................Faircloth is too conservative, unknown
Hatch................................John Ashcroft.....................LOSE.........Ashcroft is unknown
Hatch..................................Rush Limbaugh..................LOSE............Limbaugh cannot work with Hatch
McCain.....................................Orrin Hatch.........................LOSE...........Both have too few electoral votes; McCain is too conservative for national appeal
McCain................................Newt....................................LOSE............Both together are too conservative
McCain................................John W. Warner....................LOSE.......Warner is unknown outside of Virginia and the Senate
McCain..................................Phil Gramm..........................LOSE.........Gramm is too quiet, unknown
Newt....................................Orrin Hatch......................LOSE...............Hatch cannot help Newt much; Newt needs a dynamite VP with national draw
Newt...................................Trent Lott..........................LOSE.............Both from the South
Gov. George Bush...............Orrin Hatch.............................LOSE.............Hatch cannnot "liberalize" Bush
Gov. George Bush...............Newt..............................LOSE...............Both are too conservative
Gephardt...............................Patrick Kennedy.............WIN..................Kennedy strong in areas where Gephardt is weak
Gephardt................................Clinton..........................WIN...................Clinton is still loved by millions
Gephardt................................H. Ross Perot................WIN................Perot still has immense support
Gephardt.................................Richard J. Daley, Jr................LOSE.............Daley cannot pull the West or South
Gephardt................................Jerry Seinfeld................... WIN.................Seinfeld is extremely popular in all regions
Gephardt................................Tom Harkin.....................LOSE...................Harkin is too liberal
Gephardt................................Mario Cuomo...................LOSE...............Cuomo is too regional, too liberal
Gore........................................Patrick Kennedy.......................WIN........The Kennedy name
Gore.........................................Richard Gephardt.............WIN................Both are moderates
Gore.....................................Carol Moseley Braun............LOSE..............Braun is too liberal, BF acceptance still limited
Gore........................................Jerry Brown..................LOSE...............Brown too liberal; he has lost his appeal through the years
Gore........................................Jesse Jackson...............LOSE...............Jackson too liberal; B acceptance still limited
Gore.....................................Joe Lieberman......................LOSE......Lieberman is weak in West, too liberal
Gore.....................................Bob Kerrey..........................LOSE.........Kerrey is mostly unknown
Gore.....................................Dianne Feinstein.................LOSE..............Same for Boxer--Feinstein is too liberal
Gore......................................Ralph Nader......................LOSE.............Nader is too liberal; he has lost much of his appeal
Gore.......................................Jerry Seinfeld..................LOSE..............Both running together are too weak
Perot.......................................Al Gore.............................LOSE...........Perot running as Dem can't win
Perot.......................................Clinton................................LOSE.................Both from same region
NOTE: THE OUTCOME OF NOVEMBER PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS WHICH ARE SHOWN TO HAVE BOTH DEM AND REP WINNERS ARE "TOO CLOSE TO CALL"...........
Hatch.............................Newt..................................WIN................Newt strong in South; Hatch in West
Hatch.............................Gov. Bush..........................LOSE............. Bush is too conservative for the mainstream
Hatch............................George H.W. Bush...........LOSE...........President Bush is somewhat colorless
Hatch..................................Richard Lugar...................LOSE................Lugar is old-fashioned
Hatch...................................Colin Powell..................LOSE.............Acceptance of B candidates still limited
Newt....................................Rush Limbaugh......................WIN........Both carry their regions; Newt rides on Limbaugh's mass appeal
Newt....................................Gov. George Bush..................LOSE..............Both from the South
Gov. George Bush........................John McCain............................LOSE..............Both are too conservative
Gov. George Bush................George H.W. Bush....................LOSE.............No comment
Gephardt..............................Al Gore.............................WIN................Both carry their regions; both have across-the-board appeal
Gephardt................................Jerry Brown...................LOSE...............Despite California's huge numbers, Brown has lost his draw
Gephardt................................Bob Kerrey.....................LOSE...........Kerrey is unknown
Gephardt................................Jesse Jackson...................LOSE..............Jackson is too liberal; B acceptance still not strong
Gore.........................................Cinton............................WIN.................Clinton's support is solid
Gore........................................H. Ross Perot...................WIN..............Gore strong in South; Perot in West
Gephardt.....................................Richard J. Daley,Jr...................LOSE.............Daley cannot pull the West or East
Gore.....................................Barbara Boxer.......................LOSE..........Boxer is too liberal
Gore.....................................Daniel Moynihan.................LOSE...........Moynihan is too liberal, too regional, and too old
Perot......................................Orrin Hatch........................LOSE...........Perot running as Rep can't win
Perot.......................................Richard Gephardt................LOSE................Perot running as Dem can't win
Perot.......................................Edward Kennedy..................LOSE...............Two different philosophies
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>[NOTE: THE GAPS IN THIS NARRATIVE WILL BE FILLED IN AT A LATER DATE]
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JULY 1998
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[this portion incomplete]
Thu 30
The water in the shower was almost too hot. I wanted to find out the price for the trailer rentals, so I went to the camp store. The owner was not in, but the boy, Scott, walked over to greet me. I then asked the price of the trailer rentals. He said that they were $25/night or $150/week--too high for me. I then asked the price of the cabins, expecting them to be a little higher, but strangely enough, they were the same price as the trailers. I then inquired about the other small towns in the area. He replied as he did the previous evening--courteously and accurately in his descriptive diction and speech. We left the area around noon, heading north toward Blanchardville. The roads in the area were steep and curvy, but smooth and well-marked. The countryside consisted mostly of farms interspersed with woods. When we reached a fork in the road, instead of going all the way to Blanchardville, I veered westward toward Hollandale, where I asked a man driving a pick-up truck which way it was to Dodgeville. He responded with a curt "follow me!" as he zoomed off toward the northwest. He guided us about six miles down the highway before he turned-off on a small dirt road to the right. I waved, thanking him for his courtesy.
