A Soldier’s State

((November 24, 2009) (for: General Jorge Isaac V. Bardales))

An Article of Opinion by: Dr. Dennis L. Siluk



Twice the pride double the fall—having said that, why does one soldier take the path to the sinister side? Why has he unattached himself from the very country that has nurtured him? —only to be branded as a traitor, conspirator, collaborator, a spy—one who sells his character with information, to harm or damage one’s own country, and its countrymen, for the benefit of another country? It is by and large unusual, and therefore, makes his once beloved countrymen, uneasy. Pride, or self-importance, or self-interest is usually at the cornerstone (a strong self-interest being stronger than the devil himself at times), and when it is shifted to hurt one’s own country, it is a man with twice the Pride, and no country, for whom would have him, want him? In a way, he is a person who has gained some power—or feels he has, and to those with power, he becomes afraid to lose it (which is not uncommon); now this fellow, this traitor I am talking about, must let go of everything (the very thing he doesn’t want to let go of), everything he fears to lose he must let go of to heal, only then will he no longer be jealous, for inside of him envy and jealously resides—like white on rice, along with that double portion of pride.
There is such a man in the country of Peru now, today, and during his incarceration most recently, for spying and given or selling vital information to Chile, he is demanding his rights, although he’s forgotten his responsibilities (isn’t that how it goes usually). A man with no loyalties to Peru, no blood in the face; a friend of mine said, “…there are more like him, behind him. (God help the country of Peru if there is).”
In any case, with pert near a confession this man in question has nervous hands now, willing to sacrifice a country and his countrymen, but not himself—he is saying in essence, “My life is worth more than twenty-five million Peruvians” yes indeed, that is what he is saying loud and clear.
The matter of whether or not and by due process of law, he is guilty, to be convicted, he feels the law is something outside of him, his life anyhow, and declines to name his cohorts, Why? —for some reason he found loyalty, by gosh, real genuine allegiance, devotion—the kind of loyalty his country demand of him, that he could not give in the long run. It’s all about him now, the way he wanted it be, he’s important now, or at least he feel so.

This is that sort of something that bothered the Peruvian Army Soldiers that marched from La Oroya, to Huancayo that I visited the afternoon of the twenty-forth of November, 2009, whom marched all day the day before and the following morning of the twenty-forth, to the Plaza de Arms, with their General Jorge Isaac V. Bardales (General de Brigada); puzzling to the General—a man of strong beliefs, national pride, a soldier, a real soldier—puzzled I say that the traitor was guilty and trying to save himself, his neck, this man of no remorse, I think the General would have rather had been dead, hung himself like Judas Iscariot, when he sold out Jesus Christ for thirty-pieces of silver, had he done what the traitor had done.
“You see,” said the General, “…ten years ago, they would have shot him!”(So he told me.)
And I remarked, “Like when I was in Vietnam, a traitor then and there would have been shot likewise.”
Thus we had seen eye to eye, on this matter, standing shoulder to shoulder, although his shoulders were four or five inches above mine. Around him, the General stood with his brigade, and when I looked among the many faces of his troops, it appeared that they were likewise, wishing it was ten-years prior, so they could shoot the traitor—here and now—without a moments delay.
Somehow among the masses of Peru, there is that unexceptional air of indifference, some people wanting to save the spy, those who don’t understand it is important to love a country that you swore to protect its people, not sell them out for thirty-pieces of silver. Now if found guilty, he will be fed, clothed, given shelter, and given his rights, by tax paying people, the very ones he had no pity for, whom he had sold out to the highest bidder.

In Conclusion, perhaps there are no answers to this dilemma, why a person sells out his countrymen, his country, a soldier in particular being the very one we trust, have to trust in, and that is why this crime is more unbearable than ever; and perhaps on the other hand, the laws are too weak to detour such happenings…and the culprits know this, so they do what they do… knowing the worse is time spent: who’s to say?

Anyways, it’s and, and every so often a writer likes to tell it straight out, without putting in any beautiful adjectives and verbs and all that sort of tommyrot.


No: 524 (11-25-2009)

Hell Bound

((A Brief and Belief) (a point of view))



Who’s going to Hell? That shouldn’t be a hard question, but nowadays it seems to be. My mother once said, “Everyone thinks they’re going to heaven, what gives them such an impression?” surely not the Bible, maybe their imaginations. This is of course an opinion, but I think this is a new way of thinking. I can’t imagine any other generation, in any other time period thinking quite like this.
We are a twisted pile of burnt up wood trying to carve our own heaven on earth, thinking however we interpret God’s word, that he will honor it on the day of our death, thus we print out a license to do as we please, and live the life of the victim to him, as we stretch out our sins to infinity—right up to the morgue. Never knowing we are dead on arrival.
So who is Hell bound? I want to just hastily cover a few names, I could be wrong in these names, but according to the highways they’ve taken in life, it curbs right into Hell. Hell is the final cemetery, not earth. Let me also point out, those not headed for Hell, could be headed for Heaven, or Paradise, there is a difference. There are other statistics on where death can lead a soul, as it has been expressed in unsacred scriptures, there are 72-deaths (but not 72-Hells). But we will deal wryly with one, Hell, the infamous infernal!
One of the biggest things is for man to face reality, not live in a state of pretense, or denial, trying to be a strategist, and talk himself out of Hell while doing what he loves to do in the name of self-interest.
God at present, in this new age, is politely ignored by man, intent on meeting Him on his earthy platform—even when God gives man all the warnings in the world, he still remains unprepared, blindly refusing to face the encroaching danger of Hell.
If you are saying “Who is he to question if we are Hell Bound, or not!” This is really not a question; you know that, it is really a paranoid statement. But I shall answer it.
Today I was laying in bed, and this title “Hell Bound!” Lit up in my head, I know this is something less than hot news, but nonetheless, it lit up, and perhaps God was reminding me there was going on at this very moment, a nuclear incineration for the mass’ of souls on earth, those dying, heading for Hell. I don’t know. The Bible stresses Hell is where the enemy wants to put you; I’m not thinking of death, but Hell, a debilitating life—eternal after death. So this is my reason for writing this brief.

