OUR AMERICAN FLAG

The American Flag is our flag.  It is not just yours, not just mine. It is OURS. It symbolizes our country like nothing else. 

The American Dream is still a work in progress.  It always will be. We are talking about human frailty here. You and I are imperfect, just like the rest of our citizenry. Yes, we have many things to improve, but the United States of America is still the best hope for humanity. 

Go ahead and try to envision a perfect nation of YOU, or ME. Good luck with that one. You can think of people right now who won't want to be part of the country of YOU. I certainly can name dozens of men and women who will not want to join me in my country of ME.

Football, far and away America's favorite pastime, is embroiled in a terrible mess because certain players will not stand up to honor our National Anthem and our Flag. Repeated talk about it and endless video play of this tradition-shattering moment has incited the strongest of reactions. Because ¾ of the NFL players are Black and ¾ of its fans are White it is already a powder keg because so many people think narrowly, not in terms of US. Now intemperate remarks, starting with those from the President of the United States and including leading athletes of several sports, has thrown gasoline on a roaring fire. Reasoned voices are not heard amid the shouted accusations and self-serving posturing.

Over recent years some have worried that we will eventually face a conflict between Muslims and Christians. My own worry is that we are roaring right into a war between Whites and Blacks. Economics also play into the mess: Hispanic annual income has improved significantly. Whites continue to benefit from improved finances (although at a lesser pace than Hispanics.) Asian income has grown dramatically while Black income has essentially decreased.

Surely the stakes are so high we should expect national bridge-makers to establish workable communication links between Blacks and Whites. Or, can we? Personal comfort and dollars, the Devil's prized tools, may yet triumph over the Golden Rule. In the end, it may take the little guys at the local level, like you and me, to bring sanity back. 

MY FRIEND IRMA – NOT

Those of you who remember Ye Olde days of television may recall the show 'My Friend, Irma” which starred the curvaceous Marie Wilson as a likable ditsy blonde, a media persona copied countless times since then.

The Irma of this time was no friend to anyone in the path of a most destructive hurricane that caused staggering damage and left us with loss of life and countless heartbroken, homeless families in the U. S. Virgin Islands, our own Florida Keys and elsewhere. For those of us who were touched by it, we were given a lesson never to be forgotten.

By now you have either read about it or viewed television coverage of the sights and sounds of Irma so I won't go over it again, except to say there is unparalleled broadcast documentation and print coverage to satisfy the most demanding of crises historians. My intention here is to pass on just one small slice of the mess by recounting some of the personal experiences of two people on the ground who “dodged the bullet.” (This phrase by the way is used time and again by we lucky ones, although one commentator upgraded it to a “cannon shot.”)

We believe in prayer, and luck. Irma could have roared along the east coast of Florida. Or it could have gone straight up through the middle. She did neither, deciding to go north via our west coast. Waiting for a coming storm to make up its mind is stressful, just short of being hit directly. Ours is a very long but narrow peninsula, so the whole state was declared an emergency zone. Mandatory evacuation was ordered for our area and we had to retreat to the mainland to find shelter. Lucky again. We found a hotel with lights and water, and yes, even television. We considered ourselves blessed then, and looking back, still do. A few people decided to stay put in spite of the mandatory evacuation, although they were told directly and repeatedly that no first responders would be able to come back and help them if things got worse. The governor stated: “We can rebuild your house, but we cannot rebuild your life.” Some folks had no place to go, and no money on top of that. In heavily populated areas (ours was not one) shelters were set up where evacuees could find food and a place to sleep. Pictures of hundreds of cots holding exhausted survivors showed both safety and discomfort.

The hotel, our port in this storm, sheltered an array of personalities from all walks of life.  The senior-seniors were true to the description “the Greatest Generation”, uniformly helping one another. We had dogs and cats among us (hearing barking dogs a few rooms down the corridor was a new nighttime experience.) There was a handful of youngsters with their mothers, a few of whom would have tested the patience of a saint by running here and there, falling down in public areas and generally meeting all qualifications for brathood. Some mothers with their “isn't he cute?” smugness did nothing to restore order. Otherwise during this 5 day trial there was a “we're all in this together” feeling about the experience. My wife and I reminded ourselves again of our good fortune for television coverage showed disaster and deprivation just ten miles away.

