"An Idea Whose Time Has Come" by Todd S. Purdum (2014)

With the Civil Rights Act of 1964 currently under fire by Conservatives, this book comes at a crucial time in our country. With a skillful hand author Todd S. Purdum takes a good look back at just how hard it was to get the legislation passed in the first place; and thereby exposing the risks to be run should we let it be overturned.

Think of a life; in which your legal rights as we know them today; were suddenly altered. What if local laws trumped federal laws whenever you left the Interstates? The W.C. Fields line from “My Little Chickadee” comes to mind. As he is being led off to his own hanging, our wayward hero is heard to cry “I’m new in town, where can I purchase a Book of the Rules?” This may seem absurd on its face, but it’s not too far from the reality which would set in should the Civil Rights Act ever be repealed.

At the time that the Act was made into law, there were sections of our country; not just in the South; where people of color, read that as non-white or “different”, could not obtain a hotel room for the night, or even sit in a restaurant to eat. The hotel maids that touched the sheets of the white patrons were black. The cooks in the restaurants were black. It was an absurd embarrassment. At the time we were engaged in a Cold War with the Soviets, and having a hard time claiming the moral high ground against a backdrop of racial discrimination.

The author draws upon the best writings, and writers, of the Civil Rights chroniclers and then adds to their perspectives of life “in the forefront” by taking a hard look at the people who were actually involved behind the scenes in the legislative process. (The bibliography of this book could serve as a syllabus for a complete course on the history of the Civil Rights Movement.)

After the Freedom Riders; after Selma; there was still no legal basis for an end to Jim Crow in the South until it was codified into law. This book is the story of that end of the Civil Rights struggle. With a colorful cast of characters; every bit as varied, and sometimes flawed; as their counterparts in the front lines were, this book will have you recalling all of the political figures you remember from the news growing up in the 1960’s.

There are President’s Kennedy and Johnson; both struggling against the winds of change to secure the rights of all Americans to vote. There are the Senators; ranging from Humphrey to Dirksen and Thurmond; with one of the longest filibusters in our history as the Senate belatedly comes together to pass a bi-partisan Civil Rights bill. There are enough characters in here to fill a novel; with the difference being that these people actually lived and changed lives in the bargain.

The real difference between this book and the many others concerning the Civil Rights Era is that this book concentrates on what was happening in Washington, D.C. at the time of the protests. While the protests may have been the catalyst for change; without new laws to back up those changes, there is no telling what the fate of the movement would have been. And the story of the wrangling, and the deal making that went into getting the bill passed is every bit as exciting; and at times infuriating; as the actual struggle on the ground was.

Mr. Purdum has taken all of the available information of the Civil Rights Struggle and  written a newer, more concise history of the Civil Rights Act; one which will be appreciated by readers who were not alive at the time these events occurred.

There are very important lessons to be learned from this book; the most important of which is just how hard it was to get this law passed in the first place. And that lesson calls to mind a very important question; why would anyone want to do away with the Civil Rights Act? Bear in mind that the next time this battle is waged it will be more about economics than color.

"Owd Bob" with James Cromwell (1998)

We have all seen James Cromwell act in a score of movies. Sometimes you might not recognize him. He looks the same, but his thespian abilities sometimes make him unrecognizable to the audience. It’s called acting. Not the type you expect from Bogart, or even DeNiro; though both are fine actors. It’s just that they are almost always playing an extension of their own personalities. Not so with Mr. Cromwell.

In this touching story widower Adam MacAdam; played brilliantly by James Cromwell; finds himself with custody of his grandson, David. The boy is on a trial visit for the summer from America, where his parents were recently killed in a car crash.  MacAdam is skeptical of the whole idea, but agrees to it out of a sense of duty, rather than love for the boy, whom he has never met.

The old man raises sheep and sheepdogs. The dog’s job it is to keep the sheep moving and grazing, as well as protect them from any predators. The complication occurs when an unknown dog; believed to belong to old man MacAdam; begins killing sheep. Tradition; and local law; hold that when a dog kills a sheep the owner of the dog must “put him down.” But MacAdam insists that the culprit is not his dog Zac, and refuses to submit to putting him down.

