Veterans Day 2009

And those that are serving their Family, their Community and their Country today.



In remembrance of Veterans day 2009, I came across this speech delivered at the Truman Library by retired Major General Robert Scales. I’m not sure what the event was that he was speaking at, but I read his speech and much of what he says has answered many questions for me that I have struggled with over the years trying to figure out my emotions pertaining to being a Veteran.

I have highlighted the phrases and paragraphs that have important meaning to me personally. Many of the Veterans I have talked with feel much like this after serving in Vietnam.

Today, I will attend a small presentation at the Meyer Middle School in River Falls, WI where my 6th grade Granddaughter attends. It is at her invitation that I go there. I am honored to be asked by anyone to attend a Veterans event and especially honored to be asked by one of my Grandchildren.

Peace to all. And the best of days to all Veterans who have served, and to all active duty personnel serving their family, community and country.




Truman Library - 12 September 2009

Speech by Major General Robert Scales USA (Ret) at Truman Library



Mr. Skelton, Mr Cleaver, distinguished guests and, most importantly, fellow veterans. What a great thrill it is see my comrades in arms assembled here so many years after we shared our experiences in war.

Let me give you the bottom line up front: I'm proud I served in Vietnam
.
Like you I didn't kill innocents, I killed the enemy; I didn't fight for big oil or for some lame conspiracy. I fought for a country I believed in and for the buddies who kept me alive. Like you I was troubled that, unlike my father, I didn't come back to a grateful nation. It took a generation and another war, Desert Storm, for the nation to come back to me.

Also like you I remember the war being 99 percent boredom and one percent pure abject terror. But not all my memories of Vietnam are terrible. There were times when I enjoyed my service in combat. Such sentiment must seem strange to a society today that has, thanks to our superb volunteer military, been completely insulated from war. If they thought about Vietnam at all our fellow citizens would imagine that fifty years would have been sufficient to erase this unpleasant war from our conscientiousness. Looking over this assembly it's obvious that the memory lingers, and those of us who fought in that war remember.

The question is why? If this war was so terrible why are we here? It's my privilege today to try to answer that question not only for you, brother veterans, but maybe for a wider audience for whom, fifty years on, Vietnam is as strangely distant as World War One was to our generation.

Vietnam is seared in our memory for the same reason that wars have lingered in the minds of soldiers for as long as wars have been fought. From Marathon to Mosul young men and now women have marched off to war to learn that the cold fear of violent death and the prospects of killing another human being heighten the senses and sear these experiences deeply and irrevocably into our souls and linger in the back recesses of our minds.

After Vietnam we may have gone on to thrilling lives or dull; we might have found love or loneliness, success or failure. But our experiences have stayed with us in brilliant Technicolor and with a clarity undiminished by time. For what ever primal reason war heightens the senses. When in combat we see sharper, hear more clearly and develop a sixth sense about everything around us.

Remember the sights? I recall sitting in the jungle one bright moonlit night marveling on the beauty of Vietnam . How lush and green it was; how attractive and gentle the people, how stoic and unmoved they were amid the chaos that surrounded them.
Do you remember the sounds? Where else could you stand outside a bunker and listen to the cacophonous mix of Jimmy Hendrix, Merle Haggard and Jefferson Airplane? Or how about the sounds of incoming? Remember it wasn't a boom like in the movies but a horrifying noise like a passing train followed by a crack and the whistle of flying fragments.

Remember the smells? The sharpness of cordite, the choking stench of rotting jungle and the tragic sweet smell of enemy dead.

I remember the touch, the wet, sticky sensation when I touched one of my wounded soldiers one last time before the medevac rushed him forever from our presence but not from my memory, and the guilt I felt realizing that his pain was caused by my inattention and my lack of experience. Even taste is a sense that brings back memories.

Remember the end of the day after the log bird flew away leaving mail, C rations and warm beer? Only the first sergeant had sufficient gravitas to be allowed to turn the C ration cases over so that all of us could reach in and pull out a box on the unlabeled side hoping that it wasn't going to be ham and lima beans again.

