Broken Hearted Idealists

“Broken-Hearted Idealists”

By:  Justice Bill Cunningham

Kentucky Supreme Court

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine committed suicide.  He was a little younger than me.  And he was a lawyer.  I’ve had four friends commit suicide in recent years.  All lawyers.

Is there any link between these horrible events and their profession?

Only God knows.  Suicide is the most unfathomable of tragedies.

But I do know this.

According to a major study conducted 20 years ago by the National Institute for Safety and Health, lawyers were twice as likely to commit suicide as the general population.  Members of the legal profession most at risk were males between the ages of 48-65.  All my deceased friends were men.

A survey by John Hopkins University among 10,000 adults showed that, of all occupational groups, attorneys suffered from the highest signs of clinical depression.  Most lawyers tend to focus on the problems of their own clients and let their own mental and emotional needs go unattended. 15-18 percent of their group are alcoholics, as opposed to 10 percent of the general population.

While the research is limited in this area, indications are that lawyers are more likely to divorce than members of other professions.

There are two types of pressure in the practice of law.  First is the pressing need that is found in all professions—the heavy obligation of getting it right.  Whether it’s making the proper diagnosis in medicine or designing a bridge that won’t collapse, the lawyer is likewise faced with the pressure of getting it right every day.  At next Thursday’s closing of a multi-million dollar real estate deal, the lawyer had better make certain all liens have been released and there is no misprint or missing signatures in the paper work.  A misstep could cause the client delays and thousands of dollars.  Or it may be the criminal defense lawyer standing by his client as the jury returns to the courtroom with a verdict.  The client will either go out the front door with mama or out the back door with the sheriff to prison.  That defense lawyer only hopes and prays that, if his client is convicted, it’s because of the evidence and not his mistakes.

I could go on and on with endless examples where the lawyer is expected to perform every day at top speed.  There is an endless line of people with a smorgasbord of problems, constant phone calls to return.  A lot of people call with problems.  Few call with solutions.

And then there is the second most oppressive burden of a lawyer.  I’m speaking of the arena of human tragedy in which each of my suicidal friends worked.

Every lawyer worth their salt comes out of law school as an idealist.  Someone has said that lawyers are “humanists who fight.”  Young lawyers believe.  They think they can make a difference.  They want to make a difference.  To use the lance of the law to pierce injustice and evil.  To summons down the majesty of the law into courtrooms and board rooms so that people will always be treated fairly and justly.  To make the world a better place because of their efforts.

Once out in the day to day practice of law, they learn that justice is not always done.   Innocent people are abused and some go to prison.  People guilty of terrible wrongs go free, laughing at the very system of which they are a part.  Bad things happen to good people.  Bad people are unjustly enriched.

They learn that the system is not perfect, judges are not infallible, and even their own skills are inadequate to take on the vast sea of troubles on which they are afloat in their small boats.  But they keep fighting because there are, in fact, people they help; burdens they lift; lives that are changed and made better. They live from one small victory to another. If my lawyer friends are able to keep things in perspective and endure, they will spend a life time doing much good and leave behind a better world.  There will be countless people who will have been blessed by these barristers of American democracy.

Lawyers—most of them—are heroic.  You go home at night with your problems.  They go home with the problems of many.  And then they deal with their own personal problems— sick children, an alcoholic spouse, or a parent who is deep in Alzheimer’s—layered over by the demands of clients and judges and other lawyers.

But worst of all for practicing lawyers is the sinking feeling which settles upon them that in all the struggles, in the thick of battle, it all amounts to nothing.  The growing suspicion that all that they do makes no difference.  That all the worry, all the late hours and missed holidays from family and friends, and all the endless hours of worry, do not matter.  They become a weak-kneed boxer in the round 15. They keep flailing away.   But they lose their purpose.  They lose hope.

 ^. And unfortunately, in some instances, they have reason to despair.  In my 35 years in the justice system—years and years of sending people to prison for trafficking in illegal drugs—the scourge of illegal drugs is as bad today as when I started.  Maybe worse.  Drug abuse infests families of all social and economic class and spreads its malignant cancer into all crevices of our society.  No one, no family, is immune. But, we keep flailing away with no hope in sight.

The ballast in the hold for all successful and well-balanced lawyers was articulated by the famous Confederate General Stonewall Jackson.  “Duty is ours; consequences are God’s.”

The practice of law is not for the emotionally short-winded.  After a while, some lawyers burn out.  They become broken-hearted idealists.  Some become jaded, cynical, even bitter.  In short, they give up.

The great Victor Hugo wrote, “The human heart cannot contain more than a certain quantity of despair. When the sponge is soaked, the ocean could pass over it without its absorbing one drop more.”

This begs the darker question.  What becomes of the sponge?

Masonry Matters

“Masonry Matters”

By:  Justice Bill Cunningham

Kentucky State Supreme Court

“All Masons Day” 

Kentucky State Capitol

    Frankfort, Kentucky

 

February 28, 2012

Every morning, when I walk out the door of my apartment down on St. Clair Street, the first thing I see is the Old State Statehouse down the street.  It’s a beautiful, historic structure with Greek revival architecture and fluted columns.  It’s been anchored there at the foot of St. Clair since 1830.

As I drive across the river and up broad, tree-lined Capitol Avenue to our “new” Capitol, I feel high.  I’m driving into the morning sun as it reflects off the dome of our magnificent Capitol—the beautiful edifice looming larger as I near its shadows.

