Autobiography And Selected Works

City of the Big Shoulders. The very day the war ended. For good or ill, that's where it began for me. The slums of Chicago—beyond that, I soon found a whole panoply of truths, lies, forces, farces and my own daydreams.

I should apologize for the convoluted narrative that follows. I won't. Life has been a flowing river. I repeat and revisit things. That's how it's been. Stream of consciousness? Isn't that how you live it? It wasn't organized while I did it. Why would I try to make it look organized now?

From The Snowy Recesses Of My Mind... Thoughts On Poverty—From And About My Early Years.

PART ONE...LIFE AMONG THE CATHOLICS

INTROIBO AD ALTARE DEI. AD DEUM QUI LAETIFICAT JUVENTUTEM MEAM...

The Catholic Church was a huge early influence in my life. I was always the naive one. I never believed anyone would lie to me about such important matters. In fairness, maybe my role models and instructors were the victims of lies also. I once considered the priesthood. I'm sure that surprises most who know me. Jesuits first—I also even considered the Trappists. They certainly lost a potentially disappointing representative when I discovered girls. The Church offered security—and answers. Well, maybe not answers all the time but at least a kind of peaceful justification for ignoring the troubling questions.

I had a love-hate relationship with the nuns. You can supply your own joke about that. They were in kind of a mind control cult. Their job was to pull us into the same organization. I still love each and every one of them despite the hours I spent in tedium and fear. They raised us. We feared them but they had their tender moments too. Once, Sister JM sang to a blushing little boy: "Can she bake a cherry pie Billy boy, Billy boy, can she bake a cherry pie charming Billy?" For a few seconds I was somebody special. My first crush. Wouldn't you know I'd pick a nun! Well at least you know she'd let me down easy.

The Bells Of St Mary's is a movie that really displays the pluck and sweetness of the nuns I knew. Ingrid Bergman really captured the way these women could be sweethearts. And man, could they ever be strict. The same woman who could comfort a scraped knee on the playground like a mother, could tear you up for any indiscretion. You've not been chewed out if you've not faced the wrath of one of these saints. Many of the nuns we knew had joined their orders as teens. Many joined during the Great Depression. They were not strangers to hardship.

No paper was written upon until you put the initials JMJ at the top. It was a dedication—Jesus, Mary and Joseph—it meant you were working in honor of this holy trio. Despite such lofty intentions, I was not a good student. A child like me would today be the poster child for Attention Deficit Disorder. In the 1950's I was a lazy kid who needed to be harassed and cajoled to stay on task. Even at that it was easy to get over on my benefactors. Sometimes. There were so many distractions. When I was younger it was a window, a tree—anything. I daydreamed constantly. I'd try to listen but soon I'd be noticing that if you looked at these desks right it would seem we were aligned in a formation to run a football play. "Oh God, I think she just called on me to read and I'm not even sure what page we're on." Later the distraction would be girls and those daydreams were, uh...er...more vivid.

The Church taught us to despise divorce and avoid those who had encountered such a fall from grace. My favorite aunt was divorced and I was torn between avoiding her and being with her. We called visitors "company" in those days. In my naiveté I had misunderstood the command about not "keeping company" with a divorced person. Tough situation for a 7 year old.

I embarked on my life of crime in First Grade. Every kid had to pay a nickel to see a movie...something about Fatima. I lost mine through the hole in my pocket and knew I would catch Hell from my parents (and no replacement nickel) and had no idea what grief the nuns would have in store for the only kid in the whole school who didn't pay his money. In a carefully executed caper that would have made Willie Sutton proud, I liberated five cents from my mother's purse. Guilt prevented me from ever repeating such a heist.

First Communion was the initiation into the Catholic Church. Second grade—7 years old. You had to come up with some sins to relate during your First Confession. The hard part was fasting before the big event from the previous bedtime until after your communion service. The cool part was amassing something around $4 in gifts from relatives. Catholic belief insisted the little white wafer was actually the real body of Christ. They later taught us the miracle was called Transubstantiation.

We wore these tiny cloth artifacts called scapulars around our necks. If you died while wearing one you got the express lane to Heaven. We fired off staccato like prayers and kept track of them with a set of beads called a Rosary. You could gain certain heavenly advantages by doing this everyday for a month. Every so often you went to Confession. You knelt in a little closet and confessed your sins to the priest who sat behind a screen to insure privacy. "Bless me father for I have sinned, my last confession was blank blank ago. These are my sins..." He, of course, knew who you were and you just hoped he wouldn't listen to your list and interrupt you by screaming for all to hear: "YOU DID WHAT? MY GOD YOU'RE GOING TO HELL!" Just kidding. They'd heard every boring list a million times. They probably would have liked to hear from a flaming transvestite or two just to break up the monotony. When I was very young I made up sins just to have something to confess. Confession ended with the priest assigning a few prayers as penance and you were free to go sin some more—or did he say "Go and sin NO more?"

What little we heard about sex was something about a mystery reserved for married people. Good boys kept their minds off the subject. Apparently good girls weren't subject to such dangerous ideas. The priests said to keep our minds off these evil thoughts with a hobby. The problem for most of us was this train of thought was our hobby. Playboy magazine was the holy grail and he who had one had a following. We found our first ones while working in the big truck trailer during the annual paper drive. Manna from heaven to starving travelers—we smuggled them out under our shirts—reminiscent of the saints we were taught about who smuggled scriptures behind the Iron Curtain. If the sexual abuse of children by priests was going on in our area it would not have been talked about and victims would have kept quiet out of fear of being persecuted. Likewise, gay meant happy but God help you if someone claimed you were a "Queer". Gay people use the word lightly today but it had sinister and sometimes violent implications then. So much for tolerance.

My cousin, brother and I sat in the stands watching a high school football game and eating hot dogs when my cousin startled us in mid bite: "It's Friday!" We threw the uneaten portions under the stands in fear. There was no meat on Friday, even accidentally. It was a confessable sin. Also, if you lied to a priest you were struck down on the spot by God. None of us ever witnessed such retribution but then, no one we knew took such chances. Catechism class was pure rote memory. "Why did God make me? God made me to..." Mass on Sunday was mandatory. You sat with your class so that the nuns would know if you had missed and thus committed a mortal sin. Dying with an unconfessed mortal sin earned you Hell. There were other obligations that earned you eternal damnation if you failed to obey. You could counter this with certain indulgences available to all. In the Middle Ages you could purchase indulgences but by the time I came along you could get them solely by completing a certain regimen of prayers.

A priest blessed our throats on the Feast of St. Blaise. I was ten and had a serious sore throat. It wasn't cured but then I reasoned I wasn't the best of believers. We were not allowed to even attend a wedding in a Protestant church. Religious books were allowable only if they contained the "Nihil obstat" and "Imprimatur" to prove they had been approved by the censors. Billy Graham was not to be watched on TV but Bishop Sheen was. Casper The Friendly Ghost and Superman were frowned upon because of the theological implications of ghosts and people with almost supernatural power. Finally one day a bishop came and we were confirmed with a slap and the admonition to "go in peace." We were full fledged Catholics.

We gave up enjoyments (I think we were too young to have pleasures) during Lent. During the Holy Week observance of Good Friday Sister Divine Wrath caught some of us altar boys in the side room of the altar area. We were causing laughter among the boys kneeling in adoration at the altar. Had I known then of the Protestant teaching of the Rapture I would have prayed for it to intervene before having to face her after school the following Monday. Funny thing, the girls (except for a revered and notorious few) were far more pious than the best of the boys but only the boys were allowed to serve at mass and other rituals. Prayers of the Mass ritual were said by us in Latin. It may as well have been Martian. We had no clue what we were saying. When once I had enough nerve to ask a priest about this he gently vibrated an extended index finger and said: "God knows what you're saying." Many years later I recounted the story to a Tibetan Buddhist Lama and he smiled and extended his index finger and laughed: "Or God knows you didn't know what you were saying." All right, so I picked a Lama who does stand-up.

The darkened church basement was a wonderful place for movies where boys and girls could dare to engage in forbidden and furtive exchanges. Those lucky enough to make a work detail to clean up after the previous night's bingo could indulge in stolen, and warm, Bavarian beer. Had we been street people (called hobos then) blessed with such largesse while performing a day's work, we would have believed in miracles. Drinking was not a sin among Catholics. If you ever attended one of their festivals or socials you may have come away thinking it was a near sacrament. My parents liked their beer and their bourbon. It's a shame they only got to drink watered down Governor's Club Kentucky Whiskey while their son was fortunate enough to get the undiluted stuff. Oh well, first come, first served.

Funny, how you cannot remember the date of a defining moment in your life. I was very young when I was introduced to the term eternity. I was troubled. I couldn't conceive of a world without end—and I could not fathom a world with an end either. What was a little kid doing agonizing over such concepts? Sunday nights, especially, became times of agony and uncertainty—and thought. The halcyon days were numbered. The unquestioned moral certainty given by God had a weakness in its foundation. The simplicity of life was now tinged with a scariness I'd never known before. Doubt and uncertainty arrived like the smell of burning leaves on a crisp October Saturday. These were heady times.