State and local authorities demonstrated in full measure how planning and coordinating efforts pay big dividends in terms of public safety. Performance by police and first responders was uniformly excellent.

Even if you were one of the more fortunate, Hurricane Irma reminded us not to take Florida's Endless Summer as a given.  Be prepared and as in life, expect the unexpected.

A FATHER'S DAY

June is now long gone and with it Father’s Day and my own father's birthday. That doesn't mean I do not think of it and him.

My late dad, Charles Edmund Reilly, Sr. was an extraordinary man because he was so ordinary. I never recall him, ever, calling attention to himself. His life revolved around my mother, a four foot, ten inch meteor to whom he was utterly devoted. Theirs was a “marriage made in Heaven” according to their friends. Who knows? I can bear witness to the fact that they never argued, let alone fought in word or deed in front of their children.

If their marriage was not made in Heaven, their attraction and devotion to each other surely was. And an early starter too. They were 12-year-olds when my father walked the four blocks separating their family homes to present this diminutive curly-haired girl a box of chocolate candy at Christmas time. Alas, she had nothing in the way of a gift for him. Up the stairs she raced to my grandfather's bureau, whipped out a silk scarf, quickly wrapped it and gifted this young swain with same. Certainly he was impressed. Not so her father who went ballistic when the theft was eventually discovered.

When my brothers and I were youngsters my father took us on “Sunday drives”. Having a car during the Great Depression was reason enough to celebrate, but of course we were too young to understand such things. My father was an excellent driver for good reason. Old-timers remembered him as a 5-year-old with cascading blonde curls driving around the neighborhood at the wheel of a Pierce Arrow roadster.

However, my parents did have a difference of opinion on the subject of dancing. My mother detested it. And this was even before the compulsory dancing class graduation with our mothers as partners. Only the expression on her face showed that 3 of my box 4 step were on the top of her feet. Dad on the other hand was masterful and much admired by the ladies. My mother shared their view because she could happily sit on the sidelines as one lady after another lined up to dance with him.

The years have flown by since my father moved up to the Great Ballroom in the Sky. My “If Only” list would roll back the film of life and afford me a chance to hang out with him and ask why he did this or that. And perhaps learn how to change an outright klutz into Fred Astaire at least for a dance or two.

FOOTBALL

Football is now underway. Hooray! A new season should numb the pain from talking politics.

My Seat of Wisdom is located in one of the recliner chairs in our living room. It is equipped with two handy containers on coasters ready to receive cold brew. The first is always a work in progress; the second a back-up reservoir against more advertising commercials.

Television programming, as I am sure you have noticed, has not lived up to its potential for enriching people's lives by educating, informing and enlightening our society. (And this was before the last presidential election.) But away from politics we have televised sporting events promising manna in our desert. Manna or no, there is no free lunch. The price our athletes have to pay for playing is escalating at an alarming rate. A list of prominent tennis players who had to opt out of Opens due to injury is all we need to show that the human body can only take so much wear and tear. And tennis is not even a contact sport. Let's go back and look at football for the moment.   

In watching a pre-season football game I brought fresh eyes and another perspective to the slamming and banging that goes on in an ordinary game. We all know football is brutal, combat under another name. It always has been. The difference now is general awareness of the medical damage that goes along with the thrill of athletic prowess. The days of “aw, shucks, it's just an old football injury” are over. It's not so funny today when former jocks are having trouble remembering the names of family and friends and yes, even their own. Repeated blows to the head can absolutely scramble your brain. No helmet can provide real protection.

My own interest in football goes way back to the days when I was an assistant manager of our high school team. I carried a galvanized bucket full of spigot water to the field during timeouts. Gunga Din in suburbia. Thirsty players all drank from one long-handled ladle. Compared to today's frenzied football world on and off the field, those were days of blissful innocence.

The reality is that there is so much money and prominence involved with football success, it would be unheard of for players, coaches, management and owners to turn their collective backs on this enormous potential for riches. After all, these athletes willingly choose to go into the arena, they would argue. It's risk versus reward, etc., etc.

The only real chance for sparing the health of our athletes can come from sports-lovers, including me, rising en masse saying “enough is enough.” You can imagine the odds against that happening.       

