“The Founding Fathers tried to protect us from the threat they knew, the tyranny that overcame ancient democracy. Today, our political order faces new threats, not unlike the totalitarianism of the twentieth century. We are no wiser than the Europeans who saw democracy yield to fascism, Nazism, or communism. Our one advantage is that we might learn from their experience.”
By Timothy Snyder
Tim Duggan Books, New York
Leave a Comment » | 
class conflict, conflict, history, law, philosophy, politics, public service, quotes, teaching, war, wisdom, writing | Tagged: conflict, government, history, lessons, Nobel Prize, politics, quotes, war | 
Permalink
Posted by Jim
My oldest brother, on the right in this picture, died in his sleep on Friday, April 29, 2016. He was 84. It was a peaceful passing. (My brother Lee is on the left in the photo.) After escaping our violent birth-family as a teenager, Doug was free to create a good life for himself, and he certainly made the best of that opportunity. Ironically, though, along with his three brothers—me included—his initial ticket to a “safer” and happier existence turned out to be a career in the military.
After his service in the army, Doug made a happy marriage that lasted for well over 50 years. His four children, two girls, two boys, turned out well. Doug was a happy man and had a great sense of humor. He was healthy right up to the end. And he was a lucky man, too, in other ways—lucky to be loved by his extended family and a wide range of friends, many of whom dated from his Korean War days in the 1950’s.
It’s not surprising that in many ways, with the exception of marriage, Brother Doug was a roll-model for me. He still is. Doug left this life the way I’d like to go—in bed, asleep, oblivious. A few days after I got the news of Doug’s death, this thought popped into my head: Except for the dreams we have nightly, I believe that deep and contented sleep is the ideal practice for a good death.
4 Comments | buddies, death, domestic conflict, education, family, friends, health, jobs, life, love, marriage, philosophy, relationships, U. S. Army, war, wedding | Tagged: children, death, family, friends, grandchildren, Korean war, life, love, veterans, VFW | Permalink
Posted by Jim
Click image to enlarge. These four cartoon characters, among others, were created to represent actual people who were somehow involved in the battle to defend Fort McHenry from the British on September 12-14, 1814. Three years ago, the images were published in a Jr. Rangers booklet at the fort. This composite image is now available for printing on mugs, t-shirts, and various other products at: zazzle.com.
Leave a Comment » | characters, conflict, costumes, education, flags, Fort McHenry, gag cartoons, goverment, graphic design, history, holidays, illustration, illustration, images, poetry, war, writing | Tagged: Baltimore, domestic conflict, Fort McHenry, historic site, kids, Maryland, national monument, poetry, relationships, travel, vacation, War of 1812, writing | Permalink
Posted by Jim
Many of my earliest rambles in Caithness (the county constituting the northeastern corner of Great Britain) were inspired by names on the Ordnance Survey map (OS Landranger 12: Thurso, Wick and surrounding area) or by brochures in the Visitor’s Centre in Thurso (“Three Walks in Thurso,” “Walks: Caithness”). My favorite walk to my favorite place in Caithness came from a Visitor’s Centre brochure:
Cross the pedestrian bridge over the Thurso River inlet, up the sidewalk beside Castletown Road
Carry straight on when the road bears right, passing on your left the nineteenth-century folly reminiscent of Rapunzel’s tower with its crenellated turrets (pausing to wish you lived there, like the people who have put flower pots on the window ledges and parked their VW inside the wrought iron gates)
Follow the single lane road between two fields—looking back and down toward the coast, you can just see the ruins of Thurso Castle, constructed in the 1860’s and hardly worth your trouble
Take the first left and march confidently into the working farm, wending your way between aluminum-sided barns and balloon-wheeled tractors until you face the rocky shore and the Pentland Firth churning beyond
To your right, obscured by tall grass, is the start of a narrow track along the coast that leads after a mile or so to a sea cave hidden beneath mossy headlands
During the walk, to be undertaken on the rare sunny day, whenever you are not watching your feet to avoid twisting an ankle in the rut gouged by sheep hooves (the typical meaning of “track” in this brochure), you have a spectacular view of the Firth, its choppy green waters fringed by cascading flagstone slabs and interrupted only by an occasional fishing boat bobbing off Dunnet Head or by the white wake of the Pentland ferry shuttling day-trippers to and from the Shetland Islands
Divert mid-way to the walled lookout that juts from the rocky shore, admire the blue arc of the sky as it meets the sea, and imagine the many wives and sweethearts who had waited here, often in vain, to catch first sight of the vessel bringing their sailor home; note, as you leave, the simple cross impressed on the seaward wall
Eventually the land will rise to precipitous heights and the even spread of shoreline will give way to steep tiers and stacks of stone, like some gigantic abstract sculpture garden growing from the waves
You will hear the sea cave before you see it
In fact, you would not see it at all if the brochure hadn’t told you to look for it near where some power lines sweep down to another farm. What the brochure doesn’t tell you is that when you leave the path and pick your way out a sloping promontory and sit on a dry patch of loam and pull off your shoes and socks and lie back with your eyes closed in the warm sun, you will be embraced by a symphony of sounds: the deep, slow, thunderous throb of the ocean waves hitting the base of the headland, the crescendo and decrescendo of waves rushing over the jagged slate shelves, the haunting echoes of the longer waves as they surge into the caverns hollowed out of the cliff, century by century, and the faint, melodic plink-plonk of rainwater dripping from ledge to mossy ledge before releasing into the sonorous cove below.