I love winter. I always have. Though currently a refugee of sorts in the Deep South, I long for the feel of icy air in my nostrils. I want to be chilled by snow blowing in my face. I want to ball my fingers up into a fist in fur lined gloves. I can remember entering my father's bedroom on a winter morning. He was a Wisconsin boy and once my mother would get up, he'd open the windows and it would be so cold you could see the condensation of your breath. Of course, only the hallway had any kind of furnace so all of the rooms were a mite cold.

The photo was taken just a few years ago. As kids we lived on Miami Ave and it was a winter wonderland as a kid. I always read adventure books about the North Woods. Minnesota, The Dakotas, Wisconsin and of course, Canada and Alaska—these places were the promised land. I always had secret plans to run away to the North.

Public high school and libraries offered a breath of freedom. So did the sounds of far away radio stations. I lay awake at night listening to the words and music from New Orleans, Memphis, Chicago and anywhere else having a radio station with a decent range. There was a whole world out there and I soon realized there was one inside also. I wondered in an early journal if it was sane to have nostalgia and homesickness for times and places you'd never experienced.

I was never advised by anyone to read books like Hlasko's The Eighth Day Of The Week, Kerouac's On The Road and The Tropic Of Cancer by Henry Miller but they quickly replaced the Chip Hilton Sports Series on my reading list. They confused me even as they thrilled me. They were also a harbinger of things to come. There was so much. The written world was so cool! Poetry—Andrew Marvell, Frost, Coleridge, Shelley, Donne, Emerson and Wordsworth. Literature—short stories—Hemingway. Naturalists such as Edwin Way Teale. I dreamed of the North Woods—dreams of individualism and freedom. When I was younger I always had a safety valve. I had a few maps and actually stashed a few crude survival aids for a trip north whenever the world would produce that final straw. The day never arrived although it came close on a few occasions.

I worked summers in a few jobs. I was a gardener on a wealthy estate in a nearby village. They treated me like a special person—provided that person was a leper. I worked hard—they had so much—I had so little and yet they sometimes tried to cheat me. "Oh, I'm sorry, you worked 25 hours this week—I'll make it up next week." Weekends I was a caddy. Now there is a dignified job. Rule one. Find out what brand and number ball (example: Titleist 1, Top Flite 3 etc.) your clients are using. The first chance you get reach in the bag and put a couple of these in your pocket. Duffer will soon eventually sail one into the woods and this will certainly shorten the time it will take to "find" his lost ball. I still remember caddying for Mr. X. I doubt if he ever broke 120. He was making his way up the ninth fairway and was already lying 8 or 9. He looked like a hockey player ragging the puck up the ice—not unlike his putting technique. He was still about a hundred yards away and he asked me which club I thought he should use. Disgusted, I sarcastically said: "For you, a three wood." X hit his only solid shot of the match and drove his ball well over the green, off the roof and into a crowd enjoying an outdoor lunch. "Darn wind," I lamented. I also worked for the state as an insect trapper. I would put out traps for things like Japanese Beetles and then mark a map showing insect activity to direct spraying operations.

The Sketch "Our Old House" is of the house where I grew up. It was a frame structure of about 750 Square feet (Today, my two car garage is almost 700 sq. ft.). We had an oil furnace under a grid in the hallway. When it was working you fired it up by pumping in fuel and dropping a piece of burning paper for ignition. The grid was hot to step on barefooted. There was no ductwork—heat radiated up and drifted through the house. One summer we got a window air conditioner for what we called "the front room." It sounded like a B-52 taking off but it was cooler than a fan. There was a damp, low ceilinged basement. An alley reached the back of the property. Neighbors sometimes asked to use our telephone. On the bright side, no one I knew had a key for their house or the need for one and neighbors did "rat you out" if they saw you misbehaving. We swam in the nearby creek and played sport after sport in the narrow backyards and alleyways. School was walking distance away.

A HIGHER EDUCATION...

I left for college armed with Roman Catholic teachings and a midwestern indoctrination in conservative politics. Neither lasted very long. There was a war on and my conservative background could not survive in the face of discovering the lies, hatreds and greed that had fueled the war. This came on the heels of a political assassination that has never been explained and a viscious reaction to pleas for the most basic of civil rights. The explanation for that was far too clear. Looking back I could see even the trusted ones of my past had taught me wrong. Hate is never pretty—or comforting. We heard "Nigger" this and "Nigger" that—there's a world in a word. That revelation was like an earthquake. We grew up in a culture where newspaper ads for jobs and dwellings carried the less inflammatory admonitions: "Colored" and "White." Many of our mentors were rooting for the anti communist rebels in Hungary while later pulling for the viscious police dogs on both ends of the leash in the racist South. To get along you had to go along. It was as cowardly then as it is now. It's said to be an even playing field these days. That apparently means the prejudice has gone underground and the epithets have been replaced by code words.

You'll notice I don't use the phrase "the N word."   Instead, I use the word Nigger. I'm not trying to be offensive or even "cute." I'm not trying to shock although I would like to believe I'm making someone think. I'm too tired to fight and too old to be a smart ass. I'm at an age where I've got nothing to lose by being truthful. I'm not some white boy who'd want to convince you he has some special dispensation to use the term Nigger. I'm not and I don't. I have no such relationship with anyone in the Black Community that would allow me to use that word in anger, in casual conversation or in jest. There is nothing angry, casual or humorous in what I'm trying to say.

The word is powerful. It is ugly. I find the word unsettling—and painful. It disturbs me. To be honest, it is a deeply uncomfortable word. I think we gloss over this word's horrible nature by substituting something as innocuous as the phrase "the N word." I'm trying to be honest. I'm tired of hearing (white ) people on the news say the phrase "the N word" when they mean the word Nigger. It's Nigger. Use it when you are quoting someone who has been ugly or offensive. Doing otherwise almost constitutes covering for the racist or at least, the awfulness of his speech. Some white people don't know how charged that word still is and one way to kill it is to use it—use this horrible word when you're talking about the hurt, anger and insult in using the word. Using the phrase "the N word" sounds as if you believe blacks are so sensitive—or so stupid—that the mere mention of the word Nigger in a clinical analysis of a situation will be received in the same way as if you just called someone by that name. Please.

There are 400 years of baggage dragged out when the word is used as an insult. No, I'm not saying call someone that name, I'm saying use the real word when you want to express what you're really talking about. Calling someone that name is horrible. Don't sanitize it. Calling someone that name should earn you just what you deserve—it is still that powerful. It's a fighting word. Some whites don't like the word for fear they'll slip and use it as an epithet and thus let the cat out of the bag. For some whites, the word resides just off their tongue, waiting only for a jolt of anger or an unguarded moment to slip out.   I abhor the word Nigger but substituting for it with the euphemism "the N word" deletes its painful impact.   It makes it sound harmless. It isn't. As White people, we probably only feel a tiny bit of the horrible aspects of this word.

My apologies if this offends anyone. Please judge my thoughts by their intent. Just as using this highly charged word in a regular conversation or as an insult is the exclusive province of Black People, I reserve the right to use it to confront my fellow whites on the topic of racist expression. This was directed at whites only.

New flash: You cannot trust a white person who uses the word nigger. If they (still) use that word, they are harboring hatreds and insecurities. They are duplicitous—maybe even evil. They don't speak out of ignorance. No one is that stupid. The word is not a necessary part of conversation. When a white person uses it, he or she is teling you of their deepest beliefs about race. They are putting out a feeler to test for a kindred spirit. Such a person will betray you when the need arises in their twisted morality. A white person who uses this term, in this day and age, has a need to feel superior to another. He'll turn on you when his psyche requires.

The Church of my youth could not counter an open and fair study of church history and teachings. Neither could it withstand the onslaught of Nietzsche, Sartre, Camus, Hegel, Heidegger, Kierkegaard and their soulmates. The Grateful Dead would later sing: "A bus came by and I got on." I've been riding ever since on some kind of existential odyssey that never seems to end. I still don't have any answers but my list of questions grows steadily. It has been said that the test of any great philosophy is: "Does it work?" Well, I'm still here—I still get up each morning and despite knowing the most terrible of secrets, I've yet to experience the sensation of a pistol barrel in my mouth. Today I am increasingly convinced of the existence of God and the inspiration of scripture—all scriptures from things like the teachings of Buddha, the words of Christ, the Bhagavad Gita and the true words, poems and songs of anyone of hundreds if not thousands of people. It's all my scripture whether its from a Rock And Roll song or the words of religious thinkers such as Thomas Merton. Robert Hunter wrote: "Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right." I am a believer. All scripture is inspired of God.