I’m on a high for two reasons.  First, that the people of the First Supreme Court District of Kentucky have given me the honor and privilege to rub shoulders with history and come to this historic Capitol to serve them.  Secondly, I am inspired by the vision of those men—those public officials—who over 100 years ago had the vision to lay the plans for the construction of one of the most splendid Capitol buildings in the United States. 

In 1904, the Kentucky General Assembly had outgrown the elegant, but small Capitol building downtown and appropriated one million dollars to begin a new one on that very site.  Frank M. Andrews of Dayton, Ohio was commissioned as the architect.  When Andrews came back with his plan a year later, in 1905, the lawmakers faced a dilemma.  The building he had designed would not fit upon the site where the existing Capitol was located.  They had to decide whether to scale back the plans for the new Capitol in order to fit the footprint of the old one or to keep the plan for the grander Capitol and find a place to visit.  They decided to maintain the larger plan and purchase another site for construction.  They appropriated $40,000 to purchase 33 acres of the “Hunt farm” across the river in south Frankfort.

In other words, these speculative masons kept the vision which was larger than their size.  And today, because of that vision, we have one of the most magnificent and impressive Capitol buildings in the United States—one which people all over the nation travel to see.

What is the vision of Free Masons today in Kentucky?

Our numbers nationwide have shrunk from 4.5 million fifty years ago to less than l.5 today.

Why?  Because we lack vision.  We eat and meet, but have no notion of a mission.  No goals.  No great call from the hills.  No vision.

The Bible admonishes us that “without vision the people perish.”

We are perishing.  We have slowly divorced ourselves from the communities in which we meet, eat and greet.   

 

I have attended several lodge meetings over the last few years.  I don’t hear much going on which is relevant to our communities.  The talk is most times only about future meetings, future eatings, either at that lodge or at other lodges.  No outreach projects are discussed; no community activities in which the Masons are engaged.

My wife Paula and I raised five boys.  They were all outstanding athletes and all played baseball—two of them college baseball.  Needless to say, over the years I watched many youth league baseball games at numerous ballparks throughout west Kentucky.   I cannot recall seeing one single Little League, Pony League, or any youth league team sponsored by a local Masonic lodge.  What a great opportunity to send the name of Masons home on uniform backs to washers and dryers in every county of the state.

 

But alas, we shrink from these opportunities because we have lost our place in the community, our mission, our vision.

We have become irrelevant.

To survive we must have a vision.  Like the builders of our state Capitol, we must have a vision larger than ourselves.

Today, I declare that vision to you. 

By the year 2020, over fifty percent of high school seniors in this state will know who the Masons are and what they do.

Our means of reaching that goal is “Masonry Matters.”

This program is in two parts.

First, it is reaching out to raise and give much needed financial support to the needy children in our high schools.

It may come as a sobering surprise to many that there are high school students in the Commonwealth of Kentucky who are destitute.  By that I mean there are those who do not have money to meet even the basic needs and wants of a high school student. Even in the most thriving school districts there are young men and women enrolled in our public schools who cannot afford to go to basketball games, pay fees for certain extracurricular activities or cover the expenses of participating in such constructive activities as band, the debate team, or cheerleading.

In west Kentucky, several of our lodges have already accepted the challenge and, on a regular basis, are raising money to assist these needy students.  School administrators are given the money free of any strings attached to use as they see fit for boys and girls in need without regard to race, religion or gender.

Except for one condition.

They are required to inform the receiving youngsters that “this comes from the Masons.”

Who knows what long lasting seeds are planted there?

The second part of “Masonry Matters”—or the bookend to the fundraising and financial assistance part—is “Operation Preparation.”

Our Kentucky State Department of Education is begging for community mentors for high school students.  “Operation Preparation” is a new program aimed at providing positive community influence upon our young students.  There is one guidance counselor in the public schools of Kentucky for every 500 students.  Volunteer community advisors are being sought to meet one on one with high school sophomores and seniors for only a short period of time to guide them in their career plans and aspirations.  This is a great opportunity for Masons to get into the schools and meet directly with students in a positive and helpful way.  You need to ask your local high school principal about this program. 

We are at a crossroads in American Masonry.  We can continue to meet, eat, and greet ourselves out of existence.  Or we can respond to this opportunity.   If we turn away this challenge our loss in numbers may prove to be irreversible in years to come.   Said the poet John James Ingalls about opportunity, “I knock unbidden once at every gate—if sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before I turn away.”

My vision is that by the year 2020, fifty percent of high school seniors in Kentucky will know who the Masons are; what they do; what they stand for.  Masonry Matters will be to the Blue Lodge what children’s hospitals are to the Shriners.

That is my vision.  One of my favorite stories in literature comes from Cervante’s “Don Quixote.”  He has arrived in front of this dilapidated and abandoned old house.  The windows are broken, the shutters dangling askew, holes in the roof, weeds in the yard.  “Look at the beautiful palace,” says Don Quixote.  “It is magnificent with its grand gates and lofty turrets.  It matches the beauty of the palace of Alvacar.”  His servant Sancho Panza is quick to correct his employer, telling him that it is just an old rundown shack, abandoned and in ruins.  The answer of Don Quixote was, “I will not let your facts interfere with my vision.”

We live in frightening and decadent times where fear and doubt are rampant.  Our numbers are dwindling.  But we “must not let these facts interfere with our vision.”

Unless we as Masons hold fast to a vision that is larger than ourselves—like the original builders of our resplendent State Capitol—we will perish.  So, as I close, let me ask you to lift your eyes beyond the troubles and fears of today to the hopes and dreams of tomorrow.  Let us heed the slightly paraphrased words of Langston Hughes:

“Hold fast to a vision

For when a vision dies

Life becomes a broken wing bird

That cannot fly.

