Gray Hair and Aging

We live in a nation that has a terrible phobia of aging.  Our youth-centered values saturate the media on everything from cars to clothing and entertainment.  Since the 1920′s, “the age of gin and flappers,” we have increasingly shunned the idea of growing old, even if gracefully, and the result is that youth and their aged counterparts have become more separated than ever before.

LOS ANGELES, CA - SEPTEMBER 20: TV personality Jon Stewart, winner of the Outstanding Variety Talk Series for "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart", poses in the press room at the 67th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards at Microsoft Theater on September 20, 2015 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Mark Davis/Getty Images)

In centuries before the 20th, young people mingled more with their elders, because often grandparents ended up living with their children, so that the household was a blend of generations.  Also, travel was quite a different challenge in that riding a horse or taking a carriage was not usually a spur of the moment decision. Entertainment was at home, whenever there was leisure time. Music, games, and conversation were much more multi-generational, out of necessity. Nowadays, teenagers seem desperate to escape their homes to be anywhere but with their older family members. Though there has always been the phenomenon of youth seeking its own identity through distancing itself from elders during teen years, that separation was not as pronounced until the 20th Century.  It has now become almost a chasm.


Perhaps behind our terror of growing “old” is a fear of death itself, which in our time seems, to many, more of a finality than in previous centuries, when an afterlife was more of a reality in general belief than in modern times.  Today our associations with all things “chic” are connected in some way with the beauty, energy, and health of being young.  Too few images of contented elders are shown in the media. We tend to see being aged as the end of a journey instead of a journey in itself, one that can provide time, not just for rest, but for further exploration on one’s own terms and at one’s own pace.


I resent ads that speak of getting rid of gray hair as though it’s some kind of cancer that will prevent participation in the modern world and any kind of happiness or respect by others.  People with gray hair are not lepers.  This morning I read about studies being done in England and Germany toward a “cure” for gray hair. Cure? Growing old is not a disease, but the article suggested that it was, and that not having gray hair would bring back a flaming youth and happiness that would otherwise not be possible.  What rubbish!  Sexiness is wonderful in its place, but so are things like experience, character, and wisdom, all of which gray hair can represent.  And who says that someone with silver hair can’t be sexy anyway?


Almost all the people I know personally, who have gray or white hair are comfortable, stable friends, who have taken care of themselves and are enjoying their golden years.  I include myself among those who are enjoying their “declining” years, still in excellent health, and with goals and projects that keep their creativity and joy of being alive realities.  My hair is silver and on its way to being snow white eventually.  That fact will never keep me up nights worrying that something has been lost. In fact, I know that much has been gained.   JB


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What Technology May Be Leaving Behind


Occasionally I have the impression that time stops, mostly from wishful thinking that a moment of joy or beauty linger just a little while longer. I suppose time can be recaptured in old photographs, hand-written letters, music, the sound of an old friend’s voice over the telephone, the patter of rain, the aroma of freshly baked pumpkin pie, or the long-forgotten taste of a candy from childhood. Our senses organize and store all of those stimuli better than any computer or card catalog ever could. The fragrance of Shalimar Perfume brings back the vivid memory of my maternal grandmother, and Irish pipe tobacco summons happy recollections of Grandpa Starks grinning beneath a halo of its smoke.


Sadly, I see too many people attached to electronic devices that provide visual and audio cues that mesmerize them into forgetting physical realities and natural beauty all around them. A painful irony to me is seeing someone engrossed in a portable video game while sitting in a public park filled with the beauty and aroma of flowers, water dancing in fountains while the player is too captivated looking for Pokemon to be much enthralled by the plethora of sensory stimuli all around him (or her).

cell-phone-receptionMy suspicions about and criticisms of technology are certainly not new. Many people were frightened or appalled by early steam engines, of electric light bulbs, automobiles, and radios. Each stage of our love affair with technology seems to separate us a bit further from nature. As the Earth’s un-synthetic wonders shrink little by little in man’s preoccupation with ever increasing speed and what he sees as convenience, even at the cost of any future environment in which we will all have to live. Our infatuation in accelerating production and consumption has even invaded our food in a blind or greedy effort to amplify amounts while sacrificing nutrition. Profit has too often taken precedence over health benefits and caution for the future of our planet (the only one we have).


