Jonathan P. Baird

I have previously written about the disappearing poetry section in bookstores. I guess this is not surprising given the decline of bookstores generally, especially independent bookstores. Many poets who deserve notice and recognition are out of print or they have vanished into oblivion given the volume and massiveness of media and the lack of attention to poetry.

A good example is the German playwright and poet Bertolt Brecht. I went around Anchorage trying to find Brecht poetry collections. Other than the Anchorage Public Library, the only Brecht poetry I could find was an old copy of Manual of Piety in Title Wave Books, an excellent used bookstore in Anchorage. Brecht appears to be out of print.

I would imagine that most Americans have never heard of Brecht. That is too bad because Brecht speaks to our present time. Brecht lived in Germany during the era preceding and during the Nazi rise to power. He was a political poet, an anti-fascist, and his stance as a poet was very different than elite or academic poets.  Brecht connected to everyday people and he was very much the social poet. He remained politically engaged his entire life.

In America, clarity of expression and the poet’s voice seem to be lost in the exposure to far more information than we can ever hope to sort or comprehend. The sheer volume of media creates a meaninglessness where lack of discriminating taste rules.

I want to offer up some of my favorite Brecht poems. I actually had a hard time deciding which poems to feature since there are so many I like and admire. I hope this encourages readers to further check out Brecht.

The Song of the Waterwheel

Ancient tale and epic story
Tell of heroes’ lives untarnished:
Like the stars they rose in glory,
Like the stars they set when vanquished.
This is comforting and we should know it.
We,alas, who plant the wheat and grow it
Have but little share in triumphs or disasters.
Rise to fame or fall:  who feeds our masters?
                        Yes, the wheel is always turning madly,
                        Neither side stays up or down,
                        But the water underneath fares badly
                        For it has to make the wheel go round.

Ah, we’ve had so many masters,
Swine or eagle, lean or fat one:
Some were tigers, some hyenas,
Still we fed this one and that one.
Whether one is better than the other:
Ah, one boot is always like another
When it treads upon you. What i say about them
Is we need no other masters: we can do without them!
                         Yes, the wheel is always turning madly,
                         Neither side stays up or down,
                         But the water underneath fares badly
                         For it has to make the wheel go round.

And they beat each other’s heads all bloody
Scuffling over booty,
Call the other fellows greedy wretches,
They, themselves, but do their duty.
Ceaselessly we see their wars grow grimmer,
Would I knew a way for them to be united.
If we will no more provide the fodder
Maybe that’s the way all could be righted.
                          For at last the wheel shall turn no longer,
                          And shall ride the stream no more,
                          When the water joins to water as it gaily
                          Drives itself, freed of the load it bore.

Song of the Inadequacy of Man’s Higher Nature

A man lives by his head:
His head will not suffice.
Just take a look at your own heads
At most supporting lice.
                        For this world we live in
                        None of us is sly enough
                        Never do we notice
                        All is lie and bluff.

Make yourself a plan,
One that dazzles you!
Now make yourself a second plan,
Neither one will do.
                       For this world we live in
                       None of us is bad enough
                       Yet our higher nature’s
                       Made of splendid stuff.

Chase after luck and joy
Yet running will not find them!
For all men chase and luck and joy
Are running just behind them.
                      For this world we live in
                      None of us has modesty enough.
                      Thus our higher nature
                      Is but pose and bluff.

Man is not good at all
So boot him in the can.
Perhaps if he’s kicked soundly
He’ll be a better man.
                        For this world we live in
                        None of us is good enough
                        Therefore let us calmly
                        Boot each other’s can.

A Worker Reads History

Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed,
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima’s houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song,
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the sea rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.

Young Alexander conquered india.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Philip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Great triumphed in the Seven Years War. Who
Triumphed with him?

Each page a victory,
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?

So many particulars.
So many questions.

It is a year since my sister Lisa Baird died. I did want to do something to honor her memory.  I am posting two lovely eulogies that were given at her funeral. The first is from my brother Rob. The second is from Rabbi Leonard Gordon who presided at the funeral.

Robert J. Baird
Eulogy delivered at the funeral of Lisa Baird
October 23,2009

Since Lisa’s death on Tuesday night I have felt a wrenching sense of loss – bereft of my big sister’s love I can hardly come up with words except this is “so, wrong-so, wrong- so wrong.”

56 years young Lisa was cruelly ripped from the world when there should have been so much more life in store for her. The loss which is so overwhelming for me and my family is magnified by the grief of her dearest friends and all of those many people touched by her.  For someone who could share the same size sneaker as mine – Lisa’s footprint – her impact on the world – was enormous. Lisa did not view her work as a job – she extended herself in ways that go beyond what jobs normally demand. Yes she was always motivated by social justice and her commitment never wavered but Lisa loved what she did because of the people and her connection to their lives and stories. Everyone here who knew Lisa knew she loved recounting the stories of her clients. Many times I would call her and she’d pick up the phone and say “I can’t talk now. I have to meet a client” but would still begin a story and 45 minute or even an hour later she’d say “now I really have to go but I’ll call you later”. This was classic Lisa.