 

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life becomes a barren field

Covered with snow.”

A Veteran’s Day Message

“A Veterans Day Message”

By:  Kentucky Supreme Court Justice Bill Cunningham

I’m proud to be a Vietnam veteran.  But I was paid for every day I was there.  I went where I was told to go; did what I was told to do.  I came back safe and sound in body and mind.  I am no hero.

The real heroes are the 58,267 men and women whose names are inscribed on that long black Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.  The real heroes are their families who made the ultimate sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

The real heroes are those who came back dismembered, mangled, crippled and blind.  Those who even now waste away in Veterans hospitals and rest homes; those who were robbed of their youth and their futures; those who are haunted still by the mental and emotional demons which infester their days and nights.  They are the real heroes—the ones we should honor this Veterans Day.  Those who have no legs to march in the parades, no arms to raise the flags, no joy left in their souls.

The first known casualty in Vietnam was Richard B. Fitzgibbon of North Weymouth, Massachusetts way back in the very early going of 1956.  His name is there on the Wall, along with the name of his son, Marine Corps Lance Corporal Richard B. Fitzgibbon III, who died in Vietnam over nine years later on September 7, 1965.  There are three such sets of names of fathers and sons on the Wall.

Incredibly, to those of us who served, it’s been thirty-six years since the last casualty in Vietnam.  Equally astonishing is the fact that most of the surviving parents of those who died are now deceased.  We hurt even today for those dead fathers and mothers who suffered so much.  And some poor parents lost more than one child.  There are the names of thirty-one sets of brothers on that long black wall.

I can still see the image of my father standing at the fence at the airport in Paducah, waving goodbye as my plane lifted off.  Looking back through the little window, I saw him getting smaller and smaller, his hand still waving as the huge silver craft got lost in the distant clouds and my face faded into the sky.  Not until I had sons of my own would I know the aching heart behind that lonely wave.

Perhaps one of the most soul-wrenching statistics of that Asian war is that 3,103 of those we lost were only eighteen years old.  There are 8,283 names on the Wall of youngsters who were only nineteen years old.  Teenagers.  Most of them had never known marriage and having children.  They hadn’t watched color television.  None of them would know the joys of the end of the Cold War or the everyday use of computers, microwaves, MP-3 players, cell phones, and the internet.

Almost 1,000 of my Vietnam brethren died on their first day in the Nam.  Almost 1,500 died on their last day there.  Tragedy was written with a stabbing exclamation point.

There are the names of 1,057 Kentuckians on that Wall of honor.  West Virginia paid the biggest price per capita of any state in the blood of their young.

So, there you have it folks.  A bloody, old war.  The only war we ever lost, they tell us.  Maybe so.  But I’ve got news for you.  It wasn’t lost by the guys I knew or by any of those gallant soldiers whose names are etched on that long black wall in Washington, D.C.  We were there, so far away from home, for a reason.  And that reason was not the same reason as those who are now safely removed from the bedlam of those dangerous times accuse us of having.

One of those brave souls was Major Michel Davis O’Donnell of Springfield, Illinois.  He was a helicopter pilot killed in action a short time after he wrote these departing words.  I leave his farewell with you to consider this Veterans Day as you pause in your peaceful and happy life to pay homage to our vets—our Vietnam vets.

“If you are able, save for them a place inside of you

And save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go.

Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always.

Take what they have left and what they taught you with their dying

And keep it with your own.

And in that time when men decide

And feel safe to call the war insane,

Take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.”

October Skies

OCTOBER SKIES

By:  Kentucky Supreme Court Justice Bill Cunningham

The month of October can be simply breathtaking.  The waning sun shining brightly through a kaleidoscope of color underneath an azure sky.  Shirt sleeve days and cool evenings.  Falling leaves and golden pumpkins.

It is magnificent.

And within my lifetime, it came terribly close to being the last month of this earth.

October, 1962.

During those last ten days of October, almost forty years ago, the Soviet Union and the United States came terrifyingly close to a nuclear holocaust and the end of the world as we know it.

In the fall of that year, the Soviet Union had started the installation of nuclear ballistic missiles in Cuba, just ninety miles from our shores.  Once completed, they would have been in range of the major cities of the eastern United States.  These missile sites were discovered in October of 1962.  Immediately, President John F. Kennedy and his advisors recognized the perilous brinkmanship they would have to practice in order to bring us out on the other side alive.

In those closing days of October, 1962, President Kennedy and a small group of trusted advisors and high ranking officials sweated through hours of deliberations and diplomatic exchanges with Soviet Prime Minister Nikita Khrushchev.  Several options were considered, including an open invasion of Cuba and the forceful removal of the missiles. But this possibility would have risked the immediate ignition of the Russian nuclear warheads against our continent.  This is not to mention the untold number of American lives that would surely be lost on the beaches of Fidel Castro’s tiny island.

Other possibilities were discussed, but the young President opted for a blockade of the island for the purpose of stopping any further shipments of weaponry to Cuba by Russian vessels. Coincidental with that was the demand for the Soviet Union to disassemble the existing missiles and remove them from that country.

Khrushchev’s first response was to reject the offer unless the United States agreed not to invade Cuba and remove NATO’s missiles from Turkey.  It was here, close to Halloween, that the United States of America and the Soviet Union came within an eyelash of nuclear war. It was a standoff between the two world leaders—President John F. Kennedy and Premier Nikita Khrushchev.