I sometimes wonder what the world will be like (if it still exists) millennia from now. Sensitive and intelligent science fiction writers, like H.G Wells,  Aldous Huxley, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, and William Gibson, have conjured images of a desensitized planet of humans, who have become androids. Such things are not difficult now to imagine in a time when we see how cellphones and laptops disconnect many families, even at mealtime, and how so many individuals, present at accidents involving human injury, prioritize using their cellphones to take “selfies” instead of helping the victims, even by calling for help immediately. Such scenes make me afraid about what we as a species may become by even just a thousand years from now.


I wonder if technology is doing anything for our levels of patience, tolerance, or compassion, especially since that technology bombards us with images of suffering all over the world so that we shut down after a while and become jaded or immune to the pain of others. How much more like cyborgs will we have become, and is there anything we can or should be doing now to ensure that we don’t continue our journey as a species that becomes increasingly more insensitive in our continuing deification of electronic devices for personal pleasure and convenience?


What are we leaving out that might provide a balance between ease and efficiency for individuals and a more collective awareness for the common good? I’m not sure the answers can be found on Google or on my cellphone, where even texting has become the newest and most omnipresent form of public rudeness to which we are becoming frighteningly accustomed in a world where taking a momentous “selfie” is, for many, more important than saving someone else’s life. If such fears make me a human anachronism, then so bit. I’ve a strong feeling that I’m not really alone in my apprehensions about where our species could be headed if we’re not more vigilant    JB


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Kids and Boredom

Electronic devices have brought convenience, but they have also elevated the need for constant entertainment to a dizzying height for our kids (and for adults as well). Patience and perseverance have suffered terribly as a result and pave the way for our children to expect every moment to be a circus of amusement. The sad part comes when they begin their lives in school or in the work force and see that making a living and raising a family can’t be Disney World every second. The habit of having someone or something to entertain us constantly seems OK during infancy and pre-school, though ingenuity suffers if the habit continues into school years and we become dependent upon outside sources to give us diversion on demand. We seem to be turning into a society in which almost everything is done for us every minute of the day and night. Our lives have become wireless in more ways than one. This is true, not only for kids.

Michael Combs and Dianne Vavra with their children Tom, 8, and Eve, 10, in their living room in Huntington, NY., April 23, 2011. The fully wired American living room can often seem less like an oasis for shared activity than an entangled intersection of data traffic. (Yana Paskova/The New York Times) -- PHOTOS MOVED IN ADVANCE AND NOT FOR USE - ONLINE OR IN PRINT - BEFORE MAY 1, 2011. --

There is such a thing as overstimulation and forgetting that learning sometimes begins with internal innovation that occasionally includes boredom and the need to escape it. Hard work brings rewards that can’t always be cushioned by synthetic stimuli just for the sake of diversion. Maybe that’s why students have a harder time now staying in focus. What happens when or if they become actual adults? I agree with chores and other responsibilities that can produce a level of pride in achievement through work and following through with something for more than a few seconds. Maybe we all need to learn that we can’t push a button for everything we want. We’ve become lazy and spoiled in that way, not to mention impatient. Self-reflection has become something we do through “selfies” instead of through meditation. Many of us can’t stand silence or the absence of a screen in front of us flashing something amusing or otherwise engaging.

mobile devicesOur culture has lost something in our shrinking collective sense of forbearance in having to do things sometimes that are not “fun.” We expect every problem to be solved by something that requires batteries. It’s becoming a Brave New World that reminds me of the one described by Aldous Huxley in his novel from 1931. Instead of Soma Tablets, we now have iPhones and myriad other toys that seem at times to be turning us into automatons.  JB


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The Shock of Current Politics in America

I’m continually fascinated to the point of being a bit frightened by the adulation received by Donald Trump. Explanations and theories for The Trumpster’s behavior seem to be flying around us like insects in a tropical jungle, and I’ve remained awake nights trying to make sense of his being an idol to masses of people who seem honestly to believe the man can do no wrong.


