Jack Kerouac, one century

Jack Kerouac was born 100 years ago today.  (March 12, 1922 – October 21, 1969).  Some of his writings made him a great mentor to me as a teen in the 1960s, being very influential in my comprehension and practice of Buddhism, of personal freedom, and of the great outdoors.  He was one of the great influencers in my life. 

Of his books, The Dharma Bums, On The Road, and Desolation Angels were most important to me as a high school seeker. 

His novels are extremely uneven in their projected sense-of-life.  They can occasionally have some very rare “healthy” aspects (which, to me, are his  articulations of the joy of getting out “on the road” to new unexplored places, of seeking out uniquely interesting people, of some of his insights into Buddhism, and, above all, his chronicling of a solitary human slogging through Samsara).  But most of his other novels are extremely depressing and portray his often sick, addicted and sad soul.  Ignore those.  Following below, I will try to winnow out what are, to me, the best aspects of Kerouac’s writing. 

I read his novels in this order:  In high school, my friends and I traded books and ideas.  Mark handed me a copy of Kerouac’s Desolation Angels.  Wow!  I had already been deeply into Buddhism, but this was my first immergence into Zen.  We next found On The Road. 

Then, The Dharma Bums (1958).  This is one of those top few books that have inspired me the most both in my young life and beyond.

Jack partied – hard, as did I – but he also meditated, and he sought out what an honest and authentic human should think and do.  This novel chronicles the mid-1950s Beat Generation renaissance in poetry and freedom on the West Coast.  And much, much more. 

Gary Snyder, the poet, translator and intellectual, is a key figure in The Dharma Bums (his name is disguised as Japhy Ryder).  Snyder introduced Kerouac (and me) to the poetry of Chinese Ch’an/Zen mountain hermit Han Shan and his Cold Mountain Poems.  Snyder later published a small volume of translations of some these Han Shan poems (1959), which I acquired in the late-1960s and still have with me close at hand.   

And mountain climbing!  I had always been fascinated by mountaineering literature and any books and documentaries of great climbs and climbers.  So, Kerouac’s account, in The Dharma Bums, of him and Snyder doing a backpack climb in the High Seirra was right on. 

Jack had earlier gone to a San Franciso surplus store and bought a rucksack, sleeping bag and other gear, outfitting himself for major backpack rambling.  His concept of a “rucksack revolution”, where he envisioned American youth loading up their packs and venturing out into a bold rambling way of life – this hit home, and it easily launched me “on the road” and into the hills. 

Re: my own Buddhist journey.  I had been exploring comparative religions then in my teens, and I liked Buddhism most of all, especially the life-story narratives of Siddhartha Gautama (the Shakyamuni Buddha), with his genuine solitary all-out seeking of moral truths.  The Pali Canon of “southern Buddhism”, i.e., the most ancient Hinayana/ Theravada traditions (despite their unfortunate supernatural interludes) chronicled this, and it seemed more historically accurate than the Mahayana cosmic visions.  But Zen, a Mahayana offshoot, seemed to nail the here-and-now beauty of mountain and forest in its practice – without dogma. 

In this book, Kerouac reinforced a native trait I already had:  bivouacking out alone under the night skies.  He stayed with his sister for a while in North Carolina, and he found a little spot amongst the trees where he could sit and meditate in the frosty winter nights.  I, too, staked out an obscure spot of nature above Chandlers Valley that I called the Zen Grove, where I would sit and meditate.  And, in all the years since, I’ve found special little spots of privacy and quiet, in forests, meadows, or even urban corners, where I can sit.  And see the Moon. 

Zen apprentice motto:  “Haul Water, Chop Wood.”

Barlow corollary:  “Climb high, Watch Moon.” 

I think The Dharma Bums is Kerouac’s finest writing.  It was written in late-1957, just after On The Road was finally published, with Jack’s first  experience of literary recognition and success, so he was full of energy, enthusiasm, and was rather “optimistic” (if that concept could ever be ascribed to Desolation Jack). 

Desolation Angels (published in 1965) was written over time in 1956 and again in 1961  There are two distinct sections:  “Desolation Angels” and “Passing Through”.  (But Kerouac had wanted them published as separate books.)  The first section (written c.1956) was mainly from his journals while he was a lone Firewatch up on Desolation Peak in the North Cascades for the summer of 1956, and it was written before his publishing success.  The second section (c.1961) was a reflection on later experiences, and I found this last section very depressing. 

The greatest impressions on me from that first section on Desolation Peak – as a teenage explorer of Buddhism and my first reading of Kerouac – was his presentation of Zen, its aesthetics, and especially the recognition of the wonderous Full Moon and the night.  Han Shan too! 

On The Road (1957) written in 1951.  This book launched countless numbers of us in my generation to hit the road.  By 1968, I had a rucksack, sleeping bag, and a jungle hammock shelter, and I had “dropped out”.  The day after graduation, (the late) Gary Olson and I hitchhiked across northern Pennsylvania’s Route 6 toward the unknown of New York City.  We went right to Greenwich Village, traditional Beat center, and we drank beer at Gerdy’s Folk City, the bar where Bob Dylan was discovered.  That summer, I hitched all over the northeastern US, on the road, as a Dharma bum with Kerouac as an example.  A satori in the USA. 

By the way, get the best version:  On The Road: the Original Scroll, published not that long ago, which has the original text.  A purist’s delight.  And, there was a good 2012 film version of this Kerouac novel. 

In summation:  Jack, you were a bit sick and self-destructive, but I did especially appreciate your compassion.  Whenever I see hardship and adversity endured by either humans or animals, in my mind I hear you exclaim, like a long-enduring bodhisattva: 

“Poor suffering creatures, everywhere”. 

Caveat:  my scholarship on Kerouac history is not up to date, so I may have to update and correct this post from time to time. 

-Zenwind.  

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Liberate Marijuana!

(Below is the text of my published letter-to-the-editor to my old hometown newspaper at the end of February.) 

“Pennsylvania should legalize adult use of recreational marijuana, for both moral and practical reasons.  And if a user does any careless harm to others, then they should be prosecuted for such harm just as we do with the much more dangerous use of alcohol. 

“The Declaration of Independence emphasizes our individual “inalienable” natural rights, including “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” as long as we do not violate such equal rights of others.  Government’s primary purpose is “to secure these rights,” not to restrict them like some nanny.  Toleration of another’s unique peaceful pursuits is profoundly American.  (Please forgive the history lesson, but this former teacher cannot resist.) 

“Two relevant examples of American toleration of individual rights: 

“Our Founders recognized that many once-persecuted refugees had found religious freedom in America, thus our diverse religious practices may offend and even horrify others.  But so long as we are peaceful the government should leave each of us free to practice whatever heresies we choose – even (gasp!) the Quakers. 

“Americans also have a clear constitutional individual right to keep and bear firearms.  In such cases when innocents are ever harmed, just laws and juries will find you guilty if you violate others’ rights by your careless or malicious use of guns. 

“The same moral rules of mutual toleration and individual responsibility should apply to the individual’s use of cannabis. 

“Americans’ use of marijuana is commonplace.  In Vietnam in 1969-70 at our US Marine combat base at An Hoa, over 75 percent of us in my unit smoked grass whenever we got a safe chance to do so when not out in immediate combat danger.  Returning home from Vietnam I smoked grass in moderation almost every day throughout the decade of the 1970s, and this, part of my own personal “pursuit of happiness,” helped me to get my life back together.  I am grateful for its profound effects, both medicinal and inspirational, and I became a healthier, more motivated, and more optimistic person for it.  I stopped smoking cannabis in the 1980s because I moved on to other pursuits.  It was so easy to simply quit, although I did have a subsequent decline in health.  In the 40 years since, it has been most extremely rare for me to ever use it at all. 

