Tuesday, February 05, 2019
The Critique of Politics #5: War and
Peace in the Epoch of Conflicts
By Tim Krenz
February 4, 2019
Wars can start for many causes, even
sometimes for very flimsy excuses, or by pure accidents and perfect
political storms. Whatever the causes, wars bring serious, deadly
consequences. Even if a nation or groups of people find themselves
in technical conditions of peace—if the world ever can find a
state of balance for a peaceful international and domestic order—the
delicate fringe of terror will still overhang it. The existence and
constant proliferation, and the viable use policies, of nuclear
weapons threaten a self-destruction of the human species if, by
deliberate act or accident, such weapons ever get used.
One miscalculation in political
thinking, one willful and irresponsible decision by a leader, or one
murderous urge by a maniac with a grudge that unleashes the nuclear
genie from its bottle could end all human civilization. In the
extreme use and massive uses of them, almost every single living
plant and animal as we know them could cease to exist. With this
ultimate and terminal end-state in an escalation of nuclear combat—by
any combinations of those who possess them—the risk of war in our
age of conflict eventually concerns every woman, man and child living
and yet to come. Therefore, knowing this risk of catastrophe, this
fifth critique of politics focuses on war and peace, and the nature
of these dark and elusive monsters and angels of horrible fears and
false hopes. We should know and talk about modern conflict
intelligently because we have nothing at stake except everything on
earth.
Author Graham Allison coined a catchy
phrase two years ago with something known as the “Thucydides Trap,”
whereby a rising power challenges a declining power. Allison, though,
has only reinvented a strategic and historic wheel discovered 2,400
years ago by the ancient Greek writer and soldier, Thucydides. That
writer, Thucydides, the father of strategy, summed up the reasons by
which ancient Greece found itself in a war that lasted three decades,
changing Greece's history in disastrous ways. It comes down to a
simple thesis that because Athens grew ambitious to extend its power
over others, Sparta became fearful of its competitor. Underlying the
ambition and fear factors, we find a combination of both jealousy and
greed.
If we examine motives throughout
history since that war in late 5th Century B.C.E., the
cause of most conflicts fall within this greed, ambition, jealousy,
and fear cycle of human nature. Conflict and war itself goes beyond
the nice categories of national interests and so-called “strategic
calculus” (a non-sense buzz word of the self-appointed thinkers of
strategy—like me!). Conflict, armed and otherwise, comes out of the
very base human instincts, that when some player(s) on the
political-economic scene become(s) ambitious and/or greedy, the
others become fearful and/or jealous. This syndrome in a
political-economic system stems from the deeply rooted flaws in the
psyche of decision-makers. We cannot eliminate these defects. But, we
can understand them and limit the damage they do to ourselves and
others.
Consider the following example in the
current war of a Western civilization with the extremists leaders of
the radical Islamic states and para-military movements. Think about
this, seriously. If looked at in the ambition-greed vs. jealousy-fear
model, it fits as well as in almost every other armed conflict.
Understanding the war in this way can sort through the propaganda,
lies, distortions and half-truths of all sides. The Western nations
(and China, Russia, and Japan, and now India) rely on oil to fuel
their economies, and to maintain the comforts and securities provided
by their civilization. Those nations have a greed for keeping what
they have got and do not want to lose it and go backward. Oil, in
large measure, provided the convenience of living better the past one
hundred years.
To secure that oil, Western nations
co-opted the elite rulers of the oil-producing nations to continue to
supply that oil or maintain the security of its won (i.e. Soviet
Union/Russia). That co-optation includes allowing them to suppress
their poor people and the poor immigrants seeking employment. The
West, etc. provides the money for the elites and for the security of
their rule for Western access to the oil. Many of the co-opted
oil-producing nations have Muslim majority populations, primarily in
Southwest, Central and Southeast Asia. It also concerns regions on
the periphery, like Syria, and Russia (which itself has a large
Muslim population). Virtually none allow democracy or other basic
human or natural rights or follow patterns of Western-like rule of
law institutions. Because of the greed for the oil, the oil money,
the security, and the ambition for power, we must admit that the West
has imposed on a billion humans in Islamic countries a very
oppressive condition. Few citizens or leaders in the West will admit
this point publicly. Yet, the West needs the oil out of a greedy
sense of securing their way of life, to the detriment of a whole lot
of people.
Enter the leaders of the extremist,
para-military Islamic organizations. For whatever other reasons they
fight the West in a global campaign of guerrilla-terrorism, they use
the claim of Western exploitation, past and present colonialism, and
Western political and military policies as their primary weapon to
recruit and deploy their followers in acts of violence. Do they hate
the West for things other than economic—whether religious or
social, or cultural reasons? Only they can answer that. However, we
cannot deny their statements that they jealously guard their land,
people, resources, and beliefs from the ambitions of the West who
have thwarted their nationalist-like religious goals.
Those goals? To overthrow the elite
overlords empowered by the West, and to drive the Western countries
out of their area. Since this global conflicted between the Western
civilization and the Islamic radicals started in Iran in 1978-79
(and the taking of US diplomatic hostages), it has consumed far more
lives, property, money and safety than ever expected. People can try
to look farther back into history to try and believe that it somehow
means a war of good vs. evil since the advent of Islam in 622 A.C.E.
Realistically, the current conflict has waged now for around four
decades—between the West and revisionist Islam.
This sword, however, has two edges and
it cuts both ways. Looked at from its opposite side, the radical
Islamic paramilitaries and states challenge the Western interests in
its own security, moral and physical. The enemies of the West act
with an amount of greed and ambition in their own right, to deprive
the Western powers of their personal and material civilization.
Without judgment on either side, where both legitimately protect
themselves, the West reacts with its own brand of fear and jealousy.
Both sides use greed, ambition,
jealousy and fear to wage the open and hidden wars between them..
Unless we look at it intelligently, logically, in order to find
solutions, it could go on for a much longer time. This war will
inevitably draw in more of the world, and it could escalate. With
eight of the nine nuclear powers now directly or indirectly involved
in the Indian Ocean Basin, it could end badly. Enter China as a
rising power with the same competitive interests, and the
greed-ambition, jealousy-fear model engages another tripwire. We live
in the epoch of modern conflict: A world divided by people's greed
for more or fear of losing what they have. But we may have common
point for conflict resolution to get beyond this epoch, and to
survive as a species here on the planet and a home we call Earth.
The next critique of politics will
examine this point of departure, and explain more how understanding
and acting beyond these human instincts for these self-destructive
attitudes can lead to a better peace. If we do not, in the end, we
will only destroy all of the future, not just an enemy, but ourselves
as well.
Monday, February 04, 2019
Low Adventures: Trekking the Superior Hiking Trail Part 8: Baptized Up Two Creeks
Low Adventures: Trekking the Superior
Hiking Trail
Part 8: Baptized Up Two Creeks
By Tim Krenz
December 2018
In the spring of 2005, after Craig and
I spent a couple of weekends in March scouting for trout runs near
home in Amery, Wisconsin. He and I ventured in the middle of May for
a two-night backpacking trip to the Superior Hiking Trail. This trip,
for the first time, we brought two of our friends. We would have a
good trip, despite my negative attitudes during it. Not quite proud
of my words and feelings that surfaced during the trek in
northeastern Minnesota, I can only say that at least the other three
did not tie me to a tree, dangle bacon over my ears, and leave for
the bears.
I probably deserved it, if they had
done such a thing. Instead, I learned a lot on that trip, the effect
that disgruntled expectations could have on me and neutral parties.
I have never quite grasped why I got so bent over things. In the end,
though, we had a great trip, even if not my best moment in the woods.
Three years after I graduated
university, I became friends with a girl a few years younger in high
school, the redoubtable Mary. Actually, that same summer she and I
became friends, Mary had introduced me to her classmate that I only
vaguely remembered slightly more than Mary herself. She brought me
together with her best friend: Craig. Yes, Mary stands responsible
for my very great friendship with the man who instigated this whole,
immortally self-acclaimed Low Adventure.
Mary, always a sweet friend, had her
charming, even disarming ways, with her ready laugh, her vibrant
smile, short red-blond hair, and her stories of wacky adventures
living in the Twin Cities. Luckily, my girlfriend back home, Looey,
did not mind my friendship with Mary, since Mary and I would have to
share my tent. “Who's Mary?” Looey asked me. I explained. “Sure,”
Looey said, “. . . sure.”
The first day of the trip, Mary picked
me up at my parent's farm in the morning. After stopping at a
Minnesota Walmart so she could get knee braces, we drove straight up
I-35, farther north of Duluth, MN, to Two Harbors. There, we met
Craig and his friend from university days, a software engineer named
Bryan. Further up the Lake Superior coast, we parked Mary's car in
Silver Bay and we all found ourselves in one car on the way to the
parking lot for the section of trail before 1 PM.
When we started our walk I carried the
lightest pack I had brought so far for these trips. Before I left my
parent's house, I weighed the gear—most of it heavy and obsolete
by today's standards—at thirty-nine pounds. I did not, however,
get into very good shape over the winter or early spring for this
particular trip. I should have, if I only remembered how I carried my
own ass after the walk on Christmas Tree Ridge the previous autumn.
