lincoln -- without sainthood

Pity Tony Kushner.

How does a screenwriter tell a tale of Lincoln's life while escaping the gravitational tug of hagiography?

That was Kushner's brief in writing the script for Spielberg's Lincoln.  And he succeeded.  Sorta.

The film is based on Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals: The Political Genius Abraham Lincoln.  Her book focused on Lincoln's political skills with his cabinet during the four years of his presidency.

But even that palette was too broad for a film.  900 pages too much.

After a few false starts, Kushner tells us who Lincoln is through the two months the House of Representatives debated the enactment of the political cornerstone of the Lincoln administration -- the Thirteenth Amendment that outlawed slavery throughout the United States.

It turns out to be a brilliant choice.  We get to see Lincoln as a great strategist -- a man willing to compromise (and perhaps commit political bribery) for a moral end.  As a raconteur who could turn conflict into agreement with a folk story.  And yet a father and husband who cared deeply for his family.

Americans are now commemorating the 150th anniversary of its civil war.  A period of history that has been encased in national amber.  But, when it was happening, there was no guarantee how the war would win or when.

The script bravely lets Lincoln explain why the Thirteenth Amendment was necessary.  Why the Emancipation Proclamation may not have withstood legal scrutiny.

And even though Lincoln wanted to see the end of slavery, he was not above using the debate as a means to bring an early end to the Civil War (a tactic that failed) or to mislead the Democrat opponents of the amendment (with a lawyerly response concerning the prospects of peace without passing the amendment).

What the script brings us is politics in its barest forms.  Where Radical Republicans set aside their goal of full equality for legal equality.  Where conservative Republicans pass up peace possibilities to favor abolition.  Where Democrats use every tactic available to defame the president.

Even though all of that sounds anachronistic enough to be out of this morning's newspaper, it does only because the current American political gridlock is merely an echo of earlier periods of political dispute. 

The film compresses events and gives lines to characters who never spoke them.  But the film is as accurate as any of Shakespeare's historical plays.  Fiction always serves current political agendas to some degree.

The greatest kudo for the film is that it does not flinch from Lincoln's concern about whether the two races could live side by side in peace.  He had doubts.  Stemming partly from his belief that the white race was superior to the black.  But he was willing to take the risk.

After putting Lincoln into a very realistic environment, his death unravels the mood.  As he lies on his deathbed in the  Peterson House, he looks as if he has just been taken off  the cross.  Dying for our national sin of slavery.

Even with that martyr ending, the film is well worth seeing.

Perhaps seeing more than once -- with its complex storyline and beautiful cinematography.

are you now -- or have you ever been --

 When I ran for the legislature in 1988, I was convinced I had a fighting chance for the endorsement of the Oregon Education Association.

Oregon Republicans had a long tradition of supporting public education (in all of its forms).  And I had made education reform a personal project -- even before I had decided to run for the legislature.

And I had a trump card.  Literally.

I was the only candidate in the race who was a card-carrying union member.  In the summer between my first and second year of law school, I pulled veneer on the dry belt at Roseburg Lumber Company.

Oregon is a closed shop state.  And Roseburg Lumber was a union shop.  To work there, I was required to join local 2949 of the United Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America.

Unions were part of my background.  My father had been a member of the Teamsters.  A union with a bit more clout than my wood shop clan.

But it was a union.  I was a member.  And I had the chops to show it.

When I walked into the PAC committee meeting, I was greeted by a pleasant surprise.  The attorney for the group was a friend from law school.  The stars were lining up in my favor.

I launched into my presentation about education reform, the importance of making K-12 a budget priority, and laid my card on the table.  No one was interested in the card.

In fact, no one was interested in my reform package.  The only questions the PAC board members asked were about job benefits for teachers.

I admire teachers.  We give them a very difficult task in teaching our children to be critical-thinking citizens of the republic.

But I saw none of that concern in the PAC endorsement meeting.  In fact, I cannot recall the word "student" being mentioned once.

That meeting was far too representative of the other PAC meetings during the election.  Somewhere the interests of the community seemed to wander away from the special interests.

And now that I look at the union card I slapped on the table, I am glad no one picked it up.  It shows that I was a member of the union, but that I had withdrawn in 1977.

Perhaps in more ways than the card would indicate.

did you hear the one about -- ?

I love humor.