David finds comfort in the company of a neighboring family; the Moores; who also raise sheep and dogs. Keith Moore; played by Colm Meaney; is the son of old man MacAdam’s biggest rival, and though the elder Moore is dead, old man MacAdam has never forgiven him and carries the grudge forward to the younger Moore. In addition, Owd Bob, the dog belonging to Moore, was sired by a dog that had killed sheep before and was put down. In the mind of old man MacAdam, Owd Bob is the likely culprit.

As David becomes close with the Moore’s daughter Maggie; played by Jemima Rooper; friction erupts between David and his grandfather. When her mother dies the two become even closer and David moves in with the Moore’s while he awaits assignment to a foster home. There is no way that the boy and his grandfather can ever bridge the divide caused by past events which occurred before David was even born. The old man is just too stubborn and bitter.

As the people on the island lose patience with the dog that is killing their sheep, they gather as a group and demand that Keith Moore put his dog down, thinking that the culprit is Owd Bob. David knows differently and tries to stop them, but they are all as stubborn as the old man; including Mr. Moore, who is even willing to put his own beloved dog down without looking too hard for the truth.

I will not tell you how this film ends; only that the end will have quite an impact upon you. This is a film which will make you think about all the times in your life that you may have been wrong and judged things too harshly, too soon. It is also a film about taking responsibility for those mistakes and healing broken bridges.

Beautifully filmed on the Isle of Man; tightly directed and well-acted by all; this is the film of which Mr. Cromwell should be the most proud. All of his other performances; as brilliant as they are; pale in comparison with the depth of emotion it must have taken to play this role. His performance here stands as a monument to his long and varied career.

Directed by Rodney Gibbons and written by Sharon Buckingham and Harry Alan Towers, this film has been delighting audiences since it was first released in 1998. It will undoubtedly stand the test of time.

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Lakefront Restaurant at the Hilton Hotel

Sue and I had dinner at the Lakefront Restaurant last night. The restaurant is in the Hilton Hotel at J.M. Keynes Drive in the University area of Charlotte. Cody, our server, was delightful and accommodating in all respects.

I had the Sea Bass with capers and olives and sautéed Spinach. Sue had a Beef Tenderloin and we both shared an Arugula salad which was exceptionally well made.

There is a new Sous Chef, Mike Hancock, in the kitchen now. Cody bought him out to say hello so that we could compliment him on the cuisine.

Hotel restaurants don't always receive the credit they deserve. People take them for granted, figuring, "well I'm staying here so I may as well eat in the hotel."

Sue and I have eaten at the Lakefront before, but even we tend to forget about it often when we are wondering where to eat. And then when we do eat there we wonder why we don't do so more often.

With Mike in the kitchen; and Cody seeing to our comfort in the dining room; we will be back again sooner than later. Thanks Mike and Cody for a wonderful dining experience.

"They Stooge to Conga" - The Three Stooges (1942)

In this; one of the wildest 3 Stooges films ever made; “They Stooge to Conga”; which doubled as a wartime propaganda film; the Stooges are out of work and stumble upon a job fixing a broken doorbell. The work is at a German home which serves as a front for a Nazi spy ring.

The boys find the trouble with the bell; along with other unanticipated troubles involving their customers. What makes this film stand out the most from all the other Stooges films is this 3 minute sequence; which is “active” even in comparison to most of their other antics.

The Three Stooges is more of a “guy” thing than for women. I have rarely met women who truly enjoy the slapstick genre of comedy. It’s just a genetic difference, I’m sure. And, as in most things which concern men and women; I say, “Vivre le difference!”

To see the whole film use this link;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6u6vhTudY4&feature=kp

Carlos and Franco, Hashish and Me.

One of the great advantages I have had in life is being in places when extraordinary changes were taking place. Beirut in 1981; Turkey in the late 1970’s during a coup, and then again in the early 1980’s when Democracy was restored; are 2 places and times which come readily to mind as examples. But until the news came over about Juan Carlos stepping down after almost 40 years as head of his country, I had forgotten about one of my favorite events. And that was in Spain the night that Juan Carlos decriminalized possession of hashish and marijuana. I suppose a bit of history is in order here.