As my trail journal reminds me, I hurt like hell that first day.
Combined with the frustrations of life and the trip, and with the
clouds and chill rain all that weekend, the effects made for a very
“crabby-sour apple” me.
That first day, Friday, May 13th,
I found a new definition of awesome, of truly awe-inspiring power, on
that Superior Hiking Trail section. As the beautiful views of the big
lake became dimes by dozens from high hills in the woods, the new
power mixed with beauty brought me a new sense of the word “WOW!”
Coming down from the north side, we
arrived at the shore of the Baptism River. To our right, the four of
us gawked at the wall of water crashing down Baptism Falls. From
across the far shore to our side of the water, the rushing, gushing
cacophony lifted spray from the impact of millions of gallons of
water that daily fell down from the heights above us. The cold mist
of spray lapped our faces, clothes, and packs. It caused me even
more chill inside than the light rain and cold air did. After we
climbed the stairs to our right, directly next to the falls, my legs
hurt horribly. Wherever Craig and I found stairs to climb on our
two-person trips we would always swear at the makers of the Superior
Hiking Trail. Those cruel trail designers always seemed to put the
trail up the nearest hill where flat ground would have worked. Yet,
here we had no choice. Up the stairs we climbed. At the top of those
Baptism Falls, I would not complain due to the Wow-factor.
About thirty or forty yards from where
the water toppled over the edge, we turned left to cross a bouncy
suspension bridge made of some rusty metal. Although quite stoutly
built, which impressed our group's engineers, Craig and Bryan, the
sign still warned all hikers in groups to cross one at a time. It did
not help Mary's anxiety when Bryan or Craig stepped onto the bridge
while she and I crossed in our turns, and they began jumping up and
down on the metal grate path. As the whole bridge plumped up and
down, its bounce freaked Mary out. Not too fun for Mary, we all made
it across safely and in good humor
A short distance from the Baptism
River, we climbed a narrow path of rock-strewn gully, something the
guidebook called The Drain Pipe. I ran out of breath a little, but
worse, my legs and hips burned like a steel furnace from the stress.
Straight up almost, I remember we had to climb somewhat hands over
head to grab supports to support and balance us. Up the Drain Pipe,
and trekking more, we later made another tough climb, up Mount Trudy.
By this time, we had only hiked 4.5 miles, and since Craig had the
map, he could see we still had more than 1.5 miles to walk to our
planned campsite. “Just up ahead, not too far,” Craig kept
saying.
“Just around the bend.” Craig said
repeatedly, encouraging us. He said those words all the way up the
hill, even after we stopped to look at big pile of bear poop in the
middle of forest path. It looked at least hours old, and it did not
steam, which I took as a good indication. We had contemplated a wolf
leaving us that huge bread-loaf scat, but a pile of bear chip seemed
more likely. Big as an Egyptian pyramid in size and shape, a bear's
presence unnerved me a little.
At the top of Mount Trudy, Craig ran
ahead to make sure we could get the campsite before anyone coming
from the other way could occupy it. Mary, Bryan and I trudged along,
with me and my now wet and heavy, blue backpack weighing down the
group from the back end. We walked “just” a little farther, and
farther, and farther. Craig's words kept stinging my memory, “Just
up ahead, not too far.”
When the three of us stragglers reached
Palisade Creek campsite, a lovely little alcove of space in the tall
pine and birch trees across the bridge over the creek, we saw Craig
sitting next to a stranger. He had come from the other way, I
believe. I subsequently called him New Guy. When I walked into the
camp, I shouted at Craig who sat on a log bench, “Fuck you and the
map you were using!” It probably shocked everyone and also New Guy.
I took no notice of my temper but proceeded to calm down as Mary took
my tent poles off her pack. I then began to assemble the Eureka
tent, the body and rain fly of which I had carried. My 39 pound
backpack by the end of that day's walking felt like the burdens of a
hundred stones. Luckily, I did not pack more.
On the trips, Craig always made sure to
assemble menus and apportion meals and various ingredients and parts
for me to bring. That night, while still daylight, Bryan, Mary and
New Guy, and I tried to build and maintain “the little fire that
could.” Craig boiled water for dinner on his rapidly
malfunctioning, two-piece gas trail stove. The menu that night?
Noodles in individual Styrofoam packaged cups.
Eating, the slight rain continued as
Mary flung chicken parts into a pine tree from her cup of mixed
noodles and veggies. She did not care for the chicken, apparently.
When I noticed her flinging food around, I asked my friend and
tent-mate, “Mary, are you throwing chicken into the trees?”
She smiled wide in her way, and said,
“Yeah.”
“Mary, ders barrs in dose woods,”
Craig said, sounding rather concerned although he tried to disguise
his voice in a verbal pantomime of language.
“Oh!” Mary replied, now worried
that she just invited the forest animals for supper. Oh, Mary!
That night, as everyone went to their
tents, New Guy to his, Craig and Bryan to Craig's blue domed “Hilton
of the Forest,” and Mary and I to the little gray and green Eureka,
the rain started falling harder. Mary had a high-tech sleeping bag
she borrowed from her sister. It could have fit into a small purse,
and it weighed almost nothing. I knew then that I had obsolete gear.
I worried greatly, though, when Mary unzipped her backpack to take
out snacks of dried fruit, nuts, jerky, and other yummy things that
she brought into the tent. It worried me a lot, but then again, I ate
the snacks, too, and we left the bags in the tent vestibule outside
the door. I only hoped that if a bear came into the tent that Mary's
red flannel pajamas would wave him off or wave the okay for him to
sample taste her first while I “ran” for help.
Luckily, through the night no bear came
to get Mary's food, and apparently none came into camp to eat rubbery
chicken out of the pine tree next to our tent. Mary fell asleep early
and after I read more of Thucydides' book, I also dozed off around
9:30 PM. I did sleep well and kept my legs warm by putting my empty
pack under my sleeping bag to give me more insulation from the cold
ground.
The next morning, we all woke around 7
AM. We ate oatmeal and drank coffee for breakfast. Then came the
worst conflict of the whole low adventure walking the entire Superior
Hiking Trail over those years.
We packed tents and bags. And although
we had a nice running stream of cold water below the campsite, Bryan
asked to use my water bottle. He had water from home, good clean
drinking water, and he wanted to save it. I had filtered my two
bottles the night before when we arrived. Filtering with an older
hand-pump, with charcoal canisters, gummed up from years of use, took
about five minutes per bottle. I had one liter bottle of water for
the walk, thinking we would find a water source along the way. To my
astonishment, Bryan used almost the rest of my drinking water to
rinse his breakfast dishes. As soon as he did, he and the others
(minus New Guy, of whom I lost track), began the day's walk. I packed
my bottle and rushed to keep up with my gang. I had no time to filter
more. Unfortunately, we never crossed a water source. Worse, I soon
drank the remainder of my bottle early in the walk.
I could have borrowed water while
walking from others, but no one had very much to spare. All day,
exerting or resting myself, I need a lot of hydration. I took some
sips of Mary's, but she had very little. The whole thing should not
have bothered me so much. After a bit, I got into a verbal tussle
with Bryan, which I should not have done. I liked Bryan, even if I
did not know him too well the past ten years since I met Craig.
Bryan and I camped as a group before,
and we did much camping later since then. Sometimes we camped in a
group on the Superior Hiking Trail and in the Boundary Waters. And
even years later, when we separately visited Craig and his family in
Washington state, Craig and I camped with Bryan and his two teenage
children in the Cascade Mountains. However, that day and with my
attitude I almost nixed a friendship with a decent, hard working
person. I later regretted my outburst, but the issue of lines and
tolerances never had to become an issue again. I also learned the
easy way to avoid that situation by always keeping my water bottles
full and purified at every opportunity. I also learned that justified
anger on my part cannot exist in my world. Such self-righteous
outburst does not do me or anyone any good. I do not know what really
bothered me on the inside of my thought and life. Perhaps I have more
to write about that elsewhere.
When we trekked that morning, we walked
up Round Mountain, not as high as Mount Trudy the previous day, we
still had a clear view to the northeast, toward the big lake. I got
some good pictures before my camera rewound after only a few frames.
I probably hit the rewind button accidentally. Ahead of us, though,
we came to another hill and we stopped at an overlook above Bear
Lake, a clear and deep looking body of water below us, filled by
innumerable streams flowing from the west. On that entire northeast
side of the our view, we surveyed a landscape of downed, leafless
timbers. These views, although dimes by dozens, each had their own
striking individuality. At this view, I remembered how it all looked
with low ceiling clouds just above our heads.
I do remember an incident that day, on
one of our stops on an overlook. Bryan jumped off the cliff, freaking
out Mary, even after she and I realized that Bryan landed a narrow
piece of outcropped rock and thin grass a few feet below him. Mary's
anxiety shot up several levels. For me, I thought it a clever antic,
but I would never jump on a rock outcropping without courage or
caution . I saw too much of the trail already to trust a tuft and
thin ledge where grass grew.