Several years ago, I was standing in Waldenbooks.  That lets you know how long ago it was.  For you young people Waldenbooks was a book store.  Ask your parents what a book is.

I was thumbing through a collection of Gary Larson Far Side cartoons.  Softly chuckling while turning the pages.

Gary Larson had long been one of my favorite humorists.  Each panel was enough to make me smile.

I then flipped to the cartoon at the top of this post.  The laughter started deep and exploded.  In public.  I must have laughed for a full minute.

Larson is the master of the phantom panel cartoon.  The joke is not in the drawn panel.  But in the panel we imagine in our mind.  And this one was perfect.

It is still my favorite Gary Larson cartoon.

My former girl friend Linda had her own favorite.  As Kurt Vonnegut would say: here it is.

Any analysis would simply be gilding the lily.  It is either funny to you -- or it is not.

After sixty years of entertaining those around me (well, I thought it was "entertaining"), I continue to be surprised at what people find to be (and not to be) funny.

And I am not talking about cultural differences.

When I presented legal updates for our company, the reaction to most jokes was predictable.  An immediate reaction from a few hearty souls.  Two beats later, more laughs.  Two more beats, general laughter.  But nearly a quarter of the audience sat there more bemused than amused.

I was not the variable.  The other two presenters had similar experiences.

But enough of this analysis.  Let me pass along a news story.

The Korean Central News Agency (the official mouth of the mad-manocracy of North Korea) reports that archaeologists in Pyongyang have recently reconfirmed the existence of a unicorn's lair. 

And that one of the lair's unicorns was ridden by the ancient Korean King Tongmyong, founder of a kingdom which ruled parts of China and the Korean peninsula from the the 3rd century BC to 7th century AD.

OK.  Stop rolling your eyes.  You are simply being culturally insensitive.  Everyone knows we are not talking about the obviously mythical horse with a horn in the middle of its head that lives only in the minds of American 13-year old girls.  How ethnocentric can you be?

"Unicorn" is the wrong word.  What the Korean archaeologists (practitioners, I am certain, of the scientific method) have confirmed is the existence of a Qilin lair.  As you can see, from this photograph, the Qilin is a real animal.

And can be seen throughout North Korea.  Along with happy, well-fed peasants.  Led by the sexy genius of the universe.

As long as there is a North Korea, none of us will lack for material.


Note -- If history is any guide, I will receive a note from the Larson people asking me to remove the cartoons from this post.  Enjoy them while you can.

one for israel

I am not certain which alternative universe the United Nations lives in.

To be honest, I have never understood the utility of the general assembly -- other than to provide jobs for people who thought high school student council was the high point of their lives.  And it never fails to live up to all of my expectations.

Such as yesterday's vote to elevate the Palestine territory from "non-member observer entity" to "non-member observer state."  By a vote of 138 in favor.  9 opposed.  41 abstentions.  Silliness on skates.

My vote in opposition was spent at lunch.  At Kitzel's delicatessen in Olympia.

There is a back story.

Olympia is a left-leaning town.  Way left.  The kind of  town that prides itself on its food co-op that sells enough natural and raw food to please anyone with a food fetish.

And there is the rub.  The food co-op not only sells natural food, it sells natural food with a leftist self-righteousness.  The co-op recently decided to stop selling any products from Israel.

Why?  You already know the answer.  To the co-op, the only mature democratic republic in the Middle East -- the one that honors the rights of women, the right of free speech, even freedom of religion -- is the bad guy because its speaks in the voice of liberal democracy.

Olympia may be leftist, but some of its residents understand how a liberal democracy works.  The solution?  The free market.  In the guise of a Jewish delicatessen.  Not New York.  Jewish.
 

Kitzel's, to be exact.

We had lunch there today.  The place offers up delicatessen food at its finest. 

For me it was egg salad on an onion bagel.  My first choice -- a chopped liver sandwich -- had sold out earlier in the day.

The food was great.  I am not certain I have had better egg salad.  Plenty of dill.  Several other herbs I could not easily identify.  And a serving large enough that most of it fell out of the bagel.  That is what forks are for.

The service was even better than the food.  Personable.  Friendly.  Fun.

Everything you would expect from a delicatessen based on the principle of freedom of choice. 

There is nothing better than eating good food while knowing you are making a positive social statement.

    

coaxing the blues out of the horn

My Great Aunt Bessie was my Auntie Mame   A woman that would never go hungry at the banquet of life.