But today most importantly my message is for Molly and Lou, your mom’s love for you was at the center of all her decisions -your family – Josh, Eric, Samira, Amelia and your extended family of your mom’s friends will be there for you – we cannot replace her love but we can care, love and help you as you build your lives and just be there for you when you need us.

My only comfort today is that Dad was not here to see Lisa in these last days but for Mom even though you are so strong – Jon and I are there for you – we will backstop you whenever you need us. To Lisa’s friends, especially those who were with her constantly over the last weeks – thanks are inadequate you were and are amazing – Debra and Miriam – Jon and I are blessed to have you especially now.

To Lisa – the pain is over but your departure has left an emptiness in all of our worlds. But as you would want us to do – we’ll be good to each other and move on with life – joyous in good times and like you always resilient and alive.

Rabbi Leonard Gordon
Eulogy delivered at the funeral of Lisa Baird
October 23,2009

These past days, those who were close to Lisa have been repeating the stories of her incredible dedication. Even on the day she died she was pushing forward on behalf of a client, calling the INS office and leaving plaintive messages for case officers. Lying in her bed, in hospice care, she was giving solid immigration advice to the health care worker who had come to care for her. Just a few days ago, Lisa and her brother Jon drove to court to meet another client as Lisa worked through her pain and growing weakness to try and bring one more case to closure. When asked why, why not pass these cases on to others, why not step back and hold on to your strength, her response was simple. Referring to one particular case that was on her mind Lisa said: “if this guy gets deported, his life will be over.”  Lisa was passionate and devoted to caring for others, in the psychological language of our day, she did not have good boundaries. What was heroic about Lisa and what we all so admired about her, also meant that she did not care for herself and protect her time and her energy. In the words of her nephew Josh, she was not a material person, she was all about love, Lisa was warm, friendly, genuinely caring for others, she was active all the time. When I saw her to say my goodbye our conversation was about her children, about their future, about taking care of loose ends. I needed to remind Lisa that loose ends are how we make connections, they are the signs of an engaged life.  In Jewish terms, loose ends are symbolized by the tallit, the ritual garment that ends in loose strings of wool, pointing us away from ourselves and towards the world around us.

The world around us is deeply in need of repair and Lisa seemed to have taken on the burdens of the world community on her shoulders. The Chinese boat person, the victim of female genital mutilation, the man who had been tortured, the Ugandan child soldier; for the past years these have been her clients.

This afternoon, i want to say a few words on everyone’s behalf to frame Lisa’s life and we will hear from members of her family. i want to acknowledge, however, that there are many other voices that should be heard and in addition to the words that will be shared today and over the weekend, everyone will be invited to a memorial gathering at the Germantown Jewish Centre a month from now, on Sunday, November 22nd at noon.

Lisa was born in Philadelphia and her father Donald, who died only this past May, was committed to her education and sent her and her brothers to the finest private schools. She and her father always maintained a close and special relationship and we remember him as well today.

From those early years, Lisa was an activist and even a rebel. She advocated for minority students, for enhanced scholarship support and for creating shared spaces for boarding and day students. In an era of political engagement she was especially active in the major causes of the time, the emerging feminist movement, civil rights work, and protesting the war in Vietnam. She began college at the University of Texas – Austin and completed her studies at Temple before beginning turning to start work in community organizing. Lisa lived her politics and she inspired those around her, most notably her brothers.

In the 1980’s she graduated law school at Rutgers Camden and Lisa worked for Lehigh Valley Legal Services, for the City Council of Philadelphia and then as the first staff attorney for HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, where her attention turned to immigration law. Immigration law would become the passion of the rest of her career. When members of the immigration bar gathered over the past weeks to review her caseload, they came across dozens perhaps over a hundred open cases on which Lisa was working and which many of her colleagues will now take over.

In addition to her work which engaged her around the clock, Lisa found time to be active in TAG, the Tenants’ Action Group, the CW Henry School home and school association during her years as a Henry parent, and she would volunteer with the American Immigrant Lawyers Association to help people fill in forms. In the recent election, knowing what was at stake, she served as a poll watcher.

But, of course, work was not the totality of her life. Lisa was a runner, she wanted to do a triathalon. She rode crew and dragon boats, and she was a creative writer. And Lisa was a devoted friend to many and a loving parent to both Molly and Louis. Molly, you said that you and Lou were the center of her world — what an amazing gift.

You and your mother shared music, you were amazed at how many lyrics she knew, and you loved to hang out with her. Recently, she visited you in Mexico where you were studying. You also spoke about a memorable trip years ago to Armenia, where your dad Roger, had a Fulbright, and where Lisa taught, Lou ran around and you were in 2nd grade. Without any language in common with the local population, Lisa connected, found someone who also knew Spanish, and discovered the local Jewish community.

Louis, you spoke movingly of your gratitude for the freedom and opportunities your mother gave you. The way in which her support for who you are, her belief in creative expression, has empowered you. I know how much she loved you and wanted to make sure that you were still having your senior year in the midst of her illness.