Now you’re going to get mad because I’m going to give you a dose of reality, what you really already know, but desire not to be truthful. First of all, where do you think Michael Jackson, the famous singer went? When I watched all those celebrities on television when he died, they made it out to be as if he was on the right hand side of Jesus Christ Himself (or headed that way). As if he was singing his way through the pearly gates. Let’s get down to earth; Mr. Jackson might have been the King of Pop Rock or whatever, but he was not the creator and author of life and death, and Hell. One needs only watch his videos, or listen to his lyrics, and look at his lifestyle—to tell he’s Hell Bound. And although I like Elvis as an entertainer, he’s most likely in the same category (along with half of Hollywood—if often amazes me these actors and actress can lay in bed naked and then think nothing of it, call it creative acting, and think God looks the other way, it is repulsive to think so). They have an edge on earth, not in the afterlife.
These new attitudes people have adopted in the face of reality, is simply another way of living in sin with victory, angels and demons know this.

Power, how much power can we have without being morbid? This is vitally important to everyone. Power and self-interest can conquer the soul; put it in Hell (we need people in high place with power under control, not out of control). I would guess, the Vatican, Washington D.C., and the Kremlin, to mention few, are such places where the ugliness of power and self-interest swims in its own romanticized traditions, and were there is less communing with God, than there should be, and where Satan Himself, gets a good selection of cross-cultural souls Hell-bound! (Many of them from the United Nations, I’m sure.)
Our new society—American and European societies, have this new found secularization, where once it was Christianization; where faith in Jesus Christ is not really given one shilling of thought. We have in this new 21st Century, a new preoccupation—everyone goes to heaven, there is no unpardonable sin—even our new President Obama feels this way, that what was cherished in traditional Christianity, is now questionable, he is for abortion, he is for war, he is for whatever everyone else is for—that being, the non Christian communities—where do you think he’s going?
We never talk about such things, why? Perhaps it is too painful for all of us. How unfortunate, perhaps we must be like children to understand the hope in heaven and eternal life.
If you are looking at death, and looking homeward, and thinking it is Heaven, not Hell, if you are thinking what eternal family you are going to live with, literally look at the Glory of Jesus Christ. Look at the reality of Satan; he also is ignored, discarded as a myth.
I imagine, and believe many of the Muslims will also have a rude awakening, I’m sure Saddam Hussein, and his war hungry, terrorist mind is now facing that. As will be Bin Laden and his massive following; he, likened to the gay community (who have come out with the new theory: ‘God made me like this’) and whoever else chooses to deny this reality, will face the alternative—hell (along with the many Christian Cults and their leaders, of the day, to include: the Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses to mention a few).

Hell is not a popular subject nowadays, and the more education one gets the quicker it fades into oblivion. On the other hand, heaven is more popular, not sure why folks are more confident in Heaven, and not in Hell (they kind of go together, in that there is a good and a bad, a right and wrong, a God and a Devil), but I would guess they have more interest in Heaven because it appears to be more promising (here comes that self-interest again).
But let me leave you with this, Jesus spoke of Hell, saying “…darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (Matthew 8.12). In 1983, I had a vision of this. I cannot find the strongest of words to describe that vision, it was just a horror.
If God is a just God, then sin must be punished, it is as simple as that.

No: 545 (12-8-2009)

The Boy from the Midwest

((From the book “Romancing San Francisco”; reedited, modified chapter,
Two for independent story) (summer of 1968))

Master Yamaguchi Teaches
[Buck becomes a Friend]


Part One of Two



The weather was warm, in San Francisco, in the summer of 1968, a breeze from the bay seeped through the city, and the Turtles, the Doors and the Beatles music were being played everywhere, along with “Elvis’ Comeback.” Everyone dressed like Sonny and Cher, or the Momma’s and the Papa’s it seemed everyone but me that is; inasmuch as I liked the way everyone dressed, I found myself still quite conservative—the boy from the Midwest.
The trees along many of the streets especially Dolores Avenue (where I would eventually, find an apartment in a mansion), were glossy green. I bought some bread and white spread-on cheese (Philadelphia cheese), brought it to the dojo (where I living temporarily) and put it in the refrigerator in the back room; I liked it, something new that I picked up in San Francisco. Along with a corner store that would make any kind of sandwich you wanted.
Because of the change in weather from Minnesota to San Francisco, my eating habits were also changing; I appeared to like the lighter foods that is, and less meats, more Chinese foods also. I really didn’t care for Japanese foodstuff. Some one brought in raw snake with white rice and offered it as a treat for all of us at the dojo one evening, it must have been Goesi, but that is a guess, I can’t remember for sure. Although I always seemed to have a good appetite, after a bite or two of the so called treat, I lost it for the rest of the evening. But as I was going to say, with all the walking, and now working at Lilli Ann (the dress designing outfit), and doing my Karate everyday, my appetite at times was vigorous.
It was great to walk the night away along the oceanfront with my karate friends, looking at the many fires along the Pacific Coast. The warmth of the fires shifted all the way to my sensory-senses, smelling the burnt-wood on the fires, the ocean, the mud, the greenery, all several of us, watching the flickering of the flames from the fires, the sparks ascending to the asteroid belt; the gibbous moon lighting up a long streak in the ocean, right to its shoreline, as if it had been called to attention right at that spot. I felt it was a good time to be alive. I loved the water; the sounds of the huge waves hitting the coast: the white foam splattering all about.

