Thanks Joe, Hello Kamala

From the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters... this land is made for you and me. Protect our natural resources and federal lands from oil drilling and development. 

Joe Biden has been the best President of my lifetime. 

He gave us hope. He brought us out of COVID when things were looking pretty bleak. He did so without rancor or vengeance. He didn't mince words, didn't pretend that everything was fine and great because he was in charge and the only one who could save us.

Inflation went sky high, yet Joe had good ideas and programs. Thanks to him and his leadership inflation has come down to pre-COVID level. 

Our infrastructure has been failing and there was a lot of jawboning before him about how devastated things were -- the word from the Great Poser was "carnage.”Rather than big talk, Joe took big action. Roads are being repaired and improved across the country. Jobs are being created. We did not fall into the recession that many economists thought we would.

Our country is finally cruising, flush with new energy. Look at the numbers. Build from the bottom up, he said, "not the top down." The trickle-down economy -- supply-side -- produced a huge gap between the rich and the poor. The trickle never reached the bottom. Those poor folks you see on the streets didn't just appear out of nowhere. They're a result of years of supply-side economics that paid the CEOs grandiose dollars while the little people -- most of them hard working -- had to secure two jobs just to stay afloat. Others turned to drugs and addiction. Yet corporations have flourished, gobbled up the little guys, killed the mom and pops.

Joe has kept us out of war during one of the most dangerous periods on earth. He's bolstered our allies and refused to pander to dictators and autocrats who would have us surrender to fascism. That is, have our nation fall victim to falsehoods, throw the intellectuals who dissent into prisons, poison them, make them disappear, keep them from speaking the truth, while enriching the plutocrats and oligarchs, the wealthy loyalists.

Joe is a decent guy. He admits when he's wrong. Country is more important to him than country clubs. Dictators of our world know he won't bend to their whims. He knows right from wrong. There's no deals being made that sacrifice our freedom and keep us under the foot of an autocrat. He knows who we are and what we stand for.

Has Joe been perfect? No one is perfect. People make mistakes and they own up. They accept losing. That's how we learn. Simple facts. Is he a great speaker? No, he's a doer, an action man.

We've got a climate crisis, a shaky international situation, threats of nuclear war and we cannot afford to have a madman in charge. The risks are too high. Our problems do not stem from too many immigrants. That is a lie and a sham. They stem from an inequality of wealth and lack of strong leaders who can see through the false screens. 

We need a leader who will build us up, not tear us down. Kamala Harris has been watching carefully taking notes, calculating what works for the real people, not the business buddies. Truth is, the other guy with the big-brand name cannot run a business without going bankrupt (6 times). He's made his fortune by selling his brand. It's phony salesmanship, a con, bitcoins and Bibles, not nuts-and-bolts business. His current business strategy is "Drill, baby, drill."

To those who believe in Mr. Big Shot, what has he ever done for you other than make you want to tear our country down? His is an emotional appeal, not fact-based realism. It's television, social media, not reality. Anyone who seeks vengeance, promotes hate, loves to insult people, is not going to help you. He's a bully.

For our future. For our planet. For the good of the world, let's elect a smart, intelligent woman who understands -- a decent, rational person. She's learned from the best and will make it better. She's a fighter.

Business Note: According to the nonpartisan Committee for a Responsible Budget, Trump's proposed lavish spending, his tariffs and tax cuts, will increase U.S. debt by $7.5 trillion, compared to Harris's plans that will amount to $3.5 trillion, through 2035. Talk about inflation! Source: the Wall Street Journal, Oct. 11, Greg Ip's column Capital Account, page 2. 

Now he is saying that the conservative Wall Street Journal has no credibility. In the real world, the WSJ understands business and basic economics better than he does.

Trump has no credibility. He is not fit to be our President. Vote in a winner! Vote Kamala!

Tracy

News arrived today that Tracy passed away. She was a girl I had known since first grade. “I guess you would say that Tracy was the star of our class,” said our longtime friend, Paul. He ended his email with, “We’re dropping like flies.”

Tracy, Paul and I were of the Class of ’65, the heart of the baby-boomers.

By star of our class, Paul was referring to Tracy’s popularity. She was petite and cute. Starting in elementary school, she was considered by an undefined consensus to be the most desirable of all the girls. Tracy was Homecoming Queen of the Class of ’65. She had been on the “court” the three previous years, since her freshman year. It was a given.

I never really knew Tracy. I never talked with her or shared a laugh. She seemed untouchable. Her boyfriends were always older and from other schools. She didn’t associate with my groups, which I guess would be the jocks and surfers. Although I was not much of a joiner. I don’t remember her at any of the school dances or hanging at the beach with the gang. She must have been there somewhere.