Look, forty years on I can forgive the guy who put powder in our ammunition so foul that it caused our M-16s to jam. I'm OK with helicopters that arrived late. I'm over artillery landing too close and the occasional canceled air strike. But I will never forgive the Pentagon bureaucrat who in an incredibly lame moment thought that a soldier would open a can of that green, greasy, gelatinous goo called ham and lima beans and actually eat it.
But to paraphrase that iconic war hero of our generation, Forrest Gump, life is like a case of C Rations, you never know what you're going to get because for every box of ham and lima beans there was that rapturous moment when you would turn over the box and discover the bacchanalian joy of peaches and pound cake. It's all a metaphor for the surreal nature of that war and its small pleasures... ..those who have never known war cannot believe that anyone can find joy in hot beer and cold pound cake. But we can.

Another reason why Vietnam remains in our consciousness is that the experience has made us better. Don't get me wrong. I'm not arguing for war as a self improvement course. And I realize that war's trauma has damaged many of our fellow veterans physically, psychologically and morally. But recent research on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by behavioral scientists has unearthed a phenomenon familiar to most veterans: that the trauma of war strengthens rather than weakens us (They call it Post Traumatic Growth).

We know that a near death experience makes us better leaders by increasing our self reliance, resilience, self image, confidence and ability to deal with adversity. Combat veterans tend to approach the future wiser, more spiritual and content with an amplified appreciation for life. We know this is true. It's nice to see that the human scientists now agree.

I'm proud that our service left a legacy that has made today's military better. Sadly Americans too often prefer to fight wars with technology. Our experience in Vietnam taught the nation the lesson that war is inherently a human not a technological endeavor. Our experience is a distant whisper in the ear of today's technology wizards that firepower is not sufficient to win, that the enemy has a vote, that the object of war should not be to kill the enemy but to win the trust and allegiance of the people and that the ultimate weapon in this kind or war is a superbly trained, motivated, and equipped soldier who is tightly bonded to his buddies and who trusts his leaders.

I've visited our young men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan several times. On each visit I've seen first hand the strong connection between our war and theirs. These are worthy warriors who operate in a manner remarkably reminiscent of the way we fought so many years ago. The similarities are surreal. Close your eyes for a moment and it all comes rushing back. In Afghanistan I watched soldiers from my old unit, the 101st Airborne Division, as they conducted daily patrols from firebases constructed and manned in a manner virtually the same as those we occupied and fought from so many years ago. Every day these sky soldiers trudge outside the wire and climb across impossible terrain with the purpose as one sergeant put it - to kill the bad guys, protect the good guys and bring home as many of my soldiers as I can. Your legacy is alive and well.
You should be proud.

The timeless connection between our generation and theirs can be seen in the unity and fighting spirit of our soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan . Again and again, I get asked the same old question from folks who watch soldiers in action on television: why is their morale so high?

Don't they know the American people are getting fed up with these wars?
Don't they know Afghanistan is going badly? Often they come to me incredulous about what they perceive as a misspent sense of patriotism and loyalty.

I tell them time and again what every one of you sitting here today, those of you who have seen the face of war, understand: it's not really about loyalty. It's not about a belief in some abstract notion concerning war aims or national strategy. It's not even about winning or losing. On those lonely firebases as we dug through C ration boxes and drank hot beer we didn't argue the righteousness of our cause or ponder the latest pronouncements from McNamara or Nixon or Ho Chi Minh for that matter.

Some of us might have trusted our leaders or maybe not. We might have been well informed and passionate about the protests at home or maybe not. We might have groused about the rich and privileged who found a way to avoid service but we probably didn't. We might have volunteered for the war to stop the spread of global communism or maybe we just had a failing semester and got swept up in the draft.