My days seemed endless, filled with so much, in comparison, to my conservative city in the Midwest, St. Paul, the city along Mississippi that ran all the way down to St. Louis, and onto New Orleans, right to the Gulf of Mexico.
As a kid I’d play down along its banks with my friend Mike Rosette. We were quite the team back in those days. We’d run in and out the caves along the cliffs that paralleled the banks of the Mississippi sometimes dodging the drunks asleep, snoring away the morning or as sometimes it would be, forenoon, and even some afternoons. But this was different, this was not the Mighty Mississippi, Mark Twain’s haven, as he so loved to write about, as I loved to walk beside as a kid, rather, this was the gigantic Pacific Ocean—that led into the South Pacific to Hawaii, Japan, and beyond. It was simply, hard for me to adjust to seeing so much water, instead of cornfields. It took my breath away, like standing in front of the Empire State Building looking up, or looking down the Grand Canyon. I had to run up to it just to say to touched it, and then able to say I got wet from it; as if it was sacred waters. But then anyone from Minnesota would have done the same I’m sure, or lied that they didn’t and did.
Also, along the Mississippi, you’d see rats as large as fat cats, or small dogs, here you saw white jellyfish, colored seashells, among a few other things. To everyone else it was common, to me I was spellbound. In St. Paul, they stopped allowing fires back in ’63, too many false alarms, and the fire station (s) got sick and tired of running for every little fire that. We no longer could burn our trash in the fifty-gallon drums we used: normal, after about six to nine months, grandpa would have me and my brother tip it over and empty it out into a dugout hole, and bury it. But those days were now gone; along with burning the fall leaves, I liked that also, the smell of the fall leaves never left my mind, my senses, the sparks from the leaves reminded me of this oceanfront fires, that the hippies had.
“Buck,” (Donald Buck) I said, asking, “…don’t the police do anything about these people laying about, drinking, smoking pot, having fires, sleeping the night away… and whatever?”
Buck looked at me strange, “No Chick, it’s just the times…everyone leaves everyone else alone here; or tries to. These people are just here for a short period of time, anyhow.”
We stood and looked over the little camps, the flames, listening to the oceanfront waves hit hard and soft, until we finally got tired and headed back to the dojo; it seemed it was the place everyone would eventually end up at.


Part Two of Two
The Fiend

“The Ghost of the Collingswood Dojo”



It was a Thursday evening, I had walked back to the dojo, it was going on 5:30 p.m., I had stopped at a Chinese restaurant, and ate dinner, some rice with beef and dark gravy and green peppers, it was delicious, and I had some green tea that sunk to the bottom of the tea-pot that also was excellent. Then again, back to the dojo. By the time I reached the dojo, everyone had left, it was 7:00 p.m., usually I got back early to workout, do some exercises, and katas, and Friday nights I avoided going back to the dojo because it was Black Belt night until 8:00 p.m. And I wasn’t at that stage yet. None-the-less, I entered the dojo, and sat back placidly against the sofa, the counter to my left, the archway to the gym [dojo] straight ahead of me, staring at me; as it normally did. And then at about 10:00 p.m., it happened— what everyone had told me would happen, the ghost, the fiend, made its approach that is what happened, oh yes, I met him in a cadaverous kind of way. I can’t describe it emotionally with prose, so I had to write it down after the contact, in poetic prose—kind of.
I shall call it,


“The Ghost of the Collingswood Dojo”


(Notes from my Journal) “I heard him last night, about 10:00 P.M., in the silence of the dojo. It as if he or it, were trying to get my attention. Tapping at the windows, the podium stand; Knocking over wooden chairs –as I was half-asleep, on the sofa, near the gym. Then, I found myself standing by the archway entrance, to the dojo, were I worked out, I could hear, his footsteps pass me, I even saw the wooden floor absorbing them, as if his weight was tremendous. I yelled out, ‘I’m not about leave this dojo, and I’m not afraid of you…!’
“Something told me not to challenge the spirit, and I automatically called out, ‘Lord! (meaning, Jesus Christ),’ and all the noises went silent, even the footsteps, as if waiting for some hurricane.



Note: Originally “The Ghost of the Collingswood Dojo,” was published in the Minneapolis, Minnesota, Independent Newspaper, “Insight,” @ January 6th, 1983, under the title “About 10:00 P.M. Copyright @ 2003 “Romancing San Francisco,” by Dennis L. Siluk. Dlsiluk @ 2009, “The Boy from the Midwest” (Modified chapter two for an independent story)

Victor: and the Monkey Man

((Miraflores, Lima Peru, 2008) (Based on actual events))



When your with someone twenty, thirty, even forty years—work with them everyday of the week, seven days a week, fifty-weeks ever year (minus two weeks the Monkey Man vacationed, not Victory), that someone you can’t help getting to like them, you even get to love them (him or her). It’s pretty near like being married to the person—almost! You know when that person gets tired, because you are tired, and you can tell by his walking or talking. You know it, because you can feel it.
There was such a person I knew named Victor. He and the Monkey Man (Cipriano) worked in the same park (Miraflores, Kennedy Park) in Lima, Peru.
In the park Victor worked as a photographer, the only one in the park, allowed in the park that is—licensed to be there, and the Monkey man, Cipriano, with his wind-up music box, and the red and white box the monkey was stored in (until he came in the park, and was then taken out of the box, and played on top of the box all day long), he worked perhaps ten-feet to Victor’s side, had worked side by side for forty-years. The Monkey-Man would have his monkey take out a piece of paper, likened to a ticket, and it had a happy saying on it, and he’d hand it to the person holding a coin, and they’d exchange one for the other.
Victor worked by him twelve hours a day. I met Victor and Cipriano for the first time in 1999, when I first met my wife Rosa; he took our second picture together, one evening in the park. Anyhow, one day Cipriano, he just up and died, he was seventy-two years old. A small man, thin, wore a white cowboy looking hat, a blue worn out suite, little eyes; he died on a warm day in 2007.