Around noon, we reached a
multiple-group camping area, a large patch of dirt under a thin
growth of trees, at the place called Penn Creek Campsite. After Bryan
and Craig set up their tent, the two of them walked back to the
small, deep, clear lake we passed but this time they carried
reassembled fishing rods. In camp, Mary took a nap in our tent and I
read more of Thucydides. I also cut up the plentiful firewood left by
previous occupants. Of course, I made coffee over a little fire in
the rock-lined pit. Meanwhile, when Bryan and Craig fished, I watched
over the dehydrated venison stew in a steel pot where Craig had let
it soak in some water to re-hydrate. Before the trip Craig spent
hours making the mix at home, cutting, drying, etc. all the
vegetables and venison. The pot rested, somewhat precariously, on a
split log shelf wedged between two trees. Knowing my usual luck and
clutziness, I remained far away from the pot. I had one job: Make
sure no critters got into it.
After a stew dinner boiled on the fire,
since Craig's stove immolated in fire upon lighting it, we enjoyed a
bigger fire over which we made a pot of coffee. At 7:10 PM, I wrote
in my trail journal, “After raining hard last night, a muddy
campsite last night and this morning, and cloudy, chilly drizzle all
day, the sun just popped out. Here comes the Sun!”
The evening wound down. The others most
likely thought of their loved ones at home. Craig had his wife, Jen,
and his daughter, Anya. Bryan, a wife, Tanya, and two children, Blake
and Alyssa. Mary had her son, Jimmy. I thought of my girlfriend,
Looey, my cat Bettee, and our dog, Nacho. I thought of the value I
had in that. Two years into that relationship with Looey, I missed
my kookey sense of family every time I camped.
In the tent, Mary and I talked and ate
more snacks she brought back into the tent. Like good friends of ten
years standing, we always enjoyed our own company. While she snuggled
in her high-tech sleeping bag, I read some more ancient Greek
history. I never felt old on the trail, but at age 35, life's history
of my future looked entirely positive and longer. Then, we heard it,
and all of it became a question mark in my head. We heard the sound
of something huge scuffing hard at a tree, loudly, and not very far
away. It definitely sounded sharp, eerie and large.
“It could be a deer, rubbing its
horns on the tree,” Mary said, looking a little startled in those
large green eyes.
“Ah, yeah, but it could be a bear
rubbing its back, too,” I replied.
“Oh?” Mary replied.
With food in the tent, NEVER A GOOD
IDEA AFTER THAT TRIP, we could only offer tasty morsels to the fierce
beasts of the forest, moose or bear, or Big Foot. We heard the noise,
but no roar, no murmur. Nothing other than the scraping and scuffing
of a tree. Resigned to our fate, we ate more snacks. We never
discovered the source of that very, very loud and disturbing noise.
Something, on the other hand, watched over the camp that night.
The next morning, following breakfast
of jelly-filled snack bars, we stood around drinking coffee. One by
one, we each took turns walking down the side trail to the open-air,
fiberglass latrine over a shallow pit. At the creek, drinking coffee,
the others could see the head of the person sitting, looking
embarrassed, and only wanting the natural privacy which brush and
branches from downed trees could not provide.
We encountered no problems walking out,
or getting back to the shuttle car. After taking time to shop in Two
Harbors, Mary and I drove home to Wisconsin. She dropped me off at my
parent's farm, with my parents happy to see her again. The trip
complete, at home in Amery at Looey's house, and future camping trips
to come, these low adventures continued to tell me more about the
nature of nature and the nature of human relationships than I ever
realized before starting to walk the Superior Hiking Trail. I
concluded that I wanted to trek some more. Craig and I definitely
would.
Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #54 Pieces of Time
Sub
Terra Vita Chronicle #54
Pieces
of Time
By
Tim Krenz
December
2018
As
most people know, at least those who know me well, I like wearing
watches on my wrist, to tell “my time” accurately. I often wonder
about my near-obsession with knowing the exact time. Most folks
tether themselves to their smart phones or other devices in
everything they do. A cell phone does not own my attention, but my
watches have always felt like part of my left forearm—whole and
inseparable. To not wear my watch, by pure accident of forgetting,
or when one does not work, feels like a ghostly amputation.
When
young, my father drilled into my head the virtue of “show up at
least five minutes early, no matter what.” As a pretty good
taskmaster and role model, I follow my father's advice, to the tune
of my absurdly great punctuality. If I show up five minutes early, I
feel uninhibited about leaving early.
I
found in my life, whether wearing a Jedi watch, an old-school Swatch,
my now-broken Donald Duck watch, or the really old and broken Marvin
the Martian watch, that I imperfectly adduced, my very own philosophy
of time. After all, I only need to add an “e” at the end of my
name, “Tim,” to get the word that I seek to understand in
concept, that concept of “time.”
As
I approach the half-century mark of my time on earth, I see many
others lucky enough to keep their internal watch wound up and
running, and all the while I hope that the clock of loved ones keeps
going. Whether family, friends, or others too good for this world to
lose, the clock does tick, but I remain grateful that their
chronometers keep working.
Time.
It controls our lives, as time determines the length of living. Each
person as an individual moves on that line we call time. On that
line, we have birthdays and anniversaries, appointments and
schedules; clocking in and clocking out of work; deadlines for work;
wasted time spent useless in between; waiting for others; and
constructive uses of time to keep our minds and hands occupied; and,
sadly, and tragically, our time may unexpectedly end far too early.
We humans have these influences to mark our time and hopefully make
us men and women fit or better for our time. If really lucky we may
shape the time in which we live.
With
these issues of time, we do not seem to have a good philosophy of it,
something around which we can build a more ideal state of mind or
spirit. Like any philosophy, we must construct one about time each on
our own. Such a philosophy should not replace our ideas or ideals of
a god, godhead, or other self-revealed knowledge. Any philosophy of
time should only enhance and enrich whatever beliefs we hold in the
first place—about our place in the intricate fabric of space and
time. Does everyone grasp the scope of triumphs well spent, when we
spend our lives doing that which we love, and with the ones we love
the most? For the limited time of one life span, when compared to the
history of the universe, we need to jealously guard our time, give it
to other things grudgingly, and claw it with our dulling, sore
fingernails. When we realize the undue inevitability that we can do
more with the time we have, we might think differently about a useful
personal philosophy of time.
My
father used to wear his father's gold wrist watch, a very special
one,with the words “Hamm's” on the face plate. My grandfather
worked at Hamm's Brewery in St. Paul his whole adult life, except
for the years of the Second World War when he, like other members of
his family, served as an enlisted man in the United States Navy.
Grandpa's co-workers at Hamm's presented him with that gold watch at
his retirement shortly before he passed away around the time I
turned 10 years old. My father no longer wears Grandpa's watch
because it does not work well all of the time, and Dad has another
wrist watch. Dad keeps that gold watch in his special box where he
has other mementos of very important value to him that he collected
over a lifetime. Once in a while, he hands the things out as the
years go past, to me and the other members of my family. A watch may
keep time, but only as long as it functions. For me and my own
philosophy of time, a good rule becomes: Keep the wrist watches and
timepieces in good repair.
Time,
like space and position, gives us perspective. Often, we may look at
the same things differently from other positions. And hindsight in
history always look somewhat different backwards along the time line.
As history, a story may regress to first causes, or previous
position, the way archaeologists date the time of their findings. In
the life of one (or two) old people each 100 years old, a far away
world long ago appears reachable. Two such persons a century old
standing next to each other and holding hands, and we have a timeline
that spans back to when Napoleon haunted the hills of his exile on
St. Helena after his battle at Waterloo. Four such people in a line
and holding hands, and we have a time-continuum reaching back to
right before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth colony and made their
first Thanksgiving. To stretch it back even more, twenty people of
one hundred years of age, and we have the rough time frame of Pontius
Pilot and the trial of Jesus. Thirty people a century old and holding
hands, the accumulated years touch the shores of ancient Troy and the
combat of Achilles and Hector. History, then, in time and in tangible
human form brings us back a long, long way. In this sense, history
remains near, and within our grasp to remember on the line we call
time.
How
does time begin? Astrophysicists call the event the “Big Bang.”
Albert Einstein's theories say that space and time exist as one
influencing the other, in a similar way the 19th
Century American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson called the grand spirit
the unified and indivisible “One.” Space and time, according to
Einstein, bends, slows, and warps itself and even affects light, as
his General Theory of Relativity explained how gravity functions in
the universe. In the equation, E=MC2,
“C” represents the constant speed of light, at around 186,000
miles per second, which Einstein used to represent the base-line of
time in his theory. He used the constant “C” because he could
find no other reliable and objective chronometer (clock) to make the
calculations. According to the scientists, the speed of light in a
vacuum and unaffected by gravity represents the only real way we know
our age, as a universe. I wonder if we can accept that? It takes a
while, but I did finally accept it. Another good general rule in my
philosophy of time becomes: Accept the time as it exists and not as I
would have liked it otherwise.
In
the telescopes, astronomers look outward, and always backward in
time, to see the early light of the universal dawn, closer to the
beginning of time, in order to understand more of existence. They
explore the depths farther out to see the internal logic of the great
force of time and space. How it affects our reality, here and now, I
cannot know, but in the present, I only know that none of us have
enough of the time we want. This brings me to another rule: Use the
time allowed for what I want to do, and not wait to do good and great
things for people I love.
