My Cousin Ron/Presidents Day

Jackie and President John F. Kennedy PHOTO:TOWN&COUNTRY

"Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." -- President John F. Kennedy 1961 from his inaugural address.

There was a time when young men and women in the United States were inspired by their President to join a newly-established humanitarian organization called the Peace Corps. These young citizens took their idealistic spirit to various countries in the world to help and serve poor nations.

I was in 8th grade when John F. Kennedy began his run for president. I didn't know anything about politics. My major focus was sports. I was obsessed. My older cousin, Ron Wheatley, was attending Gonzaga University in Spokane, where my family was living at that time. Ron was a major Kennedy supporter.

My family moved there at the beginning of the summer of 1960. It was a hot muggy summer and I had no friends so I hung around Ron as much as I could. He probably got tired of seeing my sad sack face. His mother was my mom's sister, my Aunt Cecelia, a widow with four kids, three of them still at home living in a small apartment. That included Ron. His father, my Uncle Buz, had died relatively young of health related issues.

The apartment was near the university in a neighborhood that my aunt slyly called "pious flats," a reference to the local Catholic population. Aunt Cecilia was a spirited woman with a quick wit whose Irish eyes actually did smile.

I don't remember much about the details of Ron's enthusiasm. I only recall... "Kennedy this and Kennedy that." I was fixated on the Spokane Indians Triple-A baseball team, a farm club for my favorite team, the L.A. Dodgers, who had left Brooklyn in 1958 and moved to Los Angeles, near where I had been living in Pomona. In Spokane, I watched several future Dodger stars -- Willie Davis, Frank Howard, Charlie Neal, Ron Fairly -- play up close in a small baseball park for the Indians. Ron took me to the games.

Kennedy was Catholic, which made him popular with my aunt and mother, Dorothy. Lots of Irish here, as well as evident in the surnames of kids I would meet in Spokane: Mooney, Moran, McGivern, McGough, Flynn.

Kennedy was handsome and a WWII hero and the following November, 1961, he triumphed over Republican candidate Richard Nixon to become our 36th President, not only the first Catholic to reach the White House but also the youngest president at age 43.

Media analysts claimed that he won the election based on his charisma in front of the TV camera during a debate with Nixon. He introduced a vital, fresh elan to the country. He encouraged physical fitness -- a Kennedy trait, as we've seen. He and his wife Jackie cut a dashing, modern style -- je ne sais quoi -- for the White House.

His first year in office Kennedy established the Peace Corps to promote world peace and friendship through global service. Ron eagerly volunteered. He was sent to Nigeria, Africa to teach English.

My family, which included my parents and sister Mary, returned to Southern California in 1961 and I lost touch with my cousin, but I was able to read about him in newspaper clippings sent from my aunt. He had studied and learned to speak Igbo, an African language. He was helping to educate local villagers amid a region suffering hunger and political unrest. He became a hero of mine.

Less than two years following his election, President Kennedy was assassinated while riding in a convertible automobile in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas, November 23, 1963. Perhaps his greatest accomplishment was to lead us safely through the Cuban Missile Crisis, regarded as the closest we've ever come to a nuclear war. It was essentially a face-off between Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev, First Secretary of the Soviet Union, who ordered the installation of nuclear missile sites in Cuba within range of the U.S.

My mother had begun to stock canned goods in the event of war. The atmosphere was tense, even for a 14-year-old kid whose world revolved around sports.

Everything stopped following the assassination. For three days, all news centered on the shooting and our former president. We saw endless films of the Kennedys. There were no sports or other shows on TV. Today it would be as if the entire internet focused on one subject.

Sitting alone in my home, I watched the suspected assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, being transferred through a basement hallway of the Dallas Police Dept. Suddenly a man with a fedora-style hat appeared out of the shadows and fired a gun at Oswald. He was identified as Jack Ruby, a New Orleans nightclub owner. Oswald died from the gun shot. I watched this live in real time on black and white TV. 

Oswald's murder multiplied speculation about Kennedy's assassination. Was it a conspiracy? What was going on? Who was behind it?

Ruby, who shot Oswald, was convicted of murder and sentenced to death in 1964. His conviction was appealed. He was awaiting another trial when he died of a pulmonary embolism caused by lung cancer.

Following Kennedy’ death, Vice-president Lyndon Johnson was immediately sworn in as president and soon after asked for an internal investigation, to be led by Chief Justice Earl Warren. Johnson wanted to staunch conspiracy theories as quickly as possible and settle down the country. The 888-page Warren Report stated that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone when he assassinated President Kennedy. It further claimed that Jack Ruby was the sole killer of Oswald.

Fast forward to 1979, a House Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA) found that the Warren Commission was incomplete. The Select Committee determined, "There was a high probability that a second gunman, in fact, fired at the president." Period. No names or suspects.

