Sunday, July 24, 2016

Heading East

I wrote about all of the experiences and friends I encountered on my trip to Virginia but did not include any account of my travels out and back. Here's that story.

My trip east began around 11:30 am on Tuesday, April 26. I left Olympia following familiar routes: I-5 to WA 18 to I-90. As always, I-90 was busy and the descent east from Snoqualmie Pass is still under construction. I was glad to reach the exit for WA 26 which put me on a low traffic two lane highway that would take me across The Palouse, Washington's rolling green agricultural southeast. The late afternoon light accentuated the dramatic topography as I made my way to US 195 and south to Lewiston, Idaho. From there I followed US 12 along the Clearwater River to my cousins Andy and Phil Foster's place in Kamiah, Idaho. The sun was already below the ridge as I drove up river, the soft light easing me through the last miles of a 400 mile day.

Next morning I took my time getting on the road, pulling out around 10:00 am after joining Andy and Phil in feeding their horses. Leaving town I spotted a bald eagle flying off with a catch from a nearby stream. Minutes later a large bird (a grouse, maybe) popped out of the tree line on a curve and glanced off my windshield, taking my driver's side wiper blade with it. When I turned around and returned to the spot I found the shattered remains of my wiper blade but no bird. I replaced the blade in Kamiah and set out again.

Destination this second day was Hagerman, Idaho. Sky was overcast with occasional showers. Not far south of Kamiah, I stopped at Nez Perce National Historic Site which commemorates one of the battles in the tribe's resistance to white settlement. The site offers a dramatic view of of a broad valley tucked among rolling foothills. Farther south, US 95 snakes alongside the Salmon River and the Little Salmon River. By late afternoon I was on I-84 at Fruitland and blasted the final 100 miles or so to Hagerman, arriving around 7:30. By this time I was in the Mountain time zone and had lost an hour due to the change, something I would encounter two more times as I headed east.

 
View from Nez Perce

Hagerman is about 90 miles east of Boise and is where cousin Tom Angel parks his travel trailer when not working or exploring elsewhere. After two long driving days, I was ready for a day off. I slept in the Red Truck parked by the trailer. We spent time talking and catching up. Tom took me out to see some fossil hoof prints in the Malad River gorge and later to Hagermen Fossil Beds National Monument where we had a commanding view of a wide bend in the reservoir behind one of the Snake River dams.

Day Four was Friday and time for my dash to Yellowstone National Park. Madison Campground was opening for the season and I wanted to be sure to snag a campsite. I didn't think a 278 site would fill up on what was an overcast day with rain and possible snow in the forecast. Even so, I always like getting in earlier rather than later. Left Hagerman around 10:00 and motored east on I-84 and I-86 until turning northeast on I-15 at Pocatello before exiting on US 20 to West Yellowstone, Montana. Expecting that the evening might be inclement in camp, I figured I'd find a local restaurant for dinner so I wouldn't have to fix food in the rain. Much of US 20 was limited access and once it became less restricted food choices were few. I grabbed a something resembling a Philly cheese-steak in Ashton.

Approaching the Montana border I could see snow on the mountain tops and drove through the occasional light rain shower. At the park I found Madison campground wonderfully less than full. Snow began falling just as I got in so I set up in mixed rain and snow. I got the truck leveled and gear stowed for the night without getting too wet. During a lull in the precipitation I made tea to go with my evening snack.

Saturday dawned cold with a dusting of snow on much of the landscape and the Red Truck. After breakfast I headed south through Lower, Middle and Upper Geyser Basins, an otherworldly excursion. The landforms around the geysers, mud pots, fumeroles and other ways that hot water and steam erupt from the earth differ dramatically from the adjacent lands. Much of the park is granite mountains and open meadows coursed by strong running streams. And then—Bam!--in the middle of this very traditional western landscape steam is rising everywhere, water is spurting and mineral deposits create bizarre patterns. My route took me to Old Faithful and the visitor center there. I joined the crowd for the 12:48 pm eruption which came off pretty much right on time. The road farther south is still closed for the season, as are most other roads and many of the facilities at Old Faithful. Tourists, though, were not in short supply. Parking lots were less than half full but plenty of people, including many foreign tourists, were taking advantage of what is open. Bison were out,mostly in the distant meadows.