A misstep by either one of these leaders at that critical time would have been cataclysmic.  Khrushchev, beneath all the bluster of an aging grandfather, was not suicidal. Kennedy, the father of two young children, knew that the plight of all future generations depended upon his decisions.

Khrushchev blinked.  He recognized the grave danger of the situation for the whole world and agreed to withdraw the missiles if the United States would agree not to invade Cuba.  Off the record, the American leaders assured him that, as part of the bargain, the missiles would be removed from Turkey within a reasonable time. This was a shrewd bargaining ploy on Kennedy’s part.  Those NATO missiles in Turkey were obsolete, already scheduled to be shortly replaced by submarine launched Polaris missiles. It provided a critical face-saving device for Khrushchev without conceding anything substantial on our part.  Furthermore, the Soviet Premier received assurance from us that we would not invade Cuba.

During those last days of October, 1962, as the crisis unfolded, the President and those involved in the tense negotiations tried to portray a semblance of normalcy to the American people.  They continued to go about their lives without any indication that the fate of the world hung in the balance.  They made quick trips home to their families and carried on the regular routine of American life.  Football games, fall festivals, marching bands, and the riotous season of fall went on as usual without a hint of the danger.

All the gaiety that comes with the fall colors took place under crystalline blue skies and sunshine, lighting up the foliage in Washington, D.C.  Inside the war room, however, they glumly considered how many of the 92 million people living within the 1,100 mile range of the Cuban missiles would survive a nuclear attack.  Thankfully, cool heads, calm nerves and masterful negotiations prevailed to bring us safely to the other side of the nuclear abyss.

These serious men of October—most of them now dead and gone—served us well and did us great good.  So I think of them still, especially on one of those brilliant October afternoons when I enjoy the beauty of this great land and the blessings of liberty; when I see golden school buses full of young children—who would never have been born had things gone otherwise—moving down peaceful country roads; when I see the replenished splendor of yellow, red and gold; when I hear the smoothing sound of the World Series being broadcast on the radio; when I see American life with all of its gusto and warmth bustling about under the wonderfully clear, blue, and nuclear free October sky.

Never does the wonderful month of October pass that I do not remember with profound appreciation that time and those men.

Back to School

“Back to School”

By:  Kentucky Supreme Court Justice Bill Cunningham

It is an annual sentimental journey for me.  That is the perusing of the late summer “back to school” edition of the local newspapers.  This always takes me back to the time when our house was packed with school kids and their wonderful mother was ready to send them back to the teachers.  At the same time, it was a harried time for her, getting all of the five young students ready for that big first day back at the salt mines—I mean school. 

After many sultry weeks of chaos and crazy baseball schedules, late night suppers, dirty uniforms, and soppy swim wear; after long months of every kid in town traipsing through the kitchen and refrigerator with muddy hands and feet; after frantic last minute shopping for school clothes and supplies for five rambunctious boys—that evening would finally come.  

When all the school wares were laid out in their rooms and all the sweet little urchins were bedded down, their bedraggled mother and my Wonder Woman wife would collapse in bed.  Pulling the covers up to her chin, she would stare at the ceiling and in a voice barely audible—maybe to me, maybe to God— utter, “I made it.”  She had made it through another summer with her sanity.  The next day, the “golden angel” would come and haul them away.  That was what my wife called the school bus. 

Now our children are all gone and some have kids of their own.  They are going through the same frantic back to school activity.  So, I smugly look through the newspapers at all the back to school fanfare and think of all the “fun” Paula and I are missing.  Then, in one local paper, I see something I had not noticed before— a listing of all the fees parents have to pay for their kids to take certain classes.  

The following are just a few of those fees for high school: “textbook rental $46; computer fee $10; agriculture $20; photography $25; art $25; business class $20; blueprint reading $40; chemistry $15.”  And on and on they go.  I haven’t even mentioned the fees for primary, intermediate, elementary, and middle schools. 

I have four grandchildren in this school system.  My wife and I do the math.  It’s gonna cost ’em some change, but they will make it.  But some won’t.  I don’t know about you, but I remember a time when 20 bucks was not to be sneezed at.  I’m thinking of the single mom with three kids in school trying to make ends meet working a second shift at Hardees, the father thousands of dollars behind in child support. Lunch money for these youngsters is a huge challenge for her.  Wearily, late at night, she goes through the avalanche of paper work sent home from school.  She looks at the cost of giving her kids a decent education and has to make choices.  So the next morning, bleary eyed and fatigued, she sighs: “Sorry, Christy, you can’t take art if your brother takes ag.  Can’t afford both.”

I haven’t even mentioned school supplies.  I recently read this letter written to the editor of a Frankfort newspaper.  “I am a disabled grandmother raising three grandchildren, all of whom are school age.  I recently shopped for school supplies for just one of the kids who is in middle school.  His school supplies came to over $100.”

There is help available.  Most, if not all, of our schools have family resource centers which stand ready to assist those parents in financial need.  They will provide school supplies for needy children.  Also, they will coordinate with local charities, including, in some communities, the Masons, in making certain those in need receive help with their school fees.  However, many of the needy are too proud to ask.  Also, most moms and dads in need are not aware of these services.  And in the torrent of day to day activities of busy parents trying desperately to hold the ship together, they remain unknowing.  They lack the aptitude to learn about these services.  In addition, sometimes even this aid is inadequate.  Said the lamenting grandmother in her letter: “We got the free backpack, but the supplies did not meet the list of things he needed.” 

