Memories of a Long Ago Spring

The history of late April and early May are very much on my mind today.  Today, May 4 is the 50th anniversary of  the Kent State Massacre in which Ohio National Guard Troops killed four students and wounded nine others in an attempt to quell protests of the US invasion of Cambodia during the Vietnam War.   I was a senior in college then, about to lose my student deferment and a draft number low enough to make my conscription, if not certain, very likely.  By the spring of 1970 I was firmly opposed to the war for both policy and self-preservation reasons.  Nixon was withdrawing US troops from Vietnam but American casualties were still running about 500 dead a month.  It was becoming clear that Nixon's plan for ending American combat was not at all immediate and it was looking more and more like I would end up in the military not too long after graduating.

None of this was new to me in early May 1970.  The draft was a constant during my college years.  By my senior what had been a distant possibility had become a real likelihood.  When demonstrations erupted on campuses around the country in response to the Cambodian invasion and expanded exponentially after the Kent State killings I participated in the nationwide student strike that closed most colleges.  I finished my college career without taking exams in most of my classes and took one early so I could head to Washington, DC to join the organizing and protests there.

And despite that activity I never found a good alternative to military service.  Nor did I have the courage to refuse to serve.  Within two months I was in the Army, having enlisted for two years.  Six months later I was an infantry grunt risking my life in a war that I didn't believe in.  The logic of those choices seemed plausible at the time although in retrospect I marvel at my naivete.  (I won't explain that logic here; if you really want to know, (shameless pluggery  ahead) you can read all about it here.)   As it turned out, I was very, very, very lucky.  Unlike the dead at Kent State and two weeks later at Jackson State, I survived.

So for me, after 50 years, May 1970 feels like the time when everything I knew about life seemed to fly apart.  Not only were fellow students under lethal attack but I was being sucked into a pointless war.  By the end of the year I was in Vietnam facing the very real possibility that I would not live to see 1971 much less survive a full year in-country.  The memories of those times always come back to me every spring and follow through the rest of the year.  But then again, I am alive to have memories.  So many others are not.

Memory is cumulative so other Vietnam-related events also fit into the late April-early May timeline.  Almost a year later in April 1971 when I was still humping the boonies in Vietnam with an M-16 in my hands and a PRC-77 radio on my back, Vietnam Veterans Against the War launched Operation Dewey Canyon III, the first ever protest of an American war by the veterans of that war.  Reading about their protest in Stars and Stripes (which seems to have reported the event objectively) I was electrified to see fellow soldiers speaking out so forcefully and dramatically against the war.  It certainly increased my determination to speak out as a veteran if I made it home alive.  Given my lack of any serious combat, reading about Dewey Canyon II may be one of my most exciting memories of my year in Vietnam.

I did make it home alive and whole.  Which means that four years later in the closing days of April 1975 I watched, along with the entire world, as National Liberation Front and North Vietnamese Army forces swept rapidly through my former area of operations on their way to capturing Saigon.  I saw the South Vietnamese Army fight desperately and tenaciously at Xuan Loc in a futile effort to stop the onslaught.  And I rejoiced to see the end of a war that should have ended 20 years before when those same forces defeated a US-backed French colonial regime that had ruled Vietnam for almost a century.  In 1975 the war was finally over.

The war may have ended but the memories remain.  They are part of a never-ending kaleidoscope that plays in my head.  Different dates trigger different memories and my reactions have varied over the years but I never forget those events.  But I am alive to have memories.. And I can do no greater justice to those memories than to remember the many Vietnamese and Americans who suffered far worse than I did.

 

A Centennial Remembrance

My mother, Katherine Pié Fleming, was born this day in 1915.  She was the fourth of eight children born to Charles and Nora Pié and grew up in Johnstown, Pennsylvania during the depression.  She wanted to become a librarian but college was out of the question and she ended up going to nursing school at St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington, DC where she worked as a psychiatric nurse in the late 30's and during the war years.  She met my father, Frank Fleming, in Washington when he was stationed there before going overseas.  They married after his return and began a family.  In 1949 my father accepted a pharmacist job with Peoples Drug Stores in Danville, Virginia where they lived the rest of their lives.