Spain’s 1936 alliance with Hitler and Germany; which actually helped keep Spain neutral in the coming Second World War; set off the Spanish Civil War, which many people point to as the first real battle of the Second World War. It pitted Generalissimo Franco’s Nationalists (read as Fascists) against an International Brigade of volunteers (read as Communists) from countries as diverse as the Soviet Union and the United States. Ernest Hemingway even went there; a visit which would give rise to his novel “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” Franco won and became Spain’s dictator for the next 4 decades. In the late 1970’s he relinquished his power to Juan Carlos, who became King.

The rule of Juan Carlos was filled with all the usual troubles of running a kingdom; or any country for that matter. He had his own terrorists to contend with way before we did. They were separatists from the North, and were still active as recently as the Madrid train bombing early in this century. Economically Spain has had its ups and downs; just like the rest of the world. And now his son will be taking the helm of leadership in a mostly symbolic position; much as the Queen rules England. All indications are that he will be well received by about 70% of the population, and we wish him luck. End of history.

And now, the night Juan Carlos decriminalized hashish. If memory serves me correctly it was March 1^st, 1984. I was in Alicante, a port on the Cost de Sol to catch the USNS Sirius, a ship which had been home to me several times in the past few years. This was a small port by comparison to the ones we usually hit. I was also just fresh from stateside, having landed in Madrid that morning direct from New Jersey by way of Baltimore. I had just gotten my 3^rd Mates License, but was shipping as an Able Bodied Seaman instead of as Third Mate. There were no slots open at the time and my money was running low.

There was something festive in the air, like the sharpness you can almost feel before it snows. There were Federal troops, complete in 3 cornered hats, at every intersection. The sight of automatic weapons in the hands of someone with a 17^th century headpiece was incongruous, but the lethality of the modern weapons was not lost on me. So, I went to the nearest bar to get the lowdown on what was happening.

Walking in I was surprised to see so many people openly smoking hashish. Hashish was very common; after all there is only a 7 mile strait between Spain and Morocco at Gibraltar. But it was always on the quiet lest you be arrested. It was a bit unsettling to see everyone smoking with all the troops just outside. I started asking questions in my broken Spanish; and getting answers in broken English. So I was only getting small pieces of the story at a time.

Turns out that this was the night when hashish became decriminalized in Spain and I was lucky enough to be there. The troops were there for everyone’s protection, and also as a warning not to let things get too out of hand. The wine flowed, the hash burned and everyone had a great time. And that is what came to mind when I saw that Juan Carlos was stepping down this week. Now here’s the fun part. I am going to google this and see how accurate my memory is for date and event. Be right back.

Well, I couldn't find what I was looking for; namely a date; but here is the status of the law in Spain, where possession is a misdemeanor; sale is illegal; but growing it is not. This is from Wikipedia;

“Selling cannabis is a criminal offence punishable by law at any quantity. Buying anywhere, possession and consumption at a public place constitutes a misdemeanor and is penalized with a fine and confiscation. Growing the plant on private property for personal use, and consumption by adults in a private space is legal.[121]”

Here is the link to the whole article, which lists all the countries alphabetically;

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legality_of_cannabis_by_country

And finally, thanks Juan, for a night I will always remember.

"I'd Rather Go Blind" - Etta James (Live at Montreux 1975)

"I'd Rather Go Blind" is one of my favorite all time songs. Just listen to the lyrics. This woman is so in love with her man that she would do anything to keep him; but if she can't, she's not gonna keep him from someone else; no. Instead she would rather go blind than see him walk away. The song was written by Ellington Jordan with a co-credit to Billy Foster.

In reality Ms. James co-wrote the song with Mr. Jordan when she was visiting him in jail. She credited Foster with her share of the work for tax reasons. It is unclear whether or not she received any royalties from the film version of the song by Beyoncé. You can read about this in Ms. James autobiography “Rage to Survive.”

David Hood, the bass player on the original recording, which has been used many times over the years in films and on TV, has not been paid for those uses of the song. He is quoted as saying; after hearing the song on an Episode of “Law and Order”; "I said, 'I cut that. That's me playing.' And so we have written it down, and now I'm going to go through whatever process it takes to try to get paid on that. Because when they make a show and they put music in it, the producers of the show have to pay to use that song. And if they can't find the people who played on it, that money just sits with the Musicians Union or wherever it goes. Someplace there's a lot of money stacked up."