Tracy sat in the front of the class. Being one of the taller boys, I was stationed in the back. Plus, the nuns tried to keep the boys and girls apart. Following eight years of co-ed elementary school, we were separated in high school, sent to all-boys and all-girls institutions. I lost track of many girls with whom I’d laughed and enjoyed company, mostly the taller girls. Some I never saw again until Facebook appeared and we found ourselves at the other end of the age spectrum. Tracy was not on FB.

What had happened to her? Was she happy? Did she have children, cute little Tracys? I hope so. I hope she had a good life.

Maybe I would have gotten to know her if we had shared classroom experience in high school. I do know that Tracy married Nick. He was two years older and his family was well-connected with the local social scene. His family seemingly had money and prestige, including a house on Lido Isle in Newport Beach. It made sense that he would go after Tracy, and vice versa. Through the grapevine I heard that Nick and Tracy lost a baby in an unfortunate accident and later divorced. She left town. That was the last I heard, many years ago.

Still, Tracy’s name evokes feelings and memories of my early days. She was a bright star, recognized and bonafide. When I first met my wife Barbara, among other attributes, I was taken by her voice, its stirring resonance, a pitch of certainty and confidence. I told myself, “she sounds like Tracy.” A curious reference from the past.

Oddly enough, when I came back to earth, I realized that I had no idea of what Tracy’s voice sounded like. I heard an association that didn’t exist. I think the association was of a queen. I had met a queen.

The loss of Tracy closes the book on a chapter in my life that I never expected to see end, like the colored sands that the monks in Oaxaca carefully sprinkle on the sidewalks, creating intricate scenes, only to see them swept away with a gust of wind. A reminder of our temporal lives.

Paul was correct. We are dropping like flies. We’ve had the misfortune of losing too many from our class, although the analogy is too pejorative. Think of us as luminous stars, consciously aware of and part of our magnificent cosmos, that shine brightly and dimly and eventually burn out, leaving traces of ourselves in the minds and genes of others all connected to the greater mystery.

Paul said he knew Tracy through Kim, his girlfriend at the time. Kim stayed with Tracy and her family when Kim’s parents moved before she graduated. So we know Tracy was kind-hearted, “a nice person,” said Paul. I regret that I did not know her better.

Inside the Church

Tantum ergo sacramentum

Veneremur cernui

Et anticuum documentum

Novo cedat ritui

Praestet Fides Supplementum

Sensuum Defectui. -- Tantum Ergo  -- Medeival Gregorian chant by Thomas Aquinas

St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Pomona seen from the choir loft. Two separate altars, not visible in this photo, flare off on the right and left side of the main altar, with separate pews, forming the overall shape (looking down) of a cross.

When you were young 

and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grow up, what did you say?

It's a strange question, I think, but it was often asked. Could you be something other than yourself?

I don't know if kids today hear the same question.

I can only imagine how girls responded. In those days, the answer was probably "a mother." Maybe a teacher or a nurse. Or perhaps, in my milieu, a nun, if you felt a vocation, a calling to serve God. For a boy, to be a priest.

I grew up under the Roman Catholic regime. Many parents during the Fifties sent their children to parochial school. These schools dotted the Southern California landscape like loose rosary beads gone to sprouting seeds.

Cardinal James Francis Mcintyre served as Archbishop of Los Angeles during this post-WWII period, from 1948 to 1970. He oversaw the construction of a new Catholic church every 66 days and a new school every 26 days, according to Time Magazine.

Cardinal McIntyre became a controversial figure as an outspoken conservative on issues of civil rights. He directed priests to consult the John Birch Society regarding politics, especially the threat of communism. As an anti-abortion advocate, he advised California Governor Ronald Reagan.

A triple-arched bell tower from which chimes ring every half hour enhance the Mission Mediterranean architecture of St. Joseph's Church.

My hometown of Pomona, located at the eastern boundary of Los Angeles County, was beneficiary of this rapid growth of Catholic churches and schools. One of the most magnificent churches in Southern California popped up on Holt Avenue, the main drag through town. In fairness, there were several large formidable Protestant churches along this stretch as well. You couldn't miss St. Joseph's on the west side. The church appeared like a miraculous Spanish cathedral on the dusty Camino de Santiago. Intimidating, but nonetheless, a refuge.

The building was erected on an 18-acre parcel of Catholic-owned property that included St. Joseph's Grammar School, plus full-sized athletic fields for baseball, a running track and a fully-lighted football field where the Pomona Catholic Spartans, on Friday nights in autumn, battled such rivals as the mighty Monarchs of Mater Dei. The complex also featured a swimming pool with diving boards as well as a Little League Field with a green-board home run fence where local baseball legend Joe Keough grooved his picture-perfect left-handed swing.

