The Blago Book Club

The Chicago Sun-Times "opinion writers", under the
heading of "Blago Book Club", are having a discussion
with readers of the 78 page indictment of Illinois
Governor Rod Blagojevich. What did you like best
about it? Which part is most interesting?

in a related matter, Barack Obama's senate seat is for
sale on eBay, not by the Illinois Governor, who was
doing his best to auction it off, but by a college student
who will send the winner a before-and-after picture of
the supposed seat and by a pair of young men pictured
holding the "seat" aloft and promising a free domain
name to the winner.

Blagojevich is probably kicking himself for not having
thought of eBay, he must have forgotten Sarah Palin's
example. Too bad there isn't a Nobel Prize for
corruption. Blagojevich would surely win it this year.
He has even shocked the citizens of Chicago, that city
where offices and whole wards have been for sale,
where the dead rise from the graveyards and march
to the polls.

But one Chicago woman, after reading about
Blagojevich said: "We might as well open up the
jail house and turn those people out to run the
government.

Welfare Queens

The top dogs of the Big Three automakers zoomed
into Washington, tin cups in hand, seeking handouts
of taxpayers' money. They came in their three
separate corporate jets, flights costing thousands of
dollars, couldn't even jet pool.

GM's president didn't like the idea of being asked if
he was willing to give up his $22-million salary.
Ford's Alan Mulally made slightly less last year- only
$21.6-million.

The American Insurance Group (AIG), shortly after
a multi-billion handout financed by taxpayers,
treated four executives and friends to a pheasant
hunt in England. Total cost: $86,000. AIG had, a
month or so before, provided a $500,000 retreat at
a fancy California spa for its top dogs. After sipping
fine wines and shooting pheasants, its hand was out
again for a few more billions.

Remember when Ronald Reagan created the myth of
the Welfare Queen? This was supposedly a brazen
creature who showed up in a Cadillac to collect
welfare checks, several of them. The effort to portray
as rich cheats those forced to subsist on welfare
continued for another decade or so. Too bad Reagan
isn't around to see these real live Welfare Queens.

Hope is Not Enough

My vote, here in the red belly of Georgia, didn't help
elect him, and I doubt that my urging others to vote
for Barack Obama had much effect. No one
seemed impressed by my Obama/Biden buttons,
nor indeed seemed even to notice that I wore them.
The signs I placed in my yard near the road were
only there for three days before they were stolen.

I didn't get to Chicago for the mass ceremony in
Grant Park where I participated in the protests
against the Vietnam War forty years ago. I have
no television reception, but I did get to watch on
my computer as people came into the park, and
the park filled until faces stretched far into the
distance and still there were people coming down
the sidewalks, then after the speech the great
surging mass moved slowly toward the exits until
little clumps of people could break away and
start walking back along the sidewalks. And I was
deeply moved, especially by all the beautiful young
people, but also by those of all ages who had been
told by the leader they elected that he believed in
them. America can be rebuilt. he told them, repeat-
ing several times the phrase they would echo back:
"Yes we can".

I hope they will still be able to believe in themselves
at the end of the next four years. I hope they aren't
counting on recovering the way of life they once had,
for no leader, no matter how qualified, is going to be
able to more than leverage a few speed bumps into
the downward spiral of a morbid and decaying system.

Never Mind the Polls

The polls aren't necessarily right, said John the
Candidate, he who likes to campaign with Joe the
Plumber. No matter that even the Fox News poll
shows Obama winning, he says he's going to turn
this race around: "I'm a fighter!"

He's only echoing some of the news stories: It
ain't over til its over, and so forth. Some are
hinting, some simply stating, that many who say
they're voting for Barack Obama will chicken
out once they're in the privacy of the polling
booth. They're afraid they'll be called racist if
they tell the truth: They won't vote for a Black
man.

I'm sure this will be true in some cases. So
many questions about the accuracy of the polls
made me uneasy, too, until I read a comment on
one of the forums: ask the bookies! When it
concerns their pocketbooks, they'll try very hard
to get it right.

Although online gambling is illegal in the U.S., sites
based in other countries offer odds to anyone who
wants to bet, and the odds against a McCain win
are very long- 7 to 1 and up, with the numbers
reversed for Obama. A couple of the sites no longer
offer bets on Obama.

I wish I could be in Grant Park Tuesday night. I
was there 40 years ago when Chicago's finest
clubbed and gassed anti-Vietnam War protesters.
We were trying to get a message to the Democratic
Party hacks secluded further down the shoreline,
blind and deaf, nominating Hubert Humphrey, paving
the way for Nixon to win.

I don't think Obama will always hear us either, or
that he will end the war in Iraq as swiftly as he
indicated when he first began to run. But I voted
for him, and I wish I could be in Grant Park again,
this time with a more valid hope for peace.