In 1992, around the time of Lou’s birth, Lisa was diagnosed with cancer. This was followed by years of good health and energy until the cancer recurred in December of 2007. Lisa fought for her health and she was supported by so many.

Deena, i want to especially mention your loving and devoted care, you opened your home and your bedroom to your daughter, you nursed her and cared for her, during this year when you were still dealing with the death of your husband Donald. May you be comforted by your memories and by the presence of your family and friends. This is the loss of a second child for you and no one can really understand what it means to a mother to watch her daughter face a fatal disease. You responded with grace and love.

Molly and Louis, your mother was so proud of you both and so concerned that you continue on your paths as students, friends and very special young people. Know that that special community that has gathered around your mother are still there for you. may your memories of your mother, of her love and of her commitments, continue to inspire you both.

Along with the family, there are many friends who are in mourning today, and I want to mention a few who were especially close with the understanding that so many of you were part of Lisa’s circle of friends and colleagues who stayed in close touch over the years and especially during these past two years.

Tish Fabens has done so much both as a medical and personal support. I also want to mention Bob Rhoades, Bob and Kate, who is remembered today, helped Lisa immeasurably. Friends John and Sherri and Eva as well as nephew Josh, you also made such an impact through your patient and loving presence. To all of Lisa’s friends and extended family we offer the consolation that her memory and her values will endure through you all.

Eternal One, giver of all life, you give the gift of your spirit and we are born. You take it in return and our bodies return to the earth. We are grateful today for the many blessings in Lisa’s life. And we now turn to you, and to one another, for comfort and light. Master of compassion, grant us solace and strength;reinforce our connections, for you are our Rock and redeemer, and we say AMEN.

If John Lennon had lived, last Saturday would have marked his 70th birthday. The media certainly took note and there were numerous tribute stories about John, his family, and the Beatles. Most stories I saw featured the floppy haired guy who was remembered for singing “All you need is love” and “All we are saying is give peace a chance”.

I think John would have hated that.  While John’s music connected with millions and fans differed over what part of his work they loved, I believe John was contemptuous of the simplified Fab Four image which was the lowest common denominator of Beatlemania.

John’s public image was at odds with the John of actual experience. During his life, John constantly evolved. He went through a number of incarnations and he faced adversities that are now little remembered. He had a dark side as well.

Unlike almost every rock star from that era, John faced political investigation and repression. On March 6,1972, the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) ordered Lennon deported from the U.S.. For much of 1972 and 1973, he was under order to leave the U.S. within 60 days. Good lawyering kept delaying the deadlines.

Thinking back on the era, there were many political artists. I think of Dylan, the Jefferson Airplane (Volunteers), the Stones, Bonnie Raitt and other folkies like Phil Ochs. But no one else was an object of 24/7 surveillance and likely wiretapping.  John’s persecution was a backhanded compliment for his power and influence.

The evidence about government surveillance comes directly from the FBI. History Professor Jon Wiener, after a long legal battle over his Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request, obtained FBI records about the Lennon case. Records show that the FBI essentially tailgated Lennon.  He was under constant surveillance. The FBI proposed: “Lennon should be arrested, if at all possible, in possession of narcotic drugs”. Such an event would have made him immediately deportable. The INS did ultimately try to use an earlier British marijuana conviction as a basis to deny Lennon’s application for permanent residency.

The background to the INS deportation order is quite fascinating. In the FBI files, there was the equivalent of a wanted poster for Lennon. Former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover described Lennon as “a member of the singing group, the Beatles”. The picture of Lennon in the FBI files was actually of another New York musician, David Peel. While unintentionally hilarious, the story did have a sinister side.

Now deceased former senator from South Carolina, Strom Thurmond, had received a secret FBI memo in February 1972 advising that Lennon was planning a series of rock concerts in various primary election states with a goal of recruiting people to go to San Diego to demonstrate during the Republican National Convention in August 1972. The memo noted that the persons engaged in this effort were the same individuals who had disrupted the Chicago Democratic Convention in 1968. They were now part of a ‘dump Nixon’ effort.

Thurmond, who was on the internal security committee of the Senate Judiciary Committee, passed the memo on to Attorney General John Mitchell. Mitchell, with assistance from his deputy Richard Kleindeinst, then wrote the INS Commissioner Raymond Farrell asking if there was a basis to deny Lennon admittance to the U.S.. Lennon was already in the country though. However, the INS got the message and revoked Lennon’s visa.

The surveillance of Lennon was a common tactic of the era. One FBI document specifically recommended the tactic as a form of intimidation against the New Left. “It will enhance the paranoia endemic in these circles and will further serve to get the point across that there is an FBI agent behind every mailbox.

Lennon described the surveillance when he appeared on the Dick Cavett Show on May 11,1972. He felt under siege and he had good reason to feel that way.

It should be noted that the deportation order achieved its desired result. John and Yoko cancelled their tour plans. Out of fear of deportation, they (probably wisely) played it safe and did not participate in later anti-Nixon efforts although John did revile Nixon.