This version was captured on video at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1975. The original record was released in 1968. If you have seen the film "Cadillac Records" then you are familiar with the story of Leonard Chess and his affair with Ms. James; who was reportedly the illegitimate child of Minnesota Fats, the pool player.

Her struggles in her attempts at a relationship with her father; who spurned her; and her love for Leonard Chess; who was already married; both contributed to her heroin addiction. By 1975 Ms. James was still struggling with her dependence on drugs, but her voice remained perfect; as it would for the remainder of her life.

An interesting thing to note about this video is the similarities in what Ms. James was actually doing on the road, compared to the efforts of Janis Joplin, who was already dead several years at the time. This band is what Ms. Joplin was striving to emulate on her own with the Full Tilt Boogie Band and her last album, the posthumously released "Pearl." She just about had it down at the time of her death.

In many ways I have always considered both Ms. James and Ms. Joplin to be the female versions of James Brown. Don’t laugh until you watch a bunch of their videos together in one sitting. Etta James' music will be with us for a long time coming. Her searing vocals and performance style, along with the sweetness of her face, will haunt the airwaves for a long, long time.

To hear the original recording and compare how well Ms. James voice stood the test of time, hit this link;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sY0sFBHtt8c

The Bosun and Me - USNS Jupiter (1981)

In the summer of 1981 I was stationed aboard the USNS Jupiter, a “roll on/roll off” ship which was “on station” in the lagoon at Diego Garcia. There are personal conflicts aboard every vessel afloat, and the Jupiter was no exception to that rule. In this story I am not the bad guy; but ultimately I am not the good guy either.

Bosun Browning and I were anything but friends. As a matter of fact, we had come to blows once; well, nearly to blows one might say. I couch the episode in that light due to the fact that I had the presence of mind, and the swift footedness of youth to quickly repair myself to the Captain’s cabin for refuge.

The whole thing started innocently enough, with the Bosun; who is the man tasked with everything on deck aboard ship; and I engaging in some trash talking of one another’s backgrounds. I was that bane in the side of all true Southerners; a Yankee; while he occupied in my young mind that special space reserved for the mouth breathing, knuckle dragging denizens of the Deep South. This “trash talk” had gotten somewhat out of hand, considering the fact that he weighed about 250 pounds and stood 6’4” in opposition to my 145 pounds and slender 6’ frame.

At the time; and remember I was in my mid 20’s when this story takes place; I knew little fear, and each evening after going ashore and running through the jungles of Diego Garcia; which are not very dense, the island itself being but 34 miles long and only ¼ of a mile wide at its widest point; I would return to the ship and weigh myself, calling out to the Bosun that when I attained the unimaginable mass of 150 pounds, I was determined; actually hell bent upon; kicking his Cajun ass. This resulted in Bosun Browning awaiting the return of my boat each evening. He would then follow me to the scale and watching over my shoulder he would check my weight with me. This was a fight that was going to happen and he was planning on losing no time in getting the thing started.

The disappointment on his face each night, as I hovered between 147 and 148 pounds, was almost heartbreaking; even to me; though I knew that should the battle ever occur, I was sure to come out on the short end. The Bosun, impatient for his chance at hastening my demise, always shook his head in disgust as I failed to attain the 150 pound mark. To this end he had begun handing me a candy bar, or a piece of cake, after each failed weigh in. As I said earlier, he was in earnest for the battle to begin.

As the months wore on and I continued to hold at 148 pounds, which is the most I have ever weighed, we developed a mutual respect for one another, but he was still looking forward to the impending battle with relish. Sometimes things don’t go quite as planned and there is often a valuable lesson to be learned, if you keep your eyes open and your wits about you. This was one of those cases.

One night, sometime around midnight, I slammed my hand in a hatch and the nail was throbbing and aching something fierce. I was roaming the deck, unable to sleep, when I chanced upon the Bosun, who inquired as to the nature of my trouble. Showing him my finger he looked pained and told me to follow him to his cabin. I was in such a state that I did just that, not knowing what to expect from my nemesis.

Arriving at his cabin he rummaged through some tools, and pulling out a drill bit proposed that he would drill through my finger nail, thus relieving the pressure of the blood beneath it and my pain. Such was my pain that, with a trusting and uncharacteristic willingness on my part, I agreed to this experiment.