“Practical arguments for legalization are many.  It would eclipse black markets where other truly dangerous drugs are available, so that consumers are not associating with such pushers of poisons.  Cannabis is a safer “exit drug” substitute for them.  And we will stop ruining countless human lives by making criminals of them.

“Of course, drivers impaired by marijuana are a legitimate concern, although it is not nearly as deadly a problem as drivers on alcohol, not even in the same league.  States that have legalized it are not seeing the horrors once feared.  But we certainly need to keep impaired folks from endangering others on the road. 

“The problems here – moral, justice, and practical – are that cannabis-impaired driving is difficult to prove.  Blood-draw evidence cannot prove actual intoxication as it does with alcohol, since THC traces can remain in the system for weeks even though any actual impairment might only have been for a few hours.    

“A better, and more just, solution seems to be roadside sobriety assessments by Drug Recognition Experts (DRE), a specialty of emerging importance.  More DRE certifications are needed.  Our law enforcement officers are intelligent and competent public service professionals, and they have a proven record of being easily trained in any such new methodologies.  Legalization is the future, and law enforcement must be ahead of the curve and prepared on this.

“Morally and practically, recreational cannabis should be legal for all adults, and nearly two-thirds of Americans agree in whole or part.  Justice demands it.  Pennsylvanians, recover America’s ideals of individual rights and personal freedom, and liberate marijuana!” 

(End quote.)

-Zenwind. 

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50 Years Ago Today: Marine Boot Camp

My official date of military service started 50 years ago on 8 November 1968.  I graduated from high school and then enlisted in the Marines on the Delayed Entry program so that I could have that summer free to hitchhike and do Dharma Bum rambling around the Northeast USA. 

It was a great summer.  Immediately after graduation, Gary and I hitched across Pennsylvania’s northern tier on Route 6 to NYC and went straight to Greenwich Village, a mecca where we drank beer in the Gerdy’s Folk City pub where Bob Dylan was discovered (remember “Positively Fourth Street”?).  We stood at the holy folk-music corner of Bleeker and McDougal streets.  Gary went back home, so I went alone up to Boston, and most importantly out to Lexington and Concord.  I hitched up New Hampshire through the mountains to the Canadian border and then down through the Maine coast.  Ramblin’ Boy.

Later I hitched with John to Newport, RI, and with others elsewhere, but most often alone.  I saw America and experienced stuff like the hostility, bigotry and hate of a cultural civil war, but also stuff like compassion, decency and good will. 

Just before the drive-in movie theaters closed for the 1968 season in the autumn, we had an epic party in the back row of a NY state drive-in for the original showing of “Night of the Living Dead”, the classic black and white zombie flick. 

That summer I had gotten out of several tight spots with cops because among my ID cards I had a card from my Marine Corps recruiter.  The cops always asked, “What’s this?”  I told them about my delayed entry enlistment, and it immediately changed their attitude toward this long-haired bearded freak.  The USMC had good currency among law enforcement. 

A week into November 1968, the recruiter pulled into my family’s driveway and picked me up for the trip to the Buffalo, NY airport.  With me were guys from Sheffield and Lance Corners.  We flew, via several connections, to Charleston, SC, arriving after midnight.  A Marine NCO picked us up and herded us on a bus to Parris Island.  We arrived at USMC Boot Camp around 02:00 and life would never be the same ever again.  My life would be a surreal chaotic Hell for all of the foreseeable future. 

-Zenwind. 

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The Great 1958 Manual Corn Planting

This was in the summer of 1958 when Aunt Doris came east on the train from Washington State with cousins Wesley and Gordon, the first time I had ever met any of them.  I was 8 and Wes was 18.  Cousin Wes was my great hero and I followed him around everywhere.  He was cool, wore a cowboy hat, zapped woodchucks with one shot from a .22 rifle, and he had a great sense of humor.  This was a memorable summer. 

That year the rich field directly behind and north of the Double Decker building was planted in corn.  It was an extremely fertile field and always alternated between pasture, alfalfa, and corn.  But there was a very hard rainstorm that had washed out about a third of the beginning corn seedlings.  You could see where the young sprouts were coming up and where the field elsewhere was washed barren.  This was rich loam bottom-land with huge and very important corn yields for us.  It was a serious situation. 

My father took advantage of extra visitors at the farm and drafted us into labor for manual re-planting, pairing us up into two-man teams (e.g., Wes and me).  I am quite sure that Uncle Rod and Cousin Danny were a team.  Father was a friendly, generous, earnest and genuine man, charmingly persuasive, and people would go the extra mile for him. 

And I remember Uncle Albert and Cousin Ladd, on my mother’s side of the family, being a team.  They most likely were visiting the farm because Aunt Edith and Cousin Judy from that side of the family were there on a visit that summer, and thus Albert and Ladd may have been unluckily drafted into service.  (I have no idea where my mother put up all the company that summer!) 

My father carefully lined out the rows where corn should have been sprouting.  Then, in each team, the older one (Wes) would use a hoe and dig a little hole every so many measured feet straight along the row.  The younger member of the pair (me) would place about four kernels of corn seed into the hole, then the older one would use the hoe to cover it up. 

I don’t remember who watered the kernels because my focus was on the holes in front of me and the bag of seeds in my hand – but I’ll bet it must have been Father, because he had an invariable rule for new plantings, whether for seeds or sapling trees, that you first water the dry hole generously, then plant, then cover, then water generously again.  He must have hauled a lot of water. 

Our two-man teams moved slowly, methodically, in parallel straight down the rows of the field toward the Creek.  I am not sure if there was another team or more.  It was a very hot day, but once organized it didn’t take that long.  And the good results could be seen in a few weeks as new corn sprouts came up in previously barren stretches of field. 

It was a great example of farming in older days.  It may seem like a strange story in this day and age, but at the time it seemed like a natural everyday obstacle to overcome on a family farm.  It needed to be done, and, with generous help, we did it.  (I'm sure that Elvis would have understood completely.)  

I feel privileged to have grown up in such a place and time.  We were not pathetically poor but we were certainly not at all well off nor did we consider ourselves ever financially safe.  We were merely a family of small-time farmers, doing what our ancestors always did, living off the soil and raising livestock.  Working to make a life.  It was hard work but a good life.  We were all richer for such experience. 

-Zenwind.

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Ramblin' Boy

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I’ve always had a tendency for rambling, for lone wandering, and this is evident going clear back to some of my very earliest memories. 

Ramblin’ Boy, in the Fields

Big cows along the fence-line. 

I was just a toddler, and it was a summer evening, not yet too dark, after the cows had been milked and after supper.  My Dad was in the pasture down by the creek fixing fence or something.  I could see him and the truck from the barn.  I reckoned that I could get to him by simply following the straight fence-line that separated the pasture from the hayfield.  So I set out along the edge of the pasture toward the creek. 

The cows were grazing everywhere, and I was never really afraid of them.  But now one turned and walked over to me, curious.  I remember looking up at that huge animal lumbering over to me with the enormous snout and those big eyes.  She sniffed me and snorted loud, then took a step closer.  I was between her and the barbed wire fence, looking up at her.  She then put her nose down, nudged me and knocked me over. 

I was starting to get scared, realizing how huge and strong this animal was.  She started rolling me over and over with her nose, until she rolled me under the lower wire of the fence and thus out of the pasture.  I was now safe but disoriented.  By then my Dad arrived to save the day and take me back to the house. 

My big Great Dane babysitter

Later, as I rambled further afield, our big Great Dane, Czarina, was my friend and babysitter around the farm and in the fields.  My Mom always said that if she wanted to find me she would just look for the big dog.  I was so small that I had to carry a stick – a small staff as tall as me – to block Czarina’s tail from hitting me across the eyes as we walked together.  We rambled around the farmland with the big Dane close beside me. 

