Inspiration: Douglas Style

According to him, he had polio at a very young age. What is not in dispute, is that he was ill.

Somebody, in his Sunday School class told him if he would just get outside. Hike. He would be strengthened and healed.

And so he did. North of town. Hiked. Up a little peak. Next time, he said, he would do it without stopping.

And at the top of that excursion, next time, he said, he would do and whistle the whole way.

And his puniness fleshed out . . . and a passion for the nature and wilderness of those Cascade Mountains made him, an Associate Justice on the United States Supreme Court, have as his client, that unspeaking essence of natural wilderness.

He attended Whitman College. But he was so poor that he had to ride his bicycle to school from Yakima, WA to Walla Walla, WA.

His debut of public outspokenness was in 1954. The "Washington Post" wrote an editorial advocating the building of a road along a local canal. A 189 miles of canal.

Douglas was apoplectic. And as a member of the US Supreme Court, fired a letter back to WAPO and challenged their editors to walk the canal with him. After some haranguing, some did, for a few miles any way. Douglas walked all 189 miles. There is no road.

Whitman College sponsors an annual lecture in Associate Justice William O. Douglas's honor. I listened to that lecture tonight.

If hiking can heal the puniness and disease of a sick kid, hiking can help me reclaim a quickly deteriorating cardiovascular capacity. My doctor yells, pleads, prods. Begs me as as to what he can to do to get me to walk more.

Tonight, in that lecture, a question was asked, "what do you feel when you are out, alone, in the center of a forest?" Invariably, the answer is "God."

For Justice Douglas, that was his answer. For Thoreau and for Muir and Carson . . . that same existential essence. For the Native American . . . for certain . . . it was the Spiritual.

For Messianic Palin, its God's oil and it is his gift to Alaska . . . so by divine right, we must rape the spiritual essence of the Anwar Wilderness for millennia to come . . . so God's materialistic accolades can run their SUVs for a few more months. Today, in Washington, DC, horrified Appalachians protested the Obama Administration's willingness to allow short-term profits to proceed with Appalachian mountain-top-removal. The destruction of ecosystems of life for eternity . . . for the momentary pleasure of profit.

For me, I simply must hike.

There is a Spirit in that Wilderness . . . a soul-mate is waiting for me there.

The Refectory Manager

Drummer: Musician Third-Class

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! "Three!" "Four!" "One!" "Two!"

That rhythmic tapping of drum sticks.

That baritone call-out "Three!" "Four!" . . .

Explosion!

And the little drummer on the left end went maniacal. Arms flailing. Crossing. Drums. Cymbals. Throwing his head back. Mouth wide open. Feet pounding the bass.

That eruption of jazz cacophony was loud, lavish, luscious, lively. . .

And the Navy Northwest's Big Band, "Cascade," had just exploded!

This is the U.S. Navy's premier jazz ensemble in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States . . . giving one of their 400+ performances for the year.

It was the drummer that just had me spell-bound. Found out his name is John something, didn't catch his last name, and from some town in Texas I didn't recognize.

If he was twenty years old, he wasn't a day older. And probably half the age of everybody else in the group. A Musician Third-Class which probably means a rank of E-3 or Private First Class in Army lingo.

A little guy. Perched on his stool.

Sharp as a tack. Actually had hair. One of the few that did. Most had their heads shaven nearly clean. At least the parts that weren't naturally bald. But he did have hair. Dark brown hair. Parted-down-the-center hair. A characteristic that I think is an outward sign of significance.

The "Chief" who was the leader of the group didn't actually "do" the leading.

It was the drummer.

Setting the cadence with the tap! Tap! Tap! and the call out of the "One!" "Two!" "Three" "Four.

In some respects, the Chief seemed to ignore him. The solos were from the trumpeters, the trombonists, the guitarist, the lady who brought us back into WWII with her big-band lyrics and Champagne-smooth vocalization.

Most everybody in the audience was of the nursing home generation. This concert was big-band. The stuff of World War II. An hour of re-living the past.

But the kid sitting in front of me, and one seat over was out of place.

He wrote copious notes in his little notebook

Why, I wondered.

Class assignment?

Studying a genre of music? Maybe the mechanics of how musical ensembles actually do their performances? Maybe a spin-off of history? Perhaps documenting how the United States Government invests its money in public relations . . . goodwill with the populace? Maybe a hobby?

Whatever, he didn't stand with others in appreciation. He never clapped

But it was that drummer that captivated me.

With that little-boy look. With that skill. With that intensity. With that incredible talent. My God! Please let him be.

The soloist sang for the last time. A change of genre. A very smooth, jazzy, rendition of "God Bless America.

And then the Chief says they will play one more. A medley.

And Musician Third-Class tapped the cadence to get it started.

Tunes I have heard before . . . but don't know their names. And then . . . instruments down. Fifteen performers rise and leave the stage.

Musician Third-Class continues on . . . becomes the soloist.

Probably five full minutes of incredible drum solo.

I was mesmerized. Awestruck.

The kid was infused with fervor. It was like he was possessed.

And then the others came back. Took their places. And the Chief asked us if we would like one more.

Of course.

And the ending was as explosive as that opening bombardment.

We rose. People started to file out.

I stood there to watch.

Musician Third-Class reassembled his music folder. Got up. Extended that navy blue sailor suit. And it became apparent that his second job was taking care of the music. For he started to collect and arrange all of the music folders.

And I suppose doing that several hundred times a year in the service of his country is not as thrilling for him as it was for me.

But I simply can't help but believe . . . there simply had to be a warm glow in his heart.

Knowing . . .full well . . . a job well done.

The Refectory Manager

Toepiphany

His e-mails arrive sporadically . . . like this one just did.

Tonight, I was peeling dead skin off my big toe.

I felt nothing.

Until one stroke gave way to peeling pain.

I realized . . .

We can never know just how sensitive something is until the hardened layers of dead skin which protect it are peeled away.

And there will be blood.

And our conversation continued . . .

I suppose in some way, it is perceptive that a toe is a teachable thing. Not that one can teach a toe anything . . . rather . . . the toe is doing the teaching.

But its curriculum is pretty limited.

Pretty much restricted to how to deal with pressure. And maybe temperature. Concealing sensitivity.

And pressure there is. And toes know a lot about pressure.

They just know.

From the faint tickling with a feather . . .

To the minute pin-stick of the doctor doing a diabetes foot check . . .

To expletive-deleted stubbing on the bed frame . . .

To being crushed by a falling can of soup . . .

To being massaged by the gentle fingers of one's love . . .

To being sequestered by thick new socks . . .

And they know how to respond.

It is that sensitivity thing.

Most times, the old toe just gets leathery. Builds a bulky old callous. Layer upon layer of keratinized skin . . . dead skin . . . hard skin . . . insensitive skin . . . pickable skin.

And then doest protesteth vigorously when that defense is picked away . . . exposing the vulnerable blood beneath . . . masquerading as the sensitivity of the longing soul.

But sometimes the old toe will respond with the fire and passion of a burst blister . . . again . . . responding to pressure . . . and when the pressure exceeds some predefined tolerance in the domain of the old toe . . . it will and does explode with pain.

And along with all that pain . . . can be experienced the most intense sensations of pleasure.

Toes know how to deal with pressure.

And cold . . .

And heat . . .

And sunburn . . .

Toepiphany is a beautiful thing . . . but you already discovered that. :)

The Refectory Manager