In
a temporal sense, the line of time, the taskmaster that limits things
to come, gives us opportunities to clew to it, enjoy it, and to
benefit from the time we have on earth. Forget space, briefly, and
all the science. On the other hand, on a spiritual level, time can
also magically renew and reveal to ourselves the inherent powers we
have to heal, help, balance, reflect and to correct. If we accept
that life has justice, we must trust that time will do that justice,
especially for those who live honest, good and loving toward
themselves and others. We cannot make more time, due to the wisdom of
whoever or whatever created it. As George Harrison once sang, “All
things must pass,” both bad things and good. Time changes things. A
rule: Let time change things, in and around us.
About
ten years ago, I received a present from my parents at the family
Christmas Eve. I opened the wrapping and the container and I found
one of my father's heirlooms from his special box. He gave me a gem
of a chronometer, from my grandfather or an uncle, I do not know
which. He gave me a pocket watch, stainless steel with a glass face.
Time in a box! On the back, it had engraved “US Navy Bureau of
Ships, Comparing Watch, 1943.” A true wind up watch, I carry it
only on specific occasions. I found it to valuable personally to
carry it casually, even on a chain I added to it. Since I have to
wind the old watch to keep it going, I wondered if I can keep the
clocks ticking by my efforts. Given the times, I must try.
Monday, December 03, 2018
Critique of Politics #4: Voting as a Privilege But Power of Consent as the Future of Freedom
Critique of Politics #4: Voting as
a Privilege But Power of Consent as the Future of Freedom
By Tim Krenz
December 3, 2018
For: Hometown Gazette
In this fourth part of the
critique of politics, we must first dismiss the absurd view that
every person has an inalienable, natural right to vote in elections.
None can claim the right by any definition other than as human-made
and therefore a legally transient, even temporary privilege, when
using ballots cast by qualified electors. No right given by nature,
and therefore above the laws made by men and women who can revoke
them, guarantees the exercise of voting in a democracy, or in a
republic, or in any type of government. Partly for this reason,
voting itself will not make a better future. Why?
Voting simply comes by way of
extended privileges, granted by an authority seeking the approval of
those it governs for the actions it takes. Those entities extend a
franchise to electors so that it can narrowly define and limit the
question of “who gets to choose.” By doing so, the system limits
choices by default. On the other hand, the natural right of consent
of the governed for its government exists outside of the human-made
laws, and the act of giving or withdrawal of that consent remains a
pure and inalienable right of citizens. This distinction of natural
versus human-made laws and rights looms large in implication for the
future of freedom everywhere, and also for continuing the republic of
the United States of America, specifically.
Why does voting not exist as a
pure and natural right? First, the entity, whether a government or a
private body, may set the terms and limits of an election. Doing so,
that corporate body (public or private) can by its own laws—and
even sometimes by quite arbitrary decisions—decide who can vote,
where, when and how. That decision-making body can also enfranchise
OR disenfranchise voters by the same means. For example, it can set
the following: age limits, property requirements (not only for
stockholders in private enterprises), proper permits to vote (“voter
identification” laws), race, gender, levels of literacy, criminal
record, etc.
All of these limits and
disqualifications to vote at one time existed under the Federal
constitution within U.S. territory Most of the otherwise limiting
restrictions for keeping voters disenfranchised, particularly age,
race, gender, and literacy and property requirements, got fixed or
redefined by amendments to the Federal constitution or via Federal
statutes. (For example, the “Voting Rights Act,.” first passed in
1965, came over 100 years after the ratification of the 15th
Amendment supposedly removing voter discrimination related to race,
etc.).
Still, why a legal privilege and
not a pure, natural right? Statutory codes, ordinances, even
constitutions, come by way of political compromises between men and
women. Where voting in the U.S. mostly, and correctly, expanded the
limits of citizens qualifying as electors who can cast ballots in
elections, men and woman can also undo those laws and constitutions.
Everything in the United States Constitution (ratified in 1788-89)
and all amendments remain temporary and may one day get revised or
voted out of existence. We shudder to think of that, but it still
remains entirely possible, even if improbable.
Where humans agree to create
something, humans can agree to destroy the same. The same logic
applies to voting. Having made democratic elections part of the
Federal system, as a compromise system of government, the rights of
the Constitution made the privilege of voting a norm. Sometimes
people take norms for granted, in an act of misplaced complacency
about politics. The compromise that created the Constitution may one
day compromise the end of itself and of the voting privilege. No
natural law or natural right, above a human ability to allow
something to replace it, protects the Constitution as a permanent
feature of government in the United States. In this sense, as in the
Civil War from 1861-1865, only the force of armed force would
ultimately determine its fate.
Opposing this stark reality,
citizens in the United States have another means to exercise control
over those they elect to conduct government over them, a means based
on the pure natural right of the consent of the governed. As implied
above, a natural right exists above and beyond the ability of
human-made law to disqualify, suppress, oppress, or destroy. A
natural right survives all attempts at compromise and it exists in
perpetual form, not as a privilege but as a fundamental right of
human existence.
Natural rights transcend
everything. And consent or withdrawal of consent comes as a choice,
a duty, a service, and an obligation. This demands more than group
action at election time. The right of consent or its withdrawal
demands an extremely personal vigilance and a very personal action.
It means the oath to defend for all each and everyone's freedom from
fear, from want, and for speech and for worship. These freedoms that
would not harm others or steal from anyone make up the essence of
peace and liberty for the world.
Consent of the governed comes in
many ways, not just in voting but it involves voting. In this
commitment, the moral consent of the ethically governed stands as the
greatest tool, or the best weapon (in a non-violent sense), that can
protect the body politic. That body, the whole of a citizenry, needs
constant protection from the diseases of power which infect the
powerful people who may govern. To prevent compromises from
overwhelming the delicate balance between individual liberty and the
needs of the community as whole, everyone must make this personal
commitment. In this singular and most serious act, people
everywhere--every citizen, anywhere—has to defend the high moral of
rights for all and the ethics of freedom for all against any enemies
who would subvert these.
How to make consent a practical
way of change? First, each person individually must make the voting
count. Do not perpetuate an evil or a corrupt system, or ill-defined
choices within it. Vote on the extreme merit of conscience—for any
candidate or cause that makes sense to a person's reason, and for
ones that advance their consent for right and against wrong.
Second, protect the system of
voting by voting at every opportunity. Never let anything steal a
person's voice in the casting of ballots, through ignorance of
choices or by apathy of means. Keep the privilege alive by exercising
it.
Third, and importantly, without
harming others or destroying their property, take every action within
the limit of human-made law to call fraud a fraud and then support
good with good. Exert the moral force of peace and non-violence in
all manners of resisting an evil or a corrupt system. Stay creative.
Fourth, demand better choices, in
and outside of elections, by voting with feet, money, and consent, or
its withdrawal—at any time and any place—for the public actions
of public servants and public persons. Work to create alternatives
and then exercise the choice of them.
With enough people doing these
things, all of the time, the future of freedom prevails, but only if
people make the ultimate commitment of their conscience.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Critique of Politics #3: Political-Economy and the Relationship of Power and Money
Critique of Politics
#3: Political-Economy and the Relationship of Power and Money
By Tim Krenz
October 5, 2018
For: Hometown
Gazette
We cannot separate
the relationship of politics and economics any more than we can
separate a head from a body and still have a whole living person as a
remainder. Politics and economics exist in a fusion of interests and
control, in a mutually integrated system of influence and resources.
Actions in one part will react in the other, and in a system of gain
and loss, the impact works to increase the control of wealth and the
uses of that wealth for the desired end. Politics controls and
economics responds. One or the other seeks to increase its power to
control or exercise the other.
In a simple model of
understanding: Politics determines the answer to “who gets what and
why do they get it?” Economics answers the question of “when,
where and how do they get it.” The variable of reference to “they”
becomes all important and critical to the success and endurance of
power and the resources behind it. This model, and the nature of a
political-economy in both pure or base forms, transcends any sense of
partisanship. No party acts any differently when in power.
Academics insist
that both politics and economics operate within a domain of social
sciences, sciences subject to research and statistics, abstract
theories and models of decision-making, and even to the study of
preferences and replacement variables. Politics and economics work
partly this way, according what the idea presented in this paper. But
in many ways, taken as a whole in the union of a political-economy,
politics and decision-making have more of a social scientific bent of
psychology, and the motivations behind fear and greed, which fear and
greed often make up the significant factors in any type of conflict
of interest.
Leaders, like
average people, fear for losing what they have or want opportunities
for more of it. They often enter into competition for the very greed
of wanting more or something that belongs to others. In politics,
psychologies respond to many situations, and can act in realistic and
even rational ways in the sense of protection, but they still base
decisions on the fear of losing or the greed more more (in whatever
terms sought, like security, life, liberty or property). Yet,
political leaders will succeed or fail in their efforts to direct
others toward personal or common goals based on a type of genius,
like those of great artists, who can give others the interpretations
they want to represent. In political leadership, artistry and
originality can make differences. Simply, politics depends mostly on
what people want to believe as their own interest in an act of
decision-making. Deciding who gets what and why results as the payoff
for support, or as its punishment for opposition (in “Who gets
less,” etc.).