Some believe that the death of President Kennedy changed the course of history, that we never would have become as militarily involved in Vietnam had Kennedy remained in office. In 2004, heretofore unreleased recorded White House conversations indicated that Kennedy had an exit strategy for leaving Vietnam. 

"President Kennedy had long regarded the war as South Vietnam's alone to win or lose," according to Howard Jones, University Research Professor at the University of Alabama and author of "The Death of a Generation: How the Assassinations of Diem and JFK prolonged the Vietnam War. Jones was one of many to take this position. 

Two more political assassinations occurred during the 1960s: Martin Luther King, Jr., April 4, 1968 in Memphis TN, and Robert F. Kennedy, the former president's brother, June 5, 1968 in Los Angeles. RFK was campaigning for the Democratic nomination for president.

All three men had been in their 40s and espoused similar progressive politics. Their deaths were a significant factor during the cultural revolution of the 1960s that included political division and a war in Vietnam in which more than 58,000 American men were killed. Young people dropped out of the mainstream and joined communes. Many, seeking enlightenment or escape, experimented with mind-altering drugs, followed gurus and joined cults. Some draft age men fled to Canada. A vital new music scene emerged that crescendoed at a three-day concert in August of 1969 in upstate New York called Woodstock. 

The Nixon White House

Following his stint in the Peace Corps, Ron returned home, earned a masters degree in communications at the University of Washington, enlisted in the U.S. Army and served in the First Signal Brigade in South Vietnam (1967-68), after which he earned his JD degree at Gonzaga School of Law. As a lawyer, he landed an advisory position in President Nixon’s White House. I didn’t realize he had become a Republican.

He had found a home on the East Coast, first in DC. Following several corporate positions as legal counsel, he opened a law practice in Scituate, MA. One of his major interests over the years was writing. He had three books published, including a novel, Song of Africa, inspired by his Peace Corps experiences.

Ron with his novel, Song of Africa. Cover graphics by his daughter Elizabeth Wheatley.

My trajectory was quite a bit more pedestrian than Ron’s. I had married my high school girlfriend, Linda, at age 21, one year before graduating from college in 1969. By that time we had already brought our first beautiful child, Molly, into the world. Following graduation, I found a writing gig at the San Jose Mercury-News, became frustrated with the newspaper's conservative politics and walked out. 

This led to an anti-establishment journey that included a three-month cross-country trip in a VW bus with Linda and Molly, followed by the birth of a second daughter, Vanessa. On September 13, 1976, Linda, 29, died in an automobile accident. I ended up in Santa Cruz, CA , with Molly, 8, and Vanessa, 3, employed as editor for Santa Cruz Publishing Company.

We Meet Again

In 1982, Ron and I met for the first time since our summer hanging together in Spokane in 1960. We had had occasional correspondences by mail and were able to set up a meeting in Rancho Mirage near Palm Springs where he would be attending a business conference. We were with our spouses, Edith and Barbara, whom I had met in Santa Cruz. We were wed on Christmas Eve, 1981. 

I recognized Ron immediately, although his temples of dark hair were flecked with grey. He had the same manner of a college professor that I remembered. We took seats by the pool beneath an umbrella, enjoyed lunch and lemonade and chatted about our lives and mostly about our common interest in writing. I was having fun writing a local column and he was in the throes of a play. We never spoke politics.

We spent the hour chatting away. That was the last time I would see Ron. We continued to exchange email messages and eventually became Facebook friends. When I started writing my blog Talking Real Stories in 2016, I included Ron on my mailing list. 

"You have to write a book," he said. He sent me the name of a writing consultant whom he had used. During this period he completed his novel, Song of Africa, for which I penned a glowing review on Amazon, comparing his writing to the great Graham Greene, who wrote eloquently about exotic places and intrigues and Catholicism. Ron's novel contained a dose of Catholicism.

While I had left the church and become more progressively liberal, Ron had become more conservative,  perhaps due to his marriage into an old-money East Coast  Republican family. I gleaned that information from comments by my mother. I posted a negative comment on Facebook regarding Donald Trump during his first term as president.

"Please don't say those things," Ron messaged me. "I don't want to hear them."

"I thought you were a fan of President Kennedy," I answered.

"I was." His reply was brief.

I wasn't about to change my opinion of Trump on Facebook.

We maintained our correspondence without talking about politics. Ron suggested that we meet me in Havre, MT, the birthplace of our mothers and home of our Herron lineage, near Fort Assiniboine where our great grandmother, Mary Larkin Herron from Galway, Ireland, is honored as a pioneer woman of the Old West. “I'll show you around," he said. 

I thought that was a grand idea, although neither of us followed up on it. The last time we communicated, which was three years ago, it was I who suggested that we meet at the old homestead in Montana.