The later self-destruction of Nixon changed the political dynamics of Lennon’s case. Watergate et al made the deportation effort look even more ridiculous. Eventually the Gerald Ford administration allowed Lennon to obtain a green card. The judge on the case ruled that Lennon’s earlier British pot bust was not an adequate basis to deny him residency.  The history around the deportation effort is well-described in Jon Wiener’s book Come Together.

The FOIA battle around complete release of FBI records relating to Lennon went on for many years until 2006 when Wiener prevailed and withheld records were released.  Since national security is now regularly invoked as a reason not to disclose information, I wanted to mention that the FBI had argued, in opposition to release of information, that releasing Lennon’s records could cause military retaliation against the U.S.. I am not making this up.

My personal favorite tidbit of information from the FBI files was the report that the FBI uncovered that a neighbor of Lennon’s had a parrot that would say “right on” when he was engaged in heated arguments.

While John provides a kaleidoscope of images and periods in his life, my impression is that for all his wealth and fame, he was miserable. When he went to the primal scream therapist Arthur Janov, John was quoted saying,

“Well, his thing is to feel the pain that’s accumulated inside you ever since your childhood.  I had to do it to really kill off all the religious myths. In the therapy you really feel every painful moment of your life – it’s excruciating, you are forced to realize that your pain, the kind that makes you wake up afraid with your heart pounding, is really yours and not the result of somebody up in the sky. It is the result of your parents and your environment…
All of us growing up have to come to terms with too much pain. Although we repress it, it is still there. The worst pain is that of not being wanted, of realizing your parents do not need you in the way you need them.”

John never was at peace and his fame and wealth put him at a distance from everyday people. It does not denigrate his music to recognize that he spent much of his life living in a cocoon. His last years do not appear much different than Elvis as far as his personal happiness.  For all the great music, based on credible accounts (eg Albert Goldman) his life appeared pretty awful.

John once said there are two types of people in the world – people who are confident because they know they have the ability to create and people who have been demoralized who have no confidence in themselves because they have been told they have no creative ability but must just take orders. John’s creativity left a legacy of wonderful music that millions will continue to enjoy for a long time to come.

It has been almost a year since my sister Lisa died. Lise was 56. I am still having a hard time accepting the finality of her death. I often want to call her on the phone to discuss whatever is bothering me.

As probably anyone who knew Lise knows, she was a world class phone talker.  She relished talking on the phone and I always liked getting her take on things. We talked daily. She did have many opinions. She told me what to do about everything and I was hardly alone in that department. I tremendously miss her wisdom and good advice.

I went down to Philadelphia last September to spend time with Lise. One morning i drove her to the hospital downtown so that she could get her chemo transfusion. She was not able to get the chemo that day because her white blood cell count was too low. I remember the conversation with her oncologist,  Dr Mason. Lisa hoped to live until Molly and Lou graduated from college and high school respectively. We did not know there was no chance that was going to happen although I secretly thought it was a long shot.

Lise had also asked me to drive her to a federal building downtown that day. I drove her there, parked the car and waited in the car while she met her client. I remember how slowly and deliberately Lise moved as she walked from the car into the building. She was in obvious pain, walking at a snail’s pace. She was already having big trouble with ascites. I did not feel good about her going to see that client. She was not up to it but it did not stop her.

Lise had drive. She made up her mind she was going to that appointment. In retrospect, it was crazy she was still working. Yet, the positive was that it took her away from herself and her increasingly desperate situation. Cancer forces a grim recognition of imminent mortality. Work allowed Lise a reprieve, another focus.

It was pretty downhill from that point on. Lise was gone in less than a month.

I do hear her voice in my head. Lise had a wonderful way of personalizing. i was always “Boo-boo” to her. Not Jon or Jonny. The bond of history and common experience between siblings has to be one of the deepest connections there is.

I do not feel good about her last month. Not just that she was dying, it was my failing to tell her how important she was to me. Maybe I did that some and maybe presence counted too but when someone is dying they deserve total accounting. There is no tomorrow.

I do find myself dwelling on the unfairness. Why Lise? Why so young? Lise, of all people, did not deserve it. She was so good. She did not know how to handle people with bad intentions. I think she wanted to believe there were not people like that. It sounds crazy but Lise wanted everyone to like her. She had a hard time accepting that that could not happen.

Lise had an underdeveloped sense of anger. Even when she had  a basis for the emotion, she could not get angry. I wish that had not been the case. There was something unhealthy about her lack of anger.

I have sought out a poem that captures some of my feelings. The best i could come up with was a poem written by Kenneth Rexroth, a poet Lisa admired. Lisa had looted my Collected Short and Long Poems of Kenneth Rexroth. It was always a joke between us about her taking my books. She always did it and denied it.  She did have good taste in poets though.