I have always been moved by music and lyrics. One of my earliest memory of a song on the radio is Les Paul and Mary Ford singing Vaya Con Dios (1953?). Before that Frankie Lane sang about his heart knowing what the wild goose knew in 1950. I've never had the ear (or the talent) to play an instrument or even sing. Truth be known, I can barely play the radio. Over my lifetime I've seen well over two hundred live concerts. Before you dismiss that as an exaggeration please remember I normally always had summers free and I also followed the Grateful Dead who did over seventy five concerts most years for thirty years. From my earliest days I have been moved to day dreams and serious thoughts and emotions by folk and rock music and to a lesser degree by other forms. Elvis Presley and The Beatles were the most popular musicians of my generation. They were all too popular for my needs. They burst on the scene with far too commercial a message. Naiveté again. I eventually warmed up to them. My first passion was Folk music...Dylan, Baez, Pete Seeger, Peter Paul & Mary , The Kingston Trio and dozens more. There is magic in music.

Among other things, I am a Buddhist. I have taken refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. My Tibetan Buddhist name is Sonam Yeshe. I have taken the vows of a Bodhisattva. However, just as my Christianity is sincere and exists only between me and Jesus, my Buddhism also has no middle man and exists only between me and Buddha. I have achieved both salvation and enlightenment, but because I did it my way, there may be some who doubt that I have attained these things. I wish them peace and contentment.

A BUDDHIST LOOKS AT GOD AND LOVE

It's been said that faith moves mountains. I don't know. For all my time, the mountains seem to remain where God first put them.

Hope is said to be the desire that all things be answered—yet doubts and fears abound. A lonely night sky is still just that, lonely—and frightening.

It is said that the greatest is love—the greatest of all things. With love, we're in awe of the mountains just as they are. With love, doubts become evidence of things unseen—the very building blocks of the faith and hope we find so elusive. It's love that welcomes grace and causes us to cherish that faith and hope. It's love that makes another's heart matter. It's love that seeks peace—and it's that same love that brings peace. It's love then, that really is the greatest of all things. It's love, that completes the circle. It's love, that gives us a glimpse into the very mind and heart of God.

My phylactery runneth over. I carry a little pouch that can best be characterized as a phylactery of sorts. Instead of slips of paper, my little leather container holds what most would say are simply rocks. They are so much more than that. They are things upon which I meditate and contemplate. These rocks are my holy scriptures.

Crystals. These will be the first you'll notice and they are the ones you can easily identify. Some people believe they have power. I'm not willing to dismiss any spiritual pursuit. To me, the key word is "believe." It is belief that I find compelling. Belief in crystals is a kind of faith—faith, the evidence of things unseen. Faith is the quality that gives me the hope that love exists outside my own mind. Faith is the belief that eternal truths are real and attainable. Faith is my ground in sanity—it is my assurance that things and thoughts and spirits, actually exist. Faith had to be the fuel for the great fire that burned in the heart of Buddha and Christ—faith that the effort was worth what it cost in pain—faith that enlightenment and salvation were real, and within reach. The prophets have been guided in their wandering and wondering by faith. When the world is bent on achieving hell on earth, faith is the one thing that helps us transcend the darkness. Faith is inner strength gliding across the thin ice separating us from a terrible void. Faith is the thrill of the existential search—the thrill of knowing you have world enough and time if you but risk. Modern man has looked in the vaults and the places of worship. He has walked on the moon and looked back in time. He's plunged into ocean depths and climbed the highest peaks. And everywhere he's gone, he's come up short. The lesson of the crystals is so positive. Have faith in the inner spiritual self. Seek meaning in your own heart. Take what you can from the great teachers. Have faith in justice and truth as you meditate through the long dark nights.

I don't just carry crystals. I carry some gems. I'm amused by the world. They will fight, steal and kill for rubies, sapphires and emeralds. However, they'll only seek certain such stones. They must be cut and polished. My gems are rough and unwanted. They've only been polished by rubbing against each other. Indeed, they are of the same mineral properties of the sought after stones, but they have never triggered fights and greed. In this sense they are truly precious gems.

My ruby is of the color of the martyr's blood. That gem teaches fidelity to one's true purpose no matter the cost. It is a stone I find difficulty in facing.

The sapphire is my gem with all of the mystery of a dark night sky—a clear night, a night when you seem to be able to see forever. I like the sapphire. You can't lie to anyone when you're alone under a dark, clear night sky.

The emerald is my link to the forest and its creatures. It is nature and nature's God. This gem calms and quiets. It is the reminder that we are not the master of even our own little niche. We are part of a greater whole even as we feel ecstasy in our individuality. The emerald is the promise of a verdant spring. If hope were a gem it would be an emerald.

Turquoise is the blue-green ocean. This stone is a reminder of faraway places. One water touches all continents. The ocean brings valued items back and forth between all places. There is a paradox about the ocean— even as it separates, it joins. Turquoise thus teaches that there is good when things are used well and with compassion.

I also carry a good old fashioned rock. I don't know what kind it is and I don't want to know. This rock is the common man. It came from a stream—the streams of the mountains being the most pleasing. My rock is also a reminder of Sisyphus. It is a miniature boulder of the kind Camus saw as triumphant rather than tragic. It teaches victory over absurdity. Sisyphus raises his rock and gives us an eternal model for inner peace.

A small chip of flint is also in my pouch. It came from an archaeological site and it connects me to the spirit of the ancients. It teaches us to honor those who came before and lament the lost truths we could benefit from now. It recommends curiosity as a virtue.

I also carry a rock which isn't a rock. It is petrified wood. Wood from its era has long since disappeared in its natural state. This wood drew the strength of minerals from its surroundings. It survives because it changed. Its lesson is powerful.

I carry a common stone from the ground of the grave of Thomas Merton. It's a kind of relic but one for which I'm worthy. It's not a true relic in the sense it ever was something he touched. I wouldn't be worthy of that. My relic is just a tiny, common pebble. He was a mountain. The comparative proportions are proper. I also carry a small rock from his Zen Garden. It reminds me of the noble truths and teachings of the Buddha.

I have a piece of "man-made" rock called mortar in my collection. It once helped hold bricks together in a prison where a famous Native American was imprisoned. His captors insisted on calling him and his people by the name Indian. His captors wanted to educate his children about their angry god in reservation schools while they taught the adults to give up their culture and ancient lifestyle. This "rock" warns that good things can be used for evil when we engage in bias and hate. It reminds us of wrongs we have done in our pursuit of wealth and power.

I carry other stones. They are personal messages which have relevance only to me and the path under my feet.

One of my gems is a meteorite. No one knows how far it has traveled. Where it originated, we measure distance by time, not miles. What force put it in motion? What is really out there? Is my shiny black meteorite merely a reminder of mysteries too great to comprehend? It taunts us with doubts. In a sense, doubt is also evidence of things unseen. This may be my favorite stone. It returns us to faith.

I have come to find the teachings of Jesus Christ and The Buddha to be very comforting, illuminating and totally compatible. They also demand I step out in danger. They are but two of the many paths to righteousness. The trip has come full circle. I still don't have any of the answers to the big questions. If the religious mentors of my youth saw me now I'm sure they would be concerned. They shouldn't be. It's all about the journey. The most you can do is to be true to yourself—to be honest with yourself—to do the best you can. That will surely satisfy a loving god—it will certainly satisfy your own soul when you awake at three in the morning. Yea, I'm naive—I believed those people who said the purpose of man was to seek out God and to love your neighbor. I still believe it except I know now that my neighbor is of all nations, creeds and colors. I said I was naive but I am not embarrassed or discouraged. I'll leave hypocrisy, greed, hatred and lying to the hypocrites and greedy liars who wear their phony faiths on their sleeves. I wrote in 1967: "There is only one sincerity, it is the sincerity within me—a man is held accountable only by his inner thoughts—his conscience is the sum total of all of his inner thoughts and beliefs—his task is to know himself and be faithful to that knowledge." A college professor of philosophy said it was the most profound explanation of the existential journey he'd ever read. I can say it no better today. I had had my first breathtaking thrill of the divine wind of enlightenment the year before. I was both comfortable and scared at the same time. Nothing has ever changed.

I've tried all the creeds and isms out there. I've been sprinkled, immersed and admitted to religions of every stripe. I've formally taken refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha of the Buddhist religion and have taken the vows of a Bodhisattva in the same group. Along the way I've made common pursuit with the Catholics, the Protestants of that whole spectrum, the Mormons, the Muslims and Hindus. I've been saved, born again, sworn in (and sworn at), enlightened and made aware of everyone's big secret. I'm ordained by the Universal Life Church as a minister and have received an Associate of Divinity degree from the Universal Ministries School Of Theology. The last two may not be worth the paper they're printed on—perfect metaphors for any attempt to practice one's religion outside one's own mind and spirit. They go well with the PhD I have from my own Escambia University. Sadly, one sheep skin may well be worth as much as all of them. All learning is spiritual—or it's worthless.

WIND AND RAIN

It was the wind that always tortured me,
wild wind...calm wind,
it was the free wind that tormented me,
North wind...West wind,
it was where the wind had been
                                  that bothered me,
   temperate wind, frigid wind,
it was where the wind was headed
                                  that burdened me.

And then there was the rain,
     and then,
all things were good and great,
         all things were as they should be.
The wind and the rain,
   yeah and amen

THE THREE JEWELS OF BUDDHISM

THE BUDDHA One takes refuge in the Buddha as a first step toward understanding, compassion
and enlightenment. This is the first step toward faith and your potential as a human being.