The times I talked to Victor after that, it had seemed to me that happening took a solid big chunk of life out of him. It hurt him to talk about his old partner, but he did. He even braced himself when he did. I asked him once if he thought about Cipriano much. He said, “A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of him.” These were hard times for Victor.
Sometimes when we walked by him, he was in a glum of a mood—not that he was to us, my wife and I, just that he seemed so from a distance, he’d always cheer up when he saw us, went over to talk to him.
Anyway, win or lose, life was different for him; eleven months after Cipriano had died, we happened to be in Lima again, we stopped—as we often did—stopped by to say hello to Victor, and he wasn’t there this time, not even his standup, camera, the old one he said was from the 1840s. I asked the nearby shoeshine man, who always worked by Victory (there were several in the park) “Where’s Victory?” He usually went to eat his lunch about 2:00 p.m., perhaps today he went early, but it was only forenoon.
The shoeshine man, hesitated, as if he was trying to figure out how to say, what he had thought he might have say someday, “He died a month ago, we were kind of thinking how to tell you when you came around.” (That was on a warm day, in 2008.)


No: 543 (12-6-2009) SA

The Bat

(The Donkeyland Neighborhood,
a Chick Evens Story, summer of, 1961)


When you’re just fourteen years old, you don’t have sense enough to realize what you are doing and often tremble, get so mad you can’t think, and overreact, or at least I did. Because even now I can remember some of the things Richard Zackary and I did for instance, and in my case I didn’t think twice about it, and I wonder how any of us kids in the neighborhood (called by the police: Donkeyland), us boys in particular ever lived long enough to grow up. I remember I was just fourteen, weightlifting, had fourteen inch biceps, strong as a bull; Richard Zackary had just taken a bat I had found out from my hands; this was after (this is how I remember it anyhow) after, Richard was standing against some bushes by his house, we both went to the same High School, we were about the same height, and weight, it was a warm day. We began to talk about sharing the bat, but he wouldn’t give it back to me and I tried to grab it, pull it away from him. Richard said he’d give it to me for three-dollars, since we both spotted the bat, and I grabbed it before he could. But I said, “Let’s just share it,” of course I wanted to have it first, and so did he. Before he could say another word I hat him with my right fist alongside the upper left side of his temple, hard, I just hauled off and hit him, right through the bushes he flew, cloths, bat and all.
So we (his father and I) got him out of the bushes, and we tried to wake him up, but the blow was so solid, he was completely knocked out.
“All right,” the mother said, standing by her son, “you better go home Chick…” the father was getting extremely upset, and so I did.
I hadn’t thought about that, about leaving him, I did leave the bat, and Richard ended up in the hospital. And the father called my mother up, said, “That boy of yours is like a gorilla; keep him away from my son!”
“If that’s what we got to do, okay,” she said.
“That boy of yours is taking advantage of my boy,” said Richards’s father to my mother—meaning, I was twice as strong as he.
Well, Richard and I had more or less hung around together ever since he had moved into the neighborhood, some two-years prior, but I stayed away from him for a long time. Perhaps his father had let me off lightly, he had every reason to want to harm me but didn’t. But I didn’t think of that at the time.
Fine, I wasn’t trying to prove I was the toughest, I never thought of it that way, but it did seem to build up a little reputation for me, one I didn’t care to have, simply because other kids wanted to test me out, see if I was all that tough, I mean, one blow knocked out a boy—evidently, that was something. And I tried to explain it was just a mishap in the neighborhood, but the more I did, the more folks thought I was being modest. I mean the thing I was trying to do, was not have to fight everyone to prove I was worthy of fighting. If anything, I was more guarded now and harder to get to fight; it was like life was trying to take revenge on me for hitting Richard or the Devil was working overtime.


No: 565 (12-8-2009)

“The Cellar Apartment”

((West St. Paul, the winter of 1967) (a Minnesota Chick Evens Story))



“Here!” I said “…come over here!”
Now she, Phyllis, was looking at me serious, over her shoulder. She didn’t move much, perhaps an inch, not a turn of her lower body though: just her neck and head, her eyes, her face, her hands lay to her sides standing in the middle of the cellar apartment, my bed in front of her, me in back of her, the door in back of me, her husband—my best friend, Sid, had now been dead a week, only a week—coming back from Wisconsin, drinking, everyone drunk in the car, and an accident took place.
Yes—she looked again. She never had looked at me like that before; she appeared to confront me with that look, slyly across her shoulder—with her deep dark eyes. No questioning but waiting, as rain clouds never question or wait, they just pour out rain, when they feel like it, then drift away, shed its moisture.
“Oh!” I remarked, as she watched me still standing by my bed. Watched me sadly, just a bit unsure, perhaps curious.
“But of course,” I said looking at the bed; naturally she was thinking I wanted to take her to bed. But I didn’t; not really, I just wanted to see if I could, see how far she’d go.
“No, wait,” I said. “Maybe this is wrong, for both of us!”
I wasn’t desperate, and still she just watched me, now a foot from the bed: she had some kind of bottomless tranquility, calmness inside of her, waiting on me to tell her to lie down on the bed.
“Sit down on the bed,” I said… “I didn’t mean that.”
She quickly followed up with, “I know your Sid’s friend Chick, do you want to or not!”
“I could never forgive you, or me, if we did,” I remarked.
“All right,” she commented, then I went to open the door to tell her to leave, “Good night,” I said harshly, demandingly, angry.
“Why did you bring me here in the first place?” she asked.
“I thought that is what I wanted, and you wanted,” I said.
I wanted to get angry at her because she was going to make love with me, and because she was getting a divorce with Sid before he died, and because she was collecting $5000-dollars benefit because of his death, had he died two weeks later, she’d had gotten nothing, like I felt she deserved. The Insurance policy would have run out. She was dating other guys, during her separation, and I was just mad because of all of that. I suppose I was like her, grieving, but I was displacing my anger.
“Shut the door on your way out,” I said.
“It’s cold out there,” —she walked towards me, not fast.
“I came here because I liked you, because I’m hurting just like you, maybe more!” she said with wet eyes.
“Maybe I did want to,” she came towards me closer, and then passed me, “but I don’t want to anymore, you’re very cruel!”
“Shut the door before it gets cold in here on your way out,” I told her, “don’t touch me!” I emphasized.
“All right, all right…” she commented—“a dog is more compassionate than you,” she told me. “I doubt Sid would really have minded anyhow.”
“All right,” I agreed, but felt Sid was looking down on me, from wherever he was.
“I came because you are unhappy, Sid and I were separated, ready to get a divorce—you know that!”
“Yes,” I said, and she cried and slammed the door as she left, and I could hear her shivering outside—but the tears seemed to have stopped, perhaps going to the corner, or bar not far away to call a taxi.