FOR ELI JACOBSON

                             December, 1952

There are few of us now, soon
There will be none. We were comrades
Together, we believed we
Would see with our own eyes the new
World where man was no longer
Wolf to man, but men and women
Were all brothers and lovers
Together. We will not see it.
We will not see it, none of us.
It is farther off than we thought.
In our young days we believed
That as we grew old and fell
Out of rank, new recruits, young
And with the wisdom of youth,
Would take our places and they
Surely would grow old in the
Golden Age. They have not come.
They will not come. There are not
Many of us left. Once we
marched in closed ranks, today each
Of us fights off the enemy,
A lonely isolated guerilla.
All this has happened before,
Many times. It does not matter.
We were comrades together.
Life was good for us. It is
Good to be brave – nothing is
Better. Food tastes better. Wine
Is more brilliant. girls are more
Beautiful. The sky is bluer
For the brave – for the brave and
Happy comrades and for the
Lonely brave retreating warriors.
You had a good life. Even all
Its sorrows and defeats and
Disillusionments were good,
Met with courage and a gay heart.
You are gone and we are that
Much more alone. We are one fewer,
Soon we shall be none. We know now
We have failed for a long time.
And we do not care. We few will
Remember as long as we can,
Our children may remember,
Some day the world will remember,
Then they will say, “They lived in
The days of the good comrades.
It must have been wonderful
To have been alive then, though it
Is very beautiful now.”
We will be remembered, all
Of us, always, by all men,
In the good days now so far away.
If the good days never come,
We will not know. We will not care.
Our lives were the best. We were the
Happiest men alive in our day.

September 9 was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. I mostly wanted to say happy new year to all. I have always liked the Jewish new year because it is a pretty different holiday than the January 1 new year. Rosh Hashanah is the beginning of the Jewish high holy days, a time when self-reflection is encouraged.  Instead of mindless hoopla and an essentially fake sense of celebration, the enphasis is on thinking about our failings individually and collectively so we can do better in the future. There seems to me to be a lot to atone for this year.

It occurs to me that being in Anchorage has put me further from any Jewish community than I have ever experienced. I know there is a reform temple on Eastern Northern Lights Blvd but i confess that the closest I have gotten to it is a bar on Northern Lights named Don Jose’s where they have good margharitas. So, clearly, I can do much better too. In honor of Rosh Hashanah, I wanted to share a poem written by Yehuda Amichai.

The Jews

The Jews are like photos in a display window,
All of them together, short and tall, alive and dead,
Brides and grooms, bar mitzvah boys and babies.
Some are restored from old yellowed photographs.
Sometimes people come and break the window
And burn the pictures. And then they start
Photographing and developing all over again
And displaying them again, sad and smiling.

Rembrandt painted them wearing Turkish
Turbans with beautiful burnished gold.
Chagall painted them hovering in the air,
And I paint them like my father and my mother.
The Jews are an eternal forest preserve
Where the trees stand dense, and even the dead
Cannot lie down. They stand upright, leaning on the living,
And you cannot tell them apart. Just that fire
Burns the dead faster.

And what about God? God lingered
Like the scent of a beautiful woman who once
Faced them in passing and they didn’t see her face,
Only her fragrance remained, kinds of perfumes,
Blessed be the Creator of kinds of perfumes.

A Jewish man remembers the sukkah in his grandfather’s home.
And the sukkah remembers for him
The wandering in the desert that remembers
The grace of youth and the Tablets of the Ten Commandments
And the gold of the Golden Calf and the thirst and the hunger
That remembers Egypt.

And what about God? According to the settlement
Of divorce from the Garden of Eden and from the Temple,
God sees his children only once
A year, on Yom Kippur.

The Jews are not a historical people
And not even an archeological people, the Jews
Are a geological people with rifts
And collapses and strata and fiery lava.
Their history must be measured
On a different scale.

The Jews are buffed by suffering and polished by torments
Like pebbles on the seashore.
The Jews are distinguished only in their death
As pebbles among other stones;
When the mighty hand flings them,
They skip two times, or three,
On the surface of the water before they drown.

Some time ago,  I met a beautiful woman
Whose grandfather performed my circumcision
Long before she was born. I told her,
You don’t know me and I don’t know you
But we are the Jewish people,
Your dead grandfather and I the circumcised and you the beautiful grand-
daughter
With golden hair: we are the Jewish people.

And what about God? Once we sang
“There is no God like ours,” now we sing, “There is no God of ours”
But we sing. We still sing.

I moved to Anchorage in late May this year. It is probably not enough time to know a place. In truth, I have actually been here less than three months. I spent most of June in the Washington D.C. area.

Still, I do not find it difficult to offer some early opinions about this place. I like Alaska very much. People have been warm, welcoming, and pleasantly informal. I used to think New Hampshire was informal. Alaskans take informality to a whole new level.

For many, the idea of dressing up might mean a best pair of jeans and a clean sweatshirt. While I know there are some snooty opinions out there about how awful it is Alaskans (and Americans generally) dress down, I find it refreshing. Instead of being compelled to spend precious dollars on wardrobe, the emphasis here is casual and comfortable. To me, this way is less affected and more down-to-earth.
The informality is also fitting because Alaskans live closer to the natural world than many other Americans. You do not have to go too far to be in the wild. And what an immense wild it is! It is a big sky country.