Czarina kept me from getting too close to the creek.  Walking the 100 yards through the pasture seemed a mile, but we made it to the water.  She blocked me from getting too close, just a few yards from the water, by turning sideways in front of me.  I would try to end run around her head, but she would put her head down and push against my chest, knocking me down.  Same thing if I tried to go around her tail end, when she would turn and nudge me down with her huge snout.  I tried going under her, but she would knock me down and sit facing me between me and the creek.  She never let me get to the water in those days. 

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Ramblin’ Boy, in town

This was a completely unauthorized solo expedition, and I caught hell for it in short order.  But it was one great adventure, etched into my memory. 

It was sometime in the early 1950s, and I was not five years old.  I remember wearing my little cowboy boots and taking off alone on a twilight summer evening to visit my cousins who lived on another street in town.  Playing with my cousins was always such great fun. 

Uncle Rod, Aunt Kate, and my cousins, Danny, Bonnie and Crystal, lived in The Little Red House on Pleasant Street.  I was too young to be able to walk to it straight across two hundred yards of rough field in a beeline, but I did know how to get there by the streets although I’d never actually walked it before. 

It was quite simple:  One could just walk up our street toward town, and take the first street to the left (Curtis Street).  Walk on until taking another left on Pleasant.  The Little Red House was on the left way down near the end of the street.  You couldn’t miss it.  I knew these directions because I had been driven there many times by my parents. 

It was summer twilight, and I was in the front lawn with my Mom and her friend Anita.  We were standing by the white board fence under the big maple, and they were talking about something.  I remember trying to get my Mom to listen to me, and asking her if I could go see Danny, Bonnie and Crystal, but she was busy talking.  I remember how tall these two adult women were, towering above me, and I tugged on the hem of my Mom’s dress and asked her again. But she didn’t look down or seem to be interested in hearing me.  I guess I figured that it wasn’t important enough to her to give any permission, so I permitted myself to go.  Typical. 

I just walked away, crossed the street, and took to the sidewalk.  I took the left at Curtis, and near the junction with Pleasant I met some older kids on bicycles.  Wayne Schoonover stopped, and with apparent concern asked, “Ross, do your parents know where you are?”  I said, “Yes,” thinking that my Mom had certainly heard me.  The walk along Pleasant was long, but before it got too dark I arrived at The Little Red House. 

I knocked on the door (or rang a bell, I can’t remember), and Aunt Kate answered.  The first thing she said was, “Do your parents know where you are?”  (Why is everyone asking this?)  I went up the steep stairs to my cousins’ rooms, and soon we were all laughing and jumping around, having great fun. 

But all too soon, Uncle Rodney’s deep voice called up from the bottom of the stairs, “Ross.  Come down here.”  (Huh?)  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I knew the fun was over.  There was my Mom, who bent down, grabbed my arm, and gave me a spanking.  I guess I miscalculated about that permission thing.  Aunt Kate had (wisely) called my Mom, who was probably freaking out when she couldn’t find me. 

It seemed to me to be just a misunderstanding.  To my mind, I knew what I was doing and thought I was in total control of the situation.  This little solo adventure probably had my parents thinking about getting a leash for me.  But it shows that my rambling has had a long tradition. 

-Zenwind.

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Uncle Rod

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[Written on 26 February 1996, not long after his death. I just found this in an old pocket notebook.]
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I took a walk
in memory of Uncle Rod.
I just wanted to be alone.

It’s a late February thaw;
the snow cover is thin;
the trail muddy.
Brooks everywhere are full,
singing loud, starting out from
the high Pennsylvania hilltops
on their steady journey
down to the sea.

Nietzsche asked:  “What is noble?”
So did Uncle Rod.
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[Written on 28 February 1996.]
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I took a hike
in honor of Uncle Rod.
I just wanted to be alone.

A day and a half
of rain and melt.
The streams are roaring.
A new snowstorm just started,
whitening the world.

I never had a chance to go
with Rod on his famous hikes.
Never had the wind nor the wings,
being a farm boy on the flats.
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-Zenwind.
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Goop, R.I.P.

At 20 years of age, Goop, the little cat that spent her first 10 years with me in Pennsylvania, has passed away at my sister’s place there, where she spent her last 10 years.  She was always loved, and she knew it.  A lucky cat who was affectionate and a real clown. 

Twenty years ago, my American wife at that time had found little Goop and another kitten in an animal shelter in a rough area of East Cleveland while she was studying at nearby Case Western Reserve.  My wife called her a “little goofball”, and I evolved the name “Goop” from that.  Since two kittens proved a bit much for her, I took Goop back to Pennsylvania where I was living and teaching. 

As Goop and I drove east back to PA, she stood on my lap while I was driving.  She put her forepaws on the top of the steering wheel and looked out at the road ahead.  I held the wheel at its bottom rim, so it looked like Goop was driving.  As cars passed us on the interstate, I got a lot of double-take looks from the drivers. 

Goop adapted quickly to the mobile home at Wilderness Park and to the other cat I had inherited, “Mr. Cat” (who passed away in early 2000).  Goop would crowd my school paperwork as I had it spread across a big lapboard on my recliner.  She especially loved the big Full-Spectrum light-box that I would park squarely in front of my chair to combat SAD symptoms in the dark evenings and mornings of November and December.  Reading and grading student papers and planning lessons all had to be done by working around the furry Goop-ball that had claimed front and center against my chest. 

Goop and a 24-hour Classical music station out of Buffalo kept me sane in those lonely days. 

After my father’s death I moved to the old stone farmhouse in Sugar Grove for a few years.  At first, it took Goop a while to explore the huge house, but she soon settled in.  She was there to witness my marriage to Tuk on her visit to the States – and the plan was for Tuk to retire from her job in Thailand and return to Sugar Grove. 

At the end of the 2004-2005 school year, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t teach another term.  I was completely exhausted and depleted.  My FMS, plus the increasing bureaucratic burdens put upon teachers, ran me into the ground.  The FMS “brain fog” was the worst part of it, dulling my mental capabilities and radically crippling my effectiveness as a teacher.  Also, Tuk’s early retirement plans had hit snags, so we decided I would move to Thailand to be with her there. 

But what about Goop?  I thought I might have to take her to my sister’s home in upstate New York, where she would be wonderfully cared for but where she would also be traumatized by the radical change of place and people.  I even thought about bringing her to Thailand if possible. 

But Goop really lucked out with the timing when my brother-in-law lost his job in a major (but expected) down-sizing.  They had one option:  moving to the farmhouse in Sugar Grove.  Goop was lucky because, to her, it was her house and they were the new folks.  Her adjustment was minimal as they moved in gradually, and she even got along with their cats.  I could leave Goop with them when I moved to Thailand and know that she would be loved and cared for. 

It worked out very well for her, and she lived a long life. 

Rest in Peace, little Goop. 

-Zenwind.

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Vesta when First Seeing the Ocean

It was 1991, and I will never, ever, forget the look on the face of my little niece Vesta at the very instant when she first saw the big vast Atlantic Ocean. It was a look of absolute wonder. She was almost three years old, and we were starting our return trip from Maine from the wedding of my father to my wonderful new stepmother, Alice. On this return voyage in my sister Carol’s van there were Carol, her daughters Mara (13 years old) and Vesta, and me. We took the scenic route home, starting with the nearby coast of Maine.

Vesta was at that time what some may call a “strong-willed” child. (A cynical person might instead say, a “brat,” but that would be unacceptably cynical.) I remember that morning just before we set out on our voyage home. It took Carol and Mara teaming together to wrestle down the rebellious, ferociously fighting little Vesta just to comb her hair. She was feisty little thing! Mara was the oldest sibling and was always a terrific second mother to her siblings: to Justin, two years younger (and not with us on this trip), and to Vesta, ten years younger. Mara contributed immeasurably to their nurturing and development.