He answered:

"I'm afraid that's a bridge too far." Ron was suffering from lymphoma cancer. I didn't realize the degree of his illness. Shortly after, the news of his death was devastating. I think because I believed he would continue to be there, distantly in my life, and we could discuss our writing, our stringing of words into sentences and stories, an Irish tradition that we shared.

Ronald Brian Wheatley passed away at age 82. He is survived by his daughter Elizabeth and son John Wheatley. Edith had died a few years before Ron. He had been active with a Veteran's group in Scituate, a quaintly appearing harbor town in Massachusetts from photos I have seen, a long distance and different territory from the Palouse and Spokane. He didn't live long enough to see Trump re-elected. 

I would love to have had a discussion with him about Trump 2.0. Compare and contrast Trump with Kennedy. Ask what Trump had done for our country and what he's asked of us? What would have happened if Kennedy had not been killed? 

Thank you, Ron, for your encouragement and the moments you gave me in Spokane. Somehow, God willing, as you would say; or as I would say, "If the stars are aligned” — We may meet in Havre after all. Writers do believe in dreams.

"They blew off his head while he was still in the car / shot down like a dog in broad daylight" -- Bob Dylan from his 2020, 16-and-a-half minute dirge, Murder Most Foul. Title from Shakespeare, subject the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Final Note

As is the case with so many of my stories, I did not know where this one would take me. I began with the idea of Presidents Day. One of my first thoughts was President Kennedy's famous inaugural words, followed by how it contrasted with what is happening in our country today. Which led me to the Peace Corps and my cousin Ron. It took off from there. I did not intend to rehash Kennedy's assassination, yet the more I got into the story, I felt, for context, it had to be there. 

For one, people who lived through it tend to forget, and two, many today may not have heard a personal story of the event and its ramifications. I hadn't realized, how the president's assassination -- his brother's and MLK's -- were such tremendous influences on the cultural upheaval of the Sixties. I think I believed the reverse: that the upheaval was responsible for their deaths. Today we see protesters being killed in the streets and our government informs us that it's their fault. Some believe this.

Reviewing the investigations of JFK’s death, I found it important to tell how and what the investigations revealed. I am not a conspiracy theorist, yet in this case the facts reveal a truth: the "high probability" of a second gunman. Lastly, I believe personal relationships -- in this case my cousin and me -- make any story more realistic and evocative. Dylan's line at the end is a final punch! 

May your Presidents Day be real.

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Super Bull 2.0

Bad Bunny headlines the halftime show at this year's Super Bowl February 8. PHOTO:NPR

We catch the action at the beginning of the second quarter. Score is 225 Mags, 0 Libs. Quarterback Donny "Doo Doo" Drump and his Mags have held possession of the ball since the opening kick-off, working his throwing arm harder than a jackhammer on concrete. Signing one executive order after another, surpassing the 220 he completed his entire first 4-year season.

The Mag team has basically stood around and watched, essentially giving Donny free rein. Some say his dirty looks and threats have frozen the team's ability to pass bills into scoring laws.

We move to the press box.

"We've never seen a quarterback control every element of the game before, Tom. What's your analysis? We're starting the second quarter and the Libs haven't touched the ball."

"That's right, Joe. Donny has been on a tear and nobody seems to be able to stop him. The game did get a little rowdy early this quarter when Mag players took over Minneapolis with the Libs calling foul, only to have their fans hauled away and two of them... well, even knocked out cold, like dead."

"Donny plays a mean game, Joe. Just when you hear him say he's going to change his strategy, he pulls the same play again. There once was a quarterback in this league, Tricky Dick Nix'em, who pulled some stunt plays. But Donny makes Dicky's tricks look like kindergarten stuff -- sneaking into a hotel to steal plays. Big whoop." 

(Laughter in the press box)

"The game's become a lot wilder, Joe. Sometimes I feel threatened myself just making comments. I'm glad I'm making the big bucks."

"I wouldn't do this if I wasn't getting paid five-times my old salary. We're not on the air are we?"

"No, Tom. I made sure to flip the switch below the monitor after that last time out. The last thing I want is to lose my job for something I said."

"Okay, it's Joe Bonk and my pal, Tom Badey, back with the action at Super Bull 2.0 here in Santa Clara, home of the San Francisco Forty-Niners. Funny how some teams keep their location name even after they change their home location."

"That's a hoot, isn't it?" 

"Okay, Donny's over the center calling signals... No, was a minute! He's calling out players on the Libs team, actually yelling their names... err, that is, nicknames for them. Let's see if we can hear him."

(We hear Drump's voice on the stadium speakers -- "Fuck you, Newscum. I'm gonna make sure you never give another dyslexic speech, I'm gonna rip your tongue out. You're a dirty disgrace to this game." 

(A cheer rises from the stadium but we can't make out what they're saying.)

