Musings: October 2015

Saturday, October 31, 2015

I Want to be an Oscar. (The Dog. Not the Trophy)

**Note: I posted well over the maximum 100 blogs which titles are listed for the month of October. In order to see these earlier posts, drop down to the bottom of the last blog for which a title appears for the month, and click on "Older Posts". As you read each one, continue to click the Older Post icon, and the next one will come up.

I have previously written about the exploits of Sir Ernest Shackleton; the famous British explorer of Antarctica. It seems in his quest to be the first, he came within 97 miles of the geographical South Pole. However, it has been said that “close is only good enough in grenades and nuclear war.” He was a very disappointed fellow, I think.

The man was a visionary, but he neglected to do the two major things that would surely have won the day. Rather than dogs, he took ponies. Rather than skis, he decided on “old fashioned shoe leather.” You see, he had never taken the time to adapt himself, and his team to the use of such new measures, and he was irrevocably taken up with the mindset of the nineteenth century, though that century was waning in favor of the twentieth.

Yes, Sir Ernest was slow to adapt. But he was no fool. For a few short years later, during “the war to end all wars,” he brought dogs with him to his next Antarctic exploit. The South Pole had already been conquered at this point, though not by him, and he was desperate to do something notable.

Having sent two ships out, one a ship of exploration and one a ship of supply, he determined to complete a Trans-Antarctic expedition. Sadly, he failed when his main vessel was enclosed by ice floes, and crushed by the immense pressure of the stuff.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the icy continent, a pitiful group of men and dogs were laying out food depots; in expectation of Shackleton’s march towards his destiny.

They were emaciated, having marched hundreds of miles towards the South Pole, their only aim to leave sporadic rations in the snow for what would be the team of explorers. And like so many before, these poor men were suffering the effects of scurvy; a potentially-fatal result of the lack of Vitamin C.

The team which deposited food for others had run out of food for themselves. Not deterred, they continued to move towards their original campsite, and all the food they would eat or need. Blizzards raging around them, extreme privation, snow blindness; at times ferrying one of their dying mates on a sledge.

And the dogs. Oh, the dogs. While the men ate the last shreds of penguin, and seal which they had shot, the dogs were without food for two days. So bitterly cold and so hungry they were.

Even dogs complain. They yelped pleadingly to be fed, to rest, or to plain give up; even as each tread of their paws brought them closer to food. Some like Con and Towser were such good-natured animals, so desirous to please their masters. But enough was enough, and hope was waning; with every mile they trod.

But with so many such stories, (and this one is no exception,) salvation came from an unexpected source.

For you see, there was one old, bad-natured brute named Oscar. He incessantly bothered and berated the rest of the pack. More often than not, the men regretted having the beast with them, (and may have been prone to “put him out of his misery,” except the mission so desperately required a minimum number of dogs).

However, the surly old dog finally came into his own. For when the other dogs seemed on the verge of giving up, for the wind and cold and hunger, something magical happened.

“Oscar just lowered his massive head, and pulled as he never did when things were going well. He even, at times, got a bit of a run on the sledge and tried to bite the heels of the dog ahead to make him work… It seemed to us that Oscar was aware that we were looking for something that would give him a full meal once more.” (Pg. 484, “Shackleton”)

Well my friends, I don't know about you, but stuff like this makes me want to shout, "Hallelujah!" I can get excited about tales like this one.

Oh, you may say, “He was just a dumb animal.” And granted, he was. But if a dumb animal can rise to the task, the way Oscar rose to his task, where does that you and me?

I am reminded of the brevity of life, and the strong responsibility that is ours, as servants of The Most High God. I will not be content to whine, or to just lay down when the going gets tough.

I want to be “an Oscar.” I want to pull with all my might; hope against hope that anything can be accomplished. If need be, I plan to “bite the heels of the dogs ahead of me;” to encourage them that there’s a work to be done, and a Christ to be served.

“Seeing how we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us strip off everything that hinders us, and the sin that so easily entangles us, and let us run with patience the race that God has set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1, KJV)

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 14. Volumes 1-15, Copyright 2015.

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The Best Father in the World

“But I beseech you therefore brethren by the mercies of God that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, wholly acceptable unto God which is your reasonable service.” (Romans 12:1, KJV)

I heard those words in a sermon today, and I’m writing these words on Easter Sunday. I thought it was a rather unusual subject for Easter, but that’s what Jesus was before He died, and since He didn’t stay dead, He was literally resurrected as a living sacrifice.