Vesta’s first ocean sighting was at the Pemaquid Point lighthouse in coastal Maine. This was off the main highways, but I recommended we go there because of my memories of this area over 20 years earlier on my inaugural hitchhiking trip into New England immediately after high school in June 1968. I had good memories of the little nearby fishing village of New Harbor, Maine, so I wanted to share the views with them.

Pemaquid Point has a little museum and beach as well as the lighthouse out on the point. The grand open ocean view was off the point immediately beyond the lighthouse.

I was carrying little Vesta against my chest, and she was looking back over my left shoulder at the way we had just come, not seeing the ocean ahead. Perhaps she was bored; I don’t know. We walked toward the point. The big rocks down to the side of and just below the lighthouse were wet from waves, but I had good footwear and good footing (i.e., good balance and adhesion) as I walked down along the rocks to the water’s edge. (Carol may have been a bit nervous as I carried her youngest over these rocks, but she never mentioned it.)

The two of us were down to where the waves were hitting my feet, almost in front of and under the lighthouse, yet Vesta had still not turned to see the ocean. It was a view that took my own breath away, as it had been a long time since I’d seen it. The majestic ocean.

Then a big wave crashed at my feet and made enough noise that it couldn’t be ignored, and at that moment Vesta turned her head to look for the first time at that vast expanse of water. What was unforgettable was how perfectly she was taken by surprise.

I was watching her closely as she turned her head, her face just inches from mine, and I saw the exact instant when she registered (the equivalent perception, but not in words) that this was an extraordinarily new and startlingly different experience of aspects of reality. Her eyes were extremely wide, but not in fear. It was more like the immediate switching on of total focus and rapt attention outward toward the external world, and it seemed to me that her eyes showed that huge and sudden expansion of consciousness we all require when processing such marvelously new unknown immensities of experience.

She saw the huge ocean ahead, quickly glanced just a bit to the left and quickly just a bit to the right and then straight on out to that incredible horizon without limit. I was struck by her very serious look of complete wonderment and fearless awe. Waves crashed, seagulls circled, breezes shifted. It was a priceless moment.

I’ve studied a bit of psychology through the years, especially child psych, and this was a moment I’ll never forget. It also resonates with many of my other subjects of study, most especially philosophy and epistemology. I cannot assume that Vesta even remembers this episode in her adult memory, but I can speculate that it was nevertheless an important early milestone in her developing epistemological “vision”, i.e., her experience of “seeing,” of integrating, and of knowing that the world is much more extraordinarily complex and wonderful than ever previously imagined. Just as in scientific discovery, the young individual mind discovers New Worlds every day.

I cannot help but think here of the classic opening words of Aristotle’s Metaphysics:

“All men [aka, all human beings] by nature desire to know. As an indication of this, consider the delight we take in our senses, especially the sense of sight.” (Aristotle, The Metaphysics)

(And so it goes, in Aristotle’s historical-developmental model of epistemology, on up from simple perceiving to logically identifying to inductively integrating all of this info into infinitely higher permutations of human Reason and its astonishing knowing potential.)

Vesta saw the ocean, dramatically, for the first time. What a wonderful milestone on the way to the discovery of the world! As for myself, as a witness to this episode of basic individual discovery, I will never forget it.

-Zenwind.

Old-Style Haying on the Farm

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In the 1950s, in the old days before my father started harvesting his annual hay crop in the form of compact bales, he gathered the hay loose and filled the bigger (west) haymow with it.  I was too young to help out, but I often went along for the ride.  These farm practices are long gone (except maybe among the Amish). 

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My father used a “buck-rake” bolted to the front of his pickup truck to scoop the loose hay up off the fields and bring it to the barn.  It was like a huge comb, with many long wooden iron-tipped pikes as teeth sticking out in front at about ground level.  He could lower it to graze the ground and pick up the hay, or raise it up a bit for the transport of a full load, by manipulating a large lever just outside the driver’s side window of his truck. 

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The hay was first prepared by a couple of archaic two-wheeled machines that were originally designed to be pulled by a horse team but were now adapted for towing by my father’s pickup truck.  First the hay was cut with a two-wheeled mower contraption that had a seat for a man on it to manipulate the right-side mechanical cutter blade arm via levers and gears, thus raising it, lowering it, putting it into cutting gear, etc.  The wheels of the unit drove the cutting blades, which were like a wide giant hair clipper throughout the length of its long arm. 

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After the hay was dried a bit by the sun, a second similarly wheel-driven, truck-towed unit was used to dry it further.  This was the “tedder,” and it went over the fresh-cut hay to ted it, i.e., to scoop it and fluff it up for better air-drying with mechanically rising and falling forks that tossed up the hay in its wake.  My grandfather Wesley C. Barlow sat on the seat of each of these machines, controlling their levers and gears, as my father pulled them with the truck.  I remember in later years playing on and around that old, now-retired, tedder as it rusted down out behind my grandfather’s old poultry Incubator Cellar.  My sister has a photo of her on it as a little kid. 

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Gathering the hay in the field was exciting, and I loved to ride along.  The tedded and dried hay would lie in rows, and my father would collect it into bigger piles with the buck-rake on the pickup truck.  When he had a full load all lined up, he would gun the engine and ram the pile fast – boom!  The impact with the huge pile of hay was a great thrill!  He would then lever the buck-rake’s teeth upward to transport the hay to the barn, and he could barely see around the load, craning his head out the window.  When crossing highways, he had to ask me, riding shotgun, if the automobile traffic was clear or not. 

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Once at the barn, he would drive into the barn floor’s center then lower the buck-rake teeth to the floor, and then back the truck out, leaving a big pile of hay.  The barn had a rail up at its peak, going east-west along its ridge.  From this rail a huge pulley system with a hay-fork array was lowered, a cluster of big hay blades that were driven and kicked deep into the bottom of the hay pile from all sides and somehow locked to clutch it. 

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The barn had a system of ropes (big old hemp ones over an inch-and-a-half thick) and big wooden pulleys.  The hay-fork with its big load was hoisted straight up by a rope tied via pulleys to our 1953/4 Chevy automobile, which my mother drove the dozen or so feet away from the barn necessary to haul it up.  My father stood by watching to yell “Whoa!” at the appropriate moment. 

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When the hay-fork had reached the barn’s peak, it then traversed laterally on the rail over the big mow on the barn’s west side.  And there it hung.  A smaller rope was attached to the hay-fork and was its trip-rope.  My grandfather always authoritatively manned this rope.  One yank and it dumped the whole load of hay.  Whoosh!  One time I conned my grandfather into letting me pull the rope to dump the hay.  It was a small child’s thrill to control this spectacular part of the work, and I remember seeing the immense clouds of hay dust rise in the rays of late-afternoon sun coming in the west window.  

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However, I got carried away by this new-found sense of power.  I decided to play a joke on my father because, after all, he always played jokes on everybody else (and if you knew him, you know this is true).  He would get into the mow both before and after the fork dump to manually fork and re-distribute the hay.  I thought it would be great fun to dump the load on him when he was under it.  (In the years since, every single time I think of this episode, I am aghast:  I could have killed him, broken his neck!)  Eagerly anticipating, I timed it until he was right beneath the fork, and I tripped the rope.  My grandfather, who was standing right beside me and who had given me this job, was aghast. 

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My father emerged from under the pile of hay looking, not quite angry, but a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable.  That job of working the trip-rope was my first experience of being fired from a job. 

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One more early memory from those long-gone days of loose hay gathering stays with me.  It has to do with a frightening lightning storm and the entrance on the scene of a local hero who was mostly a stranger to me before. 

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My father was out in the field across the road, picking up hay with the buck-rake, and I had wandered up the street towards town.  It may have been one of my early runaway exploits or just an example of my curious rambling nature; I cannot remember my motive.  But I was a little guy who was blocks away from home when this tremendous thunder and lightning storm blackened the afternoon sky.  I had never seen anything like it and was frozen in place with awe. A big storm was coming in fast. 

