I Think

800a. I post the following, because it is the time of year we honor MLK.

As a boy, I saw blacks being mistreated and made to use blacks-only facilities. It was common to be eating in a restaurant and see a black person come around back and receive the food and sit outside with it.
In 1968 I went to live in New York City. My boss was a black man, whose parents were from Jamaica. They had fled to New York, because she was marrying a man with much darker skin than hers, and her family was up in arms over it. She was also "black," even though her skin was whiter than mine.
The man, whose name was Vince, wanted me to experience a civil rights event. He bought me a place on the chartered buses reserved by Jesse Jackson. When we arrived that morning, only six other persons, besides Jesse, showed up. One was Flo Kennedy, civil rights lawyer, and some were from a church I forgot the name of.
We rode off to Washington, DC. I sat in one seat alone, immersed in my thoughts, when a voice spoke from the seat behind me.
"Why are you here?"
I saw Jesse looking me in the face, waiting for an answer. I marvelled at how smooth and young he was, almost like a high school kid. I was not precocious in those days. In fact, was an introvert, who in childhood exhibited symptoms of autism.
"I wanted to see how these things work," I replied.
"You're going to see how they work, all right," he said, beaming.
He hesitated to see if I had more to say, but I had exhausted my store of talk with the one sentence. He moved away.
The object of the trip was multiple. First on the agenda, we went to the White House, bearing a tent. We placed it on the grass with the avowed intent to erect it and then paint it black. "The Black House."
Police filled the area, outnumbering us by seven or eight, I would guess, since memory fails here. The women passed out buttons proclaiming the cause. When they approached Vince, he backed away, suddenly frightened. I guess he expected the law to take us to jail if we went too far. His fear communicated itself to me, and I too backed away, feeling ashamed because I wouldn't wear a simple button.
Jesse announced that we had accomplished our goal after about fifteen minutes of negotiations with the police. We left and went to the Lincoln Memorial, where the 1968 Mothers March on Washington, protesting the Vietnam War, was about to get underway.
We fell in behind the people. Senator Percy of Illinois, his secretary fell in beside me.
"I'm here, because my son is over there, and I want him safely home."
She was very pleasant, and she kept trying to convince me I ought to apply at the Smithsonian to be a security guard. At John Kennedy's grave, they made speeches, and then we marched back to the Memorial.
From there, we eight were taken to a prominent black church, I don't know where. The minister was named Floyd McKissick. We waited about a half hour in an outer hall. I don't know where Vince was. I stood on the floor alone, feeling vulnerable. I heard a woman's voice speaking.
"I would like to ask a question." I saw a beautiful young woman, with fire in her eyes. She waited until she had all our attention. She pointed at me. "What's he doing here?"
They all showed by their actions that they were also curious. I was morbidly shy in those times. Feeling as though I might sink into the floor, I forced myself to speak. Stammering, I told how I had come with Jesse and how I was opposed to the war. They mostly smiled with understanding, and the tension melted away.
We went in to listen to Floyd.

"Don't come to our neighborhoods to teach about civil rights," he said. I followed his gaze and saw a sprinkling of white liberals in the pews. "We know about civil rights. Stay in your own neighborhoods and teach. That's where they don't understand about civil rights."
One white man was outraged. "Where does that leave us, after all our years of hard work?"
"If you really are our friend, you will understand."
Jesse cancelled the tour bus and bought train tickets for the journey home. As we boarded the coach, Ms Kennedy handed us each a Sunday paper. Our White House Adventure, had gotten us a small square at the bottom on page one.
That was my first experience in both civil rights and war protest actions. Not my last, by any means. One of the great lessons I learned that day was, as Floyd McKissick pointed out, "Teach civil rights in your own neighborhood, where they need it the most."

801a. It was very quiet, in my bedroom last night. I trapped the pesky squirrels and transported them to Burroughs Park. Punky came along as shotgun. The situation was created by my own actions. It was only after I fed them the critters felt emboldened to nest in the house. There were two more squirrels in the back yard, over the summer. I have the trap set, in case they are loitering out there.

