Childhood To Dotage
My story starts in 1944 (*) and peaks during 1973~1987 (—but points to 2006’s TV news: The CIA Director of Intel appointment delay; federal snooping of all civilian phone calls; Israel’s furious replay of its 1982 destruction of Lebanon; et alia.).
Yup, 62 years is a lot of sewage under the bridge! But I try to keep things moving by writing in “stream of consciousness” style, just as it comes out of my noggin, and offering mostly “vignettes”—-tiny pieces of interesting memories that stick out like knitting needles from a ball of yarn—-bits that affected the way things went for me later in life. I hope all the pieces of the puzzle fall together as I jump about.
My critic says my complaints about “them” read like a “polemic”—a religious disputation. I believe my occasional moans are more about the historic, unbelievably enormous waste of American tax dollars—-for supporting failed fiefdoms who manufacture bullshit for gullible government officials and civilians—-than it is a criticism of federal religious bigotry.
Finally, be advised: I am making no attempt at writing a “memoir”—-Godforbid, that slop would be longer than “War and Peace”! !
(*) SIDEBAR: If you think 1944 is too far back to be relative to this tale, allow me to tell you about my acquaintance “Little Rabbits”, a hunter at age 10, who kept his family from starving [–there were no government “welfare” programs back then–] when his ‘Da, “Big Rabbits”, went to Slammerville for Big Box Burglary.
“Little Rabbits” was deadly. Used a single-shot break-top Sears .22 caliber rifle. Could hit a rabbit on-the-fly! Every time. Deadly! And the rabbit was just as dead as if you hit it with a “high-power”.30-.30. His example taught me to respect the tiny .22 cartridge when others scoffed at it, and led me to respect my same-age acquaintance as a sage and seer. “Little Rabbits” had gone through the heartbreak of his father [‘Da] being sent off, leaving his mum with 3 kids to raise and bleak prospects, but he didn’t seem to sour. No cigarettes or similar tough-guy show, just a focus on survival.
One summer day, when he wasn’t collecting bottles to return to the store for pennies, or doing the other money-raising things he did, us guys were gathered next to the high metal mesh gate of the neighborhood churchyard that The Big Kids were teaching us how to vault. “Little Rabbits” didn’t talk much, so I tried to break the ice by telling about last night’s “This Is Your FBI” radio show. Wow! “Dem’ guys di’nt fool around—you shoulda’ heard the Tommy Guns—-Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppp!!” He was neither sarcastic nor condescending, just to the point. He gently put a hand on my shoulder and said “Hey kid—you know da’ difference between da’ Mob and da’ FBI?”
“Geez..…I’m not sure”
“Well, kid—-da’ Mob is got Tommy Guns and da’ FBI is got Tommy Guns—-but the FBI is da’ only ones is got Badges!”
That was a stunning lesson in government.
Later, I saw corrupt cops in chauffer-driven squad cars, heard of crooked judges and learned to be very wary of armed “chicken inspectors” and other officialdom, but nothing lasted as long as “Little Rabbit’s” words.
Of course, our neighborhood’s Pollocks [Polish] and Hunkies [Hungarians] and Jews—-some of whom had barely escaped being sent off to the death camps—-taught me more serious and delicate lessons about avoiding the Polizie—and the Stasi—and the government apparatchiks. (The Micks [Irish] only taught us how to drink and fight about nonsense, and the Dagos [Italians] only taught us how to steal tomatoes and peppers from Dominic’s yard. The irony is that our family is of Irish descent and I married a second generation Italian)
There will be readers aghast at my “breach of national security at a time of rampant Terrorism!” in 2006. Aghast, you say? Again, hidden political agenda bullshit. They and the Cocaine Cowboy from Crawfordville, TeXIS, and the Bush-can-do-anything-and-its-OK-by-me Neanderthals in Randolph, Utah, ain’t never seen, smelled, touched, or heard actual “Terrorism”, except as a photo opportunity.
For example, check out “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland during the ‘70s. Count the police murdered, soldiers murdered, Priests murdered, civilians murdered–often in front of their families, and the bombings, kidnappings, robberies and other crimes funded by misguided romantic American financers of the Provisional Irish Republican Army.
Once, while I was on business assignment in Belfast, my landlady disclosed that her policeman son had to leave The Land of the Happy Leprechauns to keep from being whacked by the IRA.
That’s Terrorism, y’all, unlike the politically-motivated-scare-them-to-death propaganda and Ninth Christian Crusade racial hatred spewing from 2006’s Idiot Cowpoke pretending to be “a war president”.
No Names Please
I avoid recognizable personal identities where appropriate, to prevent unwarranted disclosures and embarrassment to colleagues or their survivors. I insert fictitious names thus: [Jim]. You wouldn’t recognize the real names, but some hostile might. Anyhow, most of the principals are either dead by now or working in China.
Some dates and places are deliberately vague. I insert fictitious places thus: [Miami]. They are not important to you, but some hostile might connect them.