Mother was not your typical neighborhood housewife in Danville.  Compared to my friend's mothers, she was not especially good at keeping house and her cooking was adequate but not especially inspired.  I'm sure that having picky eaters for husband and son (me) didn't lend itself to creative cooking.  Her creativity was channeled into her writing.  She wrote two novels and lots of poetry.  She had a good sense of humor and, like my father, was an avid reader.  My most enduring memory of both parents is them sitting on the two sofas in our living room with drinks beside them and books in hand.  She was also an excellent seamstress.

Her life fell apart when my father died in in 1962.  She was highly dependent on him and never fully recovered from the loss.  She suffered numerous breakdowns and hospitalizations in a town with absolutely no psychiatric services whatsoever.  Not that she did not try--in 1964 she went back to work as a nurse but one mistake cost her the job and she spiraled downward for the next 15 years before dying of complications from emphysema in 1979.  Her last years were spent in an adult home in Richmond.  I lived nearby and did errands and laundry for her.  Even took her to two operas.   

With that history in mind, it's no surprise that my memories are mixed.  I can't say that I ever really knew my mother.  We were not a close family--my brother describes us as four individuals sharing the same house--and after my father's death I was too self-absorbed as a teenager and pre-occupied with my own pursuits.  What I remember most is the encouragement she gave to my reading.  One of her most enduring "gifts" to me was introducing me to the works of Gore Vidal.  

After her death, I found a "journal" of sorts that she kept from about 1938 to 1948.  The entries are typed letters to a friend, maybe one a month, describing her life in Washington.  I don't know if she ever actually mailed those letters but I am glad to have found them.  They tell me more about her than I ever learned from living with her.  In the journal she is independent, active and engaged, making do on a limited salary, coping with rationing, and impatient for my father to return from overseas.  She wants nothing more than to be married and having babies.  Once married with two children, she found it overwhelming.  I think that's one reason the journal ended in 1948.

Aside from losing her husband after only 17 years, I think her greatest disappointment in life was not being  published.  She never forgave Bennett Cerf for rejecting her novels.  If she had dreams beyond becoming a published author, I don't know about them.  What I do know is that she gave me my start in life, literally and figuratively.  For that I am eternally grateful.


(The photo is from 1942.  She sent it to my father in Africa during the war.  The backside is stamped Passed by the Base 204 Examiner.  She also included a cleverly self-deprecating poem about her looks.)

More Pete Seeger

Dahlia Lithwick has the full transcript of Pete Seeger's testimony before a subcommittee of the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1955 Slate.  Reading it all these years later it almost sounds like a joke although it was anything but back then.

My one memory of Pete Seeger is seeing him with Arlo Guthrie at Arizona State University in the mid-80's.  I can't say that I recall anything specific except that I enjoyed the music and I am pretty sure we sang along and clapped.  A few years earlier I had seen fellow member of The Weavers, Roni Gilbert, when she appeared at ASU with Holly Near.  Between the two shows, it felt like seeing the folk tradition passing from one generation to another.

Along with these personal memories, I and the rest of the world have Pete's music and activist legacy to give us encouragement.

December 29, 1959

Remembering my dear friend Mel Swartz on his wedding anniversary.  Very formal at age 29 and, as events turned out, about to embark on a life-changing move to Arizona where we would meet 45 years later.

So many memories in such a short time.  Thanks, Mel.

Date & Time

About this time--2100 to 2200 hours UTC--on 15 December 1971 I stepped off a troop plane at Bien Hoa Airbase in Vietnam.  I never saw the 15th.  My flight crossed the dateline between the 14th and 16th without notice in the dark of a long, long night over the Pacific.  Local time when we landed was around 0600 hours, right before sunrise which for me was the dawn of nothing I looked forward to.

The day proved to be a long one.

More followed.

Enough to get home.

Found on Veterans Day

A friend's facebook greetings to his fellow veterans on November 11 brought up this video in the comments. 



It was posted by the composer who wrote and performed the sound track.  The veteran who offered the greetings was the soldier who took the photos.  He served in Bravo Company of my battalion when I was in Vietnam.  I did not know him at the time but we met in Phoenix and discovered our shared history a few years before I moved to Window Rock and began spending my time in Gallup, New Mexico where he has lived a very long time.  I showed my Vietnam art along with my friend's paintings and read my Vietnam poems at the premier.