In war young soldiers think about their buddies. They talk about families, wives and girlfriends and relate to each other through very personal confessions. For the most part the military we served with in Vietnam did not come from the social elite. We didn't have Harvard degrees or the pedigree of political bluebloods. We were in large measure volunteers and draftees from middle and lower class America. Just as in Iraq today we came from every corner of our country to meet in a beautiful yet harsh and forbidding place, a place that we've seen and experienced but can never explain adequately to those who were never there.

Soldiers suffer, fight and occasionally die for each other. It's as simple as that. What brought us to fight in the jungle was no different than the motive force that compels young soldiers today to kick open a door in Ramadi with the expectation that what lies on the other side is either an innocent huddling with a child in her arms or a fanatic insurgent yearning to buy his ticket to eternity by killing the infidel. No difference. Patriotism and a paycheck may get a soldier into the military but fear of letting his buddies down gets a soldier to do something that might just as well get him killed.

What makes a person successful in America today is a far cry from what would have made him a success in the minds of those assembled here today. Big bucks gained in law or real estate, or big deals closed on the stock market made some of our countrymen rich. But as they have grown older they now realize that they have no buddies. There is no one who they are willing to die for or who is willing to die for them. William Manchester served as a Marine in the Pacific during World War II and put the sentiment precisely right when he wrote: "Any man in combat who lacks comrades who will die for him, or for whom he is willing to die is not a man at all. He is truly damned."

The Anglo Saxon heritage of buddy loyalty is long and frightfully won. Almost six hundred years ago the English king, Henry V, waited on a cold and muddy battlefield to face a French army many times his size. Shakespeare captured the ethos of that moment in his play Henry V. To be sure Shakespeare wasn't there but he was there in spirit because he understood the emotions that gripped and the bonds that brought together both king and soldier. Henry didn't talk about national strategy. He didn't try to justify faulty intelligence or ill formed command decisions that put his soldiers at such a terrible disadvantage. Instead, he talked about what made English soldiers fight and what in all probably would allow them to prevail the next day against terrible odds. Remember this is a monarch talking to his men:

"This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

You all here assembled inherit the spirit of St Crispin's day. You know and understand the strength of comfort that those whom you protect, those in America now abed, will never know.. You have lived a life of self awareness and personal satisfaction that those who watched you from afar in this country who hold their manhood cheap can only envy.
I don't care whether America honors or even remembers the good service we performed in Vietnam . It doesn't bother me that war is an image that America would rather ignore. It's enough for me to have the privilege to be among you. It's sufficient to talk to each of you about things we have seen and kinships we have shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war.

Some day we will all join those who are serving so gallantly now and have preceded us on battlefields from Gettysburg to Wanat. We will gather inside a firebase to open a case of C rations with every box, peaches and pound cake. We will join with a band of brothers to recount the experience of serving something greater than ourselves. I believe in my very soul that the almighty reserves a corner of heaven, probably around a perpetual campfire where some day we can meet and embrace all of the band of brothers throughout the ages to tell our stories while envious standers-by watch and wonder how horrific and incendiary the crucible of violence must have been to bring such a disparate assemblage so close to the hand of God."


Peace to all in the world.

In Memory of the Edmund Fitzgerald, November 10, 1975

An artists rendition of the Edmund Fitzgerald.Artist unknown

Thirty four years ago today, 29 men went to work and died on the job. They were the crew of the ore carrier Edmund Fitzgerald. A rogue storm hit the Great Lake Superior and wrought havoc to “The Fitz”, as she was called. Among the dead was Allen Kalmon. I know Amy, his daughter. She is a friend of mine and lives in Ashland, WI, along the shores of The Great Lake Superior. A small model replica of The Fitz sat out on our Ofrenda for Days of the Dead. It has always amazed me that working people got up, went to work and died there that day. It has happened to other workers in other circumstances, but this tragedy always has touched me as significant on some other level that I cannot quite explain.