The speaker ran a short video segment; a visual representation of his sermon. It depicted the most poignant story of a father and his son; a piece of footage that I’ve seen before, but which always causes me to weep.

I don’t remember names, nor remember to write them down, but the film reflected on a baby born with the umbilical cord around his neck, and what was to become an amazing life; well-lived.

The unfortunate lad was blessed with a father who might easily have won the title, “Best Father in the World.” For the man was determined to add immense quality and value to his son’s life.

Both father and son had an intense interest in sports, and from somewhere came a profound idea. This middle-aged man would prepare both himself and his son for the Hawaii Ironman Triathlon.

And they were granted special permission to enter the race … as a team.

And as the race begins, we notice the father pulling his son across two miles of water in a raft. From there he carries his teenaged son to a specially-equipped bicycle. Laying him down in a basket of sorts, the man begins peddling for all he’s worth. 100 miles. And finally, the last leg of the race. This great-hearted father pushes his son, mile after mile, while he runs behind, completed winded, but determined to finish the race. 26 miles.

Now friend, I can’t tell you this wonderful duo came in first. But amazingly, they finished in the maximum-allowed time to be declared “Finishers.” But ya know, I don’t think their time was the priority. Since they crossed the finish line, and I think that all of heaven rejoiced with a great shout.

And I neglected to tell you. The young man, who for all the world looks totally spastic and inept, earned his Bachelor of Science degree at a well-known university in Massachusetts. His major? Computer Science, with a specialty related to making computers more relevant to disabled people.

Never, in my 2/3 of a century on this planet, have I seen a more literal representation of:

“Present your bodies a living sacrifice.”

Who could doubt that this father went the distance, stayed the course, cheered all of heaven,

… and made his son proud?

Enemies at the Gates

Nothing ticks me off much more than a popular mentality among what is perhaps a minority of Americans, but a trend which has the potential for future growth.

The notion that America is the Savior of the world, and because this or that war exists somewhere among this or that party or faction, it our duty as the “Great White Father” of the universe to send our military to intervene.

One would think the lessons of Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq would serve as a caution against such unilateral action on our part.

The advent of ISIS, the (so-called) “Islamic State in Iraq and Syria” is the best example in the world today. America is currently bearing by far the largest role in its war against this hideous group of baby killers, child rapists, and destroyers of ancient archaeological sites.

America’s invasion of Iraq, and the subsequent loss of thousands of our troops, and expenditure of a trillion dollars has been turned on its head, as this massive horde of n’er do well’s has overrun much of the previous territorial gain for which we so sacrificially fought.

And we are supposed to do it all over again?

During the course of our current air war against the “Islamic State” one of the least-mentioned and most-crucial topics not discussed is that of the natural burden of Arab countries to do more than they are currently doing in the effort to decimate this threat to humanity.

I mean, those nations with the most at stake are the ones doing least of all.

In watching television interviews with retired American military officers, I have rarely heard them refer to this variable.

As a retired Army Staff Sergeant, with 35 years service, am I a lone voice in the wilderness? (Obviously, I am not, but sometimes “it sure seems like it.”)

There’s an old adage,

“When Rome was on Fire, Nero fiddled.”

With their enemies at their proverbial gates, it’s time for countries such as Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Iraq, and the UAE to raise up a massive military ground force, and march against these black-hearted thugs, and wipe them off the very face of planet Earth. Until the countries of the region act in a decisive way, very little will be accomplished in this “one-handed” war against the most major threat to the peace and stability of the Mideast in modern history.

If the nations with the most at stake fail to take decisive action now, when “the enemy is at their gates,” I believe they will rue the day they failed to do so.

Like Taking Poison and Expecting the Other Guy to Die

On the imposing castle wall in Edinburgh, Scotland is inscribed the Latin slogan,

“NEMO: ME: IMPUNE:LA CESSIT”

“What You Do To Us, We Will Do To You”

When I saw these words, and the English interpretation was provided to me, I immediately thought of an eerily similar, but older quotation.

“Whatsoever You Would That Men Should Do To You,

Do You Even So To Them”

“However You Would Like People To Treat You,

Then Treat Them The Same Way”

Interesting, that the Scottish motto inscribed on that great castle on the rock seems to be taken almost verbatim from what we have come to know as “The Golden Rule,” with one minor, but crucial variation.

In the context of modern English, the author of those Latin words might just as well have said,

“Treat us however you jolly well like, but we’ll pay you back double for your trouble!”