Finding this evoked very mixed emotions.  I remembered how fucking brutal that jungle was and how brutal we were to it.  Seeing Firebases Silver, Mace and Fontaine again brought back memories of living in the dirt.  The more pleasant memories include the fact that I survived that shit somehow.  Even better was recalling my years in Window Rock and Gallup where I made some very good friends and found an amazing community of artists. 

Another Watchtower

Posting my recent piece about Jimi Hendrix's death and the video of his version of "All Along the Watchtower" led me to look up a version by Barbara Keith that I remember hearing in the 70'swhen I lived in Richmond, Virginia.  I recall being blown away by her voice but never could locate the album.  The announcer who played it on WGOE said it was hard to come by and after exhausting the options available to me then, I gave up.

Since just about everything is available in some form on the internet, I found it in about 30 seconds.  Listening to Barbara Keith after four decades brought back some memories, certainly enjoyable, even if isn't as dramatically overpowering as I remembered. 



The video lacks much in the way of drama but no one was thinking video in the early 70's.  Besides, I kind of like the soothing revolutions of vinyl on a good turntable.

Once I found Barbara Keith I looked up WGOE which was a progressive rock daylight only radio station for much of the time I lived in Richmond.  Since I had only an AM radio in my car for most of those years, it was a welcome alternative to the Top 40 format that dominated AM radio in those days.  It wasn't quite up to par with WHFS-FM which I could hear when visiting friends in DC but it sure made Richmond that much more enjoyable.

September 18

Today is the 43rd anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's death at age 27.  The date sticks in my mind because on that day I was enroute to Fort Lewis, Washington to begin infantry training for an inevitable tour of duty in Vietnam.  On September 18, 1970 I did not have much assurance that I would ever see age 27.

At least I'd known Hendrix's music.

Two Score Years Ago

Toby, the Dog was born on this day in 1973, one of six German Shepherd-Labrador-Irish Setter-Spaniel puppies who came into the world next door to my girlfriend’s apartment in Charlottesville, Virginia. The litter ranged in color from golden to black with variations of black, red and gold in between. I had claim on the second pick and chose a dark, red-hued male. He was small enough to hold in my hand and lived in a cardboard box. Two months later, we moved to a cottage about five miles south of town where Toby had lots of room to run. By late fall, he was a gangly adolescent of an indeterminate reddish-brown. By spring, he sported a sleek red coat trimmed with black and tan.

Toby shared the adventure of a new marriage, new job and moving to Richmond during his first year. We learned how to walk on a leash and explored the woods in Bryan Park near our home. He also stood by nervously as the marriage became more difficult and tense as it slid toward dissolution. Throughout it all he was a constant companion and soon became my hiking partner. In order to avoid more popular trails where a dog was likely to be an encumbrance, we hiked Virginia’s western mountains and discovered the wonders of Ramseys Draft, Massanutten Mountain and Big Schloss. We spent many an hour together at Reeds Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

In 1982, Toby watched as I packed and packed and packed for my move to Arizona and then sat patiently behind me as we drove from Richmond to Phoenix. Arizona was a challenge for a hiking dog—far too many cactus, rattlesnakes and javalinas about for me to feel comfortable with him on the trail, not to mention the challenging terrain. We certainly explored the streets and alleyways of our new neighborhood and its environs. He and I did a couple hikes together; a grueling hike in New Mexico’s Gila Wilderness on the July Fourth holiday in 1984 was his last major trip. After that, he stayed closer to home.

He adjusted well to the changes life brought to us. He had come to accept Maggie’s two dogs, Mitzi and O'Leary, as she and I began to spend time together.  In 1985, I adopted (Maggie’s doings) a stray dog, Zona, who delivered six puppies in my back yard. Toby tolerated the encroachments although he never quite warmed up to his new companions. He’d been an only dog for so long that he wasn’t likely to change at age 13. Still, he was part of the pack when we loaded all four dogs into the car for trips back and forth between our homes.

The four dogs in the car became the four dogs in the household in 1988 when Maggie and I began living together. By this time, the young dog full of explosive energy was an old dog with failing eyesight and hearing, one who slept most of the day. He still had enough energy to take me for walks but they were nothing like earlier years’ when we ranged all over central Phoenix.