A few years ago, I think it was 2005, the thirty year anniversary of that fateful day, I went to a ceremony held at Split Rock Lighthouse State Park on the North shore of Superior, near Silver Bay, MN. The Autumn daylight had ended with the ringing of the ship’s bell 30 times. Twenty nine for the crewmen aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald and one more ring for all that have died at the mercy of the sea. As I left the parking lot and headed back West towards Duluth along what used to be US Highway 61, the radio played Gordon Lightfoot’s masterpiece, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” That night, the sound echoed, even within the confines of the car. The eeriness of the song, haunting as it is about tragic death, made me feel these men and their presence along the shore as I drove with the water close at my side along that stretch of highway.

This is a short piece of words from the son of Allen Kalmon, Bruce, in 2005. Amy came to one of our Days of the Dead celebrations years ago, the first year I had met her. She saw the replica of the Fitz and wondered how we knew her Father was on that ship. I had to tell the truth, and that being that I always honored all working class people through that shipwreck at each celebration for Los Dios. It was a connection, a coincidence, and as I remember November 10, 1975 and the gales of November, I think of Amy and others who lost loved ones and friends on the seas.

Funny to think of a day with 100 mile per hour winds, snow and sleet heavily weighing on guy lines, hatch covers blown off their moorings on a beautiful day such as what I am experiencing here at home today with temps in the 50’s, bright sun, calm wind and a freshness in the air, a sweetness. And a boat, a 730 foot long boat, loaded with 26 thousand long tonnes of taconite bound for Detroit bobbing and dipping into the Greatest of all lakes, Superior, like a dried Autumn leaf in the ocean.

Living somewhere around the Great Lakes all my life has been overall a wonderful experience for me. I have such a respect and reverence for the energy filled water. I’ve gone out in storms and tried to watch, but nature doesn’t let me focus, it blurs my vision of the waves. One night, when we lived in Duluth in the Winter of 1994-95, we heard that the Arthur M. Anderson, the other ore boat on the same track as The Fitz that fateful night, was coming into harbor. These comings and going were posted in the newspaper and on a simple chalkboard near the harbor entrance at the Coast Guard station located there.

We went to watch the big ship come in. We stood there, seeing it’s lights from a long distance, then watching as it slowly crept between the markers into the harbor and under the famous Duluth Lift Bridge. Knowing this was the ship that followed the Fitz and received it’s last radio transmission, “We are holding our own.” delivered by Captain Ernest McSorely, skipper of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

I leave you with some photos of The Fitz and other ore boats, the Phillip Clarke, and the Gordon Leetch The Leetch nearing the entry to Duluth Harbor, the Clarke, that frequently comes to Chequamegon Bay to deliver coal to the generating plant in Ashland, making one of its summer runs. Also are some pictures of a May 2006 storm moving in at Saxon Harbor, WI, about 20 miles Northeast of Ashland on Lake Superior’s South shore.




The Phillip Clarke, ore boat delivering coal to Ashland, WI.


The Gordon Leetch coming into Duluth, MN.


The Fitz, on a bright sunny day.


Crashing waves during a Spring storm at Saxon Harbor, WI.


Again at Saxon Harbor.

The following YouTube is a Sound Stage recording done by Gordon Lightfoot in 1979, four years after the great ship sunk, with some great collage of the early days of Great Lakes shipping and underwater shots of the hulk of the tomb of the twenty nine who died in November aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald.



Peace to all.

Only the Good Friday, November 6, 2009

Always a Good day when you see an Eagle.


Friday today. I slept all night for a change, that’s really Good. Good to wake up naturally in the morning, even if it is earlier than most people. I look outside and down the street. I don’t see many lights, but many kitchens are in the rear of the houses on Johnson Street. They could have their lights on and having the morning cuppa and I wouldn’t even know it.