Anchorage itself has been in a state of geographic expansion over the last 30-40 years. One result has been encroachment on bear habitat. The story of bear/human interaction is a perennial favorite in the paper. On the front page of the Anchorage Daily News, there is almost always some story about a bear. If you go to http://www.adn.com (website of the Anchorage Daily News), you will see the bear section, replete with multiple pictures taken by readers of bear sightings.

Back in New Hampshire, we had black bears. I would sometimes see them walking through my backyard in Wilmot heading toward the blueberry patch. Alaska has brown/grizzly bears, black bears and polar bears. The polar bears are way north but brown bears seem to be everywhere in the state. Black bears inhabit the southern two-thirds of the state.

Male grizzlies can run 400-1,100 pounds. Females run 200-600 pounds.  It is estimated by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game that the state has 35,000-45,000 brown bears and more than 50,000 black bears.

For hikers, the bear presence is not a small concern. Avoiding the bear is always the preferable course of action. Bear spray is widely advertised. Many hikers and anglers carry guns. It is not a great idea to surprise a bear. Hikers are advised to make noise, talk loudly or tie a bell to your pack. There is a cottage industry of advice about what to do around bears. Always giving them space and a wide berth seems like the wisest course to me.

There was a story yesterday in he Anchorage Daily News about a brown bear death zone near the confluence of the Kenai and Russian rivers. Two years ago, nine bears were killed in defense of life and property  in a five mile radius around two of Alaska’s most popular fisheries. The red salmon run has been a big attraction for the bears. This year the run was weaker. Because it was so weak, biologists closed the Russian river to anglers in mid-August. That in turn meant less bear/human contact.

In another story from this summer, the mayor of Denali Borough shot and killed a grizzly that charged him near the area landfill. It turned out that someone had previously shot the bear with a .22 caliber bullet. The mayor felt badly he shot the six foot 400 pound bear. Grizzlies were climbing over the landfill fence despite the city’s efforts to stop them. One online commenter noted that shooting a grizzly with a .22 was an uncivilized form of torment.

Along with bear stories, it is hard to miss the stories about small plane crashes. Planes are everywhere. When I have gone out hiking, I have been surprised by the number of planes in the air. A reality of Alaska life is the limited road system. Planes are often the only way to get around much of the state.

While the Senator Stevens’ crash was the big local news event, there seem to be no shortage of other small plane crashes. The weather typically figures in as a factor. I do realize I am talking about the weather and the winter has not arrived yet. Still, it is always a big topic.

The summer weather of 2010 has to be considered a big disappointment. I have been told that this is not typical. Last summer was much better. It was beautiful at the end of May. Unfortunately, that was pretty much it for prolonged sun. This should go down as the summer-less summer of 2010. I think there were 30 something days of consecutive rain. The sun barely made an appearance.

September now edges forward with a sense of impending winter. I suppose I am a little paranoid about when the first snow will fly

I have to acknowledge that September may be the best weather month in New Hampshire. It often remains warm and sunny all the way into October and foliage season. Maybe Alaska will surprise me but September already seems cooler and no less wet. The days are getting shorter. Oh well.

While I would have liked more warm, the absence of stifling humidity has been a pleasure.  Maybe Fairbanks very occasionally gets oppressive heat but not Anchorage. I am apparently going to be making a trip to Fairbanks this coming December. I have heard it gets to be 50 below there. I am curious to see what that feels like – at least once.

In a week or so, i will be going to Ketchikan. Earlier I spent a week in Juneau. I will write more about the southeast peninsula. Stay tuned…

From afar, I have followed with interest the debate over New Hampshire’s new unemployment law about gross misconduct. Without any basis, opponents have claimed that workers who steal from employers will be able to collect benefits. Under the new law, just as under the prior law, workers who steal from employers in an amount less than $500 will be denied benefits on the ground of misconduct.
It was hard to take seriously the allegation that the new law rewarded bad behavior or countenanced stealing from an employer. The people saying this have little knowledge about how the unemployment system actually works. Or they are fabricating this charge for perceived political gain.
The problem with the old law was that it inflicted the same very lengthy disqualification and penalty on someone whose minor misconduct involved 35 cents as someone whose gross dishonesty involved $100,000, instead of making the severity of the penalty match the seriousness of the offense.
The law change was necessary because workers were being harmed by the old law. The state previously over-utilized the gross misconduct disqualification and wrongly
denied workers who never should have faced that charge.