Signs of the Times

I got signs.
Two of them, one on each side of the entrance to
my driveway. I was not only the first kid on my
block, but the first for miles around to display
Obama/Biden signs. On the entire 22 mile
stretch of highway I drive to my book building
and back, I have seen signs for all the candidates,
but nary an Obama sign.

I had made two fruitless trips to the storefront
campaign headquarters of the local Democratic
Party. The first time, about six weeks ago, I was
told they had been ordered, should be in any time.
That prevented me from ordering any from the
Obama website. On my second visit, I got the
impression there wouldn't be any more. But-
lo and behold- they did get a few, two whole
weeks before the election. So here I was in this
deep red state with blue Obama/Biden signs.

And I had them for two whole days before
they were stolen. The sign I've had for a
local candidate, also by the entrance to the
driveway, still stands. Some folks must feel
so threatened by the idea of Obama becoming
president that even the signs need to be kept out
of sight. I don't think my signs would have made a
difference in how people are going to vote. I did
want to show my support for the one I think is the
best candidate. A lot of us have already voted.

One poll, the "Insider Advantage" (never heard of
them before), gives Obama a one point lead in
Georgia, but all the rest have McCain leading by
one to six points, and I think they are probably right.

But there are maps showing Georgia faded
to pink- or is it old rose?- and some
commentators are saying it is now purple.
Maybe the signs really were a threat- but
no, there have been reports of stolen Obama
signs all over the country for weeks now.

Some folks who are losing their one house will
vote for the man who couldn't remember how
many he owns.

Early Voting

I've voted.
Early voting is great. Go when it's convenient. Get it
over with. The local Democratic Party still hasn't
made much effort on behalf of their national
candidate. Still no yard signs, no buttons available.
The lone staff person told me that Georgia isn't a
battleground state. The attitude is that it's solid
red and pretty apt to stay that way. Yet there are
indications that the red color is bleeding. I think
the red will be on their faces if Obama takes the
state, or even if there's a tie, and it is possible.

Yet another reason why I am not a member of
the Democratic Party. If I were, I would feel
obligated to help elect everyone who ran on
their ticket. But I vote for candidates, not
parties. This time I voted for two Republicans
for local offices.

A relative who voted for Bush in the last two
national elections says he's voting for the
Libertarian candidate. He's thoroughly disgusted
with Bush., but says "I can't see that Obama
would do anything for me."

I don't think he'll do much for me, either. I don't
own stock, and have no children or grandchildren
of military age. I voted to end the war in Iraq and
with the hope of medical care for all those who have
been suffering and dying early without it.

One woman I talked to said she's voting for McCain
because Obama will raise taxes. She lost her job and
has only two more weeks of unemployment insurance
to collect, says she's going to file for an extension of
benefits. The factory where she worked has laid off
more workers recently, and another local factory is
going to close entirely, throwing 400 more workers
onto a shrinking job market. But when I said Obama
would not raise taxes, but would lower them for the
factory workers like her, she brought up the Muslim
angle.

Suddenly I understood McCain's steady barrage of
lies about Obama's person and character. No one
is expected to believe them, but they provide excuses
for what some people plan to do anyway. They are
especially useful for those who cannot bring them-
selves to vote for a Black man.

Missing Signs

The candidates' signs sprouted and bloomed in
yards, vacant lots, on street corners, beside
public buildings, or any other place where they
can be viewed from the road. They were planted
before the April primary, and some still flourish,
those touting the losers having withered and fallen.

But driving through Chattooga County and on up into
Walker, I've seen no signs for Obama, nor any for
Obama-Biden.

I went by the Chattooga County Democratic Party
headquarters, newly opened in a storefront less than
a month ago in Summerville, the county seat, to get
a sign for my yard.

There were stacks of signs for the party's other
candidates: Coker for state senator, Reece for state
representative, Winters for county commissioner, but
none for their candidate for the country's top office. I
was told they had run out of Obama signs but would
be getting some in shortly, "and some buttons, too."

A couple hours later I was at the gym to work out.
There I talked to a weight lifter who had an "Obama-
'08" bumper sticker on his car. He said he'd been
trying to get the Obama signs, too, said he was at the
Democratic Party office two weeks before and had
been told they had run out of the signs but would be
getting some more "shortly".

"Same thing I was told today," I said.

"I even left my phone number," he said, "asked them
to call when they got the signs in. They never called."

"I haven't seen any signs out," I said.

He said there are some. "Drive down Highland
Avenue, there's plenty through there, and all around
that area."

Yes. Well. That is where Blacks settled when the
city was totally segregated, and the area is still
mostly Black (and the cities are still segregated,
albeit in more subtle ways).

Does the color of the presidential candidate mean
that the signs promoting him are also segregated?

Couple days later an article in the local newspaper
quoted the Democratic Party chairman as saying that
Obama signs are being stolen and McCain signs are
being placed in front of those that are left in place.

But why are there no yard signs along the highways
and the major streets? Surely some of the houses are
occupied by Democratic Party members who could
quickly replace any stolen signs.