Dodgeville is a nice town--not too big nor too small--for visitors and residents alike. In Dodgeville, we stopped at a gas station, where Is went inside to purchase a local paper. In the hot sun, I leafed through the paper, looking for an apartment or a job. There were many surprises, not the least of which was that the apartments there were relatively reasonable, and that there seemed to be a variety of jobs. While no great megatropolis, Dodgeville had its share of economic progress. After about 20 minutes, we went back into town to the local library, where I put some more material on Roe and Garry's website. In fact, that was one of my last entries on their soon-to-be-extinct home page. All told, we were in the library from 3:00 to around 6:00. We then headed north, stopping at an IGA on the nothern outskirts of Dodgeville. While I waited in the van, Is went in and got some groceries. After she came out, we went about a half a mile east to the A+W Root Beer drive-in. One look at the menu, however, told me that it was too much for a small hole-in-the wall place; and, after about ten minutes of waiting for the slow-poke waitress, I took off.
As we headed northward toward the Wisconsin River, we passed the Governor Dodge State Park, my planned camping destination for that evening. As Is was asking the prices inside the gatehouse, I was secretly hopeing that it wouldn't be a rip-off as so many other places in Wisconsin seemed to be. But I was wrong. When Is came out, she announced that it would be a total of $17 for one night! I floored the accellerator, and zoomed away. It was already 6:40, and getting dark. Where we would camp, I didn't know, but I headed in the general direction of Northern Iowa country and the rolling lower hills on the South side of the Wisconsin River. Shortly after leaving the State Park, I took a side road toward Spring Valley, three miles or so west of the main road. Near Spring Valley was a campground which was repeatedly announced by a series of small signs; we went in the heavily forested entrance to the lodge, which stood about 100 yards from the main entrance. No one was inside--or at least nobody responded to Is's knock when she called at the door. But from the looks of the place, I could tell that it was expensive, especially considering the fact that--out of hundreds of spots--only one camper was there.
After we left that deserted place, we headed westward once again, weaving our way in-and-out of the lush valley floor that seemed to have more trees than I had ever seen in that part of Wisconsin.
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AUGUST 1998
Saturday 01
Sometime after midnight, two coons entered the campsite and got into the dishes box where we had left a large bag of potato chips. A loud crunching sound followed as the coons began munching the chips. Is went out of the tent to shoo them away and to put the chips in the van. Very cool early AM--cotton blanket not sufficient; weather turned hotter PM. We had eggs (with swiss cheese and soy sauce) for breakfast. In the afternoon, the skies were clear, and we decided to take a walk to the beach. It was very crowded--as it was a hot, summer day--with about 300 people sitting, standing, walking, wading, or swimming in-and-around Blackhawk Lake. We sat down near the shade of a large tree; M made friends with a dog named "Taffy", a beautiful white-and-beige cocker spaniel. M petted her and several other dogs. We got to know the owner of "Taffy", who was a well-spoken Yuppie, probably from Madison. We all sat for a while on the grass drinking sodas and resting; then, after about a half-hour, we went in the water. I suppose I have been spoiled (in terms of swimming sites) because I didn't find the shallow, algae-filled waters of Blackhawk Lake to inviting. In addition, there were almost a hundred people in the swimming area (which was cordoned-off from the deeper waters with a bouyed rope) that made swimming laps a virtual impossibility. In spite of all of its defects, however, the cooling lake waters were certainly refreshing on a hot summer day, and we managed to enjoy ourselves anyway. As a few other rowdy types, I went outside the limits of the swimming area, and heading for deeper water, swimming laps close to the rope's outer line. When I got tired, I came back inside and splashed around with Is a while; our total time in the lake was about one hour. After we got back to shore, we rested on the grass for about another hour, then proceeded to walk back to the campsite. CONTINUED...999
Sunday 02
Mostly sunny, turning cloudy in the PM. Very cool (but quiet) in the early morning--about 50 degrees. Is got up first to collect wood. I awoke a little later, at 10 AM; at that time, Is was already tending the fire. There was no milk or eggs, so Is made toast (with swiss cheese on top), coffee, and green olives for breakfast. I saw two cardinals--one male, one female--in the bushes. I also saw a large blue jay in the trees. Is went to wash the dishes and the charcoal grill. At 12:30, we left the area. Mileage now 143567.