No: 547 (12-10-2009)

Winter Houses

(A Chick Evens story out of Minnesota, based on fact, 1956)


The Icy-Mississippi


Snow is on the sidewalks, in the streets, a thin layer covering the Mississippi River, on top of four-inches of ice —the houses and buildings are all lit, fires glowing in hearths, furnaces burning, as I rush out into the cold early Saturday morning air to sell newspapers “Five Cents!” It is December, 1956 and I’m ten-years old, just turned ten-years old in October.
I see people sitting in their houses: men, women and children—as if their minds are unoccupied, its 6:00 a.m., some of the houses are covered with blotches of snow; some even appear to smile at me—with their shadowy silhouettes.
Some of the houses are completely dark, solid gray dark; I suppose the people haven’t crawled out of bed yet. In other houses I hear laughter as I walk down Jackson Street to the St. Paul, Pioneer Press Newspaper, to get my stack of papers to sell on the corner of Forth and Robert Streets. I even can see the icy-Mississippi from where I sand.
In the quiet morning cold, the houses seem to whisper to me—as if they have secrets to tell—but I’m too young to stop and listen, I’m not yet a hunter of tales. Plus, they can only tell me things I’m too young to fully understand.
I pass a dozen houses, two, then three dozen, now buildings, doors are now bursting open.
I start to yell “St. Paul Pioneer Press! …FIVE CENTS!”
Slow moving, and slow speaking people walk by. I think my business is the most interesting in town—but of course at ten-years old, who wouldn’t think so. There even seems to be a touch of romanticism in this paper business.


No: 539 (12-5-2009) SA

The Vacuum Cleaner Department

((A Chick Evens Story, 1966) (out of Minnesota))


They had brought in a ‘minute-man’ into the Vacuum Cleaner Department of the factory, third floor (off Arcade Street, St. Paul, Minnesota, in the summer of 1966).
They are the efficiency experts—as most everyone knows. His job is to come into our area of work with his time-watch on, set it accordingly, ready to click it at any given moment. And then simply stand about—timing you.
Let me explain: if you can staple together with the standup (ten-foot tall) staple machine—more boxes in less time, all the better (boxes for vacuum cleaner that is)— His question is, or will be to himself: “Is Mr. Chick Evens doing all he can do?”
Consequently, a portion of Mr. Evens’ pay is based on piece-work.
Well, he stands by the staple machine clicks that watch to go, counts “one second, two seconds, three seconds—one box, two boxes…) times me. He says “Just be natural!” (He doesn’t mean that, he simply says that.)
Then when I stop to go to the toilet, he questions if it should have taken me three minutes or seven minutes? (Which it took me all of seven minutes to do what was natural. And had I had to do—a number one and number two, all in one setting, he might have had to reset his watch.) In any case, He also questions if I really should have stopped for five-minutes to help my fellow worker (perhaps thinking, it’s someone else’s job, which perhaps it is.) He says nonetheless (placing it in a different category) “You don’t get paid for gossip, you could have stapled twenty-boxes in the time you stopped to chitchat... (two minutes had elapsed).”
He now sees your face is annoyed with him, and says, “There are plenty of people out of work, god knows, so don’t get smart with me fellow!”


No: 540 (12-5-2009) SA (the second part has been left out of this story)

Sparky the Seal

…and summer days at Como Park

((1956-1958) (Based on actual events))


At Como Park (St. Paul, Minnesota), in the Midway area (back in the mid to late fifties), when I was ten to twelve year old, I’d hike out to Como Park with my buddy Mike Reassert, a year or two younger than I.
There was a Ferris Wheel, and a Merry-go-Round, and stands selling things (food and such), and nearby was a free show once a day at 1.00 p.m., near a platform, that had a pool attached to it, and “Sparky the Seal,” was the main event, and he always put on a terrific and dandy show for us kids.
Most of the city kids went out there, during summer vacations; if not for the Sparky Show, to ride the giant turtle, or walk round the Zoo area and look at animals.
Mike Reassert and I were always conscious of the fair like atmosphere of the summer days at Como Park.
The lake that went beside it was about one and half miles round (circumference), and around the lake across the main street that divided it from the residential area, were nice expensive looking house, with large green lawns, and flowers and girls often sitting on their porches.
Well, as time went by, Sparky died, I think I had just become a teenager when that took place, and the following summer I saw a sign that read “Two shows, 1:00 p.m., and 3:00 p.m. by Sparky II” and I got thinking, it didn’t take long to replace Sparky No: I.
Fine, at about at nineteen years old, there about, that summer I read another sign out at Como Park, it read, “Visit Sparky’s pool,” (something on that order), and when I went to see Sparky, inside the building was it was full of seals, and it said “The Home of Sparky III” something like that, and the show was to be at 2:00 p.m.
Again I said “Fine…” thinking Sparky II had passed on. That’s when it dawned on me, we’re all so replaceable.
Well, at about fifty-years old, back in about 2001, I took my wife whom is from Peru, and there was a new Sparky doing a show, I don’t know what number he was, but it was nice that they kept the tradition up.