I had been to the sea cave perhaps a half a dozen times before I felt the slightest urge to venture any further than that loamy bed. One day, after a plowman’s lunch (a thick slab of cheddar cheese between two slices of bread slathered with butter) and a snooze on the mossy ledge, I climbed back up to the track, and instead of retracing my steps, continued on along the headland. Here and there among the wind-swept grasses were cement platforms cracked with age and sprouting weeds and wildflowers; some still held rusting iron beams, the remains of artillery installed to repel German aircraft during World War II. How many days had been spent fortifying this remote stretch of Scottish shore against enemy attack? How many nights had been spent listening for the drone of bombers and scanning the horizon for their ominous shadows? Those anxious days and nights, for all of their intensity, had ended long ago, leaving only scars of white cement on the landscape, while in the hidden cave below, the heart of the ocean continued to beat.
Florence Newman is professor emerita at Towson University, where she taught in the English Department for 27 years. A specialist in Middle English literature, she has published and delivered conference papers on Chaucer, the Gawain-Poet, and medieval women writers. She grew up in Blacksburg, Va., reading books in her parents’ library and eating strawberries from her grandfather’s garden. She currently lives with her husband in Towson, Md., escapes occasionally to their farm on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, and travels farther afield when time, energy, and finances permit.
Doodlemeister is looking for short first-person observations up to 1,500 words, on any subject, in any style, for this series. If need be, we’ll help you to edit and/or cut your piece. If you’d like to submit a story about something interesting you saw, experienced—or simply thought about—please contact us by e-mail at jimscartoons@aol.com
3 Comments | history, images, memoir, nature, ocean, photography, pictures, quotes, travel, vacation, war | Tagged: Caithness, Great Britain, historic site, memior, photography, quotes, Scotland, Shetland Islands, Thurso, Thurso River, travel, vacation | Permalink
Posted by Jim
By Jim Sizemore
(Click images for larger views.)
The “Hip Shots” series of photographs will feature images that were grabbed “on the fly,” with little or no regard for framing and focus. The object of the exercise is to create dynamic pictures, not perfect ones. With this ” shoot-from-the-hip” method the more frames exposed, the better the chances are that you’ll come up with something interesting — a related series that may be arranged as a post. If you’d like additional tips for using the technique, or to submit your own images, drop a question or note in the “Leave a Comment” section, below.
Leave a Comment » | flags, Fort McHenry, Hip Shots, history, images, photography, pictures, war | Tagged: Baltimore, Fort McHenry, hip shots, history, images, Maryland, national monument, National Park Service, photography, pictures, shoot-from-the-hip, U. S. Department of the Interior, War of 1812 | Permalink
Posted by Jim
By Shawn Sizemore
(Click images for larger views.)
The “Hip Shots” series of photographs will feature images that were grabbed “on the fly,” with little or no regard for framing and focus. The object of the exercise is to create dynamic pictures, not perfect ones. With this ” shoot-from-the-hip” method the more frames exposed, the better the chances are that you’ll come up with something interesting—a related series that may be arranged as a post. If you’d like additional tips for using the technique, or to submit your own images, drop a question or note in the “Leave a Comment” section, below.
Leave a Comment » | Hip Shots, history, images, monument, photography, pictures, travel, war | Tagged: 9/11/2001, hip shots, historic site, images, New York City, photography, pictures, travel | Permalink
Posted by Jim
By Jim Sizemore
(Click images for larger views.)
The “Hip Shots” series of photographs will feature images that were grabbed “on the fly,” with little or no regard for framing and focus. The object of the exercise is to create dynamic pictures, not perfect ones. With this ” shoot-from-the-hip” method the more frames exposed, the better the chances are that you’ll come up with something interesting — a related series that may be arranged as a post. If you’d like additional tips for using the technique, or to submit your own images, drop a question or note in the “Leave a Comment” section, below.