The majority of the local Democrats voted for Hilary
Clinton in the primary. And some stated they could
vote for neither Clinton nor Obama. I will not be
surprised if they vote for McCain in Novemember.

I also vote for candidates, not parties. I'm not happy
with the way Obama has waffled and changed
positions, but I will vote for him in November. I
certainly will not vote for a lying warmonger so
intent on seizing power for his cronies that he will
do and say anything in order to get elected. I know
of several who traditionally vote either Democrat or
Republican, but now say they will vote for indepen-
dents or third party candidates.

I would like to join them. I would like to vote for
Cynthia McKinney, the Green Party candidate. But
with the war abroad and the war at home against
working people and families, the situation is too
serious in this tight race to throw a vote away.
Actually, protest votes can only help McCain.

Come to think of it, I haven't seen many McCain/
Palin signs, either.

Playing Hookey

Kept running up against blank walls. Tried to get
Buckie's hair clipped- too hot for him in this August
heat- the dog groomer had gone out of business.

Went to get me clipped- the hairdresser had just left.
Tried to place a classified ad, but the deadline for
classifieds had been changed and I had just missed it.

So the only sensible thing to do was to say the hell
with it all and go swimming.

I don't like swimming in friends' and relatives' little
pools. The warm water and limited laps make me
think of swimming in a bathtub. My favorite swim-
ming hole is at Little River in Mouth Park. That's
the Canyon Mouth Park. Little River Canyon winds
along Lookout Mountain inside Alabama, the
deepest gorge east of the Mississippi. The turbulent
waters attract whitewater enthusiasts, and its falls
plunge past rocks and fossils that are millions and
millions of years old. But I drive to the park where
the river, having left the mountain, flows gently, with
broad expanses easily accessible to swimmers.

I didn't go all last year because of the drought,
certain that the water would be low and turgid.
But with all the rainfall this past spring and
summer I thought it should be better this year.
And so it was, but still not the pleasant swimming
place I remember.

The water was warm and I could easily have walked
from bank to bank, had to wade out quite a way to
get in water deep enough for swimming. Silt and leaf
debris floated up with my every step, clouding the
water and making it seem unclean.

In other years- and I have been going to this park
for more than 20- the water was pleasantly cold,
the current swift enough to continuously refresh
and cleanse the swimming area, but not so swift as
to threaten a less-than-expert swimmer.

When I first began going there to swim, it was an
Alabama State Park with attendants who patrolled
the area to ensure that everyone obeyed their many
posted do's and dont's. I was delighted when the
Feds took it over about 16 years ago, did away with
the signs and the patrolling, added the Little River
Canyon National Preserve to the National Park
System. I once overheard one of the State Park
workers saying that people liked coming to the park
because Blacks were kept out. I kept watching to
see how this was carried out, and could find no
evidence. The ostracism must have been effected
in subtle ways, which is not unusual for this area of
the South.

There have been Blacks since the park became part
of the national park system, and now it's a favorite of
hispanics who come by the carful with lots of little
children. I don't go on weekends, for I've been told
it's crowded then, the water thick with bodies, the
grills and stone picnic tables all occupied.

I have many times left home at 6 p.m. to arrive in the
park at 6 Alabama time with 2 whole hours left until
the park closed at 8. And I have frequently been the
only evening swimmer, just me gliding through the
water under a blue, blue sky, or floating through
water so clear that I could watch the fish below me.

The official word is that the drought continues despite
all the rain and that it would take three more years of
normal rainfall to recover. The river may not be fully
recovered next year, but surely it will be better-
cleaner, deeper, closer to the swimming place that I
have treasured. I surely hope so. I shall keep looking
toward next summer, and I will go again this year
even if it's not as great as I'd like. It's still better than
swimming in bathtubs or in overcrowded public pools.

Will the Stimulus Stimulate the Economy?

Did anyone really believe that the "stimulus" check hand-
outs would revive the economy?

Unemployment and food prices still rising, and talk now
of a second "stimulus" package needed, as in "well, we
threw that money down a hole and it disappeared from
sight, so maybe we better fling some more after it."

About half those responding to one poll said they'd pay
on their debts. One report stated that many were spending
at least part of their money on websites offering
pornography. Most of these are located in other countries
so the U.S. won't benefit much but the speculation was
that embattled consumers had an urge to stimulate
themselves.

Spend it on gas was another response. Although it's now
about 30 cents less per gallon, a tank full takes a huge
chunk out of most workers' paychecks.

I'm among those who will be be giving the oil magnates what
will amount to small change for them. My $300 will just about
cover the increase in the price of 300 gallons of propane. I'll
be spending about the same amount of my own money- plus
the "stimulus" check- to keep icicles from forming on my bod
this winter. I don't think either the economy or myself is
going to be stimulated, but I guess it's better than waiting for
the Bush tax cuts to the rich to trickle down. That trickling
petered out long before it reached my level.