No: 542 (12-6-2009) SA

Machine Days

((A Minnesota Story, 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s) (Based on actual events))


In my younger days, there were more factories with machines—small and large—more than the fast-food out-lets we have nowadays (drive-ins, cafés, restaurants, and alike). That’s back thirty, forty, near fifty-years or so ago (I’m sixty-two now). And behind those days—I’d expect it was even more so.
I am speaking of machinery in America, factories with machinery and foundries in Minnesota, and in particular, the City of St. Paul, where I grew up (although I’ve worked in many cities, Minneapolis, Omaha, San Francisco, Seattle, Erie, to mention a few).
I can still hear the clatter of the machines at Whirlpool where I worked for a year, back in 1966, and those at American Can (1968). I can hear the whirr and the screeching and the pounding of machinery making cast-iron molds, at the foundries ((Malibu Iron, where I worked back in 1965 and 1972) (in St. Paul, and Erie)); and the murmur and shouts of men at the stockyards (Swift’s) in South St. Paul (1967)—they used machines to kill animals, conveyer belts and so for and so on.
It was all after World War Two, and the Korean War, and just before the Vietnam War (my war to be; even in war we used machines).
The machines hum and talk like a horde of chipmunks, they roar like lions, they dance and sway on steel rafters like monkeys, high overhead, as at “Structural Steel,” where I worked for a winter season back in ’68.
Machines have legs, bodies, arms, fingers, feet; they hold onto things, they have giant hands.
They swing this way and that way, some everywhichway. They weigh tons, run madly all day long. I was once a junior machinist (back in 1971, after I returned from the War in Vietnam), that is—an apprentice—they make things, big and small: bridges, holes in parts just about anything and everything. They feed upon oil, power from water, electricity, batteries, and coal, even nuts. Back in 1972-73, I worked for a power plant in Erie.
Their wheels groan and grind, and screech, make horrid sounds to the ears. They produce smoke, darker than the hearts of men. Machines control, and similar to their makers, they wear out. I’ve had over forty-jobs, in my lifetime, the best thing about machines is: their stupid, you can tell them anything, and they say nothing. They are bleak and cold, they don’t beg for the sun or the cool breeze off the lake—how smoothly they can run, how surely. I tell you there will be a day when people will pay machines to talk to, they’re better listeners than humans (and they don’t have cheap—expensive advice to give; and their friendship is never deceiving).

No: 541 (12-6-2009) SA

Behind the Sun

(Inspired by real events)(Summer of 1936)


She lived, during that summer of 1936, in a small room, on the first floor of an old mansion, near Rice Park, downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota, near the Mississippi River, a hop-skip-and-jump, away. It was July and the evening was hot. On the grass outside of the large house where she was a maid, she sat cross-legged. Sweat trickling down her back, armpits, forehead—the arclights of the city had just gone on.
People of the city were sitting on the curbs of the streets, down along the riverbank on the grass—sleeping on blankets, to cool themselves off.
Elsie Evens had just finished her evening’s work (so she thought)—; sixteen-­years old, she had lived at St. Joseph’s Orphanage, since 1933, since her mother Ella had died of double-pneumonia, and her father Tony (Anton) couldn’t take care of her and her several siblings —she had been working at the Rosenberg’s since the previous winter.
She walked Eastward from the house she worked in, more into the inner city, great masses of people: men, women, children, old folks (to include, even dogs, cats) —all had left their apartments, and homes to spend the night out-of-doors, some by the river.
Here was a city of over 250,000-people all overheated, all hunting for a spot of land (some even fighting for it) to sleep in peace and quiet and get some cool breeze, behind the sun.
Out of near-darkness they flooded the streets, the houses and apartments were empty—even fashionable folks were filling the parks where once bums, tramps, and hobos (transits) normally slept.
Elsie thought, ‘If only I could get out of here… like so many of the rich could do, were doing, about to do, going to Europe and Canada, etcetera (so she had read in the papers), to escape the July heat wave.
She stumbled in the gray-darkness, from street light to street light, resting here and there wherever she found an open spot of grass, a few babies could be heard crying in the distant and sinister dark.

It was past one o’clock when she had returned back to her domicile, explained to the elder Mr. Rosenberg, the owner, and her employer, who didn’t pay her for her duties, but gave her room and board, explained to him, she had taken a long walk (to cool off)—he had handed her a list of things he waned her to do—now, said he had been trying to find her earlier. She was cool-headed about it.
You must have gone a little off your head and could not work anymore,” he remarked. And then he went out to lie in the front lawn, a blanket in hand.