Thanks so much for sharing that story. It really breathed life into those watershed times and the events that impacted the civil rights movement - my era of growing up.

Very much enjoyed your tale Ed, I hope this is all going down for posterity.

edgar, You continue to surprise with your dairy to share with us your past and current experiences of life. You know, I'm hooked like many others who look forward to reading your daily ups and downs, your trials and tribulations, but mostly your good heart. One of these days (I hope this year when I visit our son in Austin), I'm going to be in Houston to meet you to share a meal and drink, and some good conversations. Keep em com'n.

Ditto that...well said.

I just returned from the park. Squirrel #3 has been given a new stomping ground. Only one left, so far as I am aware.

That's what they want you to think Ed, Squirrel#3 was a decoy.
While you were at the park another 300 squirrels moved in.
Squirrel#3 was sacrificed for the greater good, God bless him.

Squirrels are hard to control, for sure. I just want to be rid of the four I had been feeding, as they are the only ones ever tried to live in my house.

dang squirrels.

they know it's much warmer inside, and were just trying to spare you the walk out to feed them...

Bob never told me any of your stories, he simply said you were an incredible human bean.

he was correct, sir...

They kind of got unwelcome, when I discovered they made holes in the siding, where they were gathering insulation to build their nest.

they are among the smartest of the evil little forest creatures.

I miss seeing them. where I live, the coyotes and cats keep them mostly elsewhere.

gram has a pair that raid her bird feeder with regularity. they are fun to watch. intelligence in action...

For a time, every cat I got took to leaving dead squirrels by the front door. Which is one main reason I never got any more, after Samantha died.

I think you and me are gonna have to find the time to get together and visit soon, ed. so I can hear of some of these journeys first hand.

and we can honor Bob together when we do...

I would love to meet with you, rock. Disfortunately, I can't afford to go very far.

I'll conjure a reason to get south. mebbe hit Austin while I'm in the belly of the beast...

802a. I met a young man last week, who is Cuban/Mexican. He told me he could give me a real Cuban cigar. I would have done anything for one of those - 20 years ago.
803a. I understand the ones who want to get the MLK quote right on his statue. But, is the paraphrased quote they used really so wrong? Every story eventually gets paraphrased, doesn't it? I wrote a Readers Digest version of the Ballad of Thunder Road, several years back:

Let me tell the story I can tell it all
About the mountain boy who ran illegal alcohol
He left the road at ninety That's all there is to say
The devil got the moonshine and the mountain boy that day
Thunder, Thunder Ro-ad

See? Little is lost in the translation.
804a. I keep getting little inspirations and jumping from this post to the short story I have been working at this weekend. Well, time to cut both short and get on with my morning.

If you plan a visit to Austin, I/we (my wife and I) may plan one at the same time. Keep in touch.

805a. We hear of George Washington's honesty. But, nobody else heard what George told to Martha the nights he came home wearing his shorts and wig backwards.
806a. Mrs edgarblythe got her new hearing aids adjusted yesterday. Last evening, she had the TV turned so low I could not hear it. She told me I walk too loudly on the wooden floor. Her batteries could have an accident - (Not really, but it's a thought).
807a. Every day in the weekly forecast is expected to reach at least seventy degrees. I am sensing a short winter. Meaning, the drought may resume much earlier than necessary.
808a. I tuned in the new Fox series, Alcatraz, last night. The premise is, when they evacuated the prison, in the 1960s, many prisoners actually disappeared, at the time they were meant to get transferred out. Now, they are reappearing in society, meaning each one has to get tracked and captured. I was about to give up on it entirely, until it was mentioned late on, What happened to the prisoners during the years they were missing? I am not optimistic, but I will tune in a time or two more, out of a weak, but gullible, curiosity.

So..Alcatraz is picking up from where Lost was working?

It's quite the opposite in our area; it's in the mid-fifties, and we're expecting our "first" rain beginning tomorrow - through the playoffs on Sunday. We need the rain, and it's going to be an advantage for the 9'ers, because the Giants play on artificial turf.