 
 Wierdness in Yellowstone

My last day in Yellowstone took me up the road to Mammoth Hot Springs. On this day the bison were up close and in the road. I slowly followed the cars ahead of me and maneuvered my truck through the herd. At one point I could look out my window and see a bison eyeball more or less at eye-level. I could not see it but I sensed that the bison's massive hump was as tall as my truck. Mammoth Hot Springs are indeed mammoth. The steps in front of the post office are flanked by stone bears. I drove out the Lamar Valley Road a few miles and took in the more expansive views there.

By now it was 1:00 and time to get moving. I exited the park at Gardner, Montana, fueled up in Livingston, followed I-90 through Billings and ended up in Ranchester, Wyoming where I found the Ranchester Western Motel, an older L-shaped motel that advertised a continental breakfast and wi-fi. I'd hoped to make Rawlings was tired. Turned out to be a bargain at $55. Food in Ranchester was no bargain and limited. Still, I was hungry and got food that didn't make me ill. Options would have been better in Billings but I wasn't hungry then. I think I got a burger and fries. I was the only lodger at the Ranchester Western that night

Getting back into Wyoming on Sunday after Yellowstone put me in good position to reach Devil's tower on Monday. The continental breakfast was mostly cereal, toast, fruit and Fox news but it got me started until I found a good breakfast about 50 miles down the road. Traffic was light and Wyoming Public Radio came in reasonably well. I enjoyed hearing their very contemporary singer-songwriter music programming on a Monday morning as I cruised along the freeway to the exit for Devils Tower National Monument at Moorcroft. I reached the monument around 1:30 which allowed time to explore.

The campground is located along the Belle Fourche River was open for the second day of the season (one loop, that is) and largely empty when I arrived. It never filled even half full. Cottonwoods along the river and in the campground were just starting to put out new leaves but still mostly bare. The basalt formation that is Devils Tower was clearly visible from everywhere in the campground. A trail to the base of the Tower took me through a prairie dog town whose inhabitants stood at the top of their burrows, watched me pass by and make sounds which I assume mean something to them. The clear, moonless night gave me my first complete look at the still-early spring sky. 

 
Devils Tower

The following morning I drove up to the visitor center and hiked the trail around the base of the Tower. Devils Tower is the the first National Monument established by the United States (Theodore Roosevelt, 1906). Cool morning air and shade made for a pleasant walk before another long day of driving. On this day I would begin shamelessly bagging states I had never visited before. South Dakota was the first. I followed I-90 to breakfast in Whitewood, then on to Badlands National Park, passing through on the scenic drive. I stopped at the pull outs and gawked but it was a quick drive-through on a hot day that did not encourage much rambling. After a late afternoon dinner in Murdo, I turned south on US 83 heading for Valentine, Nebraska. I'd never been to Nebraska or Iowa and wasn't about to miss this opportunity to bag these two states.

Valentine advertised on its website camping at the city park which made it a good stopping place after a long day. Directions to the park were not obvious on the drive into town but the first person I asked told me how to get there. The park is down a short hill by a stream. It did not have designated campsites. I backed into a level spot by a picnic table like another camper, filled out a registration envelope, paid my five dollars and was in for the night. The sound of flowing water lulled me to sleep.

Morning was chilly. The still-bare trees and weak early sun looked like winter. I was up and out early, following US 20 across green and rolling farmland. This early in spring, many of the fields were being prepared for planting. Several of the small towns I passed through offered camping in their city parks. Got a ticket after a state trooper clocked me at 73 passing a semi truck in a 60 zone. The actual citation was for improper passing (I did not signal) and a warning for speeding. He noted my Veterans For Peace bumper sticker and thanked me for my service. Not long after the citation I crossed into Iowa. My planned destination was Fort Dodge but I decided to push farther on and ended up in a Howard Johnson's in Waterloo.