"I've never heard that before, Tom, at least not over the stadium sound system. Drump seems to have the entire game wrapped around his middle finger."

"You know, Joe, I can say that for the first time I'm actually looking forward to the big halftime show this year headlined by Bad Bunny."

"Yeah, I agree, Tom. Even if we can't understand his Spanish. It will be good for a little change of pace. But I know Drump doesn't like him and may try something funny. Like having his Mag fans race onto the field and bust some heads."

"It really doesn't matter what they do, as long as they destroy the immigrant vibe, Drump will pardon them following the riot, I mean, game. Err, I didn't really mean 'riot' did I Joe? Did I say that? It's love. It's all about love..."

(The sounds from the fans become louder. They're chanting Bad Bunny, Bad Bunny, we love Bad Bunny...  It becomes obvious that Bad Bunny has more fans here than the Mags or the Libs. The predominant vibe really is love. Fans are  here to see Bad Bunny not Drump.)

Note: I have been publishing additional stories on Substack that do not appear on this blog. I invite you to join me on Substack by subscribing for free: https://kevinsamson731032.substack.com/. Thank you and good luck.

The Magic Mountain

"Ladies and gentlemen. Very Well. Very well indeed. Very. Settled. But will you keep in mind... but no more. On this point not another word... Let us drop the subject. I feel we understand each other, and now --- to the point!"  -- Mynheer Peeperkorn 

The above quote comes from a character in Thomas Mann's novel, The Magic Mountain published in 1924. It seems relevant this week as bigwigs from around the world gather in Davos, Switzerland to discuss our world's economic progress. 

The World Economic Forum is an annual get-together in the beautiful Swiss Alps and this year all ears will be listening attentively to President of the United States Donald J. Trump's key address on Wednesday.

Davos happens to be the setting for Mann's classic philosophical tale. Mynheer Peeperkorn, a retired Dutch colonial businessman is described in the story as a loud, vacuous bag of wind. His character was compared to President Trump by conservative columnist Bret Stephens, then with The Wall Street Journal, during Trumps's first term.

The world has changed considerably since then. Trump has been impeached twice and reelected -- an astounding accomplishment in itself -- as if the majority of our country consists of masochists. Or has simply not paid attention. We're a busy nation buying stuff on Amazon and watching football games which makes it difficult to concentrate on the news. And of course the president has his own social media network and cheer leaders on FOX News. His bases are covered.

But Peeperkorn? Some things don't change.

President Trump 2.0 is currently on a roll, with his international tariffs run amuck and imperialist ventures in Venezuela with warnings that Greenland will be next. He wants to own the island that belongs to Denmark. I'm sure he has designs on changing its name as well. How does Trumpland sound? A big neon sign, or humgongous letter "T" shining brightly over the North Atlantic.

Perhaps a gilded casino/golf course indoor-outdoor complex with a retractable roof.

"Some people think we're in a transition," says Mirk Dusek, managing director in charge of programming the affair in Davos. "Some people think we've already entered a new era. But I think it's undeniable that you are seeing a more competitive, more contested landscape." 

The elite Davos attendees range from world leaders to celebrities -- 850 CEOs and chairs of global companies -- who want to partake in the high-altitude fun. Former British soccer star David Beckham showed up on the "white carpet" on Tuesday carrying his own intra-familial baggage, being chased by the local paparazzi. It's a scene.

Nvidia CEO Jensen Huang, arguably the world's most important tech leader (producer of the most sophisticated AI chip] will be making his debut appearance at the Alpine confab. 

Influential Public relations firm Edelman issued its annual "trust barometer" after surveying 34,000 people in 28 countries, finding that recession fears have climbed to an all-time high, optimism is falling in "especially developed countries."

"People are retreating from dialogue and compromise," according to CEO Richard Edelman. His survey found, "We favor nationalism over global connection and individual gain over joint progress. Our mentality has shifted from we to me."

World hunger advocacy group Oxfam issued a report showing that "billionaire wealth rose by more than 16-percent last year, three times faster than the past five-year-average, to more than $18 trillion... The $2.5 trillion rise in the wealth of billionaires last year would be enough to eradicate extreme poverty 26 times over," according to Oxfam.

The group pointed out that the Trump administration has led a "pro-billionaire agenda" by slashing taxes for the wealthiest and fostering growth of AI-related stocks for investors. He's purchasing part ownerships in private companies, begging the question is he president or CEO of the United States of America?

So the money is there. It's just not reaching the empty hands.

Maybe these big cheeses can figure things out for the better, for the greater good. Or will they not have a clue to reality while they wine and dine and talk story in the Swiss Alps.