Mr. 10/22
The best way I can illustrate the problem with the old law is a story. Back in the 1990s, I represented a guy from Newport named Harry King. King, who has now passed away, was a Vietnam veteran, a Little League coach and a hell of a nice guy. Since coming back from Vietnam, he had worked at the Sturm Ruger gun factory in Newport for 22 years.
By all accounts, King was a good worker. Co-workers called him Mr. 10/22 after the rifle he worked on.
One morning he came to work early, around 6 o’clock, and wanted to buy a cup of coffee from the machine in the shop. The coffee cost just 35 cents. King had a $10 bill in his pocket and no change. On a nearby supervisor’s desk, he spotted some spare change. He took 35 cents off the desk and bought himself a cup of coffee. He intended to pay it back.
King went back to work. Later that morning he got called into the office. The company accused him of stealing the 35 cents. Officials had the theft on videotape. The company claimed that money had been disappearing off of that supervisor’s desk and they had secretly placed a hidden camera nearby to monitor the desk.
After 22 years on the job, Ruger terminated King for the alleged theft of 35 cents. Because he had no other source of income, King filed a claim for unemployment benefits. The state Department of Employment Security denied his claim on grounds of both misconduct and gross misconduct.
The “theft” of 35 cents was considered dishonesty and therefore not just “misconduct” under the law but “gross misconduct.” Gross misconduct has harsher consequences for a worker than simple misconduct. In addition to being denied benefits at that time, the worker loses all wage credits, effectively denying any possibility of collecting for a long time.
King went to an appeal tribunal hearing in which he represented himself – and lost.
He then sought counsel from New Hampshire Legal Assistance. I handled his case and filed an appeal with the Employment Security commissioner arguing his denial was an error of law. The agency reopened the case and allowed a new hearing on the merits of the case. We subsequently had a full hearing in which Ruger brought eight witnesses to testify against King.
The appeal tribunal reversed the decision in King’s favor. Both the findings of misconduct and gross misconduct were overturned. The appeal tribunal found that King did not have the intent to steal anything.
King’s case is indicative of the typical misuse of the old gross misconduct statute. Dishonesty could be broadly construed.
The case got some publicity. Bob Hohler, a former Monitor reporter, wrote a sympathetic story about the case that appeared in the Boston Sunday Globe. After that, a lowbrow TV newsmagazine of the era, A Current Affair, did a segment about the case that aired nationally. The Boston TV stations covered the appeal tribunal hearing.
New law
The new law, House Bill 1168, clarified the circumstances in which Employment Security could invoke the gross misconduct disqualification. Previously, the law denied workers who committed arson, sabotage, felony, assault which causes bodily injury, and “dishonesty.”
The problem with the old law was the vagueness of the term “dishonesty.” While the other offenses are clear on their face, dishonesty is much more slippery terminology. As the King case demonstrates, almost any factual dispute where parties disagree could be mischaracterized as dishonesty by a party. Employment Security had a bad habit of overusing this disqualification when simple misconduct was the more appropriate charge.
House Bill 1168 replaced the offense of dishonesty with theft in an amount greater than $500. Theft in an amount over $500 is more consistent with the other serious crimes outlined in the statute. Again, stealing $5 or anything less than $500 will still cause you to be disqualified from receiving unemployment benefits. But you won’t also lose all your wage credits, so that if you get another job and then get laid off from the new job, you may be able to collect.

Business support
The new law was a cooperative venture supported by labor, business and Employment Security. The Unemployment Compensation Advisory Council, which includes representatives of business and labor, supported the bill. It passed the House Labor Committee on a 17-0 vote. There were two hearings. Business interests did not oppose the bill when it was before the Legislature. It passed both Houses on an overwhelming vote.
If this was such a harmful bill to employers, why did it sail through unopposed? The business lobbyists were not asleep at the wheel. They were there 24/7 and they knew all about it.
What seems to be going on is an effort, after the fact, to mislead the public. I find it reminiscent of the Shirley Sherrod case. First, present a sensationalist picture based on distortion and misinformation. Then claim a harm. Have little or no regard for the truth. Try to gain partisan political advantage in the wake of the confusion you have created.
The cynical underlying assumption is that the only thing the public will remember is the accusation that workers who steal from employers will be rewarded. This is a new version of the Big Lie technique. Politicians who go down this road should not be rewarded.

In the last month, I have made the big move from New Hampshire to Alaska. There is not much I have not left behind. I moved away from my home, my family, my friends, my dog, my job and a world of familiarity and security. Because of the complications and logistics of the move, my wife and I have to live apart temporarily.

Still, while you never know for sure in life, I think this is the right move. For someone who has always lived in the northeastern U.S.,  Alaska is a pretty big adventure. It is not just West Coast remote. We are talking four times zones away.  Anchorage is a three and a half hour flight from Seattle.

After an initial two weeks in Anchorage, I can offer a few observations.  It is hard to be prepared for the scale of Alaska. Flying in from Seattle, there are mountains beyond mountains extending for a long distance as you approach Anchorage.  For a good chunk of the time on the flight, it looked like there were no people below.  I flew into the city in late May and the mountains are all snowcapped.

Anchorage is nestled between big water and surrounding mountains. The views are lovely in many directions.

I was not prepared for the brightness of the light. I got some new sunglasses in New Hampshire before I left and I am glad I did. For whatever reason, the light seems brighter. Contrary to expectations of lousy weather, the first two weeks were beautiful. The temperature reached up into the 80’s and there was almost no rain.