No: 586 (12-4 & 5-2009) SA

Sister Death Watch

(Inspired by real events)(November, 2009)



With Eugene, there always seemed to be a contest going on, life was a dispute, although, it was all a little amazing, even a tinge odd to Roland Lawton, being, as he was, a man quite observant, and particularly conscious, growing old (or older, now at sixty-two), yet still so aware (married to Piper, whom was the younger sister to Celosia). As for Eugene, he was a few years younger than his brother-in-law (Roland), large in frame and strong in body, stubborn in mind, always seeking admiration—from or to whomever, and—more often than not—moody, for simple—if not silly reasons, but reasons nonetheless; displacing annoyance on Roland— or for that matter—on any family member, during those uncommon (or out of character) moments of shifting moods, those mood, if not anger.
By and large, all the family members lived by one another.
Eugene was mentally outside, not in it—the extended family, and seemingly the obnoxious one of the family (of which his daughter, Shelley had appeared to have inherited, genetically or by social comparison, his mood swings), that is to say, or add, Eugene had a hair-trigger temper, to everyone and thing around him, even to his most regular customers at his restaurant.
As I mentioned, there seemed to be a contest with him and those around him. It concerned ways of doing things, decisions, expecting those around him to surrender.
I suppose it is like that in many families, there being one usually one person, in most every family structure (relatives, and all to be contaminated by that one person), and more so in the nuclear family for the most part, one that forms within the group this antisocial or disruptive behavior (especially while in the fall of life); to include: jealousies, concealed hatreds, silent battles with envy, all this secretly going on—with brother-in-laws, the children, the wife, brothers, fathers, as for Eugene—in all respects, all of the above pertained to him.
He had two young adult children attending college, who adored their mother, and a young boy of thirteen, who adored her likewise.
As for Eugene Jr., and Shelley, they lived within the house, within the family structure, but within their own world. And to be quite frank, they were in the process of trying to establish their own world, and it was not without a struggle from their father. The point was, that the mother having the heart that never stopped beating, was always tender for the kids. And Eugene never understood that—how it infuriated and hurt him at times, not to get that admiration, respect, awe, the kids gave to the mother—although they were of little help to lighten the load for their mother.
Sometimes Eugene went white and trembled with anger—and then at other times, red from holding it in. It didn’t matter it seemed he wanted to break his wife and children, like one would break a horse: beginning with the children, then the wife, then the relatives. Having it out with whomever, whenever, and never really wining, simply just driving a wedge between himself and the family members.
“No, Eugene. You can’t,” his wife would plead. But he had learned to swear so loud, whatever she said, wasn’t heard. Where he picked it up from, who’s to say.
Perhaps Celosia, his wife, understood how he felt, never quite putting the matter, and circumstances certainly into words, not even to her mind’s eye (her second-self, her unconscious, hence, hiding it for her, because it was too much to endure, consequently saving her from a sudden, and perchance injurious, impact). But it was one of those things that started to age her quickly, weaken her immune system, arouse in her family members a curious determination to look deeper into—or at, Eugene’s maladaptive behavior (not accepting his intentions, or understanding them for the most part, perhaps not able to be sympathetic to the his way of thinking, reckoning, it was anything but healthy). They even caught themselves saying, “Can’t he just stop!” It was really not an inquiry, but rather a statement-question at best. Someone even mentioned, in passing, “If she’s to enjoy the last years of her life, must he spoil what she is to have!”
They, all of us, thought she was dying, over and over and over—she had but one kidney. Especially the father of Celosia had some hidden resentment against her husband, being Eugene was likened to a tyrant—if let be; he was as if standing guard over her—them.
The two chidden in college drew more and more away from the father, just appeasing him so he’d not cut their tuition short, or off.


•

It was a rainy November, 2009, in the mountain city; Celosia was in her restaurant kitchen cooking. The rain was pouring down hard. Great streams of water were outside by the kitchen door. Lunch was almost ready, she ran out in the rain to the car—through the restaurant area, to get some groceries she had forgotten—the rain soaked her hair, but it felt good, it was cold against her forearms and neck, and even soaked under her cloths. She looked at Eugene; he was cleaning the tables, wiping them off, he had just priory finished moping the floor—she heard anxiety in his voiced, “We got to hurry up, before the lawyers com, and the rest of the crowd!” (He didn’t look at his sister-in-law, Piper, or Roland; they were standing by the kitchen, near a table one they usually sat at; he had given the impression they were insignificant, although they were his best customers; but it was not out of character.) There was fear in Celosia’s eyes.
“Oh, Eugene, you know you mustn’t get all worked up, we’ll be ready!” remarked his wife, faintly.
Just that was enough to set him into a dry mood, as dry as a bone, parched. The least shock or resistance could do it. It really was simply an old, very old story.
‘Why,’ thought Eugene, ‘can’t anyone understand, that such things are a hundred times worse for me—’
On that day, without answering his wife, he jumped in his car and rode off. He wanted to go hide himself, cool down before everyone came. Celosia, deduced how he felt.

Celosia and her sister Piper stood looking at each other, Roland sitting in a chair at a table. Celosia over fifty, Piper just fifty, it was getting to everyone in the family.
“What, Piper?” asked Celosia, there were astonishment and a slight annoyance in Piper’s voice?
“He’s always making you feel bad, if not accountable, or at fault, so it looks as if … anyhow!” remarked Piper—she wanted to cry but didn’t.
Celosia understood. It was at this point, an odd tense moment for them both, and then Celosia walked off into the kitchen to get ready the lunch.
Celosia, wanted to fly off somewhere, anywhere, like Peter Pan, like a child in a dreamland-dream, perhaps shake Eugene for being so impudent.
There was so much implied—perhaps she could be allowed to die, quickly, suddenly, rather than this slow death for she was always in danger of a sudden death anyhow, but she kept to her values in life, but death was not the most terrible thing to her. She tuned to the side door, went silent, watched the rain as it came pouring down, dripping into the kitchen. There were no explanations.
“Well,” Celosia said presently, “what did you want for lunch, are you eating here at the restaurant today, Piper?”
Piper spoke, “Yes,” meaning she was eating there.
There was a bond—between them two sisters. Piper was witty and could think of a lot of things to say, but they were all too risky, she had an inclination— ‘…keep hands off,’ and accordingly, there was a little inner-world created (being re-created perhaps), and in it there was a kind of—‘sister death watch.’