THE DHARMA One takes refuge in the Dharma. It is the compassionate wisdom and deep
understanding of the Buddha. His teachings are the guide for the journey.

THE SANGHA   One takes refuge in the Sangha. It is the total body of believers
who seek enlightenment through the guidance of the Buddha and Dharma.

        THE FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS

       To live means to suffer. It is the human condition.
               Suffering is caused by destructive attachment to things.
           There is guide one can use to put an end to suffering
    The Noble Eightfold Path will help end suffering.

THE NOBLE
    EIGHTFOLD PATH

Right View
Right Intention
Right Speech
Right Action
Right Livelihood
Right Effort
Right Mindfulness
Right Concentration

THE FIVE PRECEPTS

Practice love and refrain from killing.

Practice generosity and refrain from stealing.

Practice contentment and refrain from sexual misconduct.

Practice mindful speech and refrain from harmful speech.

Practice mindful consumption and refrain from harmful
substances that harm yourself, society and the environment.

THE VOWS OF THE BODHISATTVA

Sentient beings cannot be counted, I vow to save them all.

Suffering is inexhaustible, I vow to end it.

Teachings are limitless, I vow to learn them all.

The Way of the Buddha is unsurpassable, I vow to follow it.

THE WAY THAT SURPASSES ALL MEANING AND UNDERSTANDING

You know more than I know but I know everything. You know more people than I know but I know everybody. You have been to more places than I but I have been everywhere. Your faiths and beliefs are stronger than mine but they are part of my spirituality. Your scriptures stretch around the world but they are but a part of what I find inspired. You are my superior in all things but I can give you the most superior of all that is. No matter what, you must never stop searching. The sincere desire to please will please yourself as well as all beings you desire to please. You will find that the path under your feet is the true path if you truly believe. When you are honest with the one who knows when you are sincere, you will have found the way that surpasses all meaning and understanding.

WAYFARING STRANGER

He wanted to see and shout
from mountain top and plains below.
The view from the heights and through the nights
    ...now but a painful pleasing time capsule of eternity.
The sum of the parts
is nothing more than the sound of breaking hearts.

It'll be this way in the flames of perdition,
   it'll flow and form lava like,
it will roll and rock...seeking its own level
     of course one phrase begets another,
these things travel like that
     these things sink or swim in faded stories
and likelihoods of despondent glories.

This is how it will forever be,
     pages ripped from journals,
        bloody hands write and struggle for such seconds...
this is how icy stares birth self directed triumphant minutes,
    this is for that,
and those,
and for all things that fade in the heavenly embrace
of midnight's fleeting foundering grace.

He's been waiting far too long,
   he was on a fool's journey when they organized the missions
      ...seeking holy thoughts and sacred works...
Hell, he was striding and strutting the walk of saintly steps,
   He was play acting the rituals from the promises he'd heard,
his was a stupidity that failed common reality with the absurd.

He tried to warn everyone...crying in the desert,
He was coherent just this side of inconsequence,
      that was him in his Third World disguise
Yea, holy shouting conflagration of despair
in sacred chants of amen
and ever after sublime laments of paths not taken
roads not even fathomed, regrets of such forsaken.

Of course he remembers the organ pounding jabs,
He was of the prototypical caste,
    ...they were going to carve their thoughts
on the face of destiny.
They were going to be the lonely children of forever
and forever’s petition with an invisible mighty hand.
What they didn’t get wrong
   they failed to get right,
They were placed here to warn you,
   no,
They were placed here as a warning.
They placed themselves.
Have you ears to hear of avenging angels?

Ignore the wailing siren of despairing alarm,
that is how your kingdom will evolve,
   there it is...
you have mastered life’s mystery,
you are free to go,
circulate among your massed congregation,
       ...share the sacraments
you are what you prophesied and conspired.

Nothing matters except matter,
      ...this is how stances become legends,
go forth and multiply,
     ...go forth and declare whatever you wish,
choose your words but remember,
you will arbitrate the definitions...
   ‘not’ and ‘no’
these are but flaws in the organization.

There are thousands of ways
   (amid ten thousand things)
to get from here to there
and back,
poignancy drips from every lamp post
      ...and gallows...
the prophet writes one eyed,
his laugh a graveyard laugh,
   he whistles past his own plot and predicament.

The prophet wanders through the woods,
   trees begin to look alike...
the wind seems to blow from all directions
before it is calm.
The moss is on all sides of the trees,
legend says direction is fathomed
by plotting the sunrise and sunset,
but it’s cloudy and has been for a season,
the times and signs seem only able to predict problems
   --and coexistent disasters.

The prophet is without honor on his own seas,
    his harbors are distant and shifting,
he should have known of the why and how of shipwreck
and shipwreck’s reason and season,
the child in the midst indeed knew,
but these things had to be navigated by the celestial
     ...these things were of personal consequence.

BUDDHA IN THE RAIN
Written by Sonam Yeshi
(Bill Stockland) 2009

Buddhism—as should be any serious religion or philosophy—is an intensely personal thing.
These are my interpretations. They represent what Buddhism means to me. Buddhism
isn't about limits, it is about beginnings—about first steps and continued steps.

THE LOVE OF LIFE...THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

In college I met "The One". I met the love of my life. I will always love her. She has been, and will be, my only wife and my soul mate. I believe we have been lovers in previous lives. I trust her and rely on her judgement. Sometimes you get lucky—or is it fate directed by an unseen force? Maybe it's grace. I've spent the majority of my years enjoying this relationship and I don't have the time, need or desire for dissection. I trust her unconditionally. She is my morning star. She is my light. She says interesting things without pretense. I love her even more than I can express. Biographies sometimes cover personal things—more these days than in the earlier times. I admire William Jefferson Clinton but one thing we don't agree on is relationships. I have been one hundred percent faithful to the promises I made upon getting married. It's not bragging; I'm merely giving in to the tell all age and expressing a fact. It's not prudishness either. I personally believe that two consenting adults ( or three, or four or twenty) are free to do whatever they please. Gay or straight is of no concern to me. Love is where you find it. Such encounters are wrong only when someone is hurt physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually. The act of making love is not immoral or moral in and of itself. In my case, my lover would be terribly hurt if I strayed. There will be no one showing up at the door with a story or a demand.

Glenna and Bill Circa 1965

1965...I was crossing the street on the small college campus where I was studying. It was raining and I offered to share my umbrella with a young woman who was heading in the same direction. We stopped for a coke. We have been in love ever since. Those were difficult times. She was attempting to work her way through college. Neither she nor I was looking for a relationship. We'd both recently broken up with others. I was on some kind of existential trip that called for making the trip alone. The Buddha teaches us to avoid attachments. Attachments (or rather, our clinging to them) cause suffering. Knowing everything I now know, I would have made only one change. I would have asked her to marry me sooner. The Buddha would have married her had he met her on that day.

We've been literally through hell and high water together. There has been much sadness. As I mentioned above, our beloved son died in our arms. We've buried our parents and we've had to work and struggle. What we've never done is stray from each other's love. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

I've spent a fair amount of time alone—sometimes on the road. All my life I've needed my solitary time. From the earliest days I would slip off to the woods by myself. I walked paths, railroad tracks and river banks. I continued this in college. In later years I have continued hiking, sometimes alone. My job often left me time to backpack in the wilderness, travel to concerts and even visit a commune or monastery. Some of these trips were solo. There is an incredible feeling you experience when being totally alone in the wilderness. It is not safe but it is hugely rewarding. In busier periods I often would arise early on Sunday mornings for long drives alone in the country. I'm fortunate to have a wife who accepted, or at least tolerated, my need to occasionally be alone. It never had anything to do with her—it's been about finding me. I'm still looking.

Of course my most treasured traveling has been with my wife. Together we have visited each of the lower 48 states, Canada and Mexico. I'm not sure what we keep searching for. Maybe it's beauty or adventure. Some of our travel has been to attend concerts, some was to camp and hike. Mostly it was to be together and to pour new experiences into minds and spirits that needed (but never found) diversion. We have had two children and are entering the world of grandchildren. Our daughter is the light of our life together. A few years back, in what sometimes now seems like a previous life while also seeming like only yesterday, we held our dying son in our arms and told him we loved him. We still do and it is clear now that we will never get over him. Why would we want to? I'm not sure there has been a day I haven't thought of him and missed him. In the throes of whatever outdoor activity I threw myself into and continue to do—in the middle of any religious or spiritual pursuit I've leapt into in my hyper way—in the course of any music or mania—he is there. He once told me: "Everyone dies."

I have a circle of friends I treasure. I trust they know who they are. We instruct each other and we console each other...all in our own way. We laugh together and we hurt together. They tolerate me. The sound of their laughter pleases me like the rustle of the wind in tall trees. Love is the real moveable feast. It is a mighty thing. Paul got this part right: "And now these three remain: Faith, Hope and Love. But the greatest of these is Love."