Signs of the Times

My granddaughter's boyfriend was laid off from his job at
a body shop near Atlanta. People are cashing insurance
checks, he said, and not getting their autos repaired.

The same thing is happening in this area. I started
noticing all the crumpled fenders, dented doors,
crooked bumpers. I've seen plastic over broken-out
windows and wired-on tail lights. The driver of that
Neon with the bashed-in side could use the check to
make two mortgage payments, and the car still gets
her there and back. Or maybe she used it to buy gas.
As I write, the best price per gallon here is $3.81, still
hovering around $4.00 at some stations.

Chattooga has the highest unemployment rate of all North
Georgia counties, over 14% as compared to the state's
slightly over 5%. Foreclosures in the legal section of the
local paper are at a record high for the past year.
Factories have closed, the county's largest employer, a
textile mill, laid off 200 last spring.

One bright spot: the United States Department of
Agriculture (USDA), in cooperation with the local
school board, has been providing free meals for
children throughout June and July. Any child 18 or
under can get one free meal a day at various locations
staffed by volunteers. After school starts in August,
children can get free lunches at school.
At least the little children are eating every day.

Another War?

Shell, BP, Exxon, and Total are signing a no-bid contract,
supposedly for service and technical support in the Iraqi
oil fields. Supposedly for a period of two years.

Sounds like they're getting a toe hold in the country that
threw them out after Saddam Hussein nationalized the oil
36 years ago. The four western oil companies had
combined into the Iraq Petroleum Company to exploit
Iraq's oil for more than fifty years, until the industry was
nationalized in 1972.

Blood on the oil, or no blood for oil, has been the theme of
signs carried in every protest against the war, and, according
to a report in The Independent, UK, many Iraqis "are
convinced that the hidden purpose of the US invasion was to
take over Iraqi oil" but, the report continues, "the Iraqi Oil
Minister, Hussein Shahristani, has said that Iraq will hold on
to its natural resources. 'If Iraq needs help from
international oil companies, they will be invited to
co-operate with the Iraqi National Oil Company [Inoc],
on terms and conditions acceptable to Iraq..."
(The Independent 20 June 2008)

The photo accompanying this news report shows a U.S.
soldier guarding Iraq's oil fields. He seems to cast a
shadow over possibilities of the war's end.
Representatives of the Big Four have expressed
concerns about security and stability, even as they
are eager to return to the oil fields.

Their presence will be the excuse for continuing the
U.S. occupation of Iraq. Senator Obama has wavered in
his commitment to end the war, and completely reversed
his position on wiretapping.

The Bush/Cheyney team of butchers are eager to invade
Iran and Congress seems unprepared to prevent them. It
is up to the people to say No! Not another illegal war!
Emergency actions are planned for New York City and in
cities across the country on August 2nd. Details at
www.stopwaroniran.org

Two Women

They stood near the cleaning products in the Dollar Store,
the day before Super Tuesday, discussing the candidates.

"Not a woman," the older one was saying, "women don't
belong in a place like that. It ain't right!" She looked to be
about 60, but could have been younger, her face care-worn
beneath dyed black hair. "And that's not just me saying it,
that's what God says," and she rolled out the word "God" in a
loud, commanding voice.

"But the other one.." the younger woman began, lifting her
hands from her shopping cart to spread them in a helpless
gesture. She was about half the other woman's age, short
and overweight, her slacks bunched around her heavy
thighs, but her face attractive under skillfully applied makeup.

The older woman interrupted, her voice trembling with
emotion: "Oh, I pray to God he don't get in!"

Then they were speaking with lowered voices so I
couldn't hear the words, but I guessed they were
discussing the dilemma of race and gender, but possibly
in less kindly terms. Their mission was the same as mine,
to stretch their few dollars by buying some basic supplies
where prices are a bit lower than those in the
supermarkets.

Maybe they voted for Mike Huckaby, he carried our
county and won the state of Georgia. A lot of voters
found him comfortable, non-threatening. But Hilary
Clinton captured the county for the Democrats;
Obama won the state.

A woman and a Black man running for the highest
office in the land, and both getting a large number
of votes. Unthinkable only a few years ago. Obama
rings out the message of a need for change- our world
has already changed and is changing. The winds of
change have been more like a hurricane, blowing those
who refuse to accept change into the corners of life and
eventually into the dustbins of history.

Climate Change?

Oh, they tell me of a land where no storm clouds rise,
Oh, they tell me of a land far away,
Oh, they tell me of an unclouded day

This song kept running through my mind recently.
Somebody's idea of heaven. Whoever wrote it never
spent much time in North Georgia during the summer.
August heat is blasting us already, even before
summer has officially begun. Atlanta registered a
record-breaking 98 degrees last Monday. Low to mid-
90's here everyday, and I went out and bought a fan.