I liked Blackhawk Lake, but due to the situation of our campsite, the luxurious fees, and the hostile looks of the park rangers, I was almost glad to leave. We headed out on the same spur road which we had used coming in to the park. It wound through the hills of Southern Wisconsin, and provided us with some relaxing repose as we studied the scenery. About five miles later, the road ended at Highway 80, where we found a man selling sweet corn from his truck. Is went out and bought some. Afterwards, we headed south on Highway 80, seven miles to the town of Cobb, a small village. There, we crossed Highway 18, heading south on a series of unknown county trunk roads (like "E"), snaking our way back-and-forth ten miles southeast to the town of Mineral Point. Mineral Point is not one of my most favorite towns, since it relies somewhat on a "chic" image of its history and its previous historical fame. In addition, there was a cop crusing up-and-down the main street who seemed to have little else to do than to study the newcomers (meaning us) who entered his jurisdiction. I parked the van on the mainstreet, and waited while Is did the laundry, 1:20 to 2:20 PM. As I sat there, I studied the old-fashioned shops which lined the major street, and wrote these notes in my diary. The skies turned cloudy and the temperature cooled. Outside, a passing woman gave Is a local Sunday newspaper. Afterwards, a gorgeous redhead entered the Johnson Art Gallery at 2:20 PM. The weather turned hot and humid as I eyed some tourists walking in the downtown area. As we got ready to leave, the redhead came out and passed by me on the sidewalk. I saw that her face didn't quite match her body in loveliness, and my fantasy was destroyed.
After we departed Mineral Point, we headed south on Highway 23 toward Darlington. Metamophic and igneous outcrops of rock were common SE of Mineral Point. Darlington is surrounded by agricultural land; it is a quiet town of little interest except to the people who live there. There is a beautiful statue of a cardinal-bird at Hill and Gallery Streets. Near the southern outskirts of Darlington, we filled up with gas; price: $1.09/gal. South of Darlington, we stopped at a cheese factory, but no one was there; perhaps they all were out milking the cows! A few miles later, we stopped at a Roelli's Cheese, a rip-off cheese store much smaller than its prices. There, I urged Is to get a booklet of maps of Wisconsin instead. We worked our way eastward as we studied the softly rolling hills of Southern Wisconsin. A mile east of the chesse store was a statue of a bear on the right side. A mile after the bear, was a small wayside park, also on the right; then, a mile after that stood another statue--this time of a deer--on the left.
Gratiot--a small village in Southern Wisconsin almost right up against the border of Illinois. Its small population of 200 was almost totally asleep or absent when we passed through that afternoon. Virtually the whole town is built on a hillside above a small, narrow, brownish sluggish creek. As we left Gratiot, we saw some grazing country to the west, all the way to the Illinois State line. After we entered Illinois, corn cultivation became more intense, and the land gradually flattened out. Warren--quaint, quiet town. Nora--even quieter--has a beautiful sign advertising its population of 164 residents. It sit right by the railroad tracks, surrounded by giant cornfields on both sides. Nice view to the west of patchwork fields. Lena--no interest--very flat. Mostly cropland all the way to Freeport. That Sunday, Freeport had little traffic; Is got at a gas station to ask where Aldi was; then we realized that it was Sunday, and Aldi would have been closed. So we went to the nearby Eagle Foods instead. There, Is went inside with M to get some groceries; I waited in the van. When Is got back, we drove south. About three miles down the main road, we saw Cub Foods; I almost kicked myself because I knew that Cub was a recognized leader in low-priced groceries and probably had more variety than the Eagle Food store that we had just visited. So, even though we had enough groceries, I decided to stop anyway. Is went in, got more groceries, and a bag of ice. From Cub Foods, we headed southward on Highway 26 through several plain rural towns surrounded by cornfields. North of Dixon, the countryside turned a little more wooded, perhaps because we were approaching the Rock River valley.