SOME NOTES AND THOUGHTS

The City Of The Big Shoulders is a reference to Carl Sandburg's classic poem about Chicago. I was born there the day World War Two ended. We lived a short distance from the lab where a big portion of the secret nuclear bomb project took place. I wasn't quite two when we moved to the edge of the tough East End of Cincinnati. We took the train. It would be another three years before we could afford a car or a television. I remember the train trip even though I was under two years of age. I played with a little kid in a camel colored outfit. His name was Stephen. My next memory is of the adults arguing about the Dewey-Truman election of 1948 when I was Three. An uncle who lived with us informed everyone that he didn't like Dewey because his eyes were "too close together". After observing politics for more than 50 years that remains one of the sanest reasons for making a voting choice. I remember the first little round screen TV—a picture full of snow and ghosts if you didn't turn the rabbit ears antenna just right and sometimes even if you did. I remember New Years Eve in 1949. A party. I was allowed to stay up to welcome the new decade. The rest of those early years are a blur dotted with an occasional flashback—my first sled ride, my paternal grandparents only visit, a king snake in the side yard, being threatened by a tough kid waving a sharp piece of metal, finding condoms in my parent's drawer—a big deal based on my mother's horror—X Cello brand (I thought they were balloons), hearing thunder during the early hours and reasoning it must be "the crack of dawn," the intriguing voice of Lowell Thomas on the radio, Longines Wittnauer commercials on the radio, the song lyrics: "Flies in the sugar bowl two by two" and "Vaya Con Dios my darling," seeing newspaper headlines of "Rosenbergs Executed," collecting war cards about the Korean War and Sigman Rhee, a big drafty two family house with a musty and scary basement, Carl Hahn and his family lived in the other half—he was a butcher at Kroger, the mysterious wooded hill behind the house, First Grade at Cardinal Pacelli School—learning that I could hide from the nuns and that they didn't always check our handwriting practice sheets when we turned them in and played with the clay, the police coming to arrest my uncle—I tried to defend him with a toy pistol, my first dog, named Tippy—later changed to Timmy, reading my father's old diary—all of this and more before the ripe old age of 8 when the family relocated to a little town east of the city. No matter where you lived you had the constant fear of diseases such as Polio and Scarlet Fever hanging over your head. We lived on second hand smoke and canned food. Meals were taken on TV trays around the television. Only the rich grilled out or went to restaurants.

THROUGH MIST AND FOG

The places of our youth still exist. They occupy some sort of Brigadoon in our minds. You took them with you when you left. For your effort, they live forever and ever. They come to life whenever you have pause to reflect—and cherish. They live wherever fireflies (some of us call them lightning bugs) swarm. Teach the little ones about simpler times and those simpler times spring into existence. Kick the can and play at jumping rope—and play hide and seek. Mom or Dad will materialize all too soon to call you in for the night. Always it is too early, but the places of your youth are real and their orbit moves across the sky as surely as the sun. Life goes on. Watch the shadows at sunset—young boys still marvel at why the girls are walking differently. Young girls are still amused at why the boys act like such idiots. Ah, the places of our youth still exist. They are here and there—and everywhere. They can be measured in quantum leaps and little baby steps. They are no longer defined by Mom or Dad calling us in; but they are treasured for all time by the sound and size of all things measured from here to forever.

Yeah, my friend...those places still exist. They live on in hearts and minds. They are here when we think about times and spaces—about yesterdays and tomorrows. They are here when we most need them. They exist because we exist. They are wherever we are.

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH BASEBALL

I am standing, fifth from the right (without a hat).

Baseball saved me. Actually, it was a baseball coach. As a Little Leaguer I was a terrible player. I think I batted .080 and trembled in right field lest someone hit a fly ball toward me. I eventually quit in despair. In high school, I failed at trying to play football and basketball. I tried out for freshman baseball only because I loved sports in the best Chip Hilton mentality. The coach was a most wonderful man. He was (and is) one of those rare treasures who was so secure in his manhood and ability—so full of genuine compassion—that he just naturally treated everyone with kindness. He refused to "cut" players from his squad. Some of us only got the use of part of a uniform for game days but we were on a real athletic team. It wasn't so bad to wear a uniform top with a pair of jeans. He kept me around and the following year—as just a sophomore—I found myself playing for a different coach (pictured above on the left) as the starting catcher and one of the leading hitters on the varsity team. I went on to win three letters in baseball (and two in basketball—under the freshman baseball coach who had saved me as a "nothing" little kid and who was a legendary basketball coach). I've tried to thank my hero over the years but he just doesn't respond like anything he ever did was a big deal. I organized a reunion of sorts to honor him and made sure he heard that it was recognized that the way you live your life is still the best sermon. Coach OC spent the night asking how everyone else's life had been.

I became a teacher and I hope I did it with compassion. I know that most of my students had very limited academic backgrounds and I really tried to answer their comments and questions with the most supportive and encouraging responses possible. What was so bad about soothing a bruised academic ego by looking for the best in everything my young charges risked sharing? After all, from those of us who have been given much, much is expected.

I never knew my grandfather in Wisconsin. I have since learned that he was the starting pitcher for the Colfax semi pro baseball team. I think he was 17-1 one year. My father was estranged from his family and I never got to compare baseball notes with my grandfather. Too bad. I do have an old clipping of him. He is standing, second from the left.

I spend a lot of time watching our minor league baseball team here where I now reside. It's an unaffiliated team and the players are struggling to get a chance at joining a Major League organization. I wear a cap that says "Field Of Dreams" and I give the young players action photos I have taken of them. They love it, they're little hams. They deserve recognition. I owe that to my grandfather.

Sports ruled my young psyche. When we had a baseball we played with it until we literally knocked the cover off. We then taped it up and played some more. When we didn't have a ball we made one by wrapping first rags and then friction tape around a rock. It didn't produce much of a grounder or fly ball but you could throw it like the real thing. A broken bat from the local semi pro league could be screwed and taped together. We played football with makeshift pads and helmets without masks. We wrapped our hands in old towels and boxed. But it was baseball I loved best. Wally Post and Willie Mays were my heroes—the Cincinnati Reds were great (to me) but I was also a Yankee fan—I always got to stay home during the World Series to watch the daytime games on TV. I was a lousy Little League right fielder (Right Field is where you put your worst player). Somehow I became a good high school catcher and third baseman and won three varsity letters. I was enamored with athletics but I was "cut" from the first basketball team I tried out for as a very immature 14 year old freshman. By the time I graduated I was captain of the basketball team and awarded the medal for being the best athlete at graduation. You can credit good coaching, I do. (See the insert above about My Love Affair With Baseball.) Some thought it was a stretch when the star basketballer, Bill Walton, said the two major influences in his life were his coach (the legendary "old school" John Wooden) and Jerry Garcia—the spiritual leader of the Grateful Dead and most flower children and hippies. I can say the same thing—except my earliest guru was my high school Coach OC who was "old school" in his own way. Jerry Garcia, though gone, remains a most important figure in whatever it is that I am today. Like Camus, Merton, Martin Greenman (a beloved college professor and guru), Buddha and Jesus, he spoke to my soul and spirit. "Let it be known there is a fountain, that was not made by the hands of men."

My parents were typical of the period. Both had grown up poor and without family lives to speak of (My mother was orphaned young and my father left home early). My mother never attended high school and worked in a school cafeteria. My father was a voracious reader—we had a set of encyclopedias and he (and I) would spend hours reading volume after volume as if they were regular books. He worked the night shift in a factory—he (like many of his generation) had a terrific work ethic. Men and Women like my parents built the post war economy by hard work. We owe them our comfortable life style.

BLACK AND WHITE...The Nuns I Loved

FAR AWAY RADIOS IN THE NIGHT

PRIESTS AND ABUSE...My Experience

The Latin:

Introibo Ad Altare Dei     "I will go to the altar of God."
Ad Deum Qui Laetificat Juventutem Meam    "To God The Joy Of My Youth."
(From the old Latin Mass.)

Dominus Vobiscum     "The Lord Be With You"
Et Cum Spiritu Tuo "And With Your Spirit."
(These statements ended the old Latin Mass.)

         Nihil Obstat         "There is nothing objected to."
Imprimatur                 "Let it be printed."
(These statements denoted official Catholic approval of a book and appeared near the title.)

THE SAINTS: St. Blaise was (is) the patron saint of throat diseases. Well let me clarify that. He is the patron saint of people with throat diseases. On his feast day the priest would bless your throat by holding two candles (unlit) to your neck. St. Blaise is still on the A List of saints. We also were taught to honor and pray to St. Christopher—the patron saint of travelers. It was believed he once carried the Christ Child across a river and struggled because the child carried the weight of the world with him. My father had a medal bearing the saint's likeness on his dashboard. Unfortunately, St. C. was discredited by the modern church along with certain others. St. C's main problem was he lived in the Third Century and would have not been available for his legendary effort with the Christ Child. Saints Josaphat, Philomena, Ursala and George all have been pencil whipped out of the Calendar Of Saints. They joined the patron saint of artillery (St. Barbara) and Saint Lucifer who was dropped from the corps for obvious reasons. No word has surfaced yet about the candidacy of Saint Bill.