One possible endearment shared by Trump’s worshipers is a disgust and even rage at the seemingly inert functioning of our government for such a long time. Of course, Trump devotees don’t see Republican obstructionism as a reason for our nation’s political constipation. Animosity, disgust, and a terrible level of indignation require a more singular scapegoat so that a lone symbol can be the target of mutant vitriol. What better choice than President Obama himself? I mean, the birth certificate vendetta failed, so why not use the President as kindling for a hostility that is certainly intense but otherwise too broad to focus on the abstraction of government itself? That kind of disgust needs a proper noun in the form of an individual.

Hillary Clinton

The result is that conservative and liberal views have become black and white (no racial reference intended here), no gray areas or subtle blends to be seen, probably because they’re too difficult to process and understand. Maybe the ecstasy of a good adrenalin rush of outrage requires all or nothing, as in the elation of a laser focused lynch mob or the bliss of townspeople carrying their torches to burn down Dr. Frankenstein’s castle. Moderation and reason are so boring and have little or nothing to do with that level of angst.


In no other political campaign I can remember in my life has there been such absolute division, as in the clash between Soviet versus American ideals of the 1950’s. Nothing either party says seems to have any effect upon the opposition, except to drive it further into a deeper sense that a life and death duel is in progress. No news item in between or from either end of the political spectrum (i.e. Fox News versus MSNBC) affects voters through facts or historical precedent, while both sides continue to see their individual candidate (emperor or empress) wearing invisible garments without being able to admit there is anything wrong, in fear of having to concede there may actually be some middle ground. People on both sides seem predisposed in their choices, as though those choices were innate, which makes the many millions of dollars being spent on public persuasion a terrible waste.

American flag 2

Mr. Trump has channeled public rage like a fundamentalist preacher, while amazingly maintaining an almost lovable persona, like an aged and dotty uncle with dementia, saying crazy, disconnected things in the nursing home while the family smiles and winks at his speaking his wandering mind and outrageous assertions about anything that pops into his blithering consciousness. The difference is that Donald Trump’s appalling and often reprehensible off-the-cuff statements on the world stage are quite a different matter with very different consequences for us all.  JB

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The Blue Danube Waltz by Johann Strauss, Jr.

Many people, when they hear The Blue Danube Waltz by Johann Strauss, have mental images of dashing men in blazing red velvet uniforms with waxed moustaches and gold epaulets and their ladies in swirling hoopskirts, bouncing curls and ribbons gliding around sumptuous ballrooms ablaze with gilded mirrors and candlelight. I, however, still picture the stark white rockets and space shuttles of the 1968 Kubrick film, 2001, A Space Odyssey in a different kind of stark elegance, but the images still dance.  JB

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Sample Chapter from Come September (Second Edition)