She was my father’s aunt  But they were close enough in age that I always thought of her as his sister.  And she treated me as her son.  Well, not so much "son" as spoiled nephew.

Unlike Mame Dennis, she did not take me on trips to India or safaris in Africa.  Our adventures were trips to the Oregon coast or movies in Roseburg.  Always accompanied by my Uncle Don -- a French-Canadian lumberjack.

But they were hardly limited trips.  In my boyish imagination they were every bit as exotic as pony treks in Kyrgyzstan.

I introduced Aunt Bessie to you in my best girl almost three years ago. The post concluded with a note to me from my cousin, Gail.

When her daughter went through her effects, she found a note that she forwarded to me. Aunt Bessie wrote the note about a year before her hospitalization -- obviously knowing the end was near.

The note said that she had only one regret in life: that she had never been able to visit England. But she hoped someone would take her there -- one day.

I found Gail's letter during my memory clear cutting to get my house on the market.  It reminded me how we often live our lives without ever knowing what the people around us would like.

I did not know my aunt wanted to visit England.  I could have easily taken her there.  Not as a repayment for what she had done for me -- because love offered does not require recompense.  It merely needs to be shared.

This post has been rolling around in my head for almost a month.  But it turns out to be timely.

I have two very close friends from law school.  Ken and Patti, who now live in Olympia.  We have shared some of our best life experiences together.

Earlier this month, Patti sent me a note asking if I had some time available to visit with them.  She then told me she had been diagnosed with liver cancer and would soon be undergoing treatment.

And that is why I am now in Olympia.  Sharing life with people who mean more to me than anything else going on in my life right now.

I can hear Aunt Bessie reminding me to get out there and enjoy that banquet -- and reminding me that there are people I know who would like me to bring back a bit of dessert to the table.

With two forks.

more training

Nostalgia is interesting.

I was under the impression I was on a train to Olympia.  It appears I am a time traveler.

When I switched trains in Portland, my head took me back almost sixty years ago.  Under these same awnings in 1955, I was about to take a trip that would open a new world to me.

As far as I know, I had never left Oregon before that trip to Detroit.  I am not even certain I had even been to Portland.  As a logging family, our idea of a long trip was going to Gravel Ford or Sitkum.

But there I was.  Amongst it all.   Surrounded by a new world.  Busy people.  Heading to exotic locations or on business trips.  Or just doing their jobs.
 
And, of course, there were the locomotives.  With their grumbling diesels.  Whose whistles in the night would transport a boy in his dreams to far away places.  Knowing he would one day go there.

That boy is now back on that same platform.  Having been to far more places than he could have imagined six decades ago.

And ready to see many more.

  

training myself

I am on the road again.

Or, more accurately, I am on the tracks.  On an Amtrak train heading toward Olympia, Washington.

My house cleanup has not been as steady as I would have liked.  So unsteady that I have extended my Oregon stay to 9 December. 

Even with the extension, the house will not be ready to go on the market.

But I needed to make my way north.  I may -- or may not -- write further about that.

When I am in Europe, I use trains extensively.  I seldom do in the western section of The States.  Car travel is simply far more practical.

I must confess, though, I do love trains.  Not in the trendy left way where trains are seen as noble reactionary beasts doing battle with automobiles.  It is not a fair fight.  And without substantial infusions of taxpayers' money, there would be no fight at all.

For $54 (US), I get a very comfortable reclining seat in the business class car.  A wi-fi connection (that I am putting to good use right now).  And a closeup view of a portion of America I have always loved.

My love affair with passenger trains began in the mid-1950s when our family took the train from Portland to Detroit to buy a new Ford station wagon.  We then drove back to Powers briefly visiting sights along the way. 

My Dad was one of those drivers who saw driving as a start and a finish.  All of the stuff along the way was merely interference in getting where he wanted to go.  As a result, my memory of the middle section of America is a bit hazy.

In 1966 my parents sent me off on the train with a group of high school students to visit Boston, Salem, New York City, Washington, and Charlottesville.  Being 16 on a train without parents was the very essence of freedom.

Other than two trips between Seattle and Portland in the 1990s, that has been my history with the American passenger train system.  It is just enough to keep the romance alive.  Any more trips would make me realize train travel is nothing more than riding in a spacious Greyhound.

So, for those of you who are American taxpayers, thank you very much for the subsidy.  I am enjoying my trip.