The Controversial Doctrine Of Transubstantiation teaches that the bread and wine of the communion service are miraculously changed to the real and actual body and blood of Jesus Christ. The change is not symbolic, but is instead believed to be physical even though the substances appear to still be bread and wine. In the Catholic Church of the '50s and early '60s, an altar boy held a gold paten or disk under the chin of the recipient in order to prevent a dropped communion wafer from falling to the floor. Only the priest could touch "Jesus" with his fingers. In those days one was required to refrain from eating or drinking (including water) from the previous midnight before receiving communion. Only the priest in those days partook of the wine so the Vatican allowed priests to eat before communion so as not to be drinking wine on an empty stomach. The requirements are relaxed today and the underlying doctrine is questioned by some although the Vatican has not refuted it.

GAY FOLK AMONG US: Nothing is more controversial today than the topic of Gay people in America. One of my college roommates was Gay. Larry was funny. He could also be very sincere. I learned a lot from him. He schooled me in developing what "Gaydar" I have. He was into fashion...big time. I was a disappointment to him. Had the term metrosexual been invented back then, it would not have been applied to me. I was closer to Pigpen. I still am. When I knew him he was struggling with coming out. I don't like the term sexual preference because it sounds like a choice you sat down and made one day. Larry didn't have a sexual preference. It wasn't some choice he made. He knew from the earliest that he was not heterosexual. He told me that he didn't share my interest and excitement about women—it simply did not affect him. He tried. It just wasn't there. He and his domestic partner both died of AIDS back in the '90s—three years apart.

I know three people (and there are probably many more) who have Gay children. Two of them do not know that I know their children are Gay. In one case I've known for many years but it is my love and respect for parents and child that I stay silent. Society is mean enough. I so much want to tell them my God doesn't make mistakes.

So why are we so threatened by the Gay people among us? Slimy politicians have grabbed onto a sure wedge issue with the topic of Gay Marriage. I'm sorry, but I fail to see how two men or two women who share love and commitment can be a threat to my marriage or my spirituality. Oh, it's in the Bible you say. That's the book that commands a Kosher diet isn't it? Doesn't that book demand that a bride be stoned to death if she is found to be not a virgin? I've been stoned a number of times but it had nothing to do with virginity...oh, it's not that kind of getting stoned? Sorry. Never mind. Weren't the original people in that book vegetarians too? Doesn't it have this guy named Paul who decreed that women should be silent in church? Oh, and doesn't the book also report that the early church practiced strict socialism? Part of that book is about Jesus Christ isn't it? I've always wondered why if homosexuality was such a sin—why didn't he say anything about it? Didn't he once warn about hypocrites who circle the globe to make one convert and then make him twice the child of Hell they are? Just some thoughts—nothing personal.

;-) I remember that almost magical event. Our pastor called me aside when I was around 12. He said it was about time I declared my sexual preference. He was right. I was almost a teenager.

;-) I told him I'd studied offers from both teams and had decided to go the heterosexual route because it appeared to offer certain business advantages in adulthood. He agreed and stated it was time I went about making a fool of myself over girls. He gave me my first copy of Playboy Magazine to study.

You know some Gay people—you might not know you know Gay people—but that's your problem not theirs. It's a way to be and it's not going away—neither is heterosexuality. Both have been around from the first days. There is a simple equation. Since God doesn't make mistakes—and God made Gay people—then Gay people must be part of God's plan.

ABORTION

You'll pardon me if I laugh in your face when you tell me: A. You're against the killing of babies. B. The president is for abortion. C. I should be against killing babies.

A. You are not against killing babies or any other innocent men, women and children. You supported the Vietnam War when we rained fire down from the skies on people who were caught between two warring ideologies. You are a liar. You are not against killing babies. You simply want to decide which babies live and which die. That makes YOU the murderer. You have supported Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney in their concocted war against the wrong country. You almost wet your pants in glee over the Shock And Awe practitioner you voted into office. You support the death penalty and snicker when you are confronted with proof that innocent people have been executed. You support torture.

B. The president is not FOR abortion. No one is. He believes to a degree, in a woman's right to choose. How do YOU justify being against birth control, sex education and the morning after pill?

C. I AM against killing babies. I won't do it. I'm not for abortion but I am pro choice. I will not use such a painful decision as a political wedge issue. Come back to talk when you admit the Vietnam War was wrong, the Iraq War was wrong, torture is wrong, starving the babies already born is a sin and the death penalty sometimes kills innocent people. We can have a serious dialogue then and only then.

PATRIOTISM PAYS
AND OTHER BITS OF NONSENSE

Self styled cold warrior and oil man, H.L. Hunt, used to broadcast a right wing radio program called Life Line. In it, he used to proclaim: "Patriotism Pays." We were impressionable minds in those days. Our gullible elders had fallen for the conservative nonsense that conservatives alone, loved America. They had our elders indoctrinate us in this phony love of country by wrapping it in the flag and twisted Christian theology. They had us looking to the sky and saluting the flag while they laid claim to most of the wealth. Along the way, they allied their corporations with foreign business interests. The America Uber Alles crowd was really dedicated to money and wealth even when it hurt their own nation. They saluted the flag but their hearts and loyalty belonged to their corporation's pursuit of wealth and power. They have invested their capital in foreign businesses and hidden their profits from their own nation by using Swiss bank accounts.

Today, our economic system is in shambles. Manufacturing, energy and banking are so intertwined with foreign nations and businesses that we approach losing our position as a sovereign nation. We don't know how to manufacture things. How will we supply an army in a long war? We import our food—everything from vegetables to fish. We once fed and supplied allies during and after a great war. Today, we import most of what we use.

You use moral dilemmas as political wedge issues. You twist dangers as an excuse to rob us of our rights and freedoms. You disgrace the very flag you claim to honor. You play right vs left just as you played White vs Black. You manipulate borders to play Brown vs Black and White.

You right wingers can kiss my astrological sign. We said you were wrong in the Sixties and you have finally proven it to the world. WE WERE RIGHT, YOU WERE WRONG...AND DISLOYAL. Along the way, you destroyed Christianity and wounded a proud nation. We were wrong too, about some things. We looked to politicians of the left to do the correct thing. They proved to be just as vulnerable to lobbyists and greed as their opponents on the right. You politicians, lobbyists and business pigs have made our land of liberty approach being a land of absurdity. You are not forgiven. Lucky for you, you don't really believe in the god you preach about anymore than you love the country you salute in hypocrisy. You've made Christianity pay off just like patriotism. You have no shame. It's one (bad) thing to steal money from your grand children. It's far worse to steal their country from them.

A Little Bit Of Wisdom:

"I'm on this earth To give Jah praise"
(He who has ears, let him hear)
"To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white
stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it."

"You build your world on lies and illusions
But you never know that
This is the conclusion

No chance no hope for those
Who kept it a goin'
'Cause you never know that
The truth is showing"

"Still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest."

"I'm on this earth To give Jah praise"

ON WEALTH AND WANTING

Who first wrote this description of how people should deal with wealth and possessions?

"Everyone should live together and keep all wealth and possessions in common. Each person should give all he has and receive things back according to what he needs."

A. Karl Marx

B. Friedrich Engels

C. Mao Tse-tung

D. Fidel Castro

E. Vladimir Lenin

F. Other

ANSWER:

Of course, it was that famous person "Other." This is a paraphrase
of Acts 2 44-45 In The Christian Bible. It is believed to have been
written by Luke, an Apostle of Jesus, Circa 60-70 A.D..

I've heard a preacher dismiss this by saying The Book Of Acts is in the Bible
as a historical record and not as a source of doctrine. Isn't that cute—and
convenient?

There is an interesting passage in the New Testament:

"And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God."

Matthew 19:24

First of all, forget that little Sunday School explanation about an after hours entrance to the walled city called "The Eye Of The Needle." In this myth, there is a tiny entrance where a camel had to be unloaded and coaxed to enter on its knees. Of course, there is no record of any kind for such an entrance having existed. The story has gotten legs because it has been often told and it soothes our feelings and fears. It excuses greed. Notice that the "infallible" word says "Eye of a Needle" and not "Eye of THE Needle."

Earlier, Jesus said: "Yet lackest thou one thing: sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, follow me."

Take heart. Later, Jesus says God can do the impossible. In other words, God can change your heart and its love of possessions and subsequent greed. Here is where Jesus was probably influenced by the teachings of Buddha (who lived 500 years earlier). Buddha and his followers taught the Four Noble Truths. In short, they are a prescription for freeing us from our attachment to things. Jesus and Buddha tell us to free ourselves from greed. It is only then that we can approach salvation and enlightenment.

MY SWEET LAND

I salute my flag. I stand in respect, and sing along, to the National Anthem. I like the song, America The Beautiful...a lot. I love my country so much, I'm willing to discuss its mistakes. I'm also very serious about my spiritual beliefs. I don't mix the two. I don't believe any nation's flag belongs in a church. Mixing politics and religion has harmed both. It will only get worse. What would Jesus do? Neither Jesus nor God ever started a religion or built a church. Jesus taught us to change our own hearts, not form concrete structures that promote hypocrisy or nations that enforce one particular slant on religion.