Chapter 11 Freshmen Fake Book Reports and Other Foibles

When I was a student in high school, girls had carried around tattered old copies of books like GONE WITH THE WIND, and PEYTON PLACE. During my first year of teaching, more than half of the girls in the school carried, among their other books, copies of Erich Segal’s wildly, if mysteriously, popular LOVE STORY, a sentimental Romeo and Juliet kind of tragedy of surprising brevity, that became a best seller and stayed on the charts for way too long.  I read it myself just so that I could discuss it intelligently, if not enthusiastically, with the girls in my classes.  Reading tastes for boys had not changed much since my days in high school. MAD MAGAZINE was still at the top of their list of “cool” reading material with CRACKED coming in a close second.  These were tough competition for the selections I was assigning my freshmen, books like, GREAT EXPECTATIONS, 1984, ROBINSON CRUSOE, THE GRAPES OF WRATH, THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA, JUNGLE BOOK, THE PEARL, ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL, TREASURE ISLAND, THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER, LITTLE WOMEN, and NIGHT (Wiesel).  Students also had to read at least two other books of their own choice, submitting written reports on them by the end of the term. To get my freshmen thinking about those extra book possibilities, I compiled a list of titles, most of which had not been made into films, with brief summaries of the stories.  Two of those titles and summaries I fabricated completely, curious to see if anyone might try to do a report on a book that didn’t even exist.  Freshmen are experts at creating more baloney than Alaska creates snow, so it was a matter of interest to see what might happen.

FIRST BASE, SECOND BASE I said was about a boy named Carl from the slums of New York’s lower East Side, who became a great player for the Yankees, despite grinding poverty and childhood illness.  The other phony book was ROSES AND THORNS, the story of an Irish girl named Fiona, who rose from foster care to become, with her husband’s help, a great nurse and advocate of child care.  I added the comment that I had not read those two particular books. Two boys turned in reports on FIRST BASE, SECOND BASE, padded with the most creative but ridiculous rubbish.  Three girls submitted their reports on ROSES AND THORNS, providing even more extraneous nonsense than the boys had been able to invent, including some silly stuff about the author.  All this showed me that students could become great opportunists when given the chance, especially if it meant not having to do a lot of extra work.  It was also a mirror image of what I had been as a high school freshman.  It made me begin to think that maybe sneaky people could make decent teachers for high school kids.

Debbie Brown, who had already plagiarized Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s most famous poem, asked me one afternoon if she could do a report on a book called CANDY, and thinking she had said CANDIDE, I gave her the OK.  At the time, I thought that Voltaire’s satire might be a bit much for Debbie to digest, but it was a relatively short book, so I thought that if she had any problems with it, she could come to me for help. I thought no more about it until a week later, when she turned in her written report on CANDY, a piece of embarrassingly vile pornography about a prostitute, the namesake of the novel.  In her paper Debbie revealed details that would make a sailor blush and that made me begin to worry that if her parents found out that I had approved such a piece of trash as reading material for a freshman (or anyone else), I could soon expect a message over the P.A. saying, “Will Mr. Bolinger report to the main office.  Please clean out your desk first.” As it turned out, I graded the report, adding a note that I had misunderstood the title she had originally given to me.  Nothing further was ever said about it, but I continued to imagine a book with a partially clad prostitute on the cover at the Brown house, placed tastefully on a coffee table next to copies of BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS.

I encouraged all my students to read, wanting them to enjoy reading as much as I did.  Also, I tried to promote the school’s amazing theatrical productions by giving extra credit to those who tried out for productions and were chosen, or who helped out by being on stage crew.  In high school I had been in only one play, a very weak production of OUR TOWN that would have made Thornton Wilder commit suicide right there in the theater.  I played the drunk church organist in Grover’s Corners.  The only other play I remember my high school producing was HILLBILLY WEDDIN’.  By amazing contrast, Morton High School, where I was a teacher, did massive and high quality productions of musicals like CARNIVAL, CAROUSEL, OLIVER, and OKLAHOMA.  Other plays were done equally well like, ARSENIC AND OLD LACE, and even ROMEO AND JULIET.  Those shows always made me feel proud to be a teacher in that school.

The choral department had standards just as high and did concerts at Christmas and in the spring yearly that would have impressed the most discerning tastes.  I never missed a concert or play all the years I taught at MHS and always had goose bumps while sitting in the audience watching especially those kids I thought would surely end up on AMERICA’S MOST WANTED list.  Being at those performances gave me a deeper perspective on what our students could do and how important something could be to them.  This of course included their performances on basketball courts, wrestling mats, soccer, baseball, football fields, and at swim meets.  It meant so much to them that their parents and teachers were there to cheer them on, even if they didn’t always say so.