What a relief when the storm clouds rose. Lots of
lightning slashing the humid air and crashing thunder.
The water in the creek had been receding, evaporated by
the heat, and I had been carrying water to my tomato and
pepper plants every evening, only to see the plants
beginning to wilt the next day, the earth around them
like dust.

The break didn't last long. Next day muddy water filled
the creek, rolling on toward the Chattooga River, but the
sun blazed forth hot as ever. Another forecast rain supposed
to bring the temperature down ten degrees failed to
materialize. We had the lightning and thunder- a sound and
fury that signified nothing- but only a sprinkle here.
Now we're hearing that it will be 105 to 110 when summer
actually arrives.

And only a couple months ago I was growing impatient with
sweaters and jackets and longing for the time when I could
run outside barefoot.

I should have listened to those older and wiser folks who
used to say: "Be careful what you wish for."
Be careful- for it might come true.

Dixie Highway Yard Sale

The third annual ninety-mile Dixie Highway Yard Sale will
be held June 6-8, it's always the first weekend in June.

Beginning on Highway 41 at Ringgold, Georgia, it
meanders south, ending at Marietta. Some of the
town names south of Ringgold:

Tunnel Hill
Rocky Face
Resaca
Kennesaw

will be familiar to Civil War buffs, they are also the names
of battlefields. Most of the vendors are located along 41,
which used to be the major north-south highway. When I
moved to Chicago in 1963, that was the route I took. It
went through every city and required a sharp eye to keep
up with all the twists and sharp turns.

Those were the days of mom-and-pop motor courts, long,
low buildings of stucco or concrete every few miles. The
rooms were small and spartan, the baths tiny, just
functional. But a room for the night cost only $5 to $15.

41 through Dalton, as we drove through North Georgia,
used to be called bedspread alley. Clothes lines hung with
chenille bedspreads lined both sides of the road. It was also
called candlewick and started there as a cottage industry
with the colored tufting done by hand. The invention of
tufting machines enabled the change to a major town
industry. The bedspreads had colorful patterns, a
favorite was the peacock.

They also had housecoats. I had one once. The cloth was
thin with little warmth between the rows of tufting. It
wasn't very good for getting up on cold winter mornings
to build fires.

I've been told that chenille items bring a good price now
as vintage clothing and spreads.

Someday I'm going to drive 41 north again as far as I can
go. A friend visiting me a few years ago did this. She
got discouraged after being cut off too many times and
went back on the interstate. The interstate was just being
built when we were driving back south during the 1970's.
Much of 41 was two-lane and even the four-lane sections
were slowed by traffic lights, so it was a luxury when we
hit a stretch of completed I-69 or I-24, but it was always
back to 41 again.

The yard sale vendors will be set up along 41 and 293, a
map will be available to show the various turns. The route
will take us through the main streets of the towns, just as
folks used to have to travel. Sounds like only one thing is
lacking: the Burma Shave signs.

More information about the yard sale here.

About Obama's White Grandmother

It has been called "the greatest speech about race in
America in a generation," described as "Eloquent",
"Historic"; The New York Times compared the speech
by Barack Obama to those of Abraham Lincoln, Franklin
D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy.

Yet, soon after the last words had been uttered, reactionary
critics swarmed upon it like so many vultures picking out bits
of it to toss about. The Reverend Jeremiah Wright, the pastor
Obama has refused to sever from his life, has become the
Willie Horton of this presidential campaign.

But the most vicious remarks have been made about Obama's
remarks about his white grandmother, Madelyn Dunham, who
helped raise him. Some have gone so far as to accuse him of
denying his white ancestory, of locking his grandmother away
and forbidding her to participate in his campaign. She is 84,
her back painful from osteoporosis, and has refused to make
any statements when reporters try to contact her by phone.

Others say he insulted her by stating she had been afraid
of Black strangers and had made stereotypical comments.
These critics, hardly any of whom can speak of Obama as
a candidate without refering to his race, cannot acknowledge
how it is almost impossible for a white person who has lived
in the United States for four or five decades to be totally free
of racial prejudice. Those who proclaim themselves without
prejudice are usually unaware of how they give themselves
away in remarks they make.

Their attitude toward the Rev. Wright's anger is similar to
that of a local newspaper which, when referring to an
incident of racial injustice, stated: "but that was before Civil
Rights," as if the valiant struggles for the right to vote, ride
buses, and eat at lunch counters, ended with the slate wiped
clean. It's as if to say, "It's bad, but that was yesterday".

Ah, but we old people grew up during those yesterdays,
daily we saw peoples of color denied good jobs and decent
housing, even if we didn't believe the prevailing myths, that
"they" were living where they wanted to live, with "their own
kind". We were inundated with racist media. Racism and
separatism was as much a part of our lives as the air we
breathed. Many of us were aware of the injustices and
regretted the way things were, but most of us couldn't
spend a great deal of time questioning because of our
own struggles to survive.