“The Golden Rule died with the last of the New Testament saints. From now on, its payback time!”

I realize how hard it is to “turn the other cheek.” I’ve been there! And “walking a second mile” when we might have just as well walked one isn’t popular in our culture.

I know how difficult it can be to relinquish bitterness, and stretch out a forgiving hand. My friend, it’s d _ _ _ hard, and its flies in the face of everything we feel and believe about that word we call “fair.”

However, being fair to your neighbor is, in essence, also being fair to yourself. For you see, forgiveness is as much for the forgiver as it is for the forgiven.

There’s another phrase which reads,

“Bitterness is like taking poison and expecting the other guy to die”

So true. As we find ways to relinquish a spirit of bitterness or the mentality, and subsequent behavior of “getting even” we give ourselves a gift, as surely as we also give one to the offender.

One upmanship, feeding bitterness like you would a favorite pet, and withholding forgiveness is simply not good for you or me.

Revisit those slogans with which we began.

Which one works for you?

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Write Me a Story

Long ago, when I was a young man,

my father said to me...

"Norman, you like to write stories."

And I said, "Yes, I do."

Then he said,

"Someday, when you're ready...

you might tell our family story.

Only then will you understand

what happened and why."

These opening lines from the movie, “A River Runs Through It” are rather like something my dad once said to me.

“Royce, you’re the literary person in the family. It would be great if, someday, you would write a non-fiction novel about our immigrant ancestor, Isham McDonald.”

My father was an amateur genealogist. I say “amateur” because I’m uncertain what makes someone a professional genealogist. Perhaps they are the kind who get paid to research other people’s family trees. Of course, there’s more than one way to “get paid.” There is such an emotional satisfaction derived from family research. At least, this is my experience.

My father left such a rich legacy of written, verbal and visual resources; the result of the expenditure of some significant time and energy.

“Henry” (for that was his name) realized the momentary nature of a life, and like too few of his ancestors decided to do something about it, and “leave something behind” for his descendants.

He compiled a body of genealogical research which comprised hundreds of pages of text and photos of generations of McDonald descendants. And this was done in a day and time when the internet was still a good theory, and research was the product of hundreds of hours spent in old courthouses and interacting with knowledgeable human beings. And in order to assure his work would be something more than finite, he duplicated this body of research many times over, and placed these volumes in the hands of selected family members, among his siblings and their children; who would, he hoped, eventually do the same.

Over the course of several years my dad taped a verbal account of his childhood and early adulthood in Georgia and Florida, and his service during WWII. And in order to preserve the outdated audio tapes, I had them converted to cassette disks, and like my father, entrusted copies to selected members of the family. (As I listen to these recordings, it is as though I have been given the momentary grace to enjoy some essence of his presence again).

During his latter years my dad developed his skills as a landscape artist. And in this case I might rightly refer to him as a “professional,” since he displayed his murals in restaurants and banks throughout the area, and sold dozens of his works. (Several of his best paintings adorn the walls of my own home). And I have so often reflected on the hundreds of paintings he completed, and where they might be today.

Though I have written over a dozen (currently unpublished) fictional and non-fictional volumes, (my own attempt at “leaving something behind”) to date my literary contribution to family research has been limited to dozens of one page biographies, and a couple of short stage presentations. And to be fair, though (as I alluded) my father hoped I might, I have no earthly idea how to complete a full-length non-fictional account of the life of my immigrant grandfather, Isham; given the fact that I have all of six or eight pages of text concerning his military life in Revolutionary South Carolina, his involvement in the Indian Wars, and his, subsequent, family life in mid-19^th century Georgia.

Nevertheless, I have picked up the figurative mantle which my father left behind, and thrown it over my own shoulders, and I believe he would be proud of my efforts to emulate the things he was doing while he still had time to do such things. There can be little doubt that the spirit of my father lives on in me since I am at least equally possessed (and obsessed) with the realization that my life is momentary, and whatever I have to do I have to do now. I carry on in his stead, and I’m hopeful another will step forward to pick up my own mantle when I pass from this sphere.

Not long before his own death, my dad and I traveled to South Carolina by car. We sat in the living room of a ninety year old man who, from his childhood, had waded in the streams and hunted raccoons in that area. This spry old fella directed us to a particular culvert under a nearby road, and recounted that, as a boy, as he was hunting a raccoon or bobcat, he had fallen into what was then a rushing river. Bidding him “adieu,” my father and I drove the two or three miles to this location, and spent time reminiscing about the primitive, but no doubt, fulfilling and vivacious lives of our worthy ancestors; those in whose footsteps we tread.