A conflict arose between me and a Baptist minister in the community, whose flock included a girl named Roberta in my third period English I class. At the time, my freshmen were reading ROMEO & JULIET, a play filled with some of the most glowing and sumptuous poetry in our language. In class we did readings, sometimes making audio tape recordings of scenes that included battle sound effects with cafeteria butter knives as swords.  Those were the scenes the boys seemed to enjoy most, but girls appreciated the figurative language, and the innocence of the two lovers, something already familiar to some of those girls.  Maureen Eason, for example, sat in the back of the room weeping over some of the lines from the first balcony scene, when Juliet was testing Romeo’s sincerity at his swearing his love for her by the moon, “That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops” and Juliet’s response, “Oh swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.” Then when Romeo asks what he should swear by, Juliet answers, “Do not swear at all, or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry.”  There was little Maureen in the back row, shedding tears over those lines.  Many more tears came from other girls at the play’s sad conclusion, tears I would never have expected from freshmen.

In front of me right now is an old copy of the text we used that spring of 1970.  Signatures, in the inside cover, of students who used the book over the years are still in the “rented to” column next to signatures of teachers, several of whom have since died, who used the same book in their freshman English classes. The names Norman, Dana, Brenda, Jeff, Pam, Bobby, Lisa, Gretchen, and Robert are still there, a roster of some of those who held the book in their hands, some loving it, some hating it, some reading it just to get by.  I don’t know why, but I feel as moved seeing that little history in those signatures on that page as I ever was by the play itself. I suppose it’s a little like looking at an old family album and remembering good things again.

Half way through our study of that play in the spring of that year, I received an official-looking letter from Pastor Jeffry Bowman of the First Baptist Church. The communication was an admonition against my teaching the play, ROMEO & JULIET. The pastor had heard from some of his parishioners that the play was being taught. His contention was that his church did not believe in or condone “sexual intercourse before marriage.”

My first thought was that there must be another play called ROMEO & JULIET about which I knew nothing.  All my attempts to contact Pastor Bowman by telephone having been thwarted by his secretary, I finally wrote a letter to say that the play about which he had written in his letter was definitely not the play we were reading in class and that ours was the one by William Shakespeare, in which there was no “sex before marriage,” except an innocently affectionate kiss in the balcony scene.  I never heard back from him on the subject. Weeks later, however, I received another letter from Pastor Bowman, again criticizing my choice of literature, this time for my sophomore English class, which was then reading 2001 A SPACE ODYSSEY by Arthur C. Clarke, a book in which the pastor claimed man’s evolution from apes was being taught.  My letters of reassurance that evolution was not being taught at all never received a response.  It was later learned that the pastor had also, without reason, been grandstanding from his pulpit about his righteous diatribe against “the sinful teachings in our public schools.”  I also found out that another English teacher had received a letter from the same pastor, criticizing her teaching of Emily Bronte’s WUTHERING HEIGHTS, another to a teacher using Mark Twain’s PUDDINHEAD WILSON, and to a biology teacher for even using the word “evolve” in his classroom lectures.

Had Pastor Bowman not been an absolute buffoon, we teachers might have felt intellectually bullied or educationally terrorized, but in order for his threats to have carried any weight, the “bully” in question would have needed to possess intellect or education, both of which were utterly absent from his list of alleged virtues.

Despite these minor verbal scuffles, teaching went on its way with the support of almost all parents and cooperative efforts of most students.  Johnny Madison’s father had a long talk with him on the subject of the love he and his wife had for their son. The talk evidently included some reference to the genuine concern of his English teacher.  Whatever was said in that talk seemed to have a positive effect on Johnny’s work in my class, not all at once, but gradually over the rest of that term.  Even though he had failed English I and would have to take it again in summer school, Johnny would be receiving a credit for English II and become one of my most capable writers.  Another triumph of second semester was that though Debbie Brown’s poems continued to be the most awful tripe I had ever read,  there was no more plagiarism.  That poetry was absolutely hers.