The lyrics to America The Beautiful:

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet,
Whose stern impassion'd stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America! God mend thine ev'ry flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life!
America! America! May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness,
And ev'ry gain divine!

O Beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam,
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

I see the song/poem as an ongoing prayer or invocation. It also celebrates the majestic beauty of our land. It is asking God to shed his grace on us. It admonishes us to practice brotherhood. The prayer asks God to mend our flaws and advises us to embody self control in our very soul. We are told to accept the rule of law to foster liberty. It exalts our heroes who loved their country and mercy more than life. It calls for our commerce to exhibit noble goals. It asks that we remember the divine and not seek gain without it.

America The Beautiful—may it exhibit mercy,
brotherhood and God's glory "from sea to shining sea!"

POETRY COLLECTIONS

WARS MY GODS HAVE ORDERED

STATIONS OF THE TRUE CROSS

CLIMBING PARADOXICAL MOUNTAIN

COVENANTS AND FADED RISKS

ENLIGHTENMENT AND DESPAIRING DOUBT

FROM A DARKENED NIGHT SKY

THREADBARE IMAGES

ROAD SONGS

FIELD HOLLERS OF THE DISPOSSESSED

PUBLIC SERVICE & RANDOM THOUGHTS

BACKPACKING...High Places, Wild Places

VEGETARIANISM

THIS I BELIEVE

CONGRESSIONAL MARRIAGE

FIXING CONGRESS...A Plan

GERRYMANDERING...How Fair Representation Is Denied

THE ELECTORAL COLLEGE SYSTEM

ARCHAEOLOGY...The Disappearing Science

MY FRIEND FARLEY COLLINS

BLACK HISTORY...My Home Town

LIBERAL VS CONSERVATIVE...A Debate

A SITE I MAINTAIN FOR MY OLD SCHOOL

BANKS OF THE LITTLE MIAMI...An International
Poetry And Photography Journal I Edit

BAY FRONT PRESS...My Internet Publishing Company

MY VIKING HERITAGE...Wisconsin

MY PARENTS...A History

PLATINUM STAR...OUR REAL HEROES

MILFORD 63...A BLOG OF SORTS

PENSACOLA 110...The Positive Side Of Pensacola

SIGNS OF THE TIMES...A Photo Essay

STRANGE MESSAGES WE HAVE RECEIVED

THINGS I HAVE DESIGNED AND BUILT

A FAN'S TRIBUTE TO PROFESSIONAL BASEBALL

HUMOR

HISTORY OF MY HOME TOWN...Milford, Ohio

FLOP COUNTY FOLLIES...Life In The South

ESCAMBIA UNIVERSITY...Our Diploma Mill

PHOTOGRAPHY

BILL STOCKLAND PHOTOGRAPHS

LA FLORIDA...Flowers In Florida

THE ONE YARD NATURALIST...Photos From The Natural World Of Suburbia

"And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom
concerning all things that are done under heaven: this sore travail
hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith."

(THIS WAS MY INTRODUCTION TO EXISTENTIALISM. IT HELPED TO ENCOURAGE
MY PURSUIT OF PHENOMENOLOGICAL ONTOLOGY. REMEMBER, ALL SCRIPTURE IS
ENLIGHTENED INSOFAR AS IT IS IN KEEPING WITH THE LOVE OF GOD.)

ECCLESIASTES

Ecclesiastes 1

1 The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.

2 Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

3 What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?

4 One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

5 The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

6 The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

7 All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

8 All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

9 The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

10 s there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.

11 There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.

12 I the Preacher was king over Israel in Jerusalem.

13 And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven: this sore travail hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith.

14 I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.

15 That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.

16 I communed with mine own heart, saying, Lo, I am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all they that have been before me in Jerusalem: yea, my heart had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.

17 And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit.

18 For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

Many believe this was written by Solomon
CLICK HERE TO READ THE ENTIRE BOOK OF ECCLESIASTES

ON HEALTH: (August, 2008) Please allow me to include something very personal. I presently have cancer. My doctor tells me I have a fairly aggressive form of the disease. He's also an honest man and straight shooter. He believes I can be cured and I'm in the middle of a very trying and aggressive program of chemotherapy. By all accounts, it is working. Bad things revealed through palpation and in CT scans have already disappeared. Bone tests are clean and internal organs appear uninvolved. Other tests apparently indicate that I am a good responder to treatment. The chief oncologist says we can get rid of this and keep it from coming back. I've looked in his eyes (the eyes don't lie) and I believe him. But it's still cancer and there are no guarantees. That's cool. I knew from jump street that no one is promised longevity.

I have the same form of the disease that killed my son but treatment has really evolved in more recent times for this disease. The doctor assures me I am not suffering from a self inflicted wound. This can't be traced to genetics or even some bad habit even though I've lived in lock step with a lot of bad habits. One doctor said this may even be viral. I've been tested in labs from Miami, FL to Los Angeles, CA. My doctor said it was a lightning strike—just plain bad luck. I say we were all in the process of dying when we came into this world. I'm ready either way.

Chemotherapy is not fun. I'm being poisoned slowly. Fast growing cells are the target and some good things get wounded as the cancer cells bite the dust. White and red blood cells needs attention and stimulation. My hair has thinned to just about nothing compared to the beard and almost shoulder length hair I had. I'm tired and I take pills for nausea. However, I will get to feeling better a few days after each treatment and I'll have normal days for a couple of weeks just before the next treatment.

I guess you noticed I don't use the term "Chemo." "Chemo" sounds like I'm friends with the disease—like it's not as serious as it is. I'm at war with this disease. This is the big leagues. Cancer can kill. I take chemotherapy and sometimes it's painful and depressing. There are drugs for the pain and family and friends are the greatest medicines for the depressing part.

There are people who need medical marijuana in order to do their chemotherapy. In many ways it is a wonder drug. It's good for the spirit and in controlling pain. Some foolish politicians want to keep marijuana illegal for any use. They are jerks who sense a wedge issue for their reelection. I suspect some of them are in the pockets of some drug companies and some alcohol industry lobbyists. Anyone could grow this wonder drug in a spare room or basement. If it were legal there would be no profit in it. No, I'm not using it but I wouldn't hesitate if the need honestly arose and I had to choose between living or dying.

(Note: As of December, 2008, I am told my disease is going further and further into remission. Tests are encouraging.)

I also have a heart problem called atrial fibrillation. As heart problems go, this one is probably minor league. You generally don't die from it—the lethal complication is stroke. Clots can be dislodged by the erratic heart rhythms. I can often stop the atrial fibrillation by concentrating and doing little tricks. A good Yoga teacher and some Buddhist Lamas can actually control their heart rate, body temperature and even blood pressure. I think we all do this but don't always realize what we're doing. Of course, I also take medicines for the rhythm and the clotting. Never far from using sports terms, I have to add I'v scored a hat trick. I am "pre diabetic" even though not everyone in the field accepts that term. My doctor doesn't and I'm taking medication.

MY DISEASE HAS COST ME FRIENDS

Sadly, MY physical disease has cost me some friends. Not everyone is equipped to handle death and dying. Maybe no one is—some just seem to pull some extra compassion from their own hearts. I believe everyone has to work their program as their spirit requires. For that reason, I am not bitter about those dear friends who have distanced themselves from me since I told them of my physical disease. They simply "don't come around any more." I love them anyway and always. The Buddha teaches that nothing is forever. At best, I can only accuse you of convenience. So be it. I want my friends to be happy and comfortable.

"One pane of glass in the window,
No one is complaining, no, come in and shut the door,
Faded is the crimson from the ribbons that she wore,
And it's strange how no one comes round any more."

It Must Have Been The Roses
© Robert Hunter

There is nothing that I could have the sense of self importance that would give me the right to forgive. Forgive an old friend for shielding his spirit from the fear of death and dying? There is nothing to forgive. There was no offense or affront. It's not abandonment. Like I said, everyone has to work his own program. You have to walk the lonesome valley as best you can. I wish all of my friends, my distant friends and my close friends, peace and love. I hope you never know what I now know.

MY REAL DISEASE

My real disease is one that Soren Kierkegaard called "The Sickness Unto Death." Before I ever encountered the works of this great existential philosopher, I had already recognized this sickness unto death as simply the human condition. On one end lies despair. This despair is made tragic because we are conscious of it. At the other extreme is Kierkegaard's one main noble truth—a personal relationship with God. We do not need people or treasure. We need to mine our own perfect and imperfect gems from deep inside ourselves. We are accountable only to our conscience—to our own sense of morality. We need a code to live by and it must be honest. We must never abandon the pursuit of decency, honor and love. We must be true to ourselves.

Besides, despair is a seminal thing. Many a Phoenix has risen from the ashes. From many blows comes strength. Despair is the father of faith and hope. Gethsemani is triumph. It's worked since I was 10 years old.

"Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone."