Economics has less
the nature of social science, where numbers would matter on the
perception of decision-making, and it acts more like the science of
physics. Starting with the premise of economics delivering the
benefits or detriments of “when, where and why,”
wealth—ultimately defined as the sum of resources in its many
forms—follows a path of gravity towards the least resistance to
politically-directed programs. Like light in space or water downhill,
capital—the liquid form of wealth—will flow to an eventual stable
dynamic or state of productivity and consumption. Furthermore, like
the hard science of physics, engineering can manipulate the flow and
direction of wealth/energy (i.e. resources) to its desired direction
and end uses. Finally, like all physical energy, wealth never gets
created nor destroyed: it merely changes form into something else or
into other hands of ownership. Economics mostly works these ways,
invariably, and almost predictably.
Government as the
political form of decision-making over the structure, or the
engineering, of its economy determines how the resources get used.
The exception to these loose rules of political-economy usually come
into play where economics has its own uncertainty principle, or the
uncertainty of the value or ownership of a particular resource. Where
in doubt, governments as political agents will decide to make the
value or ownership of a resource some one's or some entity's
property. They can do so arbitrarily, but will do so to benefit the
prevailing framework of “who gets what and why?”
On other levels,
too, the symbiotic connection of political power and economic wealth
reinforce each other. Political power controls the economy; economics
will often dictate political power. Political decision-making will
direct wealth to desired outputs—where the wealth (i.e. resources)
will most benefit the political agenda. Whether wealth benefits a
narrow or broad interest almost seems immaterial at this point. It
does not involve parties but only interests. Wealth can go to
taxpayers in structured ways. It can go to areas of the population or
to business interests in the forms of subsidies. It can go into broad
areas of investment for reasons only directly related to political
choices—to national defense, industrial production, roads,
education, public services, etc. The politics determine the uses of
wealth, and does so for political reasons.
At the base, the
type of government matters on how resources get used. The philosophy,
theory, and practice of political leaders serve the ends of their
legitimacy and to help the system maintain its power over the ruled.
And either the willing acceptance or brutal repression of subjects to
the sovereign law allow political leaders its dominion and control of
the resources, that wealth that provides the security, comfort, the
consumption or the want of goods and services.
As mentioned, the
psychological factor of politics, the very genius and artistry of
leaders to remain ahead of their competitors and remain in power,
ultimately depend on the use of economic resources in a way that
complements their power. No rational system of politics can work
against its own interest and remain in power. Living conditions and
the demand for shares of the national wealth help balance the system
between the needs and wants of competitive interest, keeping everyone
with a willing interest to continue to live under the conditions
which prevail.
Governments,
sovereign political entities within their domain of territory and
that subject to its will, have remained throughout history the kings
of their lands and the resources which stem from it—from the land
itself, from the creative impulse of its citizens, from its capital
gains, or from the labor of physical force. Politics will continue to
decide on the broad features of how it accumulates and distributes
wealth. It will always do so, as long as politics has the force to
back up its claim to legitimate power, whether through ballots or
bayonets. Until political power becomes less an imposition in the
free lives of property owning people of a land and time, economics
will continue to serve as means for some group to control others.
Thus, it behooves citizens to keep their knowledge increasing, to
build private property, and to limit the reach of government that
does not serve their interest.
Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #53: The Life That Fell Upon Me: Confessions of an Underground Writer
Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #53: The Life
That Fell Upon Me: Confessions of an Underground Writer
By Tim Krenz
September 27, 2018
For NormalcyMag
This Autumn, as I approach the age of
48, I need to reflect on how on the god's good earth I got to this
point, to my role as a writer, let alone an editor and publisher of
cultural magazine??!! I graduated from the university in Eau Claire,
Wisconsin, twenty-five years ago this past summer. Much transpired in
my professional journey and personal adventure since those
post-school pretensions to pursue scholarship in the academic field
of history. All that has happened took place within the personal
dialectic of successes and failures, leading to more successes and
failures, and so on.
Some of the journey should not surprise
me, even if the entire adventure looks incredible in retrospect. Yet,
the career in writing all began even long before my high school
graduation in the spring of 1989. I know, in fact, that the story
begins before starting kindergarten, with the day I first spelled my
own name.
Having my sisters teach me the “ABCs”
caused me no end of struggle, particularly as I thought “and” in
the “-n-Z” made up its own two letters, repeating a second “n.”
Somehow I managed to eliminate the second “n” as most people
should do. Then, I do not remember the exact date, or the year it
happened. One day at home, with sunshine coming through the roll-out
living room windows, my siblings off at school, I remember I had an
over-sized pencil in my hand. On a piece of paper, on top of my toy
yellow semi-truck car carrier as a desk, I wrote (rather imperfectly
in penmanship), the proper noun, “tim.” I took the paper and ran
into the kitchen, where my mom did the dishes. “Is that my name?”
I asked her. “Yes,” she said. I proceeded to jump around in
joyful blast of energy. Strangely, both at that time and still now, I
knew that I would grow up and become a writer. A stranger journey
began in earnest. I have followed it, willingly and even with
resistant, ever since.
In grade school I wrote stories in and
out of class. I wrote letters, even “strategic” memorandums to
the president of the United States. On one warm summer's night, in my
bedroom at a fold out desk in the corner, I copied out on the
backside of three small sheets of my father's scrap paper from work a
“gazette” of sorts: My first newspaper publishing venture. The
next day I sold all three copies to my sisters and brother for a dime
each. I made the equivalent of 15 cents an hour for the effort. Even
then, like all struggling writers, I could never manage to put a
proper profit margin on my efforts. I found out since that all
writers struggle with that throughout their lives.
I remember Mrs. Hartman's fifth grade
homeroom at Osceola Elementary School. Our home room class put
together a school newspaper issue as our spring project. As an avid
reader of newspapers, news magazines, and history books from the
assorted school, public and private libraries, I used my interest in
that area for my contribution to the “Hartman Times.” I still
have the extant copy in my archives. The article from the spring of
1982 examined the Falklands War and the sinking of the Royal Navy
ship, H.M.S. Sheffield. Also, in Mrs. Hartman's class, we had to keep
a journal on various assigned topics or for general writing. I do
consider that my first journal, and, yes, I still have that theme
book edition in my archives, too.
Writing always came easier than
reading, but I had to work hard at both of them growing up. I still
do. I could never spell well, and I fought a discouraging dyslexia
all through high school. Sometimes, it still crops up. Yet, as a
result of writing and reading, two major themes in high school
became apparent concerning my future. I would do something that
involved writing. Second, I really, really did well at history,
current events, and philosophy.
Two bad things about middle and high
school surfaced, too, and would cause me some degree of trouble.
First, I hated manipulative controls on my own inquiry into the
world. And worse, I hated bad people who either failed, tormented, or
humiliated kids—or all of the above combined. I did, though, learn
a critical insight. The lesson: All private and public institutions,
indeed ALL things involve the interplay of politics, personalities,
positions, and power. The good people in institutions remained humble
and kept their humanity and empathy intact. Funny, I learned this
vital curriculum before age nineteen. The lesson rarely fails me when
I put it in the perspective of whatever I do. These matters all
pertained to the “what” and the “why” I write.
On the positive side, more than a few
teachers and administrators and support staff really delivered HUGE
gains to students, and to me in particular. For the students who
could perceive it, these wise and honored ones earned more than their
weight in pure salt in how they carried their lives, their
personalities, and their empathy into us and for what they taught.
They treated us as fairly as possible. These good ones let us inquire
and develop. These teachers and the other people just had the knack,
to teach us to live and think, and to express ourselves and explore
ideas and the world without fear. They held us accountable, yes. And,
yes, sometimes we deserved a little punishment. The big difference?
They never acted unjustly or in retribution. I have too many to
mention in such a short article, but those teachers know already and
some have passed. Thank you, for helping make me a person who writes!
Not a very good grade-oriented student,
for obvious reasons, I somehow made it into university. I started as
a journalism major for one semester. That first year, though, I had a
two-part history survey course of western civilization. In those
classes, I had a professor who subsequently remained a life-long
mentor, friend, and motivator in all that I would do professionally.
Because of Dr. Walter J. Wussow, Ph.D., I changed to a history major
and declared a political science minor right before registering for
second semester classes.
I found my three and a half years of
history course work intellectually challenging, and the writing very
intensive. I started keeping a regularly written journal my sophomore
year, a series of notebooks which continues to the present. Including
two English professors who taught history degree required writing
courses, August Rubrecht and Gloria Hochstein, my biggest challenges
came from the writing for each history class. My senior year, I took
my two-semester capstone methods and writing series from my adviser,
Dr. Maxwell P. Schoenfeld. I earned that paper to graduate with every
tear, nightmare, blood- and ink-stained finger I devoted to it.