Come September...Second Edition

Available at as a paperback and at Barnes & Noble…..The Amazon Kindle edition is under my first edition’s title of Come September, Journey of a High School Teacher.  JB


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Political Preconceptions and Our Comfort Zones

Hillary Clinton

In our time, being nonpolitical is very difficult, if not impossible. The more I observe the very emotional stands people take for their chosen candidates, the more I’m convinced that most or all of us believe pretty much what we want or need to believe, regardless of pesky facts that so often get in the way. Most of us are quite skilled at choosing facts that suit us and discarding those that don’t and giving more weight to the ones that condone what we already think is true. We are, of course, steered by our fundamental values and ideologies based upon a compendium of what we see as our best selves. Few among us want to be horrible people unless there is a psychosis involved. We like to see ourselves as ethical beings, not cheats or dishonest thugs taking advantage of underdogs. Anything that triggers the adrenalin rush of righteous indignation feels good, especially when that rush is shared by others. This is also the basis of mob rule, which can come about suddenly even among the most civilized folks through sheer anger and disappointment.

American flag 2

Our political parties have lost all sense of compromise, to the extent that issues seem absolutely black and white (no racial overtones intended, though such overtones may certainly be included in the wider view of where we are as a nation). There seem to be no areas of give and take. Thanks to mostly unbridled public opinion via Twitter, Facebook, radio talk shows, and television coverage tainted by the most shameless self-interest, we find that those who steer clear of Hillary Clinton do so not from simple aversion but from an abhorrence and abomination just this side of exorcism. Those who are not fans of Donald Trump are generally volcanoes of loathing for him not unlike the intense revulsion for plagues and tsunamis. There is no gray area anymore, because the person who is not our choice is automatically a pariah about whom any horror story of scandal and corruption is what we are predisposed and expected to believe, because it supports our comfort zones, where our own candidates can then bask safely in the glow of heroism against everything that has been annoying the hell out of us about government.

bernie sanders

I long to see a middle ground from where we voters can see with cooler heads the good and bad on both sides with a willingness to accept the fact that no candidate is all good or all bad. There are no haloes in politics. There are sometimes duplicitous, deal-making and endless conniving to get things done for the greater good, despite even the most comatose or constipated congress. Even Abraham Lincoln and FDR were not above political shenanigans from time to time. No saint could ever survive or be an effective or realistic president, but we need at times to stand back without our rose-colored glasses to judge those qualities in a candidate that represent the ability to bring about change and also to honor some level of stability at the same time he or she is fighting the hotheads and deadweight in Washington so that it doesn’t become a mere wax museum.

Donald Trump

Don’t believe everything you hear about any candidate just because you want to. Don’t be afraid to fact-check and then to check the fact-checkers. This election of 2016 for the White House may prove to be the most important in the lifetimes of us all, and I believe it’s still important and very American to be open to all reasonable ideas from candidates on all sides without the need to vilify or crucify an opposing candidate just to make the other look good. Name calling is for unruly kids, not for potential leaders of the Western World, and that goes for all candidates and their followers. We’re all in this together and shouldn’t be fighting one another to cloud issues the resolutions to which may help us to be a better nation now and for our children.   JB

statue of liberty

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Ann Coulter, America’s Diva of Drivel

WASHINGTON, DC - FEBRUARY 10: Conservative author and pundit Ann Coulter delivers remarks to the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) at the Marriott Wardman Park February 10, 2012 in Washington, DC. Thousands of conservative activists are attending the annual gathering in the nation's capital. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