Now it's Thursday, my 10th day on the road. I am all cleaned up and civilized-looking for my arrival in Winnetka, Illinois for a zero day at the home of Tony Hodson and his wife Karen Jones. I served with Tony in Vietnam and have kept in touch ever since. Before Winnetka I have another 90 miles of Iowa and northern Illinois. I cross the Mississippi at Dubuque and follow US 20 to Galena, hometown of Ulysses Grant where I stopp to pay my respects. The local visitor center is all-things US Grant—lots of memorabilia and history. Across the river and up the hill is the house that grateful hometown citizens built for him that he never really lived in.

Somewhere after Valentine I must have crossed into spring because Illinois looks like a well-advanced eastern spring to me. Trees are leafed out, not fully, but enough to demonstrate new growth. Certainly more evident than two days ago in Valentine. Temperatures are warmer. Rural Illinois is a pleasant drive. Beginning in Rockford, though, I'm back on I-90—the Jane Addams Parkway—heading toward Chicago in heavy traffic, paying tolls along the way. I make my way on to the Tri-State Tollway and into Winnetka.

My zero day turns into two zero days. The company is good, the accommodations pleasant and an extra day of not driving appeals to me very much. The extra day also means that I will be looking for a campsite on a Sunday evening rather than Saturday when more people might be doing the same. We filled the time with conversation, food, the occasional walk and watching the Cubs on TV. Over the course of two days Tony and I compare memories of our year in Vietnam. We remembered many of the same events and people. Some of those events and people we remember differently. Some things only one of us remember.

Early on a Sunday morning I roll out of Winnetka, through downtown Chicago and into Indiana and Ohio. It's a day of mostly interstate driving under overcast skies and occasional showers. Traffic's not bad but it's steady. I miss the wide-open freeways in Wyoming and South Dakota. I cross into the eastern time zone, losing another hour in the process. In Chillicothe I find Great Seal State Park which is about five miles northeast of town in a rural neighborhood. The park is largely empty. A group of adults and children are picnicking under a ramada but the park is otherwise empty—no one else is camping. I set up and wait out a rain shower before preparing dinner. The ramada group departs leaving the park entirely to me. Sweet.

 
Camp at Great Seal

The last day of the outbound trip starts out rainy and wet. I pack up quickly and find breakfast in town under a roof before setting out on US 35 though southeast Ohio and into West Virginia. In Nitro, West Virginia I pick up I-64, my final route into Virginia. Along the way, I stop at the New River Gorge National Scenic River in West Virginia for a long lunch break before the final push. 

 
 New River Gorge

Traffic is very heavy with big trucks in both lanes when I-64 joins up with I-81 in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley. After about 30 miles I'm able to get onto US 340 to Waynesboro and US 250 which  take me into Nelson County. I arrive a Peyton and Carol's place around 5:30 pm.

Setting my brake and looking at a place I've visited many times before, I can't believe that I actually drove from Olympia, Washington to the middle of Nelson County, Virginia. It seems like an enormous undertaking yet here I just did exactly that. By myself. And had fun. I've been mostly on my own the past two weeks I am looking forward to company. I can decompress now.  I don't have to drive anymore.

postscript

The three of us went out to dinner shortly after I arrived. Sitting on the seat of Carol's car I felt a bump on the back of my thigh and thought “engorged tick” and thought it odd that I had not noticed it before. At the men's room of the restaurant, I confirmed that it was a fat tick. I pulled it out along with a chunk of skin but it left an ugly wound. Next morning I went to a local medical clinic and ended up with a 10 day supply of antibiotics.

Welcome to Virginia.




















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Monday, July 18, 2016

From Battlefield to Park

While I was in the east I visited  Civil War battlefields near Richmond, Chancellorsville, The Wilderness and Antietam.  I am drawn to these places in part because I was a soldier and in part by fascination with history.  I first visited the battlefields around Richmond in the 70's when I wanted solitude and a short drive.  I went for the for solitude but spent much of my time there reflecting on what happened on those battlefields and comparing my own combat experience.  Despite the terrible violence those places endured, they are now at peace.  I find comfort and hope in that transition. 