I have found it is easy to lose track of time. By June, it was staying light til 11:30pm.  As an easterner, I could easily have thought it was 7pm at 11:30 at night.  I have enjoyed the late light. You simply need to tell yourself to go to sleep when it does not look like that time.

Being in a new city can be disorienting.  It takes a little time to overcome feeling like an alien outsider. Af first, I did feel like brother from another planet. Driving around the city helped considerably. Anchorage does not seem like a difficult place to get around in if you have a car.
It is a large geographic area but the layout is straightforward.  One of the first things I did when I got to town was to buy a good city map at Barnes and Nobles.

People have been very welcoming and open.  I was put up by my new friends Cliff and Theresa who went way beyond the call as far as generosity.  Greeting newcomers (and even welcoming vacationers) seems like a warm and deeply ingrained Alaska tradition and ritual.  As a last frontier,  Alaska seems to draw a potpourri of people like myself coming for a job opportunity, those down on their luck arriving to make a fresh start, loners and PTSD sufferers who are literally heading for the hills and prospective Houdinis who are trying to disappear into the woodwork probably because they want to escape something bad from the lower forty eight.

I would say there is more diversity than I might have expected. Based on initial observations, Alaska is quite a bit more diverse than New Hampshire. Native Alaskans, African Americans, and Pacific Islanders all seem to have significant concentrations in Anchorage.

While people have told me that the economy is better than the rest of the U.S., I did note the St Francis Shelter, the sizable local homeless shelter, and the nearby homeless campground.  Some people freeze to death in the winter as even in Alaska some homeless people camp outside all winter.  I am curious to see the extent of that.

My first weekend in Anchorage, my friends Cliff and Theresa took me on a hike to Hatcher Pass, a place 40 or 50 miles north of the city. It was incredibly scenic. On the way back we stopped in Wasilla, Sarah Palin’s hometown. While the former governor has monopolized coverage of things Alaska, I was surprised by how poor quality housing was on the city’s main drag. Parts of the downtown looked very dumpy.  I expect there are lovely places on the back roads but I have not seen media coverage of how shabby the downtown row of shacks is.  I have not heard any media commentator ask her about that.

No one will ever accuse Alaska of being manicured. Unlike places like L.A. where parts of the city look like a movie set, Alaska is down to earth in a way I like. It is not a place for stuffed shirts. It has a casual quality reminiscent of New Hampshire. People dress for comfort and in a more freewheeling, natural way than in many American cities where employees concoct fancy get-ups for their job. I like the informality.

On the other hand, I have experienced a degree of sticker shock at the cost of everything. Gas is at least 50 cents a gallon higher than in New England. Ditto for food prices. Housing costs are also quite high. Anchorage is not a cheap place to live.

I do expect to like living here. The whole experience of this transition makes me think of Walt Whitman’s poem Song of the Open Road. Since it is my personal favorite poem, I will shamelessly use this opening to hawk the poem. There are many lines that speak to me but my recent experience leads me to think of these lines.

“What beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate
 kisses of parting
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.”

Because I love Whitman, I will post the whole Song of the Open Road. It is hard to imagine a greater poem. I will be writing more about Alaska.

1
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

2
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.

3
You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!
You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!
From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,
From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

4
The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

5
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

6
Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,
(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,
Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,
Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?
Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;
Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

7
Here is the efflux of the soul,
The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions,
These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?
Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?
What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?
What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

8
The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,
The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,
From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

9
Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!
Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,
Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,
However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,
However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

10
Allons! the inducements shall be greater,
We will sail pathless and wild seas,
We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;
Allons! from all formules!
From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.

Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,
None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,
Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,
No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,
We convince by our presence.)

11
Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.

12
Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!
They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,
Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,
Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,
Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,
Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,
Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,
Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,
Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,
Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,
Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,
Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,
Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,
Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,
Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

13
Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,
Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,
To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,
All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,
Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,
Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,
But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!
It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,
In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.

14
Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?
Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,
He going with me must go well arm’d,
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

15
Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

This has been a tumultuous time in my life.  In the last year, I lost my dad and my sister.  I have left a job I loved and a place I loved, Wilmot, NH. I have moved to Anchorage Alaska to accept a new job as an administrative law judge for the Social Security Administration. My wife Debra Reis and I are temporarily living apart as we navigate this transition. There are many loose ends.

With so many changes, i wanted to write something that expressed my love for my wife. I have long held onto and admired the below poem by Wendell Berry.  it is a poem that I have carried with me for a long time. It says things better than I can.

Ripening     by Wendell Berry

The longer we are together
the larger death grows around us.
How many we know by now
who are dead!  We, who were young,
now count the cost of having been.
And yet as we know the dead
we grow familiar with the world.
We, who were young and loved each other
ignorantly, now come to know
each other in love, married
by what we have done, as much
as by what we intend.  Our hair
turns white with our ripening
as though to fly away in some
coming wind, bearing the seed
of what we know. It was bitter to learn
that we come to death as we come
to love, bitter to face
the just and solving welcome
that death prepares. But that is bitter
only to the ignorant, who pray
it will not happen. Having come
the bitter way to better prayer, we have
the sweetness of ripening. How sweet
to know you by the signs of this world!