Two weeks before Donald Trump entered the presidential race, Ann Coulter’s book Adios America was issued in bookstores nationwide. The contents of the book represent a level of fear-mongering not attempted since the days of Senator Joseph McCarthy. The Trumpster called it “a great read,” though I don’t know if his unsavory and unfair use of the label “rapists” for Mexicans came from Ms. Coulter’s copious and colorful synonyms for the word that she used in her book. Like Bill O’Reilly of Fox News (faux news), Ann Coulter likes to stir the pot, turning gullible and already angry Americans into forces of mob mentality akin to those carrying torches in Frankenstein movies.

coulter caricature 2

With little to no dependence upon facts and statistics, Ms. Coulter careens her way around every cornerstone of decency, compassion, and fairness to demonize immigrants and would probably sell tickets to the tarring and feathering of the illegal ones. She even suggests that in a few years we will all have to move to Canada (becoming immigrants too?) to escape the raping.

ann coulter caricature

 Ann Coulter is, at least to me, just a skinny Rush Limbaugh with long hair. She is, like Limbaugh, a sensationalist whose blowhard style of bullying and decimating her liberal adversaries is like the shameless tactics of tabloid rags that entertain or frighten the uniformed and simply embarrass the well-read. She is the National Enquirer of pop culture, but there are too many disconnected folks, already furious with the government, who actually take her seriously, as though she were The Washington Post or The New York Times.

ashamed Liberty...

There is perhaps no better peddler of panic to be found anywhere else except perhaps in the Trumpster himself. The problem is that her followers see her as sagacious, when she is really nearer to being seditious in her going against every image and value we have left of America as a nation that welcomes the tired and poor, a country founded upon diversity and equal opportunity. Perhaps I’m being puerile when I admit that I have a satisfying mental picture from a favorite childhood movie that I summon whenever I hear or read Ann Coulter. The image is that of someone dropping a house on her.   JB

witch of the east

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Hillary and The Donald


I have a profound feeling that diatribes against Hillary Clinton have nothing really to do with Benghazi or the e-mail blunders (mistakes made also by others before her). Had an intelligent Republican (Is that an oxymoron nowadays?) done the same things, the mistakes would swiftly have been swept under the nearest rug followed by surprised expressions of dismay when asked to explain them. “What? That never happened.”


Since everyone else seems to be going on “gut feelings” in this election (i.e. the astonishing and irrational adoration for Donald Trump), I have to say that Hillary’s weakest point is that she is not a man. That’s public opinion, not mine. We have been a racist nation since the Civil War and a misogynistic one since before women got the vote. The deep resentment has never left some peoples’ psyches, because they feel those rights for Blacks and women are entitlements they should never have had in a male-dominated society that still snickers at the idea of a woman, however brilliant, experienced, and capable, could ever be Commander in Chief. The jokes still come too easily about her choice of eye make-up being more important than an international conference.  Colossally stupid remarks of misogynistic tone, however, don’t hide the fear in many faces of reactionary men (and even some women) who don’t want change to make progress that may be a threat to their happy years of napping in the comfy hammock of predictable  political outcomes, based solely upon what goes back to the 1600’s.

Capitol in DC

Many hyper-traditional males and females in government and in our nation see Hillary as a person of strength and defiance. That’s pretty scary stuff. They see her as an “uppity female” the way they saw Barak Obama as an uppity black man (I’m deleting the very ignorant other term left over from The Civil War and the aftermath of Carpetbaggers). I heard those comments from people I thought knew better, but I’ve learned that there are no limits to the fabricated tales of monumental hate and fear that come from our country  turning a new corner to see something better for more people and some folks feeling left behind in a fading historical perspective that no longer works as well as it used to.