Dixon is a medium-sized town--not too big or too small. Toward the southern end of Dixon, one block west of the main drag and highway, Galena Street, lies the boyhood home of Ronald Reagan. We had plenty of time to explore, so I decided to stop. Because it was after closing time, the interior of the home was closed, but the exterior grounds were open to the public. We stopped for about fifteen minutes and studied the lovely home. The house itself was not pretentious or gaudy in any way, and fit well into the matrix of middle-class Midwestern homes on its block. However, notwithstanding the humble harmony which it seemed to exude, Reagan's home was by no means smaller than the average house in Dixon; and its immaculate appearance--an appearance amplfied by restoration and excellent maitenance--was even quite imposing. The sturdy two-story clapboard-wooden home was painted virgin white and had long curtains which shielded spotlessly-clean windows.
The cold formality and the bleached effect of the white siding was offset, however, by the beauty of the grounds surrounding the house. On an average Midwestern-sized lot in a non-descript neighborhood, the mood of Reagan's home was made more merry by the lightness of the lawn, the green of the grass and the spots of yellow flowers which accented the outside of the block-like structure. But to many visitors, I am sure, the fairness of the flowers would have waved unnoticed before the moot majesty of the former President's home--a haughty-humble home looming as a solid sentenniel and stoic symbol of the Average American.
In the midst of all of the grass and flowers, a bronze statue of Reagan stood--like a similiar statue of Kennedy in front of the JFK Library in Boston--as a remider of Reagan as a man of action--not of leisure. The statue's arms were aggressively akimbo and Reagan's legs were limber in a walking pose as the setting sun seemed to highlight his more serious features. It was an active characterization of Reagan within the zest of his youth.
Everything there seemed relaxed in righteousness. No fence surrounded the property, as no man secure in his own satisfactions needs a barrier to the outside world. In many respects, the house was really an ordinary one: had the house been thrown into the open market without Reagan's name attached to it, it would have commanded less than $70,000. But that is not the point. Thie most important matter is not the materialistic reality, but rather, the spiritual one which is evident only to those who are willing to see it.
But, alas, the sunshine's decreasing strength signalled that it was time to depart from these pleasant surroundings and continue our trip. As we drove away from the Reagan residence, I turned right onto the main highway and headed southward out of town. Reagan's neighborhood is located just a few blocks from the southern edge of Dixon and a small tributary of the Rock River, which flows sedately westward toward the Mississippi. Immediately, on the other side of the Rock River, the unlimited Illinois cornfields resumed to fill the countryside and abruptly opened-up the landscape to its most glorious expansion.
Once we were free of Dixon, I relaxed anew as the surrounding scenery seemed to melt into my soul like an incantation. But just as my mind melded with the harmonious whole of the universe, new problems urged their way into my life and threatened to create havoc in our plans. Off to the west, all the way to the horizon, billowing mammocumulus clouds hung like dark black breasts from the sky. I pointed out the rare formations to M, who kept pelting me with questions about the significance of the clouds. I had known from my scientific studies that these clouds were the ones most likely to produce tornadoes, and I did not sugar-coat their possible danger. But since it was the end of the summer, and the season for tornadoes had already ended, our discussion seemed merely academic. At any rate, it was fun to banter around the likelihood of seeing that most terrible of all storms.
Yes, I knew that the chance of witnessing a tornado was zero, yet the possibility of seeing one twisting across the Great Prairie fired our imaginations and made us study the pendulous sky with childish enthusiasm. All of us watched the blackness to the West and attempted to see funnel clouds where there were none in a static, stormy sky spread with squalls. The ominous udders of the mammocumulus made us reflective of the realities of Midwestern weather--its fantastic forms and its carefree capriciousness--always ready to change and surprise us with unique wonders.
At one point, M felt the desire to communicate, asking provocative questions about the life of Ronald Reagan. "Why was he so popular?" She seemed genuinely mystified by his charisma. I thought a while; discounting the possibilities of politics as a reason, I felt that the inner workings of the man himself was at the heart of the matter. "He was popular because he loved people," I said finally, "--and he smiled." Yes, really, I could find no better answer than that, and I knew that that would satisfy her. Yes, in reality, politics itself had nothing to do with the genius of Reagan. A Kennedy liberal could--and did--the same. It was the basic character of Reagan himself--simple, honest, straightforward, and witty--that was the paramount source of his success and personal magnetism. His ideas almost seemed secondary.
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TEST AREA...
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