Toby died 30 December 1988, just shy of 15 ½ years old. I miss him still and cherish the memories of our time together.

[Editor's Note:  Originally published in 2009 but it seemed right for today as well.]

The Christmas Song That Speaks to Me

Because at each end of the rifle we are the same.



The story behind the song is here.

Why it speaks to me is here.

The Spirt of the Bayonet

Barack Obama's reference to fewer horses and bayonets in the final debate certainly brought back some vivid memories for me.  I never actually used a bayonet in combat.  I don't recall even seeing one in Vietnam.  Nonetheless, those days of chanting "To kill! To KILL! TO KILL!" in basic training still ring in my brain as does the aggressiveness that comes with charging a dummy and shoving that blade in with a blood-curdling scream.  The yell is part of the drill; it's even come in handy a few times in my post-military life when confronted by aggressive dogs.  They do tend to run when I charge them screaming at the top of my lungs.  (Note:  That only works when you are sure they are not on home turf.)

Bayonet fighting is more than t just the blade.  I also learned butt strokes and smashes.  You can accomplish one hell of a lot of mayhem with a bayonet.  But that's the whole point of combat.  Fucking mayhem.  And the whole point of bayonet training is to train the recruit to kill up close and personal.  That makes it so much easier to pull off routine impersonal killing with rifle, grenade, artillery and air strikes.  Even if I never actually used a bayonet in combat, I realized I could, in fact, kill another person if I were sufficiently threatened.  The situation has never come up but the training alone cost me some humanity.

Bayonets are not obsolete even today.  Obama didn't say "no bayonets", he said "fewer".  Bayonets come in handy at times like this:

So do horses.

Personally, I am happy to have no actual bayonets in my life these days.

Zion Crossroads

Zion Crossroads, Virginia shows up in the Washington Post article on the changing political culture of Virginia, the state I long called home.  The article follows US Route 15 from the Potomac River to the aforementioned Zion Crossroads.  To a University of Virginia undergraduate in the late 60's Zion Crossroads was the outer boondocks, a grand name for a small place on the road to Richmond.  The Post article rightly declares Zion Crossroads to be in the South, unlike those other places along Route 15 that used to be part of a Solid South for Republicans .

I have many memories Route 15, which shared the road with US 29, the route from Charlottesville, Virginia to Washington, DC.  I traveled that route many times as a UVa student; the article brought back clear images of that rolling Piedmont countryside.  Warrenton, Opal and Culpeper are places I recall easily.   I remember the Rappahannock River crossing at Remington as especially pretty.  The Post has a very nice photo of the river.*

As fond as these memories are, I find the present where Virginia might actually not vote Republican very encouraging. 

I suspect, though, that Zion Crossroads will vote Republican.

_______
* Warning.  Link starts brings up an ad and maybe the entire gallery or maybe just photo 24.

That Sound

Six Chinooks flew across Olympia just now, heading southwest. On first hearing the sound I expected a single Chinook flying low over my place, which is not uncommon in this area. Then I spotted two choppers at about 1000 feet altitude maybe a kilometer south. Then I spotted the rest, which explains all the noise at this distance.

A noise that I never ignore.

Remembrance of Things Past and Present

Speaking at a seminar on "Race, Slavery and Civil War" Virginia governor Robert McDonnell said, "One hundred and fifty years is long enough for Virginia to fight the Civil War." As the state approaches the sesquicentennial of its attempt at secession, McDonnell promised that next year he will issue a proclamation that acknowledges the broad sweep of the war in Virginia. He said it will be written to remember "all Virginians" - free and enslaved, and those who fought for both sides. Former governor Douglas Wilder, Virgina and the nation's first black governor, commented favorably, "The governor recognizes that we must observe real history, not revisionist history,"

Not everyone was impressed. Apparently 150 years is not enough.

McDonnell's announcement Friday drew sharp words, however, from Brag Bowling, the former commander of the Virginia division of the Sons of Confederate Veterans.

"I think it's cowardly of him," Bowling said. "He didn't have the intestinal fortitude to stand up to his political enemies or the media."

Bowling accused McDonnell of selling out Virginia's Confederate descendants to make himself more palatable for a possible run for national office. "Our organization, to a man, will be opposed to this. There will be a lot of political fallout for doing this," Bowling said.