For health reasons four weeks before
graduation, I had to take a leave of absence. Demoralized, depressed,
sick and unsightly and defeated, I remember seeing my mentor on the
elevator. We had not yet become such friends that we made after he
retired the following year, but Walt Wussow knew my struggle,
understood the circumstances, and he saw me, and he spoke to me amid
the crowd riding the car down to the ground floors. “IF you need
ANY help at all through this with the administration, you come and
SEE ME, or Warlowski,” the latter name referring to the department
chair. As physical skeleton, pale as a zombie, and without a soul in
my eyes, that ONE vote of confidence in me, that one act of kindness
by Walt saved my future. Somehow, that summer I returned to school,
earned my degree, and ran like hell with no destination in mind.
What next? I had no fucking plan. I had
no money. I had little hope. I really had no future. I knew little. I
started a career in the political adviser field. Within two years of
graduation I had started The Cepia Club as a little project. I could
write non-fiction under my own real name. I had already adopted a pen
name my junior year in university as a lark, as a way to keep the
creative writing separate if I chose to do that. I had never before
thought of anything else but writing in high school. Now, I needed a
purpose. How to bring it all together?
I understood two things. I could
really, really learn to write so others could read it. Therefore, I
kept up my journals, and I sharpened my skills everyday for years to
develop a written style of clarity, simplicity, precision, and
brevity in the American language. As I healed that summer of 1995, I
still had not found my calling, but I knew I needed to write to help
me with self-understanding. Could I use writing to help others
understand the world and their lives just a little better? I meant
not just in the political field, but in the inner ways that can make
light bulbs glow off?
At the end of that summer 1995, I sat
watching the Packers opening game at my sisters with my
brother-in-law and nephew. Then, in a way that President Carter had
once discussed world policy with his teenage daughter (without such
fraught fears from the national press), I consulted with my
eight-year old nephew, Andy. Rather, he consulted me and asked me
questions about my future. Huh? I had no idea. “Why don't you
really just become an real author or something?” Well, I never
wanted to disappoint anyone, but I had done enough of that. I
resolved not to disappoint my nephew. Nor could I refute his logic.
In the mind of the children things look so very clear. May we all
achieve that clarity we had when youthful. To my nephew's question, I
answered, “Yeah, why don't I.” That sealed the fate and I have
not stopped my quest for writing better, and writing with more
empathy and honesty, ever since.
Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #52: Lake of Booms and the Eternal Youthful Summer of '76
Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #52: Lake of
Booms and the Eternal Youthful Summer of '76
By Tim Krenz
For: NormalcyMag
August 17, 2018
Looking back to my then-five-and-half
years of age, some summer memories may meld into one. Yet, the
details of the specific summer of 1976 might not matter too much.
Still, though, 42 years later, I remember quite a lot. Other things I
see in old family photographs, and I can honestly say, “Yeah, I
remember that!”
In the summers growing up I can
remember going to Big Lake, only several miles east of Osceola,
Wisconsin, to spend summer weekends at my Granny Kietly's old cabin.
Before my uncle purchased the property to build his house over the
old site, that old, rough, dark brown building of stripped and
painted log poles had that vintage look. It also had a vintage feel
inside, where the logs sheened in a polished glow like thinned,
golden maple syrup. The kitchen always smelled like coffee cooking
fresh on the gas stove. That smell permeated the entire four room
interior wrapped around the stone and mortar fireplace and chimney.
(Around that chimney, my uncle built his entire new house).
The big yard stretched from the cabin
out to the woods behind it, next to the old ox-cart path that served
as the cabin-owners' road around the east and north side of the lake
before the construction of the newer road on the other side of the
woods. On the north side of the property, sat the old-fashioned,
old-school, old-scary wooden outhouse. In the front side of the
cabin, facing the lake, the hill down-sloped to the water, quite
steeply, so that it required the construction of cement steps to the
cement block storehouse off where Granny put her dock. Off that
dock, we had a nice swimming area, without weeds and with a gravel
bottom near the shore.
To go to the cabin always meant plenty
of family and family friends, the whole kit, kith, and clan of the
tribe. I had a lot of cousins, and the gatherings, though large,
remained very familiar, intimate, and fun, especially the one very
special day every summer. For every Independence Day, nothing seemed
out of place in life's young order of things. That particular holiday
always took its place as the highlight of any summer, at least in the
grandeur of my memory. And the grandest time of all, I think, of my
life in any summer, came that Bicentennial year of 1976, the nation's
two hundredth birthday.
The entire year until that July 4th
anticipated the event we celebrated. Bunting and flags appeared
almost everywhere, especially as the weather warmed and the holiday
itself approached. I may not remember much of anything to do with
the Vietnam War, or Nixon's resignation over the Watergate burglary.
Some news from that era I do remember, and those events and the
people I clearly recall: The Montreal Olympics; Henry Kissinger, the
Secretary of State, and his news making. Even if not so much in
context, I remember those things. In that time, about which I know
more from the study of history, things seemed a little
strange—macromae hanging crafts, bell-bottoms, the start of
disco—and the entire decade of the Seventies—had strange things
about them and very odd, different vibes.
On the other hand, I remember that
Independence Day of '76 quite well. My family explained the holiday
to me and related it to my purpose of awareness for its very
importance, that somehow the nation survived two hundred years and
the recent turmoils. Reflecting now, we perhaps felt lucky to have
made it so far, as indeed our luck and hard effort keep holding it
together. If anything, I remember this: We celebrated, everyone, and
everywhere. I could see it and hear it, all of it for gratitude and
joy, and pride. And that year, 1976, inevitably becomes entwined in
the one place that meant family, friends, feasts, fun, apple pie,
huge gas-guzzling automobiles, and the Old Glory of the flag. At
Granny's cabin, Independence Day, July the Fourth, 1976, it all came
into one.
The holiday always started with picnic
food, whether grilled or cold, and with homemade sweets and bakery
desserts. Feasting went on throughout the whole day. But to a kid,
the hardest part about the afternoon of Independence Day came when
waiting for the light to fade—for a dark night sky—and for the
fireworks. But first, we had swimming to do, which we could not do
for an endless hour after we ate, something unfathomable to our
incredulous minds. It had something to do with getting cramps in the
legs when swimming too soon after eating. The older adults said that
could cause us to drown. It did not matter that I wore a crappy,
orange-colored life-vest, the type no one ever wanted to wear,
because I had not learned how to swim. It never made any sense to me
to have to wait after eating to swim since I could not swim without
that life-preserver, anyway! The “ugghh” of children toward adult
logic. Eat a couple of potato chips. Wait one hour. Beach time
blasphemy!
When swimming around the dock, my
sisters, brother, and cousins and I all had great fun with my uncle's
canoe. Often we would flip it over-side, half submerge it and we
would come up from beneath it into the air pocket of its shell. We
did this, of course, while Granny's pontoon boat cruised the lake
several times a day with a pick up of adults for regattas with lake
neighbors. Sometimes, the kids would go along to swim or fish off the
pontoon farther off the shore. That gave us a treat, but it freaked
me out even wearing a life vest.
Swimming never came naturally to me. As
the youngest, by six years, of my own family of seven children, and
with many older cousins, it never posed a fright or a danger unless
in deeper water. Everyone watched out for everyone, especially for my
younger cousins and I. I loved playing in the water, like most kids
on hot, hot summer days. But growing up, I heard the story of how my
brother learned to swim off Granny Kielty's dock.
Some days at the lake, my one uncle,
Francis (married to my mom's sister), would bring his SCUBA gear. As
a fire-rescue diver in the big city, he knew the craft well. It
purely fascinated me. He would gear up like the Creature from the
Black Lagoon, enter the lake, look at some type of compass, and
disappear for a long time. He would visit the neighbors and family
friends on the north side of the lake, he would report after coming
back from his excursion.
The holiday proceeded in those endless
hours after lunch swimming my body to cold, clammy, pruney, fingers,
toes, and blue lips. As night neared, the fireworks show approached.
Before that time came the ordeal of the mosquitoes. They would get
quite fierce. Fighting, slapping, and deterring nature's little
kamikazes took effort before ingenuity prevailed. Until the advent
of the better “blue light special” zapper lanterns that cooked up
a “zzzzttt!” every second, a fire ring in the back yard would
keep the bugs away by smoke, light, flame, or whatever it did to them
down. Of course, we used obscene amounts of aerosol bug spray, which
never seemed to work too well. Later in life, we learned that it
worked best of all at killing the vital atmosphere that protected the
earth. Hmmm. Though even on warm July nights, hooded sweatshirts
became the norm to keep the 'skeeters from biting. The bugs did mean
one thing. Darkness approached deeper and with it approached the
fireworks show on the lake.
The fireworks always started around
sundown. First, came the minor ordinance, some of it the
old-fashioned type that could have blown off a hand, and somethings
of similar power. And, surely, we had the smokejackets, the
sparklers, and even the hand-held Roman candles. While still partly
light after the sun set across the lake, the sparklers marked time
with the irritated patience running out of us. The big bonus of the
holiday came later, but first we had the sparklers. As every child
learns, one has only to touch a hot metal rod after the chemical
material cooks off BEFORE if starts to cool in order to never do it
again. Ouch!