In The Magic Mountain, the characters are retreating and recovering at a sanitarium in the chilly mountain air, occasionally warmed by swaths of high-altitude sunshine. The main character, Hans Castorp, is so comfortable, and enjoys the intellectual stimulation so much, that he stays for seven years. They discuss our world's problems during the build-up to World War I, with philosophical ruminations. The atmosphere invites high-minded thinking. Maybe... perhaps... something good and beneficial will come from Davos this year.

In Mann's novel, protagonist Castorp prepares to leave Davos for the "European dance of death" (World War I). Peeperkorn, following scenes of nonsensical outbursts and preening among the varied guests, drives himself to suicide.

Final Note: President Donald Trump dominated The World Economic Forum in Davos last week with his typically long-winded, self-centered rambling threats, back-tracks and insults, mostly related to the free world's role of NATO, how they owe America a great debt and will pay. He emphasized his imperialistic notions toward ownership of Greenland. He accomplished very little, although he was instrumental in affecting Canada's stated intention to turn trade relationships away from the United States and toward China and Qatar. Trump proved beyond a doubt that he runs America, with similar designs of ruling the world, like a mafioso bully. He turned the World Economic Forum into his familiar political theater, naming enemies and avoiding details toward world peace and prosperity for all. Back home, his Homeland Security henchmen executed a second US citizen on the streets of Minneapolis.

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The Ten Dollar ICE Cream Cone

The cost of an ice cream cone in 2026 is 35% more than 2016 when Donald Trump started his first term. 

Just when I sit down to write about the Ten Dollar Ice Cream Cone and its distinctive pleasures, I'm distracted by ICE raids in Minneapolis and the unnecessary killing of Renee Good, a 37-year-old mother, by ICE agent Jonathan Ross, 65.

The President responded by promising to send more ICE troops to the Minnesota city. He has a bad attitude toward Somali immigrants, most of whom (95%) are legal US citizens. His strategy: Raise the tension and chaos. 

Is this really what the folks who voted for Trump want? I thought it was safety in our cities. I thought it was lower prices and an end to foreign entanglements, like the invasion and takeover of Venezuela. "I am the President of Venezuela," he proclaimed less than a week ago. "The only thing that can stop me is my own morality," he told a New York Times reporter.

What about us? Have you been to the grocery store lately? Not only are prices higher, the packages are smaller: shrinkflation.

Anyone who is paying attention sees what's happening here. We're being sold a bill of lies. Trump's Big Beautiful Bill passed by his lickspittle GOP cowards last September, ensure greater funding for our Defense Department (War Department to him). That is, an additional $150 billion, as well as $75 billion over three years for ICE detention and operations (to stop crime in America, according to him). 

Do you feel safer? The folks in Minneapolis sure don't. "Please go home, get out of our city," said the Mayor. Nor do the people of Los Angeles, Chicago, or Portland. These are Democratic run cities in Democratic states. The reason they are targeted is revenge. They didn't vote for Trump. Is our money being well spent?

I prefer not to write or talk about this, but it's extremely difficult when my country is becoming a police state. All power in the hands of one man. Yes, there are signs of hope, small glimmers that I pray will burst into major rays of salvation for everyone.

The conservative pundits in The Wall Street Journal are questioning Trump's influence as a "lame-duck" President as well as his motives.  Maybe that's his reason for raising the stakes, diverting attention from our cost-of-living and other dark secrets he wants hidden in the Epstein files, only 1 percent of which have been released, according the New York Times.

We know that he and Epstein were pals, but we don't know the whole story. A Trump Justice Department investigation has subpoenaed the Clinton's regarding their relationships with .Jeffrey Epstein. The Clinton's have lawyered up to fight it. May I remind you that they are no longer in government office and we have a sitting President who spent numerous days and hours with Jeffrey. Shouldn't we know about his history in this lurid tale? His moral choices? He is, after all, depending on his own morality to lead our country during a very challenging period. Victims of Epstein and their families deserve to know.

Trump says he won the last three National Elections in Minnesota, which is a lie. He claims they were illegal. It's his way of building a case against fair elections when he doesn't win. There's no guarantee that he won't pull deceitful stunts in future elections.

If you care about such things as your freedom and that of your neighbors, your living expenses, your values and rights, your safeguards as we enter the unknown world of AI and more, please make yourself heard. Don't ignore what's happening here. It affects all of us, our families and friends.

Protests of Resistance will be taking place across the country on Saturday, Jan. 17, as well as Monday, Jan. 19, in honor of Martin Luther King (Trump removed his legal holiday). Let your voice or at least your presence be known.

About a week ago I enjoyed a double-scoop ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins: Jamoca Almond Fudge and Chocolate Fudge. It was delicious. Although I was shocked when the young woman rang it up. It came to $8.41. And during these days of low wages and uncertainty, you're expected to leave a tip. Is that our responsibility? Not really. But what are we supposed to do?

Make Trump pay. 