The younger folks of all colors are not burdened with the old
baggage their grandparents carried. They see Blacks with
good jobs, Black elected officials, policemen, firemen,
university professors, and so forth. Which is not to say that
prejudice has been wiped out. Far from it: there are still
ghettoes in most cities, there are unwritten laws that
prevent Blacks from choosing just where they wish to live,
and there are young people who have absorbed the
prejudices of their elders.

Just recently I heard of a white high school girl thrown out
of her California home for dating a young Black man. The
difference now is that they will not be ostracized by all of
society- a white classmate's family took her in- and they
can remain friends. Furthermore, that young white woman
who has grown up seeing Black students and teachers at
school, Blacks working at every kind of job, and in elected
positions, will remain more free of prejudice than her parents
and grandparents who have experienced different social
conditions.

But it doesn't matter much whether Obama's critics believe
all this or not. Most were already against him because of his
Black skin. Their outrage over his remarks about his
grandmother and about his pastor's diatribes will simply give
them another reason to cast a vote against him, as they had
already planned to do.

Making Memories

A study published in the March 7 issue of the Journal of
Alzheimer's Disease found that people with Alzheimer's
showed more signs of cleavage of a molecule called amyloid
precursor protein (APP) than people without the disease.

But the researchers also found that the brains of younger
people without Alzheimer's had about 10 times as much
APP cleavage as Alzheimer's patients.The conclusion was
that younger brains make memories faster than they lose them.

"Young brains operate like Ferraris -- shifting between for-
ward and reverse, making and breaking memories with a
facility that surpasses that of older brains, which are less
plastic," research group leader Dr. Dale Bredesen said in a
prepared statement.

"We believe that in aging brains, AD occurs when the
'molecular shifting switch' gets stuck in the reverse position,
throwing the balance of making and breaking memories
seriously off kilter," Bredesen said.

My conclusion is that, as usual, the medical community,
including doctors and researchers, simply do not know.
Next year they will have a different theory.

I could carry the automobile analogy to the logical
conclusion that our old rusted-out bodies are ready for
the place where cars are crushed into neat little blocks
and sold for scrap, which could be a neat alternative to
so-called "funeral homes". And I could say some take
better care of their automobiles than their own bodies:
they get the oil changed, put in the proper fuel, then
drive through a MacDonald's for their own
fuel, or order a pizza while sitting in front of the TV.

I prefer just now to dwell upon the glaring contradiction
in this study. The brains of people with Alzheimer's showed
more cleavage...than the brains of people without Alzheimer's,
but the brains of younger people without Alzheimer's had
about 10 times as much APP cleavage as did the brains of
Alzheimer's patients.

Oh wait, these were young Ferraris speeding along life's
highway making memories and breaking them. They must
have wrecked on that highway, however, in order to have
their brains dissected by the researchers.

I'm remembering the researchers and doctors who decided
that people with heart disease shouldn't eat egg yolks, just
the whites. Now yolks seem to be back in fashion: so long
to those overpriced artificial substitutes. And most of all I'm
remembering all those women who dutifully kept filling their
prescriptions for hormone replacement therapy until they
were told stop! Those artificial hormones can cause you to
have cancer!

And I think about the diabetics who are given diets that can
be poor in nutrition- the very quality the diabetic needs most-
so long as it includes the prescribed number of "choices" from
the various food groups.

Doctors have told me I do not need to take vitamins, and this
without having any knowledge whatsoever what I eat. At the
other extreme, a worker at the clinic where I went two years
ago for a dexa scan asked if I ate Tums, and, because I
answered "No", wrote that I was taking no calcium
supplements.

I think one way to stay healthy and preserve one's memory
longer is to stay away from doctors as much as possible.
Doctors whip out a prescription pad. They prescribe drugs.
That is how they have been taught to respond to all illness.
Drugs are dangerous. Just say "No".

More Peeping

I thought the spring peepers had done their thing and gone
back to wherever it is they stay the rest of the year.

After a balmy Super Tuesday, it rained and turned cold again.
For a few days it was very cold for these parts, snow on the
mountain top, up to 4 inches in places. Only light flurries here
in the valley, but there was a lacy edging to my book building
when I went there to pick up books ordered.

Then the weekend before the big March 4th primaries, they
were at it again, both in the spring water deep in the woods
across the road and at the pond in my neighbor's pasture,
Their voices too loud and shrill to call the sound peeping.
It was 70 degrees and sunny as I worked in the yard that
Sunday, listening to the frog choruses to the north and to
the south of me. I won't indulge in anthropomorphism and
say they're timing their concerts as a prelude to the
primaries, but the jubilant abandon with which they sing
out makes an appropriate background to the voting
excitement.

Now I know why I had been under the impression that they
are calling for rain: it is simply because of our normal
weather cycle at this time of year. It will be cold, sometimes
with frozen ground, then gradually warm up and then there
will be one or two shirtsleeve days, and the frogs will come
out and sing. It always rains and turns cold again, and
always then the frogs are silent.