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The older kids in town, those old enough to ride bicycle, decided that someone should take me home.  Ray Abbott didn’t hesitate.  He told me to sit side-saddle on the cross-bar of his bicycle (first experience of this for me) and hold on tight to the middle of the handle bar, and he pedaled me home.  I remember looking straight upward as we went down the street, and I saw brilliant, flashing, intertwined forks of lightning in a display like nothing that’s ever impressed me since, followed by deafening cracks and booms.  Chilling cosmic chaos!  Ray saw my father about to leave the field with his last load of hay and rode me right up to the truck.  Safe inside it, I was still mesmerized by the storm. 

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Years later, Ray was also known as the bravest diver in town at our old swimming hole, “The Willow” on Stillwater Creek, and he mastered the art of the high shallow dive off a tree limb.  The control and raw courage he showed in his dives was awesome to behold, and I never saw anyone duplicate them. 

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Ray was killed in action in Vietnam in 1967 serving in the 7^th Marines at An Hoa.  This tragedy sent shockwaves through the entire town.  Two-and-a-half years later I was out at An Hoa with the 1^st Marine Division, and it was still a wild untamed combat zone.  Ray was a few years older than me and very quiet, so I never got to know him well, but I wish so much that I had.  I will always associate him with those days of old, and he was an early hero of mine. 

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That old time era of loose hay gathering ended when area farmers started baling hay.  The solid square bales stacked well in the lofts, and you could get a lot more hay packed into the barn.  My father’s operation wasn’t big enough to justify investment in the new baling equipment, so he hired out that job to neighboring farmers. 

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When I came of age for heavy lifting, we picked up the bales from the field and loaded them on the back of the pickup truck, 45 bales per load, tied on tight.  Then we manhandled them up to the top of the loft.  When the green pasturing season ended, from Halloween to Beltane, my job was to climb the lofts and toss bales down to feed the cows.  That seasonal fodder cycle is still timeless.  Only the specific technology changes. 

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-Zenwind.

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50 Years Ago Today, The Beatles Taught Us How to Play

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In February 1964 the British Invasion of America began with The Beatles appearing on the universally watched Ed Sullivan TV Show.  Beatlemania hit our shores, with excellent British bands following shortly after, and American youth were never the same again.  It was a revolution, indeed. 

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The Beatles broke into phenomenal popularity in the UK in 1963, unbeknownst to us in the States.  My first clue was on Christmas Day 1963.  I was a 13-year-old wannabe hipster trying to tune in my brand new AM transistor radio.  (No FM pop or Rock in those days; FM was still only for Classical.)  That afternoon I heard a radio DJ announce the next song with a bit of surprise in his voice.  He said that this was a song by a band “from England”!  I was surprised too.  We didn’t know that the British even listened to Rock n Roll, let alone played it.  Man, were we ever surprised in the coming months! 

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That song was She Loves You – “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”  Totally unique like we’d never imagined music could be sung and played.  I heard the song again twice in the next week to New Years.  Then in January 1964 a series of Beatles’ songs assaulted the American pop charts and radio slots.  I remember sitting at breakfast on a school morning with the AM radio next to my ear at our old kitchen table.  Just before finishing breakfast I had the immense joy of hearing the radio pump out I Wanna Hold Your Hand, the Number One hit in the nation!  Wow!  Their music was so Happy!  It was more upbeat, honest, innocent, and fresh than anything we’d heard before. 

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Within two months time The Beatles completely captured the American pop charts.  They always had 5 songs in the Top Ten every week for weeks and weeks, and they always had a lock on the number 1, 2, and 3 spots, new songs replacing the earlier ones.  It was indeed a Phenomenon. 

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In February 1964 The Beatles came to America and played on the most popular variety show of that time, The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday evenings.  They taped enough music in New York and Miami to play for three weekly shows – delighting and enlightening the youth of the USA.  Here is a BBC article about that time, with an excellent 29-minute video of the complete Sullivan performances.  My own favorite part of this video is on their third appearance, at minute-22, when they launch into Twist and Shout, followed by Please Please Me and I Wanna Hold Your Hand.  

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On the evening of their historic first performance, I had gone (i.e., I had been forced to go) to Sunday night church with my father, the end time of the service being the exact start time of the TV show.  Church ended, and we had to look forward to the inevitably painful delays of shaking hands and meaningless chat with fellow parishioners at the back of the church before escaping – too late – to the parking lot and home.  I would miss much of the show. 

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To my delight and total surprise, my father – knowing how much I wanted to see the Beatles TV show – furtively suggested to me that we quickly exit the church via the door left of the pulpit down to the parking lot, thus escaping the glad-handing mob.  For this, I am eternally grateful to my father’s perceptiveness and kindness in that simple humane gesture.  He truly understood me at that moment. 

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We got home just minutes after the Sullivan Show had started.  My mom had the TV on and tuned in.  As we entered the living room, still in our winter clothes, The Beatles had started to sing and the crowd went absolutely bonkers!  Pop joy!  It really was an historical event. 

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The first record album I ever bought was the 33-RPM vinyl Meet The Beatles, the first album release in America by Capitol Records.  Cousin Bonnie bought an even earlier album, a British release on another label with their earlier songs. 

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The “British Invasion” had begun.  The first Rock group to knock the Beatles off the number one in England were The Dave Clark Five with Glad All Over, an exuberant ode to joy.  My next album purchase was of theirs.  (In later years they had radio hits that I listened to while sleeping out in the yard under the stars, my favorite music venue, in 1965, I Like It Like That in the summer, and Catch Me If You Can in the autumn.) 

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Then the 1964 British group The Searchers hit the top of the British charts, with a cover of Needles and Pins.  As 1964 turned into summer, we had even more bizarre and beautiful music from the UK.  That summer American radio heard The Animals (a Newcastle working class band with Eric Burdon singing) playing The House of the Rising Sun, a mournful old American Blues standard that few in my generation had never heard.  Thus was the main theme of the British Invasion:  American Blues, Rock, and pop songs recycled back to us through British interpretations. 

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That very same 1964 summer week we also heard for the first time a new British group called The Rolling Stones, playing Tell Me, and later, It’s All Over Now (now a standard that I have heard still played in Bangkok bars).  My late great best friend from my youth, Ron Diethrick (1948-2011), and I sat in my parents’ living room beside an ancient cabinet phonograph, playing these Stones songs over and over again to try to decode the lyrics; Ron had pencil and paper, and he got down to serious business.  (We also decoded the lyrics to “Monster Mash” with the same methodical technique.)  My mother drove Ron and me to a theater in the nearest city where we saw the Beatles film, A Hard Day’s Night. 

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I will never forget being in the barn one day when my cousin Dan was working.  The radio was on, and as The Beatles’ Twist and Shout came on, we just looked at each other and nodded – “Oh, Yeah!” 

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As 1964 turned over into 1965, I remember a classroom discussion in 9^th grade.  I was in a Civics class and was seated with class members, basically good decent folk, who later became preachers and leading members of their communities.  I.e., I was mismatched.  The Beatles had been popular for over a year now, and one of my classmates remarked to another, “I think the Beatles are okay,” to which another nodded in tentative agreement.  Then I put in my own two cents, “I like the Rolling Stones.”  To which they visibly shrank away in horror, implying that the Rolling Stones are “not acceptable.”  Always the heretic, I still love the Stones. 

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In the summer of 1965, my poor suffering mother drove my good friend Dick Hale (1950-1973) and me to a drive-in movie theater to see the Beatles film Help.  My mom was ill (perhaps a gall stone attack) and lay uncomfortably groaning in the back seat while Dick and I sat up front reveling in the music.  (Mothers do endure so much self-sacrificial agony for their kids.  I think some kind of sainthood is in order.) 