I don’t get up and go right for the coffee. My habit has me walking once around the palace, sitting at the computer a while and waiting until all hell breaks loose. That happens when daughter drops off the kids at 6:15. The other day, all the lights were off and I saw her peeking in the window. She didn’t want to disturb us. That was nice of her, but we’re suppose to be up because we need to get the kids ready for school. I flipped on the light switch and the place came alive with human activity.

That’s the good I have in my life right now, at least what I’m thinking about. Years ago, as I struggled with the feelings and symptoms associated with PTSD, I couldn’t have been alone with the Grandkids. I could be here, but not be the only adult. I don’t want to explain why in detail, it was something they called hypervigilance.

Through healing, I have overcome this to a degree and can function more normally even though the symptom still exists in my mind.

Mrs. Spadoman leaves for work along with the oldest of the children. She starts earlier as she is in another higher middle school grade. I am home alone with the Kindergardener and the Fourth grader until they leave at 7:57 a.m. I walk them to the bus stop, some 200 yards away from my front door. I feed them breakfast, I make sure their back packs are organized. I look up the weather and suggest their jacket or sweatshirt or what is needed for the day to be comfortable.

We have some time, so we play the match game, Odie Maid. The little one kicks my rear end just about every time. If I do get a win, big deal. Ever try to brag about a triumph over a five year old? You don’t get very far. But what a wonderful "Good" thing to be able to do. Spend time playing with the Grandkids every morning. Knowing you love them and they love you. It is the best of the Good on any day, and on Friday.


It's a match game with Odie, one of the Garfield characters, and she is Good at it!

Today, Mrs. Spadoman has the day off. Her schedule is every Friday off. I get to finish my post here while she takes over the reigns as high priestess and gets the kids off to school. I’ll still take that walk to the bus stop along with Grandma. All Good.

Right now, today, and for many todays, life is Good and that’s the Good I see on this particular Friday. This is the Good I see right now. One Day at a Time.

I apologize for not posting an Only the Good Friday post for the past couple of weeks. Shelly, over at This Eclectic Life started this theme a year or so ago. I caught on at first, but then time gets away some Fridays. By the way, her blog is sensational and I’m not just kidding. She has so many interesting places she takes the readers to through pictures and words. I cannot believe she has the time, but she does and makes for a great place to stop to spend a little time reading. It’s a Good blog!

Have a great day. For those struggling with something today, I send peaceful thoughts and positive energy your way. My best spirit angels will be on the lookout to help if they can and give you peace in your hearts in hopes you have a Good day today and everyday. I know life is not a rose for many.

Peace.

My Life as a Teamster

Let's begin.

I was thinking about something and came across an error on one of my previous posts. I wrote about how many jobs I have had over the years and even though the list I posted was up to 81, I remembered another place I worked. It slips right in between numbers 5 and 6. I drove truck for a cartage company in Chicago. It was called TH Ryan Cartage and it was a local union cartage job. My Dad worked for Ryan with a steady house at Production Steel Company. He retired in 1982 after twenty years there. Basically, a cartage company was used by businesses. They would call to get a trailer hauled and either loaded and unloaded at a location or use cartage drivers to drive their own trucks for daily deliveries.

Many mornings I would report to work and be told to get into tractor number 241, an old B Model Mack, and head on over to the railroad yards to haul trailers around town all day. Drop one here, pick one up there. Load, unload. Then there was always the Revere Electric Company. They had a bunch of trucks and were a big electrical supply distributer in Chicagoland. They’d need drivers to take one of their trucks and do a route around the city.


A picture from the T.H. Ryan web site.

I drove dry vans, refrigerated vans, dry bulk, liquid bulk, (which was usually hazardous stuff like chemicals and solvents), flat beds, goosenecks, straight trucks, (both single and tandem axel), and even a small cargo van for a company called Emery Air Freight who was the forerunner to FedEX, DHL and all air freight carriers in existence today.