There is no telling how much money our underpaid teachers shell out of their own pockets each year to cover some of these fees for their indigent students.  As a matter of fairness, why should any parent, regardless of financial means, be called upon to subsidize our public school systems?  The struggling parent of today does not need this extra burden.  Local school administrators—principals and superintendents—are doing the best they can with heavy strings attached to their monies.  One west Kentucky principal informs me that 73% of his students are below the established poverty level.

Our political and educational leaders in Frankfort and Washington posture under the grand old banner of “no child left behind” with wonderful platitudes and boasts about rising test scores.  We consolidate schools at an epidemic rate and build magnificent cathedrals of brick, steel, and glass to the gods of education.  

Maybe some political candidate will take up the cause to take this burdensome levy off the parents of our school children.  Meanwhile, Johnny can’t afford to take photography if his sister Lisa is in the band.

Memorial Day Letter to My Five Sons

Sons of Thunder,

I was in Vietnam when that war came to an end in January 1973. What I’m about to report is the best I can recall and relate. After the cease-fire, I was at Camp Holloway in Pleiku. I received a call one day from either my commanding officer in Saigon, or down at Nha Trang-can’t remember which. These instructions were given to me. Proceed over to Camp 21 on the north side of town. There at the S-1 shop (personnel office) you are to document and verify the remains of dead American soldier. Now that the war had come to an end, the people at the Pentagon were already thinking ahead to the remains to go into the tomb of the unknown soldier for the Vietnam War at Arlington cemetery. I drove over in my jeep; got out and went into the dusty S-1 shop. My vague recollection is of this. Those compounds consisted of offices, which were dusty Quonset huts (half moon medal modulars) or open air, frame hooches with screens. I walked in and a private was sitting at a medal desk, probably layered with a thin red dust that came from the red clay of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. I remember his nonchalance when I asked to see the remains. He points me to the back room and showed me a cardboard box sitting on the floor. I opened it and examined its contents. I remember—and this really gets hazy over the years–seeing fragments of bone. Maybe part of a skull, femur bone, maybe some other pieces, but not much. In the box were also some personal effects including a jungle boot or two. I either filled out a form, signed and left, or called in the confirmation— I can’t remember which.

A Letter to My Five Sons

I didn’t make much of it, because I couldn’t really relate to it very much. In combat zones you don’t really concern yourself too much with anything that doesn’t appear to be relevant with that very moment—survival and getting home. Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for Vietnam? Whatever.

It was only years later, 1984, I believe that I became interested in this topic once again. President Reagan was speaking at the dedication ceremony at Arlington for the internment of the remains of the unknown soldier of Vietnam. I’ll be dern. I remember that trip over to Camp 21 and wondered if all that pomp and circumstance was being made over a few bone fragments and some parts of his uniform. But now, instead of a cardboard box in the back of an old dirty S-4 shop in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, these remains were going to be encased in granite and marble—watched over by around the clock sentinel marching smartly to the reverent admiration of gawking tourists.

Then the years rolled by to 1998 and I was reading a fascinating story in Time magazine. With the advancement of science and DNA, the remains of the unknown soldier of Vietnam in Arlington had become known. It was Air Force Lieutenant Michael Blassie, of St. Louis Missouri who had been shot down over jungles of Vietnam near An Loc in May of 1972. They had not been able to recover his remains for some time because of the heavy occupation of the area by the Viet Cong. I apparently got to know him about a year later. He was exhumed from Arlington and returned in a solemn ceremony so that he could be laid at rest at last by the tender and loving hands of his family in St. Louis.

Was it really Michael Blassie that I documented on that day in the S-1 shop in Vietnam?
I cannot swear to it, because I think they were trying to select the mortal remains from several different candidates for the honors. Makes no difference really. Whoever it was in that box died for his country. And to me he will always remain, the unknown soldier.

And I honor him.

Happy Memorial Day.

Dad

Preservation

People like to read interesting books, see interesting movies, meet interesting people.

And people like to go to interesting places.

That’s why we spend thousands of dollars to travel to Europe and walk down narrow, ancient streets of cobblestone.  There we stand in awe of crooked old buildings centuries old.  That’s why millions go each year to Epcot in Orlando to view newly created villages made to look like old ones.

Downtown

Closer to home in Kentucky, that’s why people motor up to Midway, Stanford, and even our state capitol, Frankfort, to see the historical houses and buildings where history pours out to us from every pore.  These well-preserved landmarks are pleasing to the eyes.  Old buildings anchor us to a sense of place.  They are what make our town different from your town, our place different from your place.  Pikeville different from Paducah.  Danville different from Smithland.  Community leaders are now learning that these old historic homes, churches, courthouses, hotels, restaurants and office buildings can also mean money because they are interesting.  And people flock to see interesting places.

Joe Riley is the Mayor of Charleston, South Carolina.  He has been in office for over thirty-five years and has made preservation the cash cow of that charming city.  And, most importantly, he has started a wave of preserving and restoring our architectural history across this land which has economically revitalized communities.

Charleston was transformed from a sleepy little southern city on the coast to a vibrant and bustling city through the preservation of historic buildings, which in turn attracted downtown businesses.  The place is now teeming with tourists who come to Charleston by the millions each year to walk about its interesting streets or enjoy the carriage rides along its tree-lined avenues.  The revenues of the city have grown in leaps and bounds because of the added vitality and growth.  Clean industry and financial and informational businesses rush to locate there because of the town’s livability.  And it is due, in large part, to the historic preservation efforts of Mayor Riley and other leaders of the community.  He is the “Double P poster child” — preservation and progress.  A leading executive of the National Park Service has said: “Joe Riley has perhaps the best understanding of any mayor in the country of the fundamental value of preservation.”  Notice that he said “value,” which includes the monetary boost to the local economy.