Ripple © Robert Hunter

Worker Bee: I've done a few things in my life to keep the wolf away from the door. Mostly, I was a teacher. More about that in a second. As I mentioned before, I served the deserving rich as a gardener and a caddy. I worked with the state agriculture people in mapping the infestation of insects so that man and creature could be thoroughly sprayed. I passed out weekly handbills for a market. I worked some for the Post Office. I stamped and moved textbooks for the high school. I worked as a store clerk. I worked in a rug cleaning company doing in plant labor and driving a truck. All of these things were largely uneventful and done while I was still a student at one level or another. Once I became a teacher I worked at various part-time and summer work as a store clerk in Stop And Rob stores. I also worked on loading docks as a forklift driver and loader (I am an honorably withdrawn Teamster). My father did this kind of work for nearly 30 years. I made furniture in a factory and later in my own little shop. I was never a dedicated capitalist and enjoyed this work best when making something for a friend. I've done some house remodeling—mostly for friends but I also had a few commercial jobs. I enjoyed working with my hands on creative items.

Teaching was often a miserable job. The sad thing is it could be a wonderful way to earn a living and serve humanity. It sometimes was when the adults got out of the way. The stress, believe it or not, can be incredible—again thanks to the adults. Kids are a trip and a treasure and they deserve better than they get in our educational institutions. I was not cut out to be a teacher the way schools expect a teacher to be. I'm seldom well organized and I tend to take fewer things as seriously as I should. I was so naive when I took my first teaching position. I really expected to be joining a faculty similar to that I had observed in college. I had made friends with a few of my professors and I guess I craved the intellectual exchanges they had with their fellow professors. Wow, was that ever a mistake. I met some good people who were teachers but I also observed some of the same petty back biting and maneuvering you'd see in any corporation. Everything boiled down to numbers and budgets. There were more than a few people who sought status by avoiding doing anything that would serve to make other teachers look better. It was never supposed to be a competition. I am told that today it is even worse as we race to leave as many children behind as possible with unfunded mandates and ridiculous achievement tests that are revised to be more difficult when too many children begin passing. Politicians are the most ignorant of our society and we've allowed them to use the schools as political footballs from both sides of political aisles. Schools should be bright and nurturing places. Every child can't have a loving home or the financial resources to get an equal start in life. The schools need to do better. They are the only hope some of our sweet little treasures will have to make it. Your God is watching.

I was fortunate to spend almost twenty years working in a very non traditional school. It was located inside a juvenile "jail." We were ignored by the local school officials, some of whom may or may not even have known they funded us. Sometimes bureaucracy can be used for good. For years we kept a low profile and stayed under the radar screens of the bureaucrats who would have given "our" kids one more miserable experience in their lives. The school and the institution were run for the sake of the kids. We had principals who rarely visited us and never in 18 years stepped foot inside my classroom. I designed and created my own program. The school was run by a person having the title Teacher-In-Charge and the juvenile center was run by a Superintendent. If ever two men cared more about the welfare of kids I'd be surprised. They were creative and caring and they gave us the room to be the same. And THEY knew what was going on in their building. Mind you, incarcerated kids can be dangerous and difficult to work with. There is a lot going on in their young and vulnerable lives—there are many pressures working on them. We had people threatened and even physically harmed. We also had kids who went out of their way to simply touch us. How many teachers have students who try to sneak INTO their classes? How many have kids who shake their hands as they leave and say thank you? Well, I had them (as did my colleagues) and I'm damn proud of it. The overwhelming majority were great young kids who were misassigned by circumstances largely out of their control. Rather than dwell on their failures I'd like to think about how many good things they did against incredible odds.

Teaching (teaching well) is an incredibly difficult job. Children really do love to learn. They love to be interested. Good teachers are entertainers—entertainers with a message. When you've done it well you are exhausted at the end of the day but you feel fulfilled. Exhausting? Ask a stand-up comedian how long he'd last if he had to do six shows a night, five days a week. To make matters worse for the classroom teacher, many modern school board members are petty politicians. Many school principals chose that route to get out of the classroom. There are some great ones. One of my former teachers (who had a huge influence over my life) went on to become an elementary school principal. He would arrive at his office hours before the school opened to complete his flood of daily paper work so that he could spend the day circulating around his school and talking with kids, teachers and parents. Sadly, he was the exception.

Many legislators write laws about education because they have hidden agendas—or they are motivated to find someone to blame for the mess they have made out of society. It's a strange twist—conservative politicians invoke their best diatribe to condemn teachers and teacher's unions such as the NEA and AFT. The truth is, the far overwhelming majority of teachers are moderate to extreme conservatives. The current vexation on public schools is the school voucher. Politicians promote the concept as a way of fostering freedom of choice. What it actually does is subsidize private schools with tax dollars while enabling these schools to keep poor children out. It works this way. School x charges $10,000 a year for tuition. If the state will give a voucher to a family for $10,000 the school will soon find the need to expand or deal with increased costs by raising the tuition to $12,000 (or whatever). Parents pay the difference. Their kids end up getting their 10K education for 2K. The children of parents who don't have the 2K get the highway to under funded public schools reeking of failure. WWJD?

Music And Concerts: I really have attended over two hundred Grateful Dead Concerts. The Dead performed thousands of concerts and were still at it in 2004. They have since disbanded—like the rest of us—unable to cope with the death of Jerry Garcia. I traveled to Wisconsin, New York, North Carolina, Georgia, Indiana, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Florida, Ohio, Illinois, California, Tennessee and other places for concerts. Other groups and individuals I saw (some numerous times) include: Peter, Paul and Mary, the Kingston Trio, New Christy Minstrels, Bob Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Holly Near, Ronnie Gilbert of the Weavers, Neil Young, Gary Puckett, Crosby Stills and Nash (collectively as CS&N and individually), Pete Fountain, Harry James, Nina Simone, Buddy Rich, Ramsey Lewis, Dr. Hook, Duke Ellington, Steve Winwood, The Violent Femmes (seriously), The Alarm, Tom Petty, Frank Zappa, Dizzy Gillespie, Dave Bruebeck, Hot Tuna, Jerry Garcia Band, Phil Lesh & Friends, Three Dog Night, Rat Dog, Neville Brothers, The Rolling Stones, Robert Hunter, Natalie Merchant, Bonnie Raitt, Willie Nelson, Elton John, Garth Brooks, Don Henley, Taj Mahal, Rusted Root, Dave Matthews, Fleetwood Mac, Oak Ridge Boys, Steve Miller Band, Judy Collins, Bela Fleck and others. In addition I have amassed over 500 albums (mostly rock and folk), over 2000 hours of live Dead concert tapes, hundreds of music CD's and cassette tapes...all evidence of a misspent life.

Ok—for those still with me on this—allow me to add one more little minor experience. I once had a medical procedure that didn't go as expected right away. I believe my heart stopped—that was part of the planned procedure—but in my case it didn't restart as expected. I watched from above as the procedure was quickly repeated and I was looking from the ceiling as the medical people surrounded my body. The procedure was repeated still again and I felt a burning pain leaving my chest (I later had painful burn marks on my chest) as I quickly rejoined my body. It's a true story but I can't "prove" it. But then, you can't even prove you actually exist—but let us not go down that road.

My Hubris: Hubris is sometimes defined as excessive pride or arrogance. If the shoe fits. So what gives me the right or the importance to publish my autobiography, my poetry, photos or writing? My flippant answer is "Why not?" My better answer is to quote John Donne who wrote No Man Is An Island. Maybe we should look at the whole poem:

No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main
if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.

Maybe I am that clod. I've certainly been called worse. Wars are won in the trenches by average people. Societies are built and sustained by people who get up in the morning and "keep on keeping on." Hands that rock the cradle do not rule the world. Instead they nurture the little ones here and now with no thought of a bigger picture about ruling anything. In doing so they nurture the world itself. So where do I get off publishing my autobiography and works? There is nothing profound here. It's meant to be neither a cautionary tale nor an inspiration for saints. I do it to be heard—maybe even to hear myself—to know myself. After all, "every man is a piece of the continent." Every person is part of a mosaic or a tapestry. An ancient Buddhist text states that any man who does his best, whether his work be great or small, is considered to be doing the work of a lion.

"Can you cleanse your inner vision until you see nothing but the light?"

Ancient Taoist Writing

"God gives nothing to those who keep their arms crossed."

West African Proverb

"My religion is to have nothing to be ashamed of when I die."

Ancient Buddhist Teaching

"A faultless man I cannot hope ever to meet...the most
I can hope for is to meet a man of fixed principle."

Confuscious

"My words are tied in one with the great mountains, with the
great rocks, with the great trees, in one with my body and my heart."

Native American Saying

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose
under the heaven...a time to keep silence and a time to speak..."

Hebrew Scripture

"The happiness that belongs to a mind that by deep meditation has
been washed clear of all impurity and has entered within the self,
cannot be described with words, it can be felt by the inward power only."

Hindu Teaching

"Those who believe and do not mix up their faith with iniquity, those are
they who shall have the security and they are those who go aright."

Muhammad, The Koran

"Above all the grace and the gifts that Christ gives
to his beloved is that of overcoming self."

St. Francis of Assisi

"Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot
be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel,
but on a candlestick; and it givethlight unto all men in the house."

Jesus Christ

EMail Bill Stockland at: billstockland@cox.net or willstockland@yahoo.com