So many of the trucking companies that existed in the 1970's and 80's are gone. They tried mergers at first, but then died the slow death of bankruptcy until they just closed their doors. I remember along MN Highway 280 North of I-94 there being no less than seven freight hauling trucking companies. They are all gone, and some were the biggest names in the business. Admiral Merchants, Consolidated Freightways, Smith, Murphy. All gone. The old multi doored freight terminals with for lease and for sale signs that have disintegrated from being there for so long.

Getting back to my job at TH Ryan, since it was a union job, that meant I had to put in some time before I got the union wages. I think, if I remember back then to 1970, I had to work thirty days at below the current union contract pay scale. After that thirty days, I got bumped up to union scale. They took union dues out of my paycheck. I don’t remember what the union dues were back then either.

For my payment of union dues, I was given the pay of union scale. I was also put on a list of drivers that was based on seniority. I couldn’t work if someone higher up on the list wasn’t working. It was all done by seniority. There was quite a bit of posturing and negotiating for what we called a Steady House.

The Steady House jobs were companies that had trucks and used union TH Ryan Company drivers to operate those trucks. They would actually go to that company and it would be like they drove for them and not TH Ryan. In Minnesota, I worked for LaSalle Cartage and it was the same way. I never got a Steady House job in Chicago, but I did after a time at LaSalle. I drove industrial solvents for Worum Chemical. They did a lot of business with 3M who was headquartered in St. Paul, MN.


I drove a rig like this B Model Mack in the late 1970's in St. Paul, MN for LaSalle Cartage Co.

At Ryan, being low on the seniority list gave me a wide variety of work. Almost daily I’d get a different kind of truck and a different place to go. I loved truck driving. Where else could you get to work and then leave and be out on your own? I made it a point to try to get to at least one different coffee house or cafe each day. I found some real gems, and a few dumps too. Chicago is a big city.


Typical sign for what was called a coffee shop before the Starbucks era.

Of course coffee shops back in the early 1970’s were not like the coffee shops of today. No espresso and lattes. Just a diner counter where you could get just a cup of strong black coffee and maybe a doughnut or a sweet roll to go along. Breakfast or lunch. Quick food, called short orders, burgers, BLT’s, patty melts. Soup for lunch, the usual bacon, ham or sausage and eggs for breakfast, along with the coffee. The waitress would always ask, “Coffee?”, when you walked in and sat down.


And the interior of said Coffee Shop would look something like this.

I wasn’t rich, but I did make a real good wage as a union driver. More than most non union guys were making, and I had job security in the form of that seniority list. I knew I was protected from someone getting hired after me and taking my job. But I also knew that in economic hard times I could be laid off before those higher on the list.

Other benefits back in those days was complete health care, paid for by the employer, for you and all members of your family, and a deposit into a union run pension account. Paid holidays and certain rules regarding overtime. I remember when I worked in the motion picture business that some days I’d come in and start at double time the wages because of union rules.

In 1970, I was making right around five bucks per hour. That was great money back in those days and other than social security, income taxes and union dues, there were no other deductions, as I mentioned, because health and welfare was part of the compensation package.

At Ryan’s, we’d be milling around, loading trucks and checking oil on trucks and the big black Cadillac would pull up. A cigar smoking guy in a black suit would get out and the roach coach would pull in right behind him. He was the union business agent and he’d buy coffee from that roach coach for anyone who wanted one. He’d shake a few hands of the guys he knew personally, and that was just about every one of them, and he’d ask. “How’re things going?”

If there were any complaints, they were mentioned and a plan of action would be set up. Usually, a visit from him was because someone called his office and had a problem or a question about some part of the job that had something to do with the union. Maybe someone had worked an hour longer than someone beneath him in seniority, and didn’t get paid for it, or someone had broken the seniority barrier in some other way. It was usually management’s fault. The business agent would come, buy coffee, glad hand the guys and set management straight about the situation.

All the time the business agent stood around with all the drivers drinking coffee and talking, old man Ryan was on the dock, arms folded, waiting for the guys to get back to work. After all, time was money, but he didn’t dare say anything while the union boss was there.