The Battery in Charleston Still Appears Today as It Did 100yrs Ago

But Joe Riley doesn’t have the field to himself.  And you don’t have to go to Charleston to see the economic benefits of preservation.  Here, in Kentucky, many little towns are experiencing a resurgence of economic growth by protecting their histories and interesting pasts.  Stanford, Kentucky is a delightful little town to visit.  One can walk along its downtown and see what has been done with the interesting architecture of the past.  People drive for miles to see an old filling station and garage which was slated to be demolished.  Instead, it was preserved and renovated into a downtown covered parking garage which also serves as a sheltered bazaar for vendors during the town’s periodic festivals.  “In 1990,” says Stanford’s Mayor, Bill Miracle, “we could not give one of the old buildings downtown away.  But since our Main Street project and the renovation of these historic buildings, they are in great demand.  We have people moving here because of our preservation.  A while back a couple from Maine were on their way to Berea to live.  Seeing our historic and interesting downtown, they decided to move and live here instead. Preservation has been a tremendous boost to our local economy.”

In Stanford, and other small towns, preservation requires not just political leadership, but the support of bank presidents and merchants.  In west Kentucky, the little towns of Cadiz, Princeton, Hanson and others have become interesting places where tourists like to visit.  These towns do not have a symphony or a major league baseball team.  Neither was Abraham Lincoln nor Jefferson Davis born there.  And no massive Civil War battles were fought there.  But they have saved what the past has given them and made the best of it.

The preservation movement is loading up and getting ready to leave the station.  Those old communities which are destroying all of their old buildings with random recklessness are going to be left at the station.  My good friend, Bill Black of Ray Black Construction in Paducah and a working preservationist, has correctly stated: “A community not interested in preservation is not proud of its past.”  Neither does such a community have a vision for its future.  Progressive community leaders are capable of seeing not just what old buildings are, but what they can become.  They have vision.

There is a scene in Man of La Mancha which speaks to the value of the preservation of old buildings.  Don Quixote and his servant, Sancho Panza, stand gazing at a dilapidated inn.  The building is ugly and unpainted.  Its windows are broken out, the roof full of holes, and the shutters dangling at all angles.  Quixote describes the inn as having turrets and magnificent gates, comparing the building to Alcàzar, the royal palace in Seville, Spain.  The servant tries hard to shake him into reality after failing to see the ruins as Quixote sees them.  Quixote is unfazed.  He responds: “I will not allow your facts to interfere with my vision.”

The Obituary

The obituary in the local paper was only five paragraphs.

It told me that Willis Patrick Oliver was dead.  It gave his date of birth, date of death, place of the memorial service, survivors, and a sentence or two about his occupation.  Like thousands of death notices reported in newspapers across this great land daily, it failed to capture the true essence of the life now gone.

I first saw Pat Oliver when we were both in the fifth grade.  He had missed most of his early school years because of polio.  He rolled into the classroom in a wheel chair.  His legs were held rigid by metal rods.  His upper body was encased in a back brace which extended all the way up to his chin.  Pat’s head was held erect by a padded holster.  He could not turn his body.  His arms and hands were free, but his fingers were so twisted and deformed that when he wrote on the board laid across the arms of his wheel chair, it almost hurt you to watch.  But write he did.  He was one smart customer.

It took you all of fifteen seconds to like Pat Oliver.  Looking out of that twisted body was a handsome face with a quick and engaging smile.  He laughed often with a glint of merriment in his eyes.  It was surprising how much strength he had in those wasted little arms.  Pat delighted in besting about half the other boys in class in arm wrestling.  After a short while, the class hardly noticed his handicap.

It was, of course, against the rules to run and race in the hallways.  But there, in the dark basement of the old school where our classroom was located, we used the corridor for foot races to the cafeteria.  Pat participated, either flailing away at the wheels on his chair, or partnering up with a buddy to be pushed.  After recess or the lunch break, Pat’s clothes were as disheveled and his hair as matted with sweat as the rest of us rough neck boys.  He even flirted with the girls.  He had fun.

Kids can be cruel.  But they also can be kind and tolerant.  Pat’s friends were kind.  We carried his books, returned his lunch room tray, pushed his chair.  Even at that early age, we recognized with reverent and solemn respect his simple grace and dignity which only angels teach.  We soberly recognized that but for the grace of God his fate could have been ours.

He had a younger brother, H.B., who assisted him; and his mother, Trela, was nearby working in the lunch room.  But those were the days before the Americans with Disabilities Act.  How he managed all the steps and traveling obstacles in that old school I really don’t recall.  I do remember some of those sunny spring days when the rest of us would be romping gleefully across the ballfield and playground.  Out of somewhere, there would sit Pat in his wheelchair in the doorway of the school basking in the sun and watching his classmates gambol on healthy legs across the green.  What went through his mind as he watched us — legs flying and arms churning in the beautiful dance of youth, unfettered by the scourge of polio — God only knows.

The following year, when we moved upstairs to the sixth grade, Pat’s condition had improved.  He was able to discard the brace holding his upper body.  It gave him added mobility.  In the school pictures, taken from the waist up, his polio was indiscernible.  Maybe a little frail — but we were all skinny as heck back then.