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.

Jane Fonda Up Close and Personal

 

Jane Fonda toured college campuses in 1969 explaining what she learned behind enemy lines in Vietnam.

At the time I was not a huge Willie Nelson fan. I liked him, though not as much as I do today. He had recently released his 1980 lp Honeysuckle Rose with his hit song “On the Road Again.” Which I found comforting, especially the phrases, “like a band of gypsies we go down the highway… making music with our friends.”

He and his band were scheduled to play at the Santa Cruz County Fairgrounds in nearby Watsonville. The concert was billed as a benefit for a local school. I had heard that Willie had family there, and you just never know who might show up. So I got tickets for the cause. 

I had no idea that Jane Fonda would be there. I had asked Barbara, my girlfriend at the time, to join me. She happened to be a major fan of Ms. Fonda. Call it serendipity.

Daughter of big time movie star Henry Fonda, Jane had begun her career as the sexy plaything of French film director Roger Vadim known for producing and directing the sultry film, And God Created Woman (1956), that launched the movie career of Brigitte Bardot, whom he had married when she was 18. Bardot died recently at age 91.

The name Brigitte Bardot had the same sexy cachet as Marylin Monroe during late 1950s. Vadim likely had designs that Jane Fonda would be the next sexpot star. She and Vadim were wed in 1965 and three years later he directed her in the science fiction sex comedy Barbarella, which was a silly movie shown in art house theaters. It typecast Fonda a sex symbol.

Shortly after, in a 360-dgree turnaround, Jane Fonda became politicized during the heat of the Vietnam War which was tearing apart the United States, in many ways similar to what is occurring today in the U.S. Early protestors to this conflict were summarily told to Love it or Leave it! This referred to our country and its red, white and blue flag. Many young men did go to Canada to avoid the draft which was a surefire ticket to Vietnam.

Fonda chose go to Vietnam. But her trip took her to North Vietnam into the heart of our enemy. She was seeking truth but no doubt was indoctrinated with propaganda as well. She returned to tell her story and was vilified by the war hawks who called her Hanoi Jane. She had won enemies in her own country.

She spoke out at receptive locations, including Santa Clara University in 1969, where I saw the former sexpot-turned-pinko activist. She wore her hair in a shag cut and her mere presence lit up the room. She was on fire: We had no business in Vietnam. We were being played. And as we would soon learn in the published Pentagon Papers, our own government knew it was a lost cause yet continued to send draftees to the fight.

She and Vadim divorced in 1973 and that same year she married Tom Hayden, who had been one of the famed, or infamous, members of the Chicago Seven, defendants who went to trial in 1969 facing conspiracy and inciting a riot charges during the Democratic Convention held there. Their story is played out in the excellent 2020 dramatic film, The Chicago Seven. 

Hayden was elected to and served in the California Legislature in from 1982-2000. He and Ms. Fonda ended their marriage in 1990 over personal issues including her time spent developing her fitness empire. They were still married and both attended the aforementioned Willie Nelson benefit concert in 1980 in Watsonville. I should know, since I had unexpected personal inter-actions with each of them separately.

I provide this background as one might prepare for a big party or reception, to give the reader a little history of the players. My role is absolutely minor here, yet personal since I did protest in the streets of San Francisco, with my family, against the war in Vietnam. I did attend Hanoi Jane's appearance at Santa Clara University. I did have the great fortune of not being drafted and sent to Vietnam based on a clerical error by he Pasadena Draft Board. They had mistakenly reclassified me 3A, deferred. I had a low lottery number and had taken my pre-induction physical. I was one step away.

Vietnam was a major issue during a key period in my, and many of my contemporaries' lives.

That Saturday at Willie's gig in Watsonville the band had finished a great show and left the stage. There was much milling about. Many attendees wore the mandatory cowboy hat that is favorite of country western fans.

In a moment of unexpected awe, I spotted Jane in front of the stage with a small entourage. She was wearing a full skirt and low-cut top. Her auburn-colored hair fell to her shoulders. I was wearing a white tee with printing but I don't remember what it said. I was too nervous. When I approached her, face-to-face, I didn't know what to say. Up close she stood shorter and more petite than I had realized. Her skin was tanned and clear. Her mouth and chin formed a Fonda-esque shape I remembered from her father.  I had some sort of pen or marker that I handed to her.

"Will you sign my shirt, please. I would love that." A crazy request when I look back.

She smiled and said, "Sure big boy." She didn't really say that. She did accept the writing instrument. She did stand very close to me and begin to write on the cotton fabric. I looked down. I had to, she was much shorter than I. While she scrawled her name on my shirt, I peeked. It wasn't as if I heard angels singing but it felt wonderfully intimate being so near the movie star activist.