OUTRAGE

“Fish Got to Swim, Birds Got to Fly” and writers Got to Write till the day that they die. However, sometimes words are simply not enough as we writers know very well.

The sadness and hurt surrounding the Charlottesville, Virginia, automobile murder short days ago defies real definition, but most of us agree it was a true outrage. And it is not enough to sit back and say “The Almighty will sort it all out” which is also true. Americans, notoriously impatient and used to instant fulfillment, want action in the here and now. How anyone in his/her right mind can want to identify with Hitler and the Nazis is beyond me. But then again not everyone has had the experience, directly or indirectly, of witnessing the handiwork of those monsters.

Compared to my friends who actually lost relatives to the madness of Hitler and his henchmen, my own experience was weak tea. Yet it has stayed with me all these long decades, as if it was only yesterday when a young Army officer serving in the Occupation Forces in Germany walked all alone through the killing machine called Dachau, the gas chamber where poor souls were to “shower”, the ovens where their corpses would be burned to avoid the evidence. Absolutely, it was the Devil's Work.  How in God's name can anyone want to identify with such madness and a so-called “master race”?  Neo-Nazis seeking to emulate superiority over (any) others are walking on Hell's highway in the steps of those now long gone terrorists.

Violence in any disguise is flat out wrong. You and I have to figure out our own specific ways to make a difference. For here, once again, words are not enough.

HEROES

Many Americans are upset these days. I'm among them. There are reasons aplenty why one should get “upset” in 2017, including global warming, pollution in general, the price of everything, on and on. But a recurring theme in the letters we receive here in the newsroom is sadness about “what has happened to our country.”

What has happened in our country is a notable lack of respect for one another and for our country's historic building blocks: Faith in the Almighty, a Hope that every one of us can build a better life for our families and Charity toward the less fortunate among us. Instead the gods many worship are 1.) money and 2.) more of it. Strange that there are those who are hell bent on accumulating material goods even though we know “you can't take it with you.”  We came into this world naked and we are going out the same way. Bank on it.

To restore ourselves, it's best to remember and practice The Golden Rule of “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Our models for this should be the senior leaders of our government and local communities. In the past we have had exemplary men and women there who consistently showed the way. Even if that's not the case today, all is not lost. Good examples of solid leadership are still all around us. Take the time to identify those who are setting the right standards. Think of those you admire personally. Write to them, encourage them, point them out to your children. They are our steady everyday heroes, and, we need them desperately.

Wonder if you and I qualify? Let's take another look in the mirror. Chances are you do. The jury is still out on me, but in any case, I'm going to be trying a lot harder now. 

A SAD DAY in the USA

This Republic of ours has suffered through tough times – even terrible times - before.  We have always bounced back because of competent captains at the helm and rock solid crews of decent men and women as our citizenry. Those days may well be over.

The image of “politicians” is at its lowest ebb. Even those of us who have been largely disinterested in the back and forth that takes place “within the Beltway” and political circles elsewhere, are now paying attention and expressing alarm.  And we certainly should. Why the wake-up call?  In a word: “Mooch.”

Anthony Scaramucci, nicknamed “The Mooch”, is the recently appointed communications director at the White House and a role model for personal boorishness. He has inflicted damage on one level after another of decency in our government and our society generally. The New York Times, the bastion of ultra-liberalism took a courageous stand by quoting Mooch word for word during his latest rant. My spouse has encouraged me to control my own fury and not repeat those words when writing this column. In telling it like it was, the Times recorded Mooch using expletives not heard aloud since barracks room days long ago.

This man, no gentleman he, opens up every possible avenue to stereotype slander of decent Italian Americans. He is the personification of the gangster hit man in 1930 Hollywood movies.  But this time it's for real. Damage to the office of the President, the White House, the American people is incalculable.

Yes, “the office of the President” is one thing, “President Donald Trump” quite another. Trump is responsible for putting this bad actor in the role. He must pay the fiddler for every tune Mooch sings, whether it be on or off key. In vaudeville or burlesque theaters audiences would hoot “Give him the hook” when a performer was terrible.

Mooch deserves the hook. They are already lining up to give Mr. Trump the same in the next act.