This time their appearance is a prelude to spring, just as the
writers say about the peepers in the northern states. There
are jonquils, and there are a few white blossoms on my
pearl bush, scotch broom has been blooming for about a
month now, And there are both upright and umbrella-type
flowering quince near the library, the branches covered
with red flowers, so bright and pretty I wish I had planted
some here last fall.

But my priority is to get one of my small garden beds sowed
with greens. I've hauled in buckets and cans of cow manure
and got the soil loose and mixed, but it isn't raked and ready
yet. Too wet now from Tuesday's downpour.

Freezing rain washed down on the intrepid Ohio voters.
That would be a state where it would be another week
or so before the peepers appear, according to those
northern writers who state they appear in mid-march.
That is, if Ohio has spring peepers.

Spring Preview

On the evening of Super Tuesday the spring peepers burst
into sound. Accounts I've read elsewhere state that the
peepers can be heard as early as mid-March, and are a
sign that spring is on the way.

Mid-March indeed. Those were northern writers
accustomed to colder climes. The peeping has
always started here in Northwest Georgia in
February, but even so, the 8th, the Big Tuesday,
was a little early for them.

It had been an unusually warm day, which probably
helped to bring them out, just as it had helped the voter
turn-out, even in the states further north, according to
news accounts. After dark it was much cooler, but yet
not really cold. Clouds covered the moon and hid the
stars, and I knew that the balmy day, rather than
beginning spring, simply presaged the coming rain,
whose heirs, in turn, would be more freezing nights
and mornings.

I was still wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter" sticker
when I slipped into my old coat, strapped on my
headlight, and headed off to the woods across the
road. Buckie trotted ahead of me, stopping to sniff
here and there, but still managing to navigate the thorny
underbrush and pine thickets better than ever I can.

As it seems that the frogs have always been singing on
a day before it rained, I used to think they were singing
for the rain, sort of a vocal rain-dance ceremony.

Now I know their shrill, ear-splitting chorus is only
the background for their annual orgy. Other creatures
engage in group sex, but no others mate amidst such
loud and jubilant rejoicing.What a great way to celebrate
being alive and aware again after the death-like sleep of
hibernation. One account I read stated that most of the
frog's body can be frozen while hibernating and not prevent
its full recovery.

The peepers do not choose the creek, but favor the spill-
over from a spring in the midst of the woods. There was
once a farmhouse, and perhaps some sort of spring house
where the farmer's wife set butter and milk to cool in warm
weather. Both are long gone, but the barn still stands, lights
from cars along the road glinting on its tin roof.

There are deep ruts from the heavy equipment used by
Georgia Power to clear beneath the power lines, and along
these ruts, eroded into ditches, flow small tributaries toward
the creek.

Following the ruts, one skirts a sort of marsh land, then the
small pools here and there, before reaching the larger body of
water that is the spring. As I draw closer, the sound becomes
deafening. What was a pleasant evening sound as I was
leaving my yard becomes cacophony close at hand.

You would think such noise would mask the sound of my
careful footsteps, already muffled by the thick carpet of
wet leaves. Yet, when I get too close to one of the pools
or ditches the sound stops. Or most of it. There are always
two or three laggards peeping on for a second or two, then
cutting off in mid-note, as if suddenly aware of the
strangeness of solo singing.

The coordination of the frog singers seems remarkable:
together they sing from pools scattered across a large
area, together they stop and sit in dead silence, no sound
but the distant rippling of the creek.

No matter how stealthy my approach, I cannot see any
of the tiny frogs at night. The largest would be only about
one-and-a-half inches long, some are under the debris at
the bottoms of the pools laying eggs, others scattered
about the banks, their color blending with the dead leaves
under which they hide.

Not until Buckie and I are back in our yard are they again
giving full voice to the same urgent jubilation. They will sing
like this for about a week, mostly in the evenings, providing
a pleasant background to our lives beside the creek.

Almost two weeks after our walk in the woods, on the
day after the next round in the primary voting contest
this time, I heard spring peepers at the pond in my
neighbor's pasture. Those at the spring were quiet,
they've gone back into the woods, perhaps becoming
inanimate again during the cold nights.

There were far fewer at the pond, no deafening wave of
sound, it was more as if they were singing rounds than
creating a chorus. That they were there at all intrigues me.

The spring peeper is a tree frog. Although, according
to some naturalists, the tiny frogs spend as much time
on the ground as in the trees, their natural habitat is
the woods. They do not live in pastures. To get to the
pond from the closest woods they would have to cross
the creek and a wide stretch of grass, constantly in
danger of being eaten by crows before dark and by owls
at night, then again when they retrace their steps-
or hops- back to the woods, where they will live in
relative silence and obscurity for the rest of the year.

I suppose that just as the birds return to the area where
they once were nestlings to build their own nests, the
frogs spawned and metmorphosed from tadpoles in the
pond remember to return there, and so they do, every
February.