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But if you think Rock was good in early 1965, you should have heard the incredibly new sounds reaching America in the summer of 65 (e.g., The Yardbirds, the band that had a history of great guitarists, such as Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, and Jimmy Page), and into 66 (The Who, “Talkin’ bout my generation!”), and 67.  It just got better and better. The entire decade rocked.  My life’s soundtrack. 

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For me it started 50 years ago today. 

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-Zenwind.

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Barbara Branden, R.I.P. (1929-2013)

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I never met Barbara Branden face to face, but I was an occasional online acquaintance and correspondent of hers some years ago on Objectivist e-list discussion groups first hosted by Jimmy Wales (later of Wikipedia fame).  Barbara was always gracious and generous, sometimes answering my questions off-list.  She died 11 December 2013 at age 84. 

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I first encountered the writings of Barbara Branden and her then-husband, Nathaniel Branden, in the late 1960s as colleagues of the great novelist-philosopher Ayn Rand (1905-1982).  I discovered the world of Rand and her philosophy of Objectivism as a 17-year-old, and it was a clarion call for me to knock off my kid shit and get some integrity.  It is a philosophy advocating rationality, ruthless intellectual honesty, passionate vision, individualism, liberty, and love of life. 

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Rand was the solid star of Objectivism, and Barbara and Nathaniel were the major planets in her orbit.  Rand’s work is on record; but Barbara’s was not as well known to many outside the movement.  Barbara wrote Who Is Ayn Rand (1962), the biographical lead essay in the volume by that name.  This was greatly enlarged upon later in her fine biography, The Passion of Ayn Rand (1986). 

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When I was in Vietnam in 1969, I asked my mother to send me books.  I specifically asked for Randian periodicals, and she ordered and sent to me back copies of The Objectivist Newsletter and its successor The Objectivist.  In these back issues I read many of Barbara’s essays, movie and book reviews, and other writings on philosophy and culture along with those of Rand and others. They recommended other philosophers' books, and thus started my wider philosophical education. 

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Barbara was associated closely with Rand from 1950 until 1968, the year she (and Nathaniel) was disassociated completely from Rand due to (as Nietzsche would say) “human, all too human” personal complications, natural in retrospect.  Philosophically, they were all in the same camp; they were all just a bit high-strung.  Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism would never have grown into such a well-articulated movement without the Brandens. 

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At the dawn of the 1970s, the newly born American libertarian movement was influenced as much by Rand as anyone else, and the Brandens were in there personally on its early development.  Libertarians that I know from online contact and who knew Barbara for many years testify as to what a fine lady and intellectual she was. 

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I first ran into Barbara online around 1998 or so on Jimmy Wales’s e-list, “Moderated Discussion of Objectivist Philosophy,” or its successor Objectivist e-lists that he hosted on his servers and that were moderated and run by his friends.  We all had questions about the early days of the philosophy’s development, and Barbara was the one with the details and grand overview.  It was wonderful to have her in the forum. 

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On these online forums I once defended Barbara from an extremely crazy series of attacks from a weird female who called herself an Objectivist and who ranted and raved against men, against certain kinds of libertarians, and against Jews (and Barbara, like Rand, was of Jewish lineage).  This same bitch has often appeared and disappeared in Objectivist circles with equal nuttiness.  She ranted against male circumcision and talked about feminist street fighters kicking the shit out of men – or some such raving.  She was entertaining and irritating at the same time, but her savaging and idiotic insults of everyone on the list got tiring.  And when she focused personal attacks on Barbara, on her writing, and on her Jewish lineage, I got righteously pissed off.  I’m ugly when I’m angry.  I have a mean streak you don't want to see. 

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This was in winter of 2001 or 2002, and it was a Saturday afternoon.  My back was killing me from shoveling snow, so I opened a bottle of whisky and did my internet browsing between schoolwork tasks.  Throughout the day I worked off and on writing a post to answer that obnoxious bitch and to defend Barbara.  As the day went on (and the bottle got emptier) I fashioned a reply, editing, re-editing, and cutting it down to two short paragraphs of sheer poetic rant.  I wish I still had a copy of that completed post, because it was one of the best I’ve ever written – a gem:  rude, crude, mean, sarcastic, and with a nasty personal aim, straight for the jugular. 

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All I can remember about the gist of my rant was that it was a mocking pseudo-veneration of the bitch, ending with something like:  “Oh, Bitch! Enlighten us as we kneel at thy feet, oh, thou dominatrix goddess!  Oh!  Favor us with lashes from thy whip!”  (Or something close to that, but much, much cruder.)  I immediately got a private email from Jimmy, who complimented me with:  “LOL.  I haven’t seen a Grade-A rant like that in years!”  I became a bit of a hero on the list for mocking the bitch so savagely.  She became a laughingstock and soon faded away.  Good riddance. 

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So my main acquaintance with Barbara Branden was to defend her from a bully by my own crude, inebriated online rant.  I’m selfish about my friends.  She never mentioned that rant of mine, but she was always exceptionally friendly to me in both on- and off-list conversations from then on.  I believe she appreciated it even though it wasn’t in her style. 

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Barbara kept tabs on many of us, even on those like me who were marginal in her life.  I was surprised and very touched when I received a personal email from her in 2006.  It was immediately after the Thai military overthrew the government here in a coup, with tanks on the streets, and front-page headlines throughout the world.  She remembered that I had moved here and she asked me with urgent concern if I was okay.  That is the way I will remember her – thoughtful, humane, and loyal. 

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Many of us were surprised at her sudden passing.  She had just sent out (on November 30) a mass email to those on her huge contacts list, announcing that her book The Passion of Ayn Rand was now available as an eBook.  As a long-time dedicated Kindle user, she was excited, happy, and proud. 

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Rest in Peace, Barbara.  You helped inspire a generation. 

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-Zenwind.

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The Sadist Club: A Tale of Macabre Youth

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This is a Halloween Horror entry.  In about the year 1963 or so, four of us in Seventh Grade and one in Ninth Grade formed The Sadist Club.  It was meant to be as diabolically weird as possible.  We were committed to the eerie.  We had a secret meeting place (crawling up a tree and over an old roof, through a chink in a small boarded-up window into the second floor of an unused farm building, my father’s “Double Decker” building).  We had a collection of skulls and skeletons of various animals, usually woodchucks, turtles, mice, etc. 

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We had a secret oath (“Poe’s Honor,” as in Edgar Allan Poe, poet of the macabre and our main saint).  Our sacraments were watching the Friday Fright Night horror movie double feature on TV at 11:30pm, with Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, and the rest of the Classics of Horror.  We tried to be ghastly. 

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We were:  Scott F., Bob D., Greg D., Ron D. (the Ninth Grader), and me. 

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How do 13-year-olds get so weird?  Well, our Seventh Grade Reading class teacher retired two weeks into the term, and we got a great substitute teacher for the remainder of the year:  Mr. Johnston.  Incredible luck on our part, for he created his own strange curriculum. 

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Mr. Johnston was a romantic eccentric who would never have lasted as a teacher in mid-20^th century America.  He told us that this gig was just a temporary stepping stone until he could move to Ireland and marry his Irish fiancée, his sweetheart.  He played records for us of The Clancy Brothers with Tommy Makem, Irish folk music at full tilt!  Before he played such songs of theirs as “The Rising of the Moon,” he would explain the historical tradition behind the revolutionary lyrics.  Wow!   I am getting goose pimples and my hairs are standing on end just thinking about it now!  Powerful stuff. 

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He also played record selections such as the Berlioz Symphony Fantastique, the March to the Gallows theme, where the hero is ascending the scaffold of the guillotine.  He prepped us for it so that we would hear the part where the severed head rolls.  Are you getting the picture?  This teacher was ultra-weird and a tremendous gift to us. 

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Mr. Johnston told us about the Marquis de Sade, although I still don’t see how that fit into a Seventh Grade Reading curriculum!  We never read de Sade, but we were told stories about him.  No sexual themes were mentioned to our young ears, but we were told mainly that the word “sadism,” as a term partially meaning cruelty, was named after the Marquis.  Tales of torture fit into our monster movie mindsets, so we derived the name of The Sadist Club from this.  We were aspiring heretics. 