Afterthought

There are times when men who seriously like one another cannot endure one another. Instinctively one needs to be careful—do not get too close in knowing the truth of the other person, he may hate you for it: knowing you can describe him, to himself.
Eugene was alive when he boasted; a little intoxicated with dreams of the present, visions unaccomplished from the past. Some people such as he, are destined to make their lives hell, others who tag along, live in purgatory.
I hope this does not all seem trivial? I am trying to tell it the best I can. So this was his life, this is what I saw. Never mind my life, it is unimportant, in this story, what must become of those others involved will become in question in times yet to come.
We are just faces of people in a fleck of light; a dim shadow questioning voices, words whirled about us. We need to take some of this life out of our heads, and live a tranquil existence—it is so very short, and then the lights go out. We are more than scraggly weeds growing, and when someone thinks that is what we are to them, and then it is time to set the record straight.


No: 535 (12-2-2009) SA

The Barber and His Joke!

(Inspired by real events)(Summer of 1954)



Harry the barber, had a little shop down on Jackson Street, by the open market, in St. Paul, Minnesota, back in the summer of 1954, he was giving me a haircut (as often he had in the past), I was seven years old at the time, my brother Mike, two years older than I, was standing around waiting, he had just finished his. And the old barber liked playing jokes on boys—jokes like he was going to play on me.
He told me that he’d put some shaving cream on my face. Like men do, see how I looked, how it felt. And I let him do it. Then he said abruptly, with a sneer to his voice, “You’ll now grow whiskers.” Just like him. And he laughed half-heartedly, as I looked in the mirror and at him, and at my brother. And I didn’t laugh. It made me awfully worried, and I had tears in my eyes, yet he kept on with the joke— even so. And I got angry, and jumped out of the barber’s chair.
“It’s just a joke, that’s all it was,” said my brother Mike.
And now the barber acknowledged also, that it was just a joke, and no more than that. And insisted that it wouldn’t do, what he claimed it would do, make me grow whiskers (hoping I’d get back into the chair and let him finish with the haircut). And he quickly wiped my face clean. But I wouldn’t believe one, meaning, my brother or the barber—it would seem they worked together on this, although it was the barber’s joke, and Mike just went along with it, until he saw the tears. Nonetheless, I would not get back into the barber’s chair.
Well, I didn’t grow whiskers, and I didn’t die. And then I made up my mind I’d never get my haircut from him again, and I didn’t. (And he didn’t charge full price for the haircut.)


No: 536 (12-2-2009) SA

(Commentary on the Slave Trade):

The Slave trade originated in Europe, and was in essence, a holocaust in the making. A massive murder, like in due time America would do to the Indian Race, the Europeans were doing to the blacks long before. They, Europeans, were coming out of the, Middle Ages, and their new form of nationalism, turned into a spotted form of racism, thus the trade between Africa and Europe was one of convenience, technology vs. free labor. Of course slavery was not new to Europe, Feudalism was a form of Enslavement, and Europe was well acquainted with that.
And now, let us not forget the Arab slave trade, they like Europe and America would get in on this bonanza of human flesh that offered the new era so many possibilities. It would be fair to say, the Muslims violated their own faith during the time they took advantage of this new occurring bonanza (roll-over wealth); because it was all based on gain, money, self-interest, dehumanization.
Like so often peoples and countries do, have done and are doing today: the Arabs came into Africa as friends, hands out for comradeship, and peace and good will, only for the Africans to find out, they were as ruthless as the Romans had been before them.
It would seem the Portuguese and the Arab slave trade met along the golden highway, and cooperated with one another for personal gain.
Now back to Europe. Here was a Christian world, which pushed upon a civilization imprisonment for no wrongs commented, for the ships were all of that and more. And who created the documentation for these human cargos—Europe? This I suppose justified the buyer, and of course victimized the slave. People can say what they will to wipe their hands clean, but the market was there, as it was in America, South America, and with the Arabs and let us not forget, the Caribbean Islands.
I don’t know how the adaptability was, nor does anyone else for sure, but from all my learning in counseling and psychology, one would have to form a dual personality to survive, depending on prevailing conditions, if not become neurotic, or even catatonic, disassociation, and borderline schizophrenia, and perhaps many did go beyond the borderline.

The Cycle of the Chicken

The Cycle of the Chicken

(A poem and a Commentary)


The Poem



A Chicken, it is born out of an eggshell
After less than a month it lives as a
fluffy ball
Eats, and eats, and eats corn and meal
until its heart’s content;
And if it survives from the dreadful
diseases of cholera and pip:
It just moves about, under the sun
half sick, and dies to its end.
Then the hen and the rooster—to its
mysterious plight, struggles to
Maturity: the hen lays more eggs,
And the cycle starts all over again
(something like us humans).


No: 2654 (12-1-2009)



Commentary: It would seem to me, chickens are not the smartest of animals on the face of God’s earth; and on the other hand, much likened to people, quite fragile. If a disease doesn’t get them, something else will, perhaps hit by a moving farm machine, or an automobile, stuck in some hole, eaten by a wildcat or alike. They do stupid things; they are simply too often led astray. The hen on the other hand is a mysterious creature, whereas the egg seems more blessed than the fluffy ball chicken, and the hen included.
I think you’re better off owning a restaurant business than a chicken farm; one reason being, the cost in incubators or worrying about the hatching process. Whereas, all one has to do in the food service business, is crack the egg and fry it, and serve it or cook the chicken and boil some noodles for chicken soup. The road is less bumpy.
My grandmother used to use the feathers from the chicken for pillows, I inherited two, and she would cling tightly to those chickens to get the feathers; that, in its self is a hideous process; nothing easy in the life of a chicken; as my mother used to say, “I can eat chicken everyday,” she liked the taste of chicken, as so many of us do. She worked at Swifts, in the Meatpacking department (beef and pork) she couldn’t stand to kill a chicken.
Well, these are the facts that make life so discouraging in the chicken cycle of life.


No: 533 (12-1-2009) SA