In the seventh grade, Pat parted ways with our class.  Having missed a grade or two because of his polio, he was smart enough now to be moved back up to where he belonged.  Then the impoundment of Barkley Lake and the relocation of the old towns of Eddyville and Kuttawa wreaked division and separation on the community.  We went our separate ways.  I saw him occasionally, wheeling across the campus at Murray State.  We would exchange warm and familiar greetings.  At college, he roomed with another polio victim, my friend Ronnie Oliver.  There was enough courage sleeping in those two beds to stock a standing army.

This smart young man, shackled to his wheel chair for life, graduated from Murray State and then the University of Kentucky with degrees in physics and mathematics.  He then went to the University of Alabama at Huntsville where he obtained a degree in administrative science.  He crafted a stellar career serving his country, first with the U.S. Army Intelligence Agency as a physicist, and then the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency’s Missile and Space Intelligence Center as Senior Intelligence Officer Physicist.

Very impressive.

He married and had a son.

Only the rich, famous and infamous in our society have their departed lives chronicled in detail in obituaries.  But across this great land daily, thousands of ordinary people are reported dead with short, abbreviated messages spelling out the barest statistics of their lives.  But, it is this daily procession of the common dead that routinely speaks to the greatness of America — those ordinary lives that have done extraordinary things.  Those who fought mighty odds — as Pat did — and not only survived, but prospered and contributed in mighty ways.

Each of these unfamiliar names, briefly mentioned in the thousands of weeklies and dailies in far flung nooks and crannies of the country, represent a thin thread weaved into the rich fabric of the American tapestry.  Drive through the forgotten cemeteries of small towns and country church yards in America.  Look at the varied tombstones with their short inscriptions of the simple dead.  They represent a lot of water lines laid, a lot of drywall put up, buildings built, crops raised, students taught, sermons preached, and a lot of glorious victories won over the many tragedies which beset simple folk.  These faceless names on tombstones and in brief obituaries are stones in the foundation of our way of life.  As Thomas Gray so magnificently wrote, “Even from the tomb, the voice of nature cries, even in the ashes live their wonted fires.”

So, I stare at the cold print in the paper announcing his death.  These meager words tell us that Pat Oliver is gone, no more with us on this earth. Actually, as you can see, that is not completely true.

A World Without Cable

My five sons grew up calling me the “weirdo Dad”.  Sometimes to my face. Most times to my back.

I did not allow television in my house. With cable and the wide array of channels,  I knew that with five children, there would be no way I could control what they watched. So, I banned television.

I have many failings as a Dad. But one thing that I can proudly boast. I have never  written a check for cable television.

Not that the television set itself was not present. I allowed the VCR and tapes.  The tapes cost money and were required to be rented.  They could be controlled, especially when growing children of a struggling lawyer and public servant  have little of their own money to spend.

One time I walked through the house and there were several youngsters hovered around watching a tape. My ear caught the ugly sound of some foul language coming from the set. I walked over, ejected the tape and check it. It was R rated. I took the tape back to the video store and, in so many words, warned, “the next time you check out an R rated tape to any of my kids….you won’t get it back.”   Problem solved.

So, what did my wife do with these young buckaroos through the long summer afternoons? They played outdoors. Yeah, believe it or not there was a time when kids played outdoors in the summer time. Tree houses. Hideouts in the woods.  Fishing. Swimming. Camping.  Even baseball out in the hot sun. And of course, it was all peppered with a certain amount of mischief and broken windows. Our yard was a mess. Sometimes the wonderful mother of these rowdy kids would wistfully wish for a nice lawn. ”We’re not raising grass here,” I’d remind her, “we’re raising boys.”

And during those winter days of confinement we talked a lot. Read a lot. Question and answer games at the dinner table.  After we got a video camera, we had a bunch of budding Stephen Spielberg and our own versions of Saturday Night Live.

Without television taking over the house, conversation has to become more than just a series of “uh,huhs” and “you knows”.  You actually have to learn to communicate in complete sentences.  And, in self defense if nothing else,  learn some conversational manners- like not interrupting others.

Of course the last thing a 13 year old wants to do is have a conversation with their Dad.  But you force it. I’d camp out in the room and say, “Let’s talk”.  The insolent reply would be, “I don’t have anything to talk about”. And then cold silence. “That’s fine.” I’d nonchalantly declare and plop down in a chair. “I’ve set aside 30 minutes to do nothing but sit here in your room with you. We’ll just enjoy the silence.”  A thing that a 13 year old hates worse than talking with a parent is-you guessed it- 30 minutes of silence. So over an hour later I’d leave the room after an interesting and learning conversation with my son.

Did my kids slip off and watch TV at a friend’s house up the street?  Of course. And when we went on vacation they would have the remote smoking in the hotel room.  But  we don’t live in a perfect world.

Once a teacher gave an assignment for one of our middle schoolers to watch a program on educational television at home.  My nonplused student in resident skillfully attached a twisted clothes hanger to the dusty old black and white portable pulled  from the closet. “Everybody else has cable.” he dolefully remarked, “We’re the only family in the county that has clothes hanger TV.”

We now have an empty nest and we still don’t have television. At times in the past my wife has hooked up the old rabbit ears to watch the local news. However, we were informed not long ago that we can’t even do that anymore. Something about high definition television and that we can no longer pick up local stations without modification of the sets.  We just shrugged when we heard that. It’s over out heads.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how we’d find time to watch television.