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As it was Reading class, we read a lot of Edgar Allan Poe.  I don’t remember much of the other readings in that year of class, but I’ll never forget Poe.  As we went through the stories, Mr. Johnston would explain the gory background and the historical context.  We found that our high school library had over a dozen neglected copies of a very ancient, small, hard-bound edition of Poe’s Poems, most probably from a literature class so long ago that the teacher and many of the students were long gone to their graves.  Bob D. presented to me copy number 13, inscribed, “From the Members of the Club.”  It was definitely not legitimately checked out, and I still have it in my Stateside book collection. 

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I think that The Sadist Club faded out as we started to be interested in girlfriends and Rock n Roll.  But it was a sick and glorious chapter of our youth.  Essential education.  I still thrill when contemplating the Horror Classics. 

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-Zenwind.

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Atheist in a Foxhole

This is my experience as a teenage Marine who was totally convinced that he would die in combat before the night was over while alone in a dark, wet foxhole and contemplating whether God(s) existed or not.  Late 1969, Hill 55 area, Quang Nam Province, Republic of Viet Nam. 

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A common allegation amongst god-fearing folks often reads like this:  “There are no atheists in the foxholes” – implying that the experience of fear when coming immediately close to near-certain death in combat will change all skeptics into true believers.  It implies that those who, in safer situations, may reject supernatural beliefs in deities, in beliefs in Heaven and Hell, and in Judgment Day, etc., will nevertheless change their tune when face to face with the immense looming probability of death, and they will opt for blind faith and plead to a god for deliverance.  Fear will turn them to faith.

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This is probably true for many.  But for me it has never been true, and any of these liars who claim that it is a universal truth where not in the same foxhole with me when such situations actually happened. 

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In combat zones, a sudden ambush (day or night) is electrifying beyond anything imaginable -- often emptying one's bladder and/or bowels -- and at those times questions of theology did not come up (at least to me), simply because you don’t have time to think about them.  I vividly remember one night, earlier in my tour (in the Hill 34 area), being pinned down by enemy automatic fire that came as close as six inches from my head – I still remember a buddy and me hugging the ground helplessly after we were caught by surprise, faces only a foot apart, while watching and hearing enemy tracer rounds whipping over each other’s heads.  At that time, and similar times of sudden danger, it never occurred to me to think about gods. 

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But it was much different when we had a long time to wait for near-certain death, to wait and to think, to endure those long, long stretches of time when the enemy was undoubtedly right there upon us but invisible in the dark and close by in the silence, lusting to kill your sorry soul.  When will they hit us?  When will they overrun us?  How in the hell will we ever get out of this one alive?  Will I ever live to see another dawn?  Times like these – when one had time to think of looming death – were times of despair, but were sometimes also a chance for lucid philosophical reasoning.  There was one night that defines it and sums it all up for me. 

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 We had been constantly attacked every night by enemy assaults, often under their mortar and rocket barrage.  This particular night was a moonless one, dark, windy and raining extremely hard – a “black rain” – with zero visibility.  Several of us were pulled out of our familiar trenches to march over and beyond the hill to reinforce a perimeter on a distant northern ridge.  The terrain was completely unknown to us, rocky and uneven, so we each grasped onto the fighting harness of the man in front of us and marched – tripping and stumbling – on into the blackness.  Eventually we were briefed by a Gunnery Sergeant, who gave us the sobering straight dope:  intelligence said that there was a division of NVA (the tough North Vietnamese Army) in the province, moving under the heavy weather and intent upon overrunning all nearby fire bases.  Gunnies do not get rattled easily, but this one was very concerned. 

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We reinforcements were split up and assigned to various posts.  I was assigned to two Marines on a position on the dark perimeter, and, as I was the one most ignorant of the terrain, they assigned me to man a crawl-hole position (a shallow foxhole bunker) to man the Claymore mine detonators.  The only arms we had were our M-16s and some hand grenades.  (I had no M-79 this night.) 

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The foxhole was a low shallow bunker that one man could crawl into, with very low sandbag walls front, left and right, and a corrugated steel roof with sandbags overhead.  Lying on my belly I could easily look up over the walls.  It was filled up with rainwater and too small for comfort.  In front of my face on the front wall were three Claymore detonators, but I wasn’t sure where the mines were positioned in the wire in front of me.  My two fellow Marines said that they would take up positions left and right of me behind rocks, and that was the last human contact I had.  The rest of the night was one of long solitary darkness – before the shit hit the fan. 

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I lay on my belly in the water of the crawl-hole and waited with zero vision ahead because of the constant black rain.  Then long after midnight it started to happen.  Between gusts of wind I heard unmistakable running foot treads of many men running from my left to my right in front of me – out somewhere invisible beyond 30 meters in front and outside the wire.  I heard many heavy feet on wet earth, heard someone shouting in Vietnamese (as if in urgent commands), and heard the clanking sounds of many alloy metal rifle ammo magazines (AK-47) – heavily laden troops with multiple bandoleers of ammo.  The group that first ran by my front was at least a couple of dozen, a platoon.  Then silence.  And wait. 

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I did not detonate the Claymore mines, nor did any other foxholes along the line, because the enemy was not (to our knowledge) inside our wire yet.  Long-standing orders of the day (from Commander-in-Chief down) were for extreme fire-discipline, i.e., to minimize any actions that would give away our positions.  Do not fire without a definite target, do not give yourself away.  And Claymores have brilliant flashes. 

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Sometime later in that endless night, a second group of NVA troops (another platoon) ran heavily from my left to my right out in front of me with commanders yelling and bandoleers clanking (“ka-chunka-ka-chunka-chunka”).  Then it was black rain darkness, and again silence except for the wind and driving rain.  Where are they?  At what point in our perimeter will they attack?  We were waiting for them to overrun our positions and kill us all.  No target, no knowledge.  Silence.  Terror. 

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Because there was such a long wait time between events, I had time to think fully about the situation.  First, at this position on an isolated ridge, we were spread pathetically thin – and the enemy knew this – and in the black rain darkness they could cut through the wire and infiltrate our perimeter and kill all of us in this sector.  Their concentrated numbers, and our thin spread, put us in a losing position with no way out.  I could not imagine any scenario that would have me living to see dawn.  I would die this night – I accepted that as a complete certainty. 

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It was the long wait time that made it possible for me to be philosophical.  My mind was racing on three levels:  sensory alertness; tactical combat knowledge review; and philosophical thinking.

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On the first level, the sensory level, my eyes and ears were like radar, head moving back and forth trying to pick up sights (near impossible in the black rain) and sounds.  The wind and rain drowned out most sounds, and I felt cut off from all senses except lying alone in a hole filled with cold water.  I was hyper-alert and charged with adrenaline. 

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On the tactical level, I remembered everything taught in Infantry Training.  I fixed my bayonet, a pathetic six-inch thing for the M-16.  I also had a nicely balanced five-inch Pilot Survival Knife (which I had won in a drawing) which I stuck into a timber for quick reach.  I mentally rehearsed all the drills on clearing a jam in an M-16; deploying hand grenades; first-aid to stop bleeding; how to withstand the concussion of close explosions (hands tightly over ears, open mouth); and, most dreadful of all scenarios, hand-to-hand bayonet or knife fighting on slippery ground.  I thought that, although it was certain that I would die before dawn, I was grimly determined that I would fight tooth and nail to survive.  I will not go down without a fight! 

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On the philosophical level, consciousness was more unhurried, relaxed, and controlled, and because of the long silent dark wait after those first sounds of enemy movement, it was very thoroughly thought out. 