I spent many an hour playing on those fields and swimming in the pool. I found repose and spirituality inside the church. The school was a few steps away, similarly designed to the California mission schools of the Franciscan padres.

The single-story school featured tile roofs and shady colonnades with drinking fountains and cold water so refreshing during hot September days when temperatures climbed into the 100s. Here I learned religion and the three-Rs -- reading, writing and arithmetic, taught mostly by Felician Sisters in black habits and wool robes that touched their black shoes, prohibiting the slightest hint of an ankle. There were two classes for each grade, with 50-60 students, boys and girls, filling a classroom. 

I attended first-through-eighth grade at St. Joseph's, which was named after Rancho San Jose, the original Mexican settlement in what would become, in 1888, the town of Pomona, coinciding with arrival of the Southern Pacific railroad. 

The parish was established in 1871 and became a mission station. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, the fourth of 21 California missions founded by Spanish Franciscan priests, was located about 20 miles west toward Los Angeles along the corridor of what would be called the San Gabriel Mountain Range.

The cathedral-like St. Joseph's Church on west Holt Avenue -- the third St. Joseph's church in town -- was built in the early Fifties to meet and promote the tremendous population growth in the vast L.A. basin. During construction I watched large cranes hoist the huge wooden rafters. Completed in 1956, the church included a polished outside entry area with intricate mosaics. Inside, colorful religious-themed stained glass windows refracted outdoor light into the cavernous indoors that included a ceiling that rose several stories toward Heaven.

In the rear of the church, above the pews and congregation, Mr Johnson's mellifluous tenor reached heavenly notes accompanied by a pipe organ. I listened with my whole body, chilled by the Latin words from another time and place, so beautiful, so profound, Agnus Dei (lamb of God). The music soared throughout the building, acoustically pristine, like fluttering doves nestling into every corner altar and into the hearts and souls of devout parishioners. Or so I believed.

I felt a natural high from the aromatic burning of frankincense during benediction, Tantum ergo sacramentum (therefore, go greatly the sacrament). To this day, a whiff of frankincense takes me there. I loved singing with my class -- our young, angelic voices rising together consuming the church.

St Joseph’s parish became one of the largest in the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Our Pastor, Father Thomas P. English, was elevated to Monsignor for growing his parish. He himself was elevated at 6-foot-6. Fully adorned in purple and gold vestments with black four-corner biretta resting on his head, he towered with royal demeanor. I never saw him smile; rather a closed-lipped clearing of the throat. As an altar boy, I feared him.

I preferred Father (James) Murphy, a dark-haired handsome man whose brother Bill coached elementary school sports and served as a groundskeeper. Bill Murphy loved the kids, even took our team to the movies on Saturday night. I heard that Father Murphy eventually left the Church, with Mrs. Ortega.

In 2003, Church records were released that Msgr. English had been accused of sexual abuse of a minor in 1969. The Archdiocese determined the allegation to be unfounded. However, in 2018 his named appeared on the LA Archdiocese list of clergy credibly accused of sexual abuse. I was never sexually abused by a priest. Although you might say I was sexually abused by Catholicism, starting with mortal guilt for "impure thoughts."

During the 1960s, the Roman Catholic Church, in a nod to modernizing, changed the liturgy from Latin to English. Cardinal McIntyre, a traditionalist, fought it to no avail. The transition contributed to my leaving the Church. I felt it had lost its ritual and spiritual magic. I slowly let go of Catholicism.

St. Joseph's Church and School continue to serve Pomona to this day. A high school friend who became a Catholic priest told me at a recent reunion that the congregation is much smaller and more ethnic. I was surprised to find myself saddened by this. 

My memories from those Church days remain fond: my classmates, the CYO sports championships we shared, watching the high school games and dreaming of being out there someday; learning right from wrong, being introduced to the English language and its rules of grammar; listening to Sister Gualberta's stories and loving geography because Mrs. Rousch was such a wonderful and enthusiastic teacher.

I never wanted to be a priest, although the question did cross my mind.

Note: The late Santa Cruz author James D. Houston had a theory that many writers come from religious backgrounds, having a close relative who was a minister, priest or such. He made a long, impressive list of these writers from Herman Melville to Amy Tan. Houston believed that scripture, the Word, was the connection, the prompt to find truth by stringing sentences together. I know that my paternal grandfather, although I never met him, was a Presbyterian minister, and my mother's brother, whom I did know, was a Jesuit priest. Perhaps that has something to do with my calling and why I write these blog posts.

I used to say amen. Now I say namaste.