I was still flushed as Barbara and I made our way to the exit gate. She was laughing. Then I saw Tom (Hayden) forming a circle of folks on the nearby grass. I ran over and found a place to sit amongst them, hoping to join the political discussion.

He gazed at me: "This is a private meeting," he said.

"Oh, of course," I answered. I stumbled to my feet and looked for Barbara, who was still laughing. I had had a big day.

I was ready to join that band of gypsies as they rolled down the highway making music with their friends.

Jane Fonda has continued to evolve, most recently having reincarnated as the martini-drinking straight woman in the hit comedy series Grace and Frankie with Lily Tomlin. In three years she will have reached the same age, 91, as Brigitte Bardot.

I don't know what happened to my signed tee-shirt.

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One of the Guys

Early this past year of 2025, Barbara and I attended a 76-year birthday party for an old friend from her days growing up in the 50s and 60s in Manhattan Beach, California. I sorta knew him, having met Bruce Clayton at about the same time that I met Barbara in 1979.

Bruce had somehow tracked her down, finding her in a funky neighborhood in the Westside of Santa Cruz. I just happened to be living across the street from Barbara. That particular day we were hanging out at my place, which had all the charm of a lost cabin the in the redwoods. A stand of tall trees hovered over one side of my place. Bruce showed up at the front door.

An obviously easy-going guy with a smile that never left his face, Bruce launched into a "remember when" conversation with Barbara while I listened and silently protested his presence, selfishly thinking he was stealing time from me getting to know Barbara. I had a “crush” on her.

How could I have been so stupid.

Today I understand there is no better way to get to know someone than meeting their friends, especially one that goes back into their history of grade-school antics and friends and the stuff that molds a young person.

Bruce was slightly chubby that first day I met him. At his 76th birthday party last January, Bruce was, well, the word to best describe his body, is "obese." He never left his chair located in the middle of his very cool house in a semi-rural neighborhood near the most protected wetlands on the West Coast -- Elkhorn Slough -- with a distant view of Monterey Bay. He and his spouse, coincidentally named Barbara, shared this prized location.

Bruce was as jolly and charming as ever. His white beard hung low on his belly. His eyes literally twinkled. He made me feel important to him. Friends of his milled about the house, reconnecting and talking story about Bruce and their lives.

His spouse Barbara acted the perfect hostess, making sure everyone felt comfortable with her casual, accommodating manner. It was obvious how much she loved him and wanted to celebrate his birthday.

2025 has been a tough year. Adding misery to pain, it was also the year Bruce Clayton passed into the next world. A couple of months following his party, we received a note from "his" Barbara giving us the sad news. She had included a history of Bruce's life that blew me away. I had no idea of the extent of his talents and hobbies and generosity. He never let his body get in his way.

Reflecting on my spotty memories of Bruce, it occurred to me how easy it is to judge a person by their appearance overlooking their essence. When someone you know continually talks about themself, they become tiresome. When a person expresses mostly humor and warmth, he or she becomes easy to accept and enjoy, yet their modesty doesn't reveal their accomplishments, as simple or profound as they may be. You have to ask.

Over the past 40-plus years, I had random meetings with and sightings of Bruce, often on the DeLaveaga Golf Course in the woods above Santa Cruz. I recently learned that he had heart issues most of his life and perhaps that had something to do with his increasing weight. Still, he played golf with talent and agility. He had a sailboat and invited "my" Barbara and me to sail with him many times. We never took him up on his offer.

Being the class clown who performed silly dances and played funny jokes, Bruce left a memory with my Barbara that made her leery of sailing the rough waters of Monterey Bay with him at the helm. 

I wanted to sail with him but it never happened. I'm sure he was an expert sailor. 

Bruce was a super talent hidden in an unlikely body, especially as his beard grew whiter and longer while his body continued to expand. Although he never lost his sense of good humor. Reflecting now, I think he may have been a messenger or even a guru.

He made his living as a mason. He created a brick stair-step motif leading from our house to our patio. Barbara had saved feature pieces of tile from her grandfather’s house in Los Angeles and asked Bruce if he could incorporate them into the brick steps he was building for us. 

That was like asking Picasco if he knew how to draw. He had the knack of an artist. The steps he created are a beautiful tribute to his talent and aesthetic flair. Over the years I have often thought of him while passing through our patio.

The evening of his 76th birthday, I was surprised to see a guitar hanging on his wall. I have since learned that he played guitar and saxophone in several bands, including Captain Reefer and the Jungle Sirens, The Intruders and the Stuks. I can see him hamming it up on stage.

A high-powered telescope sat on a tripod next to the south-facing window with the expansive view, a clue to his curiosity about the heavens and distant shores.

Bruce and his brother Mike were raised by their father, or at least resided with Reed Gilbert Clayton during his youth when my Barbara knew him. Reed worked for Disney, as Barbara remembers. The house became a hangout for neighborhood kids while Reed was at the studio. 