To say it was a rewarding trip would have been an understatement. My father and I connected with one another like we hadn’t in the half century which proceeded our journey. I will always be grateful for the opportunity we made for ourselves, and the memories we created together.

My father has gone on to his rightful reward now, and I must, one day, join him. I believe my dad would be proud of my efforts, as I have most certainly been of his.

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Friday, October 30, 2015

Loving Completely, But Without Complete Understanding

The following quotation comes from a final scene in the movie, "A River Runs Through It." In it an aged pastor, one of the major characters in the film, waxes eloquent behind his pulpit. I can so well identify with his words. The scene is introduced by his son.

l remember the last sermon

l heard him give

… not long before his own death.

Each one of us here today will,

at one time in our lives

… look upon a loved one who is in need

and ask the same question.

"We are willing to help, Lord...

but what, if anything, is needed?"

It is true we can seldom help

those closest to us.

Either we don't know what part

of ourselves to give

… or more often than not,

the part we have to give

…is not wanted.

And so it is those we live with

and should know who elude us

… but we can still love them.

We can love completely

… without complete understanding.

"When Will They Ever Learn"

As the mid-20^th century ballad laments,

… “When will they ever learn?”

With the exception of the Persian Gulf War, the United States has not fought a major war to a successful conclusion since the Korean Conflict.

I’ll sing it again.

When will they ever learn?

Let’s consider a few examples:

Vietnam

(to which the afore-mentioned ballad alluded)

After years of war, our government signed a peace treaty with the North Vietnamese in 1973 laying out a demilitarized zone which split the peninsular in half. North and South. Two years later the North Vietnamese Army marched, unopposed, into South Vietnam. 60,000 American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines spilled their life blood over the course of a decade, and countless thousands were maimed, and emotionally devastated. And for what? One has only to visit the Vietnam Memorial Wall to begin to (literally) count the cost in human lives and suffering.

Afghanistan

As the result of 911, our military ground forces invaded Afghanistan in order to teach the Taliban a lesson; given their refusal to turn over Osama Bin Laden, the mastermind of the infamous wide-scale terrorist attack on the United States.

The longest war in the history of the United States. Granted, Bin Laden is dead, but the hordes of Taliban fighters have only migrated to new strongholds, and continue to recruit new members. In the meantime, multiplied thousands of our troops have given the last full measure of devotion, and at this writing several American Army brigades still reside there.

Iraq

As the result of faulty information about the so-called “Weapons of Mass Destruction” President Bush sent in troops to occupy Iraq, and depose President Saddam Hussein. Well, ultimately Hussein was captured, tried and hung. But in the meantime, the initially appreciative Iraqi citizenship have become less so, and several thousand of our military men and women received mortal wounds and succumbed to their inevitable fate. And ultimately, after the expenditure of blood, sweat and tears, and the investment of a trillion dollars, the massive U.S. military presence was withdrawn.

And the clincher of all clinchers, as the result of the deposal of Saddam, and his previous ability to maintain the status quo, ISIS has raised its ugly head, and is on the verge of mounting a successful campaign against not only Iraq, but Syria, and the destiny of additional Arab countries remains an unknown. At last report, over a thousand American troops have returned in a mission to undergird Kurdish rebels and the ( thus far cowardly) Iraqi Army in their struggle against the “Islamic State.” And sadly enough, perhaps a third of the hard-won territory the United States conquered in the invasion is now in the hands of ISIS.

Syria

Today the latest so-called President of the United States announced that he was sending a small number of special forces troops into Syria in order to provide logistical assistance to the Kurds and Free Syrian forces involved in the ongoing undeclared war with ISIS. Given the history of the United States military, and their inept civilian overseers “A few” so often metamorphoses into “A few more.”

Strike up the band

“When Will They Ever Learn?

… When Will They Ever Learn?”

**************************************

**(And to be sure, nothing to which I have alluded detracts from the brave service of our military men and women. They have rendered the most honorable service to this great nation; and whether good, bad or indifferent, they always go where they are sent. The foregoing blog is more of a sad commentary on the errant plans of a civilian government which time, and time again errs on the side of occupying foreign countries, when occupation might have been avoided, and thus repeating the same old worn-out mistakes of the past).

**I ask that if you copy and paste my blogs, share or download them to your hard drive that you include my name and source line which I always include at the bottom of each blog