There are even fewer there this evening, no chorus, no
rounds, just solos and an occasional quartet. In another
month it will be spring by the calendar, but I am weary
of cold weather and bare trees and the peepers have
provided a welcome respite.

Pictures and a sound clip of their cries is available on
the National Geographic website.

And by the way, about that Super Tuesday: Hilary Clinton
won my precinct. But Obama won the state, my vote counted.

Washington's Birthday

One February many years ago, Andy, my youngest child,
walked with me to our rural mailbox. The box was empty.

Oh," I said, "I forgot. There'll be no mail today. It's
Washington's Birthday."

Andy's eyes widened. "If he has a party, can we go?"

"Andy," I said, "Washington is dead. He's been dead for
a long, long time."

"Well why does he keep on having birthdays then!"
Andy started back to the house, disappointed.

Well, he doesn't anymore. Doesn't have his own day in
red on the calendar. Now it's Presidents Day. But there
will be no mail, a sort of holiday for me. I won't have to
get to the post office with my book orders packaged and
ready to mail.

Andy will be working as usual. Just another Monday for
him.

Purveyors of Violence

Hey, Kids! What time is it?

Never mind. This is much too serious for that. The State of
the Union. President George W. Bush stating to us that the
union might be moribund, but he, George, is going to revive
it with a shot in the arm.

Shoveling money into the pockets of the wealthy didn't do
the job. Didn't trickle down, just a painfully slow ooze. Now
he's going to try the other arm. Trying to stave off the
Recession that's coming at us like a yapping dog about to bite.

A week before his speech, while he was performing a knee-
jerk tribute to Dr. King, he studiously avoided any mention of
war. He and Hilary. Both praised Dr.Martin Luther King, Jr.,
for his courage, for his leadership in the Civil Rights
Movement.

They wouldn't have mentioned his courageous stand against
the Vietnam War, the speech in which he branded the U.S.
Government as "the greatest purveyor of violence in the
world today", for if "Iraq" were substituted for "Vietnam",
the speech would indict Bush, Hilary Clinton, and all those
who instigated and voted for the war in Iraq.

Selma, Lord, Selma

Shyann Webb was 8 and small for her age, Rachel West
was 9. Two little girls caught up in the marches, mass
meetings, police violence, of the 1965 campaign for
voting rights in Selma, Alabama, where less than 2% of
eligible African Americans were registered to vote.

They tell about it in the book:
Selma, Lord, Selma
by Shyann Webb and Rachel West Nelson
as told to Frank Sikora
1980 University of Alabama Press

There are photos showing these smallest marchers with
Dr. Martin Luther King, who, whenever he saw them
would call out, "What do we want?" and when they
would answer: "Freedom!" would say, "I can't hear
you," and make them say it louder and louder,
"Freedom! Freedom!"

And a photo of the two on a cold day when the
marchers had been halted, Shyann in a dress, her
little legs bare, Rachel's hand-me-down pants too
small, stopping inches above her socks. They
lived near one another in a housing project, their
large families, they said, lived mostly on rice and
coffee. But they marched, and they sang the freedom
songs. Dr. King called them to the front of the church
to lead the singing.

Shyann was at the meetings at Brown Chapel almost
every day, missing so much school she'd have to repeat
the grade the next year. She heard about the arrests, the
clubbings by policemen and sheriff's deputies, and the
death of Jimmie Lee Jackson, shot by a state trooper
in nearby Marion. That march and Jackson's death were
not covered by the media.

About three weeks later the Rev. James Reeb died from
injuries suffered when attacked by three white hoodlums.
Reeb was among the hundreds who poured into Selma
in response to "Bloody Sunday" when the marchers
were brutally attacked on the Edmund Pettus Bridge.
They had planned to march to Montgomery, the state
capital, to protest Jackson's death.

And there were other martyrs: Viola Liuzzo was shot
and killed in her car, on her way to transport marchers
from Montgomery. Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopalian
Seminary student, one of several supporters who stayed
with Rachel's family during the Selma protests, would be
shot by a sheriff's deputy just after being released from
jail in Lowndes County on August 20th.

The little girls talked about how they might also be killed.
Rachel was on the bridge on "Bloody Sunday" and only
escaped because another marcher picked her up and ran
with her to safety.

One night they looked up at the sky, searching for the
brightest star because they had heard that when
someone dies their soul becomes a star in the heavens.
One of them pointed out an especially bright star and
said that maybe that one was Jimmie Lee Jackson.

Reeb's death was the catalyst that spurred President
Johnson and Congress to push through the Voting Rights
Act. Johnson telephoned his sympathy to Reeb's family,
and he personally announced the arrest of the Klansmen
who shot Liuzzo.There was no sympathy call to Jackson's
family, no attempt to indict the trooper who shot him.
Liuzzo and Reeb were white, Jackson was Black.

Two little Black girls were right to believe that death could
come to them from a policeman's gun or club in the midst
of their songs about Freedom.