For the fireworks on Big Lake, the Big
Show came in spaced timings. A few cabins would light off one or two
big rockets, then some more cabins would do the same, and then a
whole bunch would come. The best fireworks on that lake I saw through
my whole youth came at the Bicentennial celebration. It marks a
lifetime highlight for the Spirit of '76. Fireworks have their
dangers, and it takes special care to do it both safely and properly.
At least at Granny Kielty's cabin, we had my uncle the fireman, who
brought some of the best fireworks on the whole lake. It helps to
have a trained professional on hand, in addition to his role as a
SCUBA diver. That night, I knew I would see something special. In my
life, although I often forget it, I lean on the practice of “safety
first.” With a full-time, professional fireman, we had that
covered. Light 'em up!
The world may make, sell, buy, and
light bigger and badder fireworks, but except as an adult at private
shows with friends, the fireworks craze today seems to miss the
meaning of a true Independence Day, and reducing it to a display of
shooting wads of money for the curiosity of gawkers. Curmudgeon me, I
avoid the larger gatherings of crowds, of thousands of people, who
waste a special family time for picnics and fun just to run and go
watch a rather useless spectacle without context. It has, in my
opinion, become a holiday of hollow meaning in that way. I feel the
impersonal gathering of strangers does the modern “fourth of July”
a dumbing down of a senseless “day off.” I say too much, perhaps.
Keep a pointless number on the calendar if they want. Give me my
Independence Day! I will allow people to disagree with me, but I ask
others to give me my own feelings about that matter. It all goes back
to the Spirit of '76—of 1976, I mean. For me, this applies in the
strongest principle.
Now back to the story with less
digression, the fireworks of that youthful summer's eve solidified my
wonder and gratitude, my pride and my joy at the fortunate time I
witnessed. Everyone sat on the hillside, on the concrete steps, on
the wood benches half way up the hill, or at the top near the cabin.
The day went past twilight enough to start the big show. In the
northwest, a crest of blue-green horizon closed the day light like a
window blind. It lowered to darken the big, outside, temporary
theater of the country. No television tonight. Just an operetta of
quick sights and thrilling, shrilling sounds, the aria to the
Bicentennial. At the right time, the orchestra started with the
overtures.
My uncle, with his handheld gas torch
of blue flame, started lighting fuses at the back end of the pontoon,
the end facing away from the shore. Almost foreseeing the moment, we
had seconds to the first whoosh of red-orange flaming streaks that
marked the flight of each rocket. The glowing embers trailed skyward
to the blue and black space above our heads, toward the white stars
which always backgrounded the wonderful canvas of the holiday.
Flash!-Boom! And the loud
red-white-and-blue bursts sizzled in the streaming sprays of shapes,
constellations of patriotism, whatever forms they would take. I think
now of what I would have thought as a child of that time and place,
smiling night-ward. More rockets. More flashes. Some rockets held a
thunder, an extraordinary piece of explosive salute that echoed
around the lake. From around the lake, like every year, more rockets,
more flashes, and more booms, swirled around the rim of the shore.
To the left, to the right, and to the west ahead. All the neighbors
on the lake did not exactly coordinate the festive display, but it
worked to everyone's delight to let off the fireworks on their own
time and leisure. The spontaneous cacophony of celebrating a big
Bicentennial seemed natural and fitting. Everyone had the same idea
that night. And as my uncle proceeded to light our supply, he lit a
mix of sprays, sizzlers, more bangs, and in colors of blue, green,
red, orange, yellow, white, and even some louder ones, and some more
sneaky, quicker; or slower, or higher, or the not so high. The lake
lit them off that year, like no other year which proceeded or
followed. The lake of booms for that holiday night came in its unique
and thrilling way. After almost an hour, most of the lake's fireworks
tapered in space and time, until just a few went skyward.
Late in the evening, the lake quieter,
like every other weekend we drove home the short distance to Osceola.
I probably slept in the car. The night finished, the Bicentennial
complete, the national celebration over, the summer did continue.
I started school later that same
August, my tour of kindergarten in the afternoon half-day of classes.
After a couple weeks, the summer in our Wisconsin village of Osceola
above the river of the St. Croix officially came to an end with the
community fair. Although Independence Day passed months before, my
family—my sisters and cousins and my aunt by marriage (who lived
near us in town) made an entry for the “Kiddie Parade,” the
annual children's costume contest. The very creative aunt took an old
wooden barrel, big enough for my cousin, Chad, and I to stand inside
of it, and she wrapped it in chicken wire. We spent the entire week
before the Saturday afternoon judging putting red-white-and-blue
tissue paper in the wire, and wrapping the mini-float on wagon wheels
with patriotic ribbon and bunting.
Chad and I dressed in our costumes the
day of the contest. We had hats, a tri-corner colonial hat and a
stove-pipe red-white-and-blue one. In white shirts with the
red-and-blue Knickerbocker pants and vests, and me wearing the white
cotton Uncle Sam beard, Chad and I and the entourage of other
siblings, cousins and friends dressed up around us, and received
judgment. We won Grand Champion! We rode on the large flatbed truck
in the Sunday parade, throwing out candy, and waving little flags of
Old Glory to the crowds all down main street. I had a proud moment,
indeed. My Bicentennial celebration in the Spirit of '76 vindicated,
the memory remains complete.
No one can recreate anything to the
exact way it happened, of course. And like the year-long festival
200th anniversary of the birth of the country, it will not
probably happen again in my lifetime, or at least not the same way.
As a diamond jewel in the memory of a now grown up adult, it has no
parallel for what it means to me. It defined in a true time as a
measure for what I hope every day—my freedom to recall it as I
like.
Low Adventures: Trekking the Superior Hiking Trail Part 7: Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas Tree! How that Ridge Belies Me. . .
Low Adventures: Trekking the Superior
Hiking Trail
Part 7: Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh,
Christmas Tree! How that Ridge Belies Me. . .
By Tim Krenz
October 10, 2018
After our winter sled and snow shoeing
adventure in February, our most recent trip to the Superior Hiking
Trail, Craig and I went on a side adventure to the backwaters of the
St. Croix River. Camping on the “secret” un-designated site
between Osceola and St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, we spent two nights,
Friday and Saturday, over the daylight savings weekend.
The site on the little spit of land
above the backwater of Rice Lake, which we reached by canoeing from
Franconia Landing in Minnesota and then by a short walk, often served
as a useful escape since before Craig went to do Peace Corps service
in 1998. The trip that April went rather well and fun. That first
Saturday morning, I woke Craig up at the equivalent of 5:45 AM, on
his day off, when I already had coffee made and breakfast cooked. As
the saying goes, “Never wake a sleeping Craig when you come across
him in the woods.” Craig stayed a little grumpy the rest of the day
and on into the evening. Ah, yes, never wake a sleeping Craig in the
woods.
The rest of strip on the St. Croix
River held little excitement, even if fun. Then, the long summer
passed, and we finally came up with a plan in the fall for a one-day
hike of the imposing section of the Superior Hiking Trail named
Christmas Tree Ridge.
The process of planning trips always
takes its round the circle course, all to get to the objective in the
best way possible. And planning also always becomes a trade off
between schedules, physical and material requirements, logistics of
travel and lodging (if any while not camping along the trail), and,
of course, time factors. Wrapped around all these variables, the most
inflexible usually becomes time, hence why we had not trekked the
trail since February. For the first Saturday of October, 2004, our
trip to the trail started as an overnight backpacking trip from
Beaver Bay to Split Rock River. Then, the plan changed several times,
from staying at a camper only about 40 miles from my house, to
camping overnight at a municipal campground in Two Harbors, MN, and
then several iterations of all these options.
Craig, the main planner and recognized
“Quartermaster” for all the low adventures to the Superior Hiking
Trail, always did a great job with the details. I usually just needed
to show up, ready, with my gear and with anything he told me to
bring. As an aside, I almost always, though, brought one thing he
told me to leave behind on every trip: My trusty camp hatchet. He
hated me wasting the weight in my bag carrying such a tool. He
thought it a dangerous tool, too. (I had to agree, after all the
narrowly saved accidents I had with it). But Craig usually did a
great job with the planning and I followed the plan. And for this
one-day hike of 11.1 miles of trail, doing it on a Sunday afternoon
with light day packs, he made some pretty good choices. As a reward
for his good planning, I gave Craig one of the best laughs he ever
had at my expense on any of the treks to the Superior Hiking Trail.
On that Saturday, at 5 PM, I picked up
Craig at his parents house and we drove a good deal farther north
than Duluth or Two Harbors, MN, on Lake Superior. Craig's dad, Don,
had an old college friend, Wade, who would let us stay with him. We
pulled into the drive way in the dark, to a beautiful log home, high
above the rocky shore of Lake Superior. In the night as we unloaded
gear from the car, with stormy, rainy, and windy air blowing
fiercely, we could hear the swells of the big lake crash water on the
shoreline behind the house. The sound of it felt like danger to the
unwary of the fortunes of that large, freshwater body of inland sea.
I realized at that moment that I should always respect the lake for
its power, neither good nor bad, just power.
We visited with Wade for an hour, who
Craig last met when age 13. After that, Craig and I settled into a
room in the basement. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, I read about half
of Aldo Leopold's “A Sand County Almanac,” and then fell asleep,
with the fierce churning of an overworked sump pump waking me
occasionally.