Manhattan Beach at that time was a middle- and working-class enclave of families with kids. Bruce was quintessentially one of the guys -- played sports, surfed and goofed off. Some kids never grow up. And never lose touch with their old friends.

One story I remember: Bruce and my Barbara were speaking by Bluetooth phone while we were driving on Highway 1 near Elkhorn Slough, perhaps on our way south to Manhattan Beach to visit her mom. The subject was dental care. Bruce may have had a toothache or something like that. He said that his Barbara was a flosser -- she believed strongly in regular flossing of her teeth.

"I never floss," he said. "Are you kidding? (laughter by Bruce). He made it sound as if no one in their right mind would take the time to run dental floss between their teeth. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I still don't. 

But I do remember him fondly from the bits and pieces, the rare moments when we crossed paths.

"2026 has got to be better than 2025," said his life partner, Barbara, who misses Bruce terribly.

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CBS and Our Global Village

PHOTO:KCS

If it weren't for technology, you would not be reading these words and I would not be able to reach an international audience. The last piece I wrote attracted viewers (readers?) from around the globe, from Argentina, Brazil and Bengladesh, to India, Singapore and Vietnam. And, of course, the United States.

This is according to Google analytics that tracts blogger posts. This does not include viewers on Substack, where my last story also appeared.

A knowledgeable friend says, “They could be using your stories to learn and practice English.”

I’d Like to believe that my words are going toward education, rather than robo searches. Or something worse. But I remain positive and hopeful.

I am reminded of Canadian philosopher/English professor/literary critic Marshall McLuhan's famous pronouncement in 1964: "The medium is the message." He was talking about television! He claimed that we were now part of a "global village." He hadn't even heard about smart TVs.

McLuhan died in 1980. Just four years earlier, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak had founded the Apple Computer. This was long before iPhones, -Pads -Pods, blogs, podcasts and social media. McLuhan was an influencer before his time.

As we prepare to enter the year 2026, we find ourselves walking around staring at hand-held devices as though they held the secret to life. We, the people of planet Earth, are truly members of a global village of distracted wanderers. We can only imagine the full-fledged introduction of Artificial Intelligence knocking on our village door.

I consider myself an analog mollusk caught in a web of digital spiders. I majored in communications in college in the late 60s, including graduate courses in mass communications. I found McLuhan to be the most provocative, and eccentric, thinker of that period, yet I was still hooked on newspapers and magazines, the printed media. Talk about eccentric.

Ironically, my college hero was Edward R. Murrow, originally a radio WWII war correspondent broadcasting war-time action to listeners in the US and Great Britain. After the War, Murrow made his name in television and became known for the guy who took down Sen. Joseph McCarthy in his (Murrow's) CBS news program See It Now in 1954.

McCarthy was a red-baiter, pronouncing various public figures to be communists. After exposing the Senator from Wisconsin's lies, Murrow and his "boys," including reporter Mike Wallace, went on, under the direction of Bill Paley, to set the standard for broadcast journalism with the debut of CBS's 60 Minutes, now in its 57th year and today making hay with the current Administration.

Sunday, Dec. 21, 60 Minutes pulled a story by reporter Sharyn Alfonsi about the deportation, imprisonment and torture of immigrants from Venezuela. The decision was last minute from above, according to several news sources. The story had been vetted and given full approval from the editorial team, who had contacted the White House for comments. The administration refused to speak. That story did appear a day or so later on a Canadian broadcast, only spurring more traction.

Our global village is in the midst of tribal battles over who controls our major purveyors of news and information. The players are conglomerates Warner Bros./Disney, Netflix and Skydance, owners of Paramount who owns CBS and 60 Minutes. It's about big money, big egoes, including tech baron Larry Ellison and his silver-spoon son David Ellison, who crave big power. Trump says he will intervene, which should make everyone very nervous.

Imagine "Trump''s Truthful Network." With an homage to him beginning and after every program.

The truth, however, is that our global village is full of leaking digital sources. Trump and his pals like Putin can bloviate and propagandize but real stories will continue to appear like a game of Whac-A-Mole.

The question becomes how do we sort through the blizzard to reach clarity. What is real or closest to the truth?

And how do we deal emotionally? I pose that anger is a legitimate feeling but will only get us so far. It will not solve our problems. Anything that directs us toward hate is suspect. Blaming others is only an excuse for not taking responsibility.

Technology is a two-edged sword (good and bad). On the positive side it allows us the opportunity to come together. I believe our earthly village will be happier and more learned when we gather around the global campfire and share our stories without the interference of a dictator-ruler. It's an ancient idea and it could lead to a safer world. Our stories are our life and our survival. This story will be viewed around the globe.

It's winter today. Tomorrow it will be spring.

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