Leave a Comment » | composition, Fort McHenry, history, holidays, images, photography, travel, war | Tagged: focus, Fort McHenry, framing, hip shots, historic site, images, Maryland, national monument, National Park Service, photography, pictures, shoot-from-the-hip, travel, U. S. Department of the Interior, vacation, War of 1812 | Permalink
Posted by Jim
My Sunday “Lonely Guy” activity is to read the New York Times and watch C-Span 2 Book TV, muted. If I glance something interesting on the screen — Christopher Hitchens, say, ranting about why we should be in Iraq — I may bring up the sound. That seldom happens. Most Sundays, only the rustle of newsprint is heard in my living room. Sometimes, though, the thing on TV that catches my eye is the shape of a nose, or a hairstyle, or an odd mouth and I feel a powerful urge to draw it — and the rest of the head. So I open my sketchbook, select a soft pencil from the coffee mug on the table by my chair, and set out to prove once again that I’m not only the world’s worst caricaturist, but should also get a medal for being the slowest. Of course, the nice thing about sketching talking heads on TV is they hold still for long periods, which means I can take all the time I need to get it wrong.
I have no idea why I doodled all that stuff on the sides, or wrote “The Other End” at the bottom, but I do enjoy making those little “drop” shadows under the letters. The thing that drives me mad, though, is that I have no memory of who most of the people are. (Memo to self: Keep better sketchbook notes). All I know for sure is that these folks appeared on C-Span 2 sometime in December, 2006. Also, I’m pretty sure the guy on the top left is a well-known newsman, one of the Kalb brothers, but which one? And the blond woman near the bottom of the left column is an expert on world religions. Interesting face, and I loved the informed talk she gave (I have the sound up while I sketch). Of course, all this assumes that I managed a passing likeness of at least those two.
Leave a Comment » | caricature, cartooning, doodles, illustration, images, journalism, war | Tagged: caricature, conversation, doodles, doodling, drawing, Kalb brothers, people, politics, sketching, television | Permalink
Posted by Jim
By Jim Sizemore
(Click images for larger views.)
The “Hip Shots” series of photographs will feature images that were grabbed “on the fly,” with little or no regard for framing and focus. The object of the exercise is to create dynamic pictures, not perfect ones. With this ” shoot-from-the-hip” method the more frames exposed, the better the chances are that you’ll come up with something interesting — a related series that may be arranged as a post. If you’d like additional tips for using the technique, or to submit your own images, drop a question or note in the “Leave a Comment” section, below. This feature will appear most Fridays.
3 Comments | actors, Fort McHenry, Hip Shots, history, holidays, photography, travel, war | Tagged: Baltimore, Defenders Day 2012, focus, Fort McHenry, framing, hip shots, history, images, Maryland, national monument, photography, pictures, U. S. Department of the Interior, War of 1812 | Permalink
Posted by Jim
The Death of Captain Waskow
By Ernie Pyle
I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow’s body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in the moonlight as they walked.
Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked.
The Italian mule-skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men, so Americans had to lead the mules down that night. Even the Americans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies at the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself, and ask others to help.
The first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule and stood him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. In the half light he might have been merely a sick man standing there, leaning on the others. Then they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the low stone wall alongside the road.
I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and ashamed at being alive, and you don’t ask silly questions.
We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we all went back into the cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw, waiting for the next batch of mules.
Somebody said the dead soldier had been dead for four days, and then nobody said anything more about it. We talked soldier talk for an hour or more. The dead man lay all alone outside in the shadow of the low stone wall.
Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were some more bodies outside. We went out into the road. Four mules stood there, in the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The soldiers who led them stood there waiting. “This one is Captain Waskow,” one of them said quietly.
Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside the road. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.
The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one by one I could sense them moving close to Capt. Waskow’s body. Not so much to look, I think, as to say something in finality to him, and to themselves. I stood close by and I could hear.
One soldier came and looked down, and he said out loud, “God damn it.” That’s all he said, and then he walked away. Another one came. He said, “God damn it to hell anyway.” He looked down for a few last moments, and then he turned and left.
Another man came; I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty. The man looked down into the dead captain’s face, and then he spoke directly to him, as though he were alive. He said: “I’m sorry, old man.”
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer, and bent over, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said:
“I sure am sorry, sir.”
Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the dead hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face, and he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there.
And finally he put the hand down, and then reached up and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. And then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.
After that the rest of us went back into the cowshed, leaving the five dead men lying in a line, end to end, in the shadow of the low stone wall. We lay down on the straw in the cowshed, and pretty soon we were all asleep.
Ernie Pyle was born August 3, 1900. This is the first line of his obituary in the New York Times, published April 19, 1945: GUAM, April, 18–Ernie Pyle died today on Ie Island, just west of Okinawa, like so many of the doughboys he had written about. The nationally known war correspondent was killed instantly by Japanese machine-gun fire.
Leave a Comment » | death, essays, history, journalism, non-fiction, poetry, relationships, war, writing | Tagged: Captain Waskow, combat, death, doughboys, elisted men, history, Ie Island, journalist, military, nonfiction, observational prose, officers, soldiers, war correspondent, writing | Permalink
Posted by Jim
Doodlemeister's Weblog 