On this trip I found history at all three battlefields, solitude at Richmond, commercial development around Chancellorsville and The Wilderness, and complete restoration at Antietam.  And at each place I could not escape the scale of the fighting and was eternally thankful that my experience was nothing like the meat-grinder slaughter of the Civil War.

Greg Moser and I went out to Fort Harrison and Malvern Hill south of Richmond on a cloudy drizzly day.  Originally part of the Confederate defenses around the capitol, Fort Harrison fell to Union forces in September 1864.  Walking the interior of the fort amid the remains of earthen walls and artillery positions looking into the woods that have filled in their fields of fire in the past century-and-a-half seemed claustrophobic in the muted afternoon light.  Malvern Hill was much more open--deadly open to the Confederate troops that charged into well-placed Union artillery on the high ground in what was the last of the the Seven Days Battles in 1862. Looking down the barrel of a Union cannon into an open field of charging Confederates  was a stark reminder of war's grim efficiency.

My visit to Chancellorsville and The Wilderness was mostly a drive-thru on my way to Elizabeth Furnace.  I stopped at the Chancellorsville visitor center on Virginia Route 3.  Traffic all the way out from Fredericksburg was heavy through a sea of big box and strip mall development.  I was happy to turn into the calm of the visitor center for a lunch break.  Since I was short on time I palnned to get out and walk at The Wilderness but missed the turn-off and did not backtrack.  What the visit demonstrated to me was the extent to which Virginia was contested land.  Chancellorsville happened in 1863 and is regarded as Lee's greatest victory.  The Wilderness was a year later and was the beginning of the end for the Confederacy.  I saw the same cycle in Richmond where Confederate victories early in the war were matched with defeats in subsequent years.

Antietam National Battlefield in Maryland is not a place to find solitude.  Lots of people were there on a Friday afternoon in June when I visited on my way north out of Virginia .  Pat Doyle came over from Frederick, Maryland and joined me for the visit.  While waiting for him I attended an orientation.  The walls on three sides of the room were floor to ceiling windows that offered a view of  virtually the entire battlefield.  The view added to what was a well-informed and lively presentation by a young ranger.  He knew the history of the battle and the larger campaign, what the commanders where thinking and trying to accomplish, and what happened when those plans collided.  In that room, the ranger could walk from side to side, point and say this happened there, that occurred over there and explain the errors and plain good luck that happened throughout the battle.  And we could see the places he was talking about.  The orieintaion offered a good understanding of events that gave meaning to the detail we would later see throughout the battlefield.

Our tour was mostly by car but we were out and walking at various sites.  The day was sunny and hot, unlike the day of the battle which is reported as cloudy and dreary.  Our conversations varied, much of the time we spent visualizing a very different landscape than the one we were viewing.  Instead of the few odd tourists at pull-outs, thousands of men contended here in desperate combat.  The Antietam battlefield has been restored to its condition on September 17, 1862 so the landscape we viewed was as it appeared on the morning of the battle.  All very peaceful, very neat.  Not at all how it appeared that evening, strewn with the carnage of America's bloodiest day.  These days the landscape is strewn with monuments and memorials to the units that fought here.  I saw many for units from my family's native state, Pennsylvania.  Often Confederate and Union memorials were on either side of a road marking what had been the epicenter of one part of the battle.  One notable memorial is for Clara Barton who tended casualties here.

We finished up at Antietam National Cemetary.  Union battle dead are buried here in honored glory along with a few interments from later wars.  The centerpiece statue has what appears to be a correction or maybe repair:  a white stone insert that adds the numbers 6 and 2 to the date of the battle.   By the time we returned to the visitor center it was closed and most everyone was gone.  The day's heat was beginning to break and the light had softened.  Good news for me as I headed west to Cumberland, Maryland.