Tuning from present to past, 50 years ago the nation celebrated the Civil War Centennial. In the south where I lived the Centennial was was a definitely a celebration. In the north more of an observance, no doubt. As a young teen in southside Virginia the Centennial was for me mostly about how the South should have won and even if it technically lost the war, the South won some sort of moral victory which meant the South was actually better the the North. All this notwithstanding the fact that my family is from Pennsylvania. Anyone who was a teenager has moments of sheer bad judgment and ignorance. This is one of mine.

The Civil War Centennial came as black Americans began challenging the century of racism, discrimination and economic servitude that followed the Civil War. Naturally, we southerners found their demands to be another assault on all that was right and true in our world. Remembering the previous century's war fortified our belief in inherent rightness of the South. It was certainly the doorway to my racist years.

My youthful racism never amounted to anything violent or overt. It was more a way of thinking and making viewing myself and others, largely the product of my environment rather than family. My parents were Yankees and were no more likely to be racist than any other white adult of their generation. By the early 60's though, my father was dead my mother pretty passive so I was left to the influence of my peers and local prejudice. I drank deeply of that brew. I even became a Young Republican. As I said, it was a time of youthful bad judgment and ignorance.

I managed to grow out of all this in college. A new environment helped me shed what was, fortunately, not a deeply belief. But that history is still there. Acknowledging this past is a humbling experience. I don't like to admit that I was on the wrong side of one of the great moral issues of my lifetime but I was. It's part of my Permanent Record. I cannot erase that. Nor should I. To erase that past is to forget the lessons it taught me about justice and human rights. I will take responsibility for that past and embrace the knowledge it brought.

Which brings me back to Gov. McDonnell. His speech was an attempt at rehabilitation after his disastrous Confederate Heritage Month proclamation earlier this year.

"My major and unacceptable omission of slavery disappointed and hurt a lot of people - myself included. And it is an error that will be fixed." (my emphasis)

I won't gainsay his motives but McDonnell would sound more believable to me if he had spoken in the active voice. His words distance him from the actions he claims.

At that distance, McDonnell may not actually embrace the knowledge to be learned from his experience.

A Flash from the Past

The other day I noticed someone came to this site by searching for "Firebase Mace". Mace was the rear area for my battalion in Vietnam and I probably mentioned it somewhere so this humble site showed up.

That led me to search for "Firebase Fontaine", the forward base for my battalion. I helped build the motherfucker when my company came out of the bush after my first mission. Sure enough, it showed up on a several sites. This site is especially good. It includes photos taken by a member of Bravo Company 2nd Battalion 8th Cavalry (I was in Alpha Company) and shows Fontaine exactly like my photos. The site also does a good job of bringing the viewer in-country, moving ever farther away from normalcy.

A couple captions refer to action on February 7, 1971. On that day one of Bravo Company's platoons walked into a NVA headquarters bunker complex and lost six men killed. Bravo's third platoon came to their immediate relief. My company was close enough to hear the firefight and we expected to be sent in to assist. I sure as hell thought I would hith the shit that day but as events transpired, the powers that be choppered another company in from the firebase. Apparently we were not close enough.

The photos show life in the bush pretty much as I remember it. Some details differ. I could have sworn our radios were PRC 77's. The captions here call it PRC 25. We both agree about the "prick" part though. For all its weight, I still liked carrying the radio over carrying ammo for the machine gun. The radio was more informative.

Park Model

This hits close to home.

An oversight board voted unanimously Friday to close 13 of Arizona's state parks in response to budget cuts, leaving two-thirds of the parks shut in the most aggressive cuts to such facilities in the nation.

In 1987 I worked on an performance audit of the Arizona State Parks system. Our major finding was that Arizona had a pretty poor state parks system by just about any measure, largely because the state was not willing to appropriate funds for acquisitions. The audit identified options for creating a stable funding source. A 1990 citizens' initiative implemented one of those options and created the Heritage Fund, that allocated a share of lottery revenues for various natural and historical resource acquisitions and programs.