It’s got to be time consuming. We are newspaper, magazine, and internet addicts. By the time we wade through all these, peep into the four books I’ve been  reading at one time for months,  catch up on our children scattered all over the country, prepare for the next day’s work……well, I just don’t know how other people do it.

As for my grown children now with their own homes?  You’d have to asked them if they feel abused or  scarred or ill educated from growing up in  a home with no television. Thanks to a good mom, and the good Lord, and church on Sunday,  they all got college degrees and have fulfilling  jobs and happy lives.

They managed.

I can share with you the recent comments of the grown son who once lamented the “clothes hanger tv”.

He says, “we must ask ourselves whether TV is giving us experiences or taking them away. How many great moments together would we have lost, if we had been a TV family? I doubt you will find many people on their death beds regretting that they had not spent more time watching television.”

Well said.

I remember the first time I ever saw television. . I was a small boy and the owner of the appliance store in old Eddyville naturally got the first television in town.  He was eager to show it off. So he invited people to his house to see it. I remember going with my parents on a Sunday night after church.

It was incredible. There affixed to a piece of furniture in Rudolph Morgan’s living room was a bright, glowing screen-a miniature movie with people talking and moving about. Sure enough, it was snowy, and in black and white.  But it just blew me away.

I couldn’t resist getting a closer look. So, when all of the adults had moved out of the living room into the kitchen for coffee, I got down on the floor and edged up close.  Fearfully I reached up to touch the glow. I wasn’t sure if my hand would disappear inside, be chopped off, or burned to a crisp. So, I breathlessly touched it with one finger.

It was glass. Cold glass.

That was as cozy as television and I ever got.

Bones of Our People

There is inherent within the human race a natural reverence for the dead.  You have seen it with a funeral cortege when oncoming cars begin to pull to the side of the highway and stop for the procession.  Total strangers – nameless faces – pause for just a moment in their hurried way to pay respect for a life that has passed.  Their silent salute of the dead reminds us of the shared loss of our being one less.  At these times, we are momentarily connected to all humanity by the common cord of mortality.

Holding that thought for a moment, contemplate the following.  When most people look out over Lake Barkley in west Kentucky, they see only a beautiful lake.  Few fully comprehend the social upheaval and turmoil that came about as the result of this vast public project.  In the late fifties and early sixties, thousands of people in Lyon and Trigg Counties were displaced from their homes, farms, businesses, and even towns, to give way to the mighty waters of the Barkley Dam Reservoir.

The land not only had to give up its living, but also its dead.  During the acquisition and flattening of the expansive flood plain in two states, melancholy graves in ancient cemeteries were opened and the dusty remains of those sleeping there were moved to higher ground.  The remains of over 700 grave sites in 23 cemeteries in Lyon and Trigg Counties were dug up and relocated.  At least 40 of these were the remains of some of my relatives, including my great-grandfather.

Such old burial grounds as Liberty Point, Cumberland Baptist, and Ferguson Springs were erased from the face of the earth.  Graveyards with family names such as Henson, Cunningham, Calhoun, Hendricks, Peal, and Allen – just to name a few – all disappeared.  The dead reposing in these places were reverently exhumed and somberly carried away to be reburied in other cemeteries such as Little River, Saratoga, Metheny, and Lady’s Cemetery.

The U.S. Corps of Engineers deserves a hearty pat on the back for the sensitivity and respect they brought to this somber task.  While over 200 headstones or monuments were moved, there were also many graves without markers.  The Corps sent people into the communities to solicit input from family members regarding the identities of those buried in these poorly marked graves.  From this information, 448 new concrete markers were furnished and installed at the new interment sites.  When possible, the next of kin were notified of the time and place of the exhumation and re-burial.  The loved ones were then allowed to conduct their own private ceremonies if they wished.  Fifty-four interested groups visited the relocation operation.  All expressed satisfaction with the manner in which the movements were accomplished.

So as to not risk damaging the coffins, and in an effort to be very respectful of the contents, all excavations of old graves were required to be done by hand digging.  No machinery was allowed.  If time had completely obliterated any signs of remains in a grave, the workers were instructed to gather up one half cubic foot of material at the bottom of the grave and move such as the last remains.

All of the body – or the last remains – including jewelry and clothes, had to be removed from the grave, along with the casket, and suitably transferred for re-burial.  In cases where the coffins had disappeared, a solid box made of pine lumber was furnished.  Upon each box was affixed a rust proof metal plate on which the name of the deceased was inscribed, as well as the cemetery from which it came.

Although the U.S. Corps of Engineers contracted this daunting task out to the Western Vault Company of Holyoke, Colorado for an incredibly low bid of $62,795.00, the Corps maintained administration and close inspection of the operation.  One of the primary people responsible for carrying out this sobering job with such dignity and professionalism was my good friend, Ray Wilson of Trigg County.  He was a field inspector for the Corps and charged with the responsibility of visually checking each and every grave that was dug up.  In a conversation with Mr. Wilson, he related, “I told every one of my workers to treat every single grave as if it were their mother’s.”

The disturbance of the dead for the purpose of the construction of Barkley Lake is a poignant story.  On the other hand, it tells us something good and decent about ourselves and our government.  The deep reverence that we give to our ancient burial sites and the remains of our ancestors touches the better angels of our natures.  Like the cars stopped along the side of the road, it pronounces a spiritual connection to the mortal temples of past souls.

Perhaps Gladstone said it best many years ago, “Show me the manner in which a nation cares for its dead, and I will measure with mathematical exactness the tender mercies of its people, their respect for the laws of the land, and their loyalty to high ideals.”