White House

Nothing thus far in this election should have been a huge surprise to anyone. I have to remember that in my lifetime there were still diners in the South that refused to serve Blacks and wouldn’t even allow them to use drinking fountains hatefully and stupidly labeled “Whites Only.” The rest of the world has been watching us ever since, but there are still pockets of backward and unlettered people who defiantly refuse to acknowledge  people of darker skin color, and that includes accepting even black college professors, successful business men and women, not just the punks and gang bangers, who come in all colors anyway. The Rosa Parks battle was supposed to have ended sixty years ago, but there are still white folks, who feel threatened and angry by any success of citizens who happen to be black.

The America that frightens me is the one whose  voice comes from gullible people, who believe exactly what they want to believe. The number would probably terrify most of us.

Silly Hillary tabloid

I read on Facebook this morning a comment begging people not to buy Hillary’s hype. Should I buy Donald Trump’s instead? Every election has hype, but I want someone in the White House whom I won’t be embarrassed to call The Leader of the Western World, someone who knows the shenanigans of Washington first-hand and can get things done through savvy moves and sheer intelligence beyond  name-calling or closing a big deal for a golf course or is disinclined to share any of his tax returns. One of the big positive comments about Trump is that “He speaks his mind.” I’ve heard that a thousand times. By that logic, my Uncle Harvey who has Alzheimer’s and is in a nursing home blurting out anything that pops into his head to the occasional amusement of those around him, could be President, because he’s “honest and unfiltered.” Will Uncle Harvey withhold his tax returns too? Just saying.

punch and judy

Bernie Sanders was my first choice, because I believe he is the most honest, compassionate, energetic runner in this election. My second choice will be Hillary, not because she is my favorite person in America, but she knows what she’s doing on the world stage, which for the Trumpster seems to be nothing more than a puppet theater of Grand Guignol proportions. The Punch and Judy show is over now. I want someone I can take seriously in all aspects of government.    JB

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Over the Hill…

  Miller BEach Dunes 038

The usual meaning of the phrase “over the hill” is in reference to a person’s having passed his or her prime. It is an expression of at least mild derision with an overtone of dismissal after one has reached life’s zenith of success and productivity. However, the words have a much different and more personal significance to me. They take me back to the first twelve years of my life and the times my family and I paid visits to my mother’s favorite cousin, Jean Moore.

Miller Beach

It was always summer when Dad, Mom, my younger siblings David and Connie, and I would pack our swimwear and beach towels, heading for Miller Beach in Northern Indiana’s Lake County. Jean, her husband Clyde, their children Jim, Judy and Mike, along with Clyde’s father Sam, lived on Lake Michigan in a cedar shingled house that was only steps away from a huge sand dune separating them from the beach and lake on the other side. We kids, with our parents, would scale the dune like intrepid explorers on those warm summer days, sliding back two steps for every three we attempted, carrying picnic baskets, a cooler of iced tea, our colorful beach towels and blankets and beach balls up to the crest of the hill where the air changed suddenly to a breezy coolness, even on the hottest days.

Miller Beach with umbrellas

The fragrance of the water and sand was so invigorating during our easier trek down the other side of the dune to the beautiful white sand ,where our parents would spread out beach blankets with umbrellas, while we kids would head straight for the lake and inch our way into the clear water from icebergs melted eons before even our parents were born. It was the most wonderful part of what summer provided, besides the three-month parole from Warren G. Harding Elementary School.

Miller Beach at night

When evening came, we always built a fire on the beach, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows while watching the sun disappear over what we kids imagined was the distant Illinois border, shadows and light flickering across our faces as the flames crackled, scenting the air with wood smoke. The climb up the hill again was the finale to our time outdoors as we saw lights of surrounding houses. Then we kids would play Monopoly or Old Maid at Jean and Clyde’s house, drinking Kool-Aid and eating popcorn while the adults droned on about politics, sports, and fashion.

beach sunset

So the term “over the hill” summons for me those sensory recollections of a lovely part of childhood, and the make-believe mountain that, after a climb, would take us over the top into a kind of paradise, where cool breezes and shimmering water gave us a summer idyll that would remain among the happiest memories of being so young.   JB

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