The next morning we took Wade to
breakfast, as a very inexpensive expression of gratitude for letting
us stay the night. I say inexpensive because Wade only had a bowl of
oatmeal, toast, and an orange juice that morning. Following
breakfast, Craig and I dropped off my car at Split Rock and Wade
shuttled us back north to Beaver Bay, to a parking lot on County Road
4. We said farewell to our last-minute host. Then at exactly 8:30 AM,
Craig and I crossed the road and entered the trail.
As I had started to read Leopold's book
for a newspaper review column, almost immediately as I climbed
through a muddy path or over corduroy logs set over the trail, I
began to reflect on the book by one of the original naturalist
authors of the 20th Century. In the midst of ferns and
walking under trees dripping after-rain down on top of us, I never
had conceived of myself as much naturalist or a conservationist, nor
could I identify any of the plants, trees, animal signs by proper
names or even many by common names. I noticed these objects of sight
and sound on all the trips, but I always used some adjectives to give
those nouns some meaning. I could describe these things, hopefully,
well enough for listeners and readers. This trip, with “A Sand
County Almanac” in my head, I looked around more, instead of only
at the ground immediately in front of my feet. I had the cool
revelation about the things I would normally fail to appreciate. Of
course, I always saw them or just awed at the big vistas of valleys
full of trees or meadows with grass, or whenever Lake Superior came
into view. But, did I really understand the things, like the REALLY
big picture or the small details?
After having read a chunk of Leopold's
book before bed, I asked Craig the difference between the aspen and
the birch, the pines, and more annoying questions. I may not have
understood his answers as he walked in front of me. Yet, now I
wanted to know more than I cared to know at other times. Like a women
at the coffee shop said to me on my way to pick up Craig, “we need
to recognize that things have intrinsic value beyond what they may
provide for human necessity and comfort.” Sometimes, as I think
Leopold intended in his writing, we can act as stewards of nature to
enjoy it for what it does to our souls. We can have a desire to help
sustain itself, which in the modern world nature most likely cannot
do without some assistance. In doing so, we directly—even
inadvertently—sustain ourselves.
The walk the first four miles traveled
some distance along the western ridge of a big hill, a course with
some open views of spectacular valleys at this time of autumn.
Through these valleys, we got views of the Beaver River as it
thundered its sound after the storms. The guidebook described trees
and plants “precipitously dangling” from a ledge. We found that
ledge. We sat there on a rock cliff, some hundreds or so feet high,
looking and resting. At least the storms of the previous days had
passed. The sky, though overcast, gave off its bright yellow sheen,
one that matched the brown, leaf covered floor of the land we could
see through the bare tree tops. Yes, I guess, even without specific
knowledge of the name, class, genus, or common nouns to things, I
could see the big, the bigger, and also the smaller pictures. Inside
of me, I began feeling intrinsic worth for what I could outwardly
see, hear, and feel.
Coming down the hill and walking around
Fault Line Ridge (which has an ominous name), we reached a
multi-group campsite and we bypassed a group of campers we could hear
and smell cooking breakfast on a gas pressurized stove. That memory
of fresh cooked bacon in the woods stays and the thought always
entices me to go back camping at odd times.
Ahead and onward, we stopped at a knoll
with a clear lake view at 11:30 for a twenty-five minute lunch and
rest. Craig ate a ham and cheese sandwich he brought with him. True
to my form, I ate a boring crunchy peanut butter sandwich. Adding
some chocolate snacks, fruit, and Craig's homemade venison jerky, we
drank water because we brought no stove with which to perk coffee.
Along the trail again we went, two miles to another campsite, to the
half-way mark of the section for our one-day saunter. I looked at a
deer in the valley below and once Craig used the latrine, we started
the climb up to Christmas Tree Ridge.
For this trip I had somehow gotten out
of shape over the summer. I had some weird breathing problems a few
weeks previously and I knew that the distance of such a long power
hike would tax me. I feared it would break my will. And we did not
know what to expect in terms of the ruggedness or lack of it on the
ridge in the months of planning. Without a stop, I plowed ahead for
the second five or six mile push on this trip to the car. Ready, we
got after it.
As Craig and I say, we always felt that
on some of the harder, longer walks that we always “chased
Gunther,” the German guy who lapped us, twice, doing the Split Rock
River loop on a previous trek. Chasing Gunther. That guy, who we just
arbitrarily named Gunther, looked so fit and walked so fast with
those ski poles, that he reminded me of a philosophical “Superman
of the North Shore.” That spring day on the Loop, he plowed ahead,
passing us on our side of the river, and then passed us coming down
the other leg on the opposite side of Split Rock River. He made time
on the trail. We could never emulate Gunther in his drive, or his
speed, or the smallness of his backpack.
Now after the day I had so far walking
and thinking of Aldo Leopold and his book, could I, or did I want to,
match Gunther's incredible speed in walking? Would I even want to do
it so quick? Did Gunther even see anything, see the intrinsic value
of the things he passed at “weight-light-speed?” Perhaps he did,
and I should not judge him. Besides my out of shape ungainliness and
heavy packs on the overnight trips, I would look ridiculous trying to
walk so determined. Now, I could see these traces and reflections of
the trail both ahead and around me walking Christmas Tree Ridge.
Because Craig asked me to go along, and yes, because Craig asked me
to go along, what could I hope to learn about this whole trekking
experience walking the Superior Hiking Trail? I decided at some point
that I no longer needed to go on this adventure chasing Gunther.
Going up to the ridge itself took a
small, steep climb and it burned my legs. Then on top of it, the
ridge to our intense relief became a flat walk over a large,
beautiful meadow of tall yellow grass, outcroppings of rock, and
(what else?) Christmas trees! Some trees, full evergreens hanging
with healthy needles, stood tall between sawed off or burned stumps,
and that all seemed natural in the order of things. Those stumps did
not scar my experience and we had a wonderful walk.
We had seen several grouse or some sort
of birds throughout the day, fluttering feather wings up from the
grass along the ridge. Coming down the ridge miles later, we heard a
wolf wailing, not far from us, toward the big lake to our left and
east. What a cry of the solitude, he or she moaned. The cry sounded a
call to which no friends of the wolf responded. A sad thing, always:
Alone in the forest by circumstance, not choice.
Three times on this trip, we came upon
beaver dams. One of them actually formed the bridge over a swollen
stream at the last campsite before we ascended the ridge. It had held
water at a table five feet above the lower level, in a U-shaped
masterpiece of natural engineering. After the third dam, we climbed
downhill from the ridge and sat for a break at a campsite. We nestled
on crooked ground beneath a dark canopy of tall evergreens to relax,
drink water, and where I smoked a few cigarettes.
The rest of the walk went through a
darker section of thick trees, one that let in little sunlight,
stunting any underground and leaving an otherwise dirt bare forest
floor. The temperature differences between open spots and shaded
woods, even on an overcast day, make a noticeable change in early
October along the north shore of Lake Superior. I noticed it by its
extremes. Then, after our rest, we came to the last hill climb. We
climbed it. Craig outpaced me by far as I struggled up the steep
incline on the dark brown dirt trail. We followed the eastern ledge
of the hill until the Superior Hiking Trail connected with more
trails, one on the north side of Split Rock River that formed one leg
of the loop, and the other trails leading down to the road and
parking lots near the light house.
On the way to the spur trail to the
east, toward my car, we decided to skip checking out on the ski
shelter lean-to structure but we stumbled across something rather
odd. On a piece of ground on top of dirt and a gray rock face,
someone or some people had made a medicine wheel, or a witches wheel
(I could not tell which). They had structured it using small, brown
rock chips (abundant objects on that part of the trail), setting them
in a pattern of symbols, etc. inside a circle made of larger pieces
of stone chips. Someone, or an animal, had kicked one quadrant pie
around, messing up and disordering the wheel and whatever powers
(good or bad) the wheel represented. Craig and I looked at it for a
minute. When we continued walking downhill toward the lake and the
car, Craig told me to step around it. Around I went, staring at the
strange encounter with a language and experience I did not
comprehend, something good or bad, but also symbolic to others.
At the parking lot, we reached the car
I borrowed from my parents, the “Little Casino” green Dodge
Shadow, at exactly 3:30 PM. In seven hours, we walked a total of
thirteen miles, which included the side walking and spur trails. We
had done a good, long hike and added a chunk of mileage to our Trail
total over the past two and a half years of part low adventures.
Skipping to different sections as we spent only weekends and day
trips hiking or backpacking, we both felt better about our ambition
after the ridge. We still had a lot of trail to go to finish, though.
On the drive home, I felt the burn in
my body. Thank goodness we had only carried light day packs with
food, water, rain gear, medical kit, flashlight, and a few other
items. As I drove, I could barely move my legs. At the Moose Lake gas
station stop for coffee, it hurt getting out of the car.
Craig had already made his purchase and
sat in the car when I exited the store. I once again vowed to never
get so out of shape again before our next trek. And I gave Craig the
best laugh he had on the whole experience of walking the trail as I
approached “Little Casino.” For when I walked across the parking
lot, I had my left hand lifting my leg to walk. I literally carried
my own ass to the car!