With a surgeons gentle touch this large Cajun shrimp boater proceeded to drill through my finger nail, and did exactly as he said he would, with a gentleness belying our continued state of war.

This is the night in which I learned a most valuable lesson; that the person most likely to help you in times of distress is often not your friend, but rather your enemy. I retired to my cabin to ruminate upon this philosophical discovery and what it really meant in practical terms, particularly aboard ship. What I came up with, in conclusion, startled me then, and I have often thought back to this event when faced with confusion by the actions of others over the next several decades.

Take, as an example, three people standing on deck in a storm at sea. Two are friends and the third hates the other two. One of the two is swept overboard. The friend stands there transfixed, unable to assist due to two reasons, the first being that he is so upset at the loss of his friend, he is effectively immobilized; the second being that he is conscious of the risk he would undertake should he choose to take some action.

The enemy, on the other hand, is not weighed down with all this. He only knows that should he not take some decisive action, he will be judged by a very different standard. The friend of the victim will be consoled for his loss, while the enemy will be reviled for doing nothing. His inactions will be dismissed as his having availed himself of the unexpected pleasure in seeing his enemy hurt. Due to this he will leap overboard in a maelstrom in an effort to avoid this perception. I have seen this type of behavior several times in my years at sea, as well as my many years ashore. I stored this lesson away and gradually, over the course of the next few months, the Bosun and I were able to mute our "cold war" until the whole argument had become pointless.

In November, after the monsoons had ended, we were both scheduled to fly home on a 21 hour flight from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to Newark Airport in New Jersey. We had a pleasant flight, during which I learned his entire life’s story, as I am sure he learned some of mine. I found, much to my surprise, that I was actually beginning to like this guy.

We landed at Butler Aviation Terminal, which is located at the far end of Newark Airport and proceeded through Customs and then outside to the line of cabs waiting at the curb. The Bosun asked me to watch his bags while he went to the rest room and I assented.

As soon as he was out of sight I took his baggage and tossing them in the back of the next available cab, handed the driver a $50 bill and told him, “Here’s $50, I don’t care where you take the bags.” I grabbed the next cab and high tailed it out of there in a flash.

There are probably many lessons to be learned from this story, but I will not assign myself  the task of pointing them out. My actions at the airport that morning would seem to call any judgments I might make on the matter into question.

My Cat in the Back - A Midnight Tale

I couldn’t believe my ears. Then I heard it again; it was my cat.  There’s nothing too strange about hearing him; except that he NEVER comes in the back of the house. Well, almost never; at least not for about 3 years now. And, he has a good reason.

It was almost 3 years ago that Midnight took his celebrated solo flight attached to the talons of a local hawk. The backyard at that time was not as well developed as it is now, and many of the neighbors hadn’t even planted a tree or erected a fence yet. So, the back was basically on long open field, long enough to land a small plane on. This is exactly what the hawk must have thought when he swooped down and grabbed Midnight.

Midnight has always been well fed, in spite of his somewhat haggard appearance. He has always gotten his tuna twice daily and some dry food is always in the bowl on the porch for him, along with his water. So he has never really been a lightweight. This point was proved when the hawk was forced to abandon his dinner about 3 houses down and 20 feet up. This meant that Midnight was about to go down 20 feet. It’s all relative to where you are at the moment.

So, down he came with a torn ear; the last grasp of the hawk’s talons desperately trying to hold on to his dinner. And, until the other evening, Midnight has refused to go back there again. This is why I was so surprised to hear his distinctive meow coming from beneath an old picnic bench which Sue uses to pot her plants.

He came out when I went to him, but he wasn't keen on hanging around for long. He was there on a mission. He usually comes home for dinner at about 5 o’clock. It was pushing 7 when he finally showed up looking for his tuna. So, he came around the house and caught my ear. Then we both walked back up front for his dinner. But as we crossed the back yard I did notice that he stuck awfully close to both the house and me.

Here is a song by Steve Earle which is probably pretty close to how the hawk feels when he’s up there. It’s from the 2008 album “Washington Square Serenade” by Steve Earle. Midnight generally likes his stuff, just not this song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAmdOPCPu3A