A visit to a battlefield park is a sobering experience for me.  Sure it's a park--peaceful, orderly, usually interesting, often quiet, generations removed from the day of battle.  But the place is infused with the presence of men who fought and died in that place.  Their presence comes with every visualization and remembrance of the event.  Lincoln's words at Gettysburg apply here, too:  the soldiers have consecrated these places.



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Saturday, July 16, 2016

Ambush in Nice

"After the slaughter in Nice, are we safe anywhere?"


The headline, as intended, caught my attention.  My immediate answer "No we aren't safe anywhere."  As long as people are sufficiently warped to want to kill other people and the means are available, sooner or later the killers succeed.

That fatalism comes to me from jungle patrol in Vietnam.  We knew there were people out there who wanted to kill us and we more or less expected it even as we hoped to just luck out.  The world seems to feel the same these days.  Whenever I hear of a mass murder I always think of the victims being ambushed in the course of what used to be normal life. 

In infantry school we were taught how to respond to an ambush.  The first lesson was that if you know that you are being ambushed, the enemy has missed its best chance to kill you.  If you were in the killing zone, you would already be dead.  Second, the last thing the ambusher expects is for the his targets to attack.  He wants you pinned down so he can get another chance to kill more of you.  Charging the ambushers is your best bet for staying alive.  End of lesson.

A simple lesson. 

If it were only that simple.


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Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Back

From late April to the beginning of July I was on the road driving from Olympia to Virginia and other points east.  Between the hustle of the trip and erratic internet access, I found little time or opportunity to post here.  I wrote each day in my journal but none of those thoughts made it online, so they don't truly exist in today's world.  Now that I am home, some of those thoughts are likely to show up here.  I guess I could post on Facebook but that medium doesn't seem to be the right place for extended thought and commentary.  That leaves this humble blog as my best bet.  Blogwhore that I am, I will, of course, link here from the Book of Faces

My trip's purpose was to spend some extended time with my long-time friend Peyton and see other friends and family in in between.  This would be the second longest time spent in in Virginia since moving away 34 years ago.  I was in Virginia for six weeks hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2002 but most of that time was spent on the trail.  This time around the whole point of the trip was to see and spend time with people I've been close to throughout my entire adult life. 

That I did despite Peyton suffering a stroke about a month before I departed.  By the time I arrived, he regained most of his lost capabilities but was still weak.  We did not canoe the James River as originally planned but kept ourselves occupied.  I did a lot of just hanging out at his peaceful rural nine acres in Nelson County, walked the wooded property, read the Washington Post actual newspaper (which is much better than it's website), hiked on the Blue Ridge Railroad Trail (which Peyton helped build), hauled trash, cleaned out a drainage ditch, and pet dogs.  During my time there, my brother came up from Atlanta with an extra bike for me and we did a couple of nice rides in the Shenandoah Valley.  One day in June Peyton and I spent the day handing out cold beer, soda and water along with various sugar and fat-laden treats to Appalachian Trail hikers where the trail crosses Virginia Route 56.

So as not to be an extended house guest, I made forays to Richmond and other parts of Virginia, enjoying the company and hospitality of other good friends.  Richmond in 2016 is very different from the city I left in 1982.  The James River Park system is much expanded with access to Belle Isle.  Warehouses and shuttered factories are becoming condominums and craft breweries or distilleries.  One friend who was colleague and a frequent hiking partner has a house on the Mattaponi River northest of Richmond and hosted a cook-out attended by many of my former colleagues.  Most are retired.  At least one's still working.  We've all changed a lot over the years. We were much younger when I left Richmond.

Even the Civil War battlefields have changed.  The Park Service has acquired new acreage to protect more of the sites and the interpretation is much more inclusive (i.e., African-Americans and Union perspectives in addition to what had always been Confederate-centric.  The National Battlefield Visitor Center is located on the site and remaining buildings of the Tredegar Iron Works which served as the primary iron and artillery production facility for the Confederacy.  When I went to that site in the late 70's, I found it completely overgrown and fenced off.  These days the site is very accessible and busy.  It even includes a statue of Lincoln and his son.