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My hybrid Zen/Hinayana Buddhist practice has always been an atheistic one with absolutely no supernatural beliefs such as reincarnation, deities, miracles, prayers, etc.  On this night it integrated my three consciousness levels of the sensory, the tactical, and the philosophical. 

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Philosophically, I am thinking:  I will die this night and never see another dawn.  (Meanwhile eyes and ears are like radar; tactical considerations are constantly available for review.)  Although I am not passively going out without a fight, a rational review of the situation points to my immediate death.  My life will end.  This is when people are said to analyze their beliefs about death. 

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What happens to a human when they die?  Is their conscious self (their “soul,” mind, esprit, or geist) extinguished, annihilated?  Or is it “reborn” somehow, surviving death in some mystical way such as “resurrection” or “reincarnation”?  Is theism true?  Are there gods?  Is there a Last Judgment?  Will I be sent to be tortured in Hell forever because I do not believe in a God or gods?  (I had been an atheist, completely lacking any belief in gods, since I was 17.)  This seemed like a good time to review these issues, and adrenaline was making me wide awake. 

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Many versions of Pascal’s Wager came clearly into my consciousness during this night.  E.g., if I lack belief and it turns out that gods are most probably a fantasy, then I lose nothing and have lived a life free of superstition.  But if I lack belief and it turns out that I’m wrong and that gods indeed do exist, then I am doomed to Hell, shit out of luck. 

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During this my last night alive, I looked carefully and fairly at all of the arguments I knew that asserted the Existence of God, and I found them seriously lacking.  All of them.  As death threatened me with severe immediacy, I decided that I was indeed going to die this night as an atheist – an “atheist in a foxhole”, thus falsifying that particular theist myth; this made me chuckle, while being fully aware of the dark irony of it.  But I would die with a rational confidence in my own honest and sovereign judgment. 

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I also thought that, even if I was mistaken and if God really did exist to judge me, he had to recognize that my lack of belief was an honest judgment on my part, honestly reasoned according to the evidence I had seen, or not seen, and with my complete openness and objectivity.  (And I saw faith, believing without evidence, as an act of telling a lie to oneself and to the world.)  If God still considered my lack of belief to be a terrible sin, in spite of my honest inquiries, and if he still thought me worthy of Hell, then he was an unjust tyrant with no moral right to run a universe of rational beings.  I would repudiate such a being for his utter unfairness, injustice and barbaric cruelty. 

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After as honest and thorough a philosophical/ theological review as I could undertake, I felt quite tranquil about the notions of God, life after death, Hell, “eternal destinies”, etc. – i.e., I rejected them as most probably being fantasies because I found no convincing evidence to believe them, and I saw death as most likely being nothing but dreamless annihilation of self.  (No brain, no consciousness.)  I was not afraid of death as an atheist.  My coming death, at only 19 years of age, was certainly too soon.  I had many things that I wanted to do in life, but I did not fear death itself.  And of course I still was determined to fight tooth and nail to survive.  This line of cool thinking under the night’s pressure left me feeling very complete, whole, and integrated. 

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Then a horribly sickening thought came to me:  knowledge of the effect upon my family – my mother, father, and my 14-year-old sister – when news of my death reached them.  This horror made me so nauseated that I almost puked.  I sobbed at the thought of their anguish.  Just thinking about it now, over 40 years later, brings tears to my eyes.  I still remember that stab of helpless grief for the grief that they would feel. 

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As it happened, I obviously did survive that night – and “God” had nothing to do with it unless he shamelessly plays random favorites:  I may have lived, but six other young Marines died that night.  Kids who had families back home.  Not even mentioning the brave Vietnamese enemy who died that night, and their families. 

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The black rain was still pouring down and obscuring everything.  Then, suddenly all hell broke loose.  All at once it became evident that NVA infantry had broken through our perimeter about 75 meters to my right.  The NVA had sent sappers in quietly with wire cutters, followed by sappers who used poles and ropes to spread and separate the wire to make a hole big enough for infantry infiltration.  It was all under the cover of the rainy darkness and the loud wind, and it was impossible to see or hear the sappers at work. 

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For me, it was a sudden shock awakening from my philosophical reveries.  Now was real-time terror – right here, right now – with no time to think about trivial cosmological speculations.  It was now all senses, practiced tactics, and cunning.  The NVA had breached our perimeter and suddenly started firing on us from behind the foxholes off to my right.  The black rain obscured everything except for the tracers of AK-47 rounds.  Tracers told that night’s entire story.  NVA tracers went into the two holes on either side of their breach in the wire, and a responding fire was evidenced by M-16 tracers from the Marines there, who were taken completely by surprise.  The Marines’ tracers gave away their positions, and their fire weakened as they were quickly overwhelmed and annihilated. 

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The NVA were pouring in and fanning out within the perimeter, as their constantly increasing volume of tracers revealed.  Then we suddenly had heavy incoming automatic fire from in front, from close outside the wire, as well as from the rear, from inside, and we were pinned down by this crossfire, faces in the mud.  It was overwhelming and faster than one would believe.  I was confined in my tiny, tight crawl-hole bunker and could not even begin to get a shot off.  If I detonated the Claymores now it would only reveal our exact positions with the big flashes and not do much harm to any enemy outside the wire.  Besides, it was happening too fast.  It looked like it would be over extremely soon with a bad ending for us.  I readied my bayonet and psyched up for the apocalypse.  Then we got unexpected assistance. 

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Unbeknown to me, there was a daytime observation tower on this ridge, behind us to the right, and it was manned this night by a Platoon Sergeant whose name I never got.  Wish I could have met him because he saved numerous Marine lives that night, including yours truly.  He had an M-60 machine-gun up in his tower with an A-gunner feeding him ammo belts, and this guy never let up.  Suddenly his tracers came down on the NVA within the perimeter – which gave away his position and caused them to fire up at him.  NVA tracers all tilted up at him immediately.  It was a wild fireworks show in the dark rain.  The machine-gunner in the tower shot in a series of long sweeping bursts and never fully paused until a 100 round belt had been spent, when there was a short pause as he secured another belt and then continued firing.  The pouring, blowing rain cooled his barrel enough that it did not burn out, and he just kept pouring lead into the infiltrators.  It was masterful work. 

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The machine-gun fire from the tower thinned out the NVA on the inside of the wire and broke their momentum, and then he directed fire at the hole in the wire where tracers indicated that they were still coming through.  He hosed them down with lead.  He backed up the incoming NVA at the bottleneck hole in the wire and stopped any more from coming in.  The NVA were stumbling over their comrades’ dead bodies and dying in heaps.  (Later we found them piled four-deep in the bottleneck.)  A mopping up within the perimeter was done, and the gap was secured.  The NVA still outside our perimeter knew they would not prevail and vanished into the rain before dawn. 

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Dawn came slowly because of the heavy overcast and rain, and I was shocked that I had seen the dawn of another day.  The two Marines on my position, one to my left and one to my right, spoke, saying, “I’m coming in.  Don’t shoot me.”  We just shook our heads at the long crazy night just past.  Eventually a Marine came by to guide me and other temporary reinforcements back to our entrenchments over the hill.  We shuffled back to whatever semi-dry digs we could find, and I slept almost the entire day with adrenaline burnout. 

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Six Marines died that night, the guys on two holes over to my right.  I never met them and never even knew their names.  A number of ours were wounded, some severely.  The NVA dead numbered a couple of dozen. 

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Looking back, as unchanged an atheist now as I was then, I am still haunted sometimes by “survivor guilt”, a common feeling among combat vets, wondering why in hell I was spared while these other Marines were killed.  Should I, could I, have done something else?  Why did I survive?  Was it just luck that the NVA hit a bit to my right rather than coming over the top of me?  Haunting thoughts. 

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All in all, I put my survival down to dumb luck, mere chance – and an M-60 machine- gunner with balls of brass in a tower. 

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But don’t ever tell me that there are no atheists in foxholes. 

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-Zenwind.

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