Within the next decade State Parks added some crown jewel parks, virtually all of which are identified in the story. The closures are the collateral damage from the economic collapse. The loss is, I hope, temporary. I do not see in the article that Arizona is selling off its patrimony--not yet-- so the lands, history and heritage will remain protected. In Arizona's land consuming culture that's no small feat.

I'm proud to say that I played a small role in that feat.

Funeral Pyre

The central Phoenix building that became The House burned early Tuesday morning. It closed as an art space a couple of years ago and spent its remaining days abandoned except for the various transients who broke through the fencing to make it their home.

I have a very sentimental attachment to the place so it's final demise saddened me a bit. On the other hand, what better way to go than a literal blaze of glory.

Here are a couple photos. The first is copied from a newspaper article published just after we set up studios there 1995. The second was taken the in April 2007 when the last artists vacated the premises.




Good-bye, old friend.

04 July 1970

...was my first day of basic training after four days of being herded around the reception center at Fort Campbell, Kentucky processing into the Army. Today we are bussed to a concrete barracks where drill sergeants yell at us and we all line up on footprints painted on the pavement.

All things considered,it really sucked. It wasn't the Marines but it still sucked.

04 July 1973

Toby, the Dog was born on this day in 1973, one of six German Shepherd-Labrador-Irish Setter-Spaniel puppies who came into the world next door to my girlfriend’s apartment in Charlottesville, Virginia. The litter ranged in color from golden to black with variations of black, red and gold in between. I had claim on the second pick and chose a dark, red-hued male. He was small enough to hold in my hand and lived in a cardboard box. Two months later, we moved to a cottage about five miles south of town where Toby had lots of room to run. By late fall, he was a gangly adolescent of an indeterminate reddish-brown. By spring, he sported a sleek red coat trimmed with black and tan.

Toby shared the adventure of a new marriage, new job and moving to Richmond during his first year. We learned how to walk on a leash and explored the woods in Bryan Park near our home. He also stood by nervously as the marriage became more difficult and tense as it slid toward dissolution. Throughout it all he was a constant companion and soon became my hiking partner. In order to avoid more popular trails where a dog was likely to be an encumbrance, we hiked Virginia’s western mountains and discovered the wonders of Ramseys Draft, Massanutten Mountain and Big Schloss. We spent many an hour together at Reeds Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

In 1982, Toby watched as I packed and packed and packed for my move to Arizona and then sat patiently behind me as we drove from Richmond to Phoenix. Arizona was a challenge for a hiking dog—far too many cactus, rattlesnakes and javalinas about for me to feel comfortable with him on the trail, not to mention the challenging terrain. We certainly explored the streets and alleyways of our new neighborhood and its environs. He and I did a couple hikes together; a grueling hike in New Mexico’s Gila Wilderrness on the July Fourth holiday in 1984 was his last major trip. After that, he stayed closer to home.

He adjusted well to the changes life brought to us. He had come to accept Maggie’s two dogs as she and I began to spend time together In 1985, I adopted (Maggie’s doings) a stray dog, Zona who delivered six puppies in my back yard. Toby tolerated the encroachments although he never quite warmed up to his new companions. He’d been an only dog for so long that he wasn’t likely to change at age 13. Still, he was part of the pack when we loaded all four dogs into the car for trips back and forth between our homes.

The four dogs in the car became the four dogs in the household in 1988 when Maggie and I began living together. By this time, the young dog full of explosive energy was an old dog with failing eyesight and hearing, one who slept most of the day. He still had enough energy to take me for walks but they were nothing like earlier years’ when we ranged all over central Phoenix.

Toby died 30 December 1988, just shy of 15 ½ years old. I miss him still and cherish the memories of our time together.

Anniversaries

June is an eventful month. I recently wrote about casting my first vote in a June 1969 primary election. Just one year ago this month I added fenders to my bicycle, thereby becoming a year-round rider in this wet climate. Five years ago I began writing this blog. On this day in June 1906 my father, Frank Fleming, was born. Seventy-three years later on 20 June his wife/my mother, Katherine Pie’ Fleming, died. That same day this June is Rose Johnson’s memorial in Phoenix. Maggie's mother, Marion O'Conner Reardon died last year on 25 June. On 29 June 1970, I voluntarily joined the US Army, casting my fate to…well, the Fates.

Oh yeah, I graduated from some schools and a kindergarten in several Junes.