Along with friends from work I also caught up with friends from the Old Dominion Appalachian Trail Club in Richmond.  We hiked along the James River floodwall where we watched ospreys circling above the swift-moving water and saw the restored canal locks at Rocketts Landing.  Like the Tredegar, the locks were not part of anything Richmond paid attention to.  One of the friends I saw was the leader of my first club hike (where I met three of the friends I visited on this trip).  He was 58 then and could outhike any of us 30-somethings.  These days he's 94 and still going, although more slowly.  Another friend is in his early 80's and has completed most of a cross country walk.  He plans to finish next year.

Not all of the hiking club friends were in Richmond.  I traveled to Harrisonburg, Virginia, met two others and we headed to a third hiker's place in Sugar Knob, West Virginia.  We spent a fine evening talking and just taking in the solitude.  The following day we did a short hike to the High Knob fire tower and along the ridge before calling it quits in the rain.  Heading back to Nelson County I followed Skyline Drive through Shenandoah Park to Rockfish Gap where I picked up the Blue Ridge Parkway and followed it to Reids Gap, one my most special places.

Two weeks later I joined one of those friends on an Appalachian Trail work trip.  She maintains a section of the trail in Shenandoah National Park.  She, a club member who came down from the DC suburbs, another woman and I spent about three hours weed-whacking and mowing sections of the trail on a hot, humid day followed by a picnic lunch in the shade and another three hours of conversation.

In late May, I spent two days camping at Elizabeth Furnace Recreation Area west of Front Royal, Virginia.  The recreation area is located in Fort Valley which bisects northern end of the Massanutten Mountain.  I first hiked and camped there in the summer of 1972 after returning from Vietnam.   The valley was secluded, mostly farm and pasture along Passage Creek and national forest on the slopes and ridgelines.  It was a welcome refuge then and I was pleased to see that the valley has changed little since then.  I saw a new house here and there and what had been a crossroad in the valley now has only one business, altough the buildings remain.  I hiked a short distance on the Signal Knob Trail but spent much of the time just watching the light filter through the trees and listening to the creek flow.

 There's more to this story--the trip out, the trip back, the week between leaving Virginia and finally heading home--but this is probably enough for now.  I'll leave those stories for another post.

One item goes without saying but I will say thank you to all the friends who shared their homes and time with me.   Our time together was the whole point of the trip and reminds me that I am a very lucky man.




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Monday, April 04, 2016

An Observation

Mock Paper Scissors has a good take on Booman's thoughts about a NYT opinion piece about why Donald Trump will not break the Republican Party.  All are worth reading.

Booman concludes, "It’s simply not true that the Republicans can hold together indefinitely under this kind of pressure. I believe the proof of this is what we’re all witnessing right now."

We can hope.

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Sunday, March 27, 2016

Easter 2016

Easter 1916

I

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

II

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

III

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter, seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change.
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim;
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

IV

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death.
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

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Saturday, March 26, 2016

To Caucus We Go

Today is caucus day in Washington. Not only do I get to participate but I need only walk across the street to do so. Can’t get much more democratic and local than that. And yet we will be declaring our choices for President of the US. Right in our own neighborhood.

I will go to support Bernie Sanders whom I have admired since I first learned of him as the socialist mayor of Burlington and followed his career as Vermont’s sole representative in the House of Representatives and US Senator. I liked him last summer when he declared to run for president as a Democrat. To me that is Bernie using the opportunity available to take his ideas to a wider audience. At that point, all I expected was a valiant attempt to include human values into a what has become corporate party. The resulting campaign has achieved that far beyond what I expected. 

Win or lose the nomination, Sanders has demonstrated strong support—over 40 percent of chosen (not super) delegates—for his ideas and has stirred the political consciousness of a new generation of voters, those who will live to see the future consequences of the decisions we make today. If Clinton comes to the convention with the enough delegates to secure the party’s nomination, she and the Democratic establishment would be wise not to ignore Sanders’ delegates and ideas.

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