That was then. This is now.

Times have changed. Unions are taking it in the shorts. Concessions are being made to wage structures and they started a long time ago changing around the benefit packages. Many union employees are paying part or even all of their health care costs. Some with larger households pay more than a worker with no kids. The business agents I have seen lately are driving Toyotas, not black Cadillacs, and they don’t smoke at all let alone cigars. The pension funds, always a point of controversy and the reason behind many a revolt to the union hierarchy in the early days, is, in my mind, still a big problem.

You see, you have to get vested to receive a pension. So, if you work your 30 days or whatever and pay the initiation fee to be a member of the Teamsters, then they would start putting so much into an account for you for your retirement pension. If you got laid off, you had to keep putting money into that pension fund, because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t get any of it back when you quit or retire. It was not a 401(k).

A case in point is my older brother. He worked as a Teamster in Chicago for a local furniture movers union. Eleven years I think. He got another Teamster Union job and held that for fourteen years, but it was under the guidance of an International Teamster Union. Even though these two unions are Teamsters and part of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, he got no pension because their pension funds did not recognize the time and money paid to each account. Tricky, eh? Work 20 plus years as a Teamster, but retire and get nothing. Now he is fighting, with an attorney, to get something.


The Teamster Union Withdrawal Card


This excerpt, taken from the International Brotherhood of Teamsters website and an article written by current Teamster Union President James P. Hoffa states this:

Multi-employer plans such as the Teamsters Central States Fund are not well understood. They are set up as trusts and operated by joint management-labor boards of trustees. They are not controlled by unions and are required by law to be completely independent of the contributing employers and the unions representing their participants. Their trustees are legally required to act solely in the interest of the plan participants.

Many current and retired Teamsters are covered by the Central States Fund. The Fund was severely weakened after 1980 by deregulation of the trucking industry. Deregulation drove 700 trucking companies out of business. Many employees who had earned pensions were left high and dry. The workers of the defunct companies became the obligation of the fund and the surviving businesses. Meanwhile, the bankrupt companies paid little or nothing to cover the benefits earned by their employees.

Now, the surviving trucking companies may have to close their doors because they can’t afford their legal obligations to contribute to the fund. Tens of thousands of jobs would be lost, something this country–and Michigan–can ill afford.

Read HERE for more about the Central States Fund.

This plan gave the Teamsters loads of money to invest. Think of how many people who got into the union, paid their dues, initiation fees and got their retirement money paid into an account, then were laid off and never called back up and never had enough money to continue to pay into their retirement? Lots of cash for them to use to line their own pockets. Some say, and history mentions, the senior Jimmy Hoffa and his trials related to the Teamster pension fund money and loans to "The Mob".

In California, in the 1990’s. I was asked to work a show out in Hollywood. I wasn’t a union member in California. But I did have a withdrawal card from the International Brotherhood of Teamsters when I worked in Minnesota. I put in my 30 days and was asked to pay the initiation. I had the withdrawal card and they had to honor that I was already a member, just not working lately. That pained them to lose out on the initiation money. I found out that in L.A., and the entire West Coast that the Teamsters control with their blanket by local 399, there were over 2000 workers that paid to be in the union and never called again. Then, I was called, from Minnesota, to work. The transportation coordinator that called me knew me and wanted me to work. He didn’t call the union hall and ask for drivers. I refused to transfer into the 399 and returned to Minnesota and went back to work there, eventually. I should have refused to go to California in the first place, but that’s how I learned about the illegal and fraudulent methods they were using to gather up millions in fees and give nothing except false security hopes to workers.


The back of the withdrawal card.

In the beginning, the union brought us the eight hour work week and stopped the abuse of children and other workers in the workplace. It was a great idea, stand together as a union work force. One strikes, we all strike for mistreatment. Make the corporations treat workers a certain respectful way and evenly across the board. Make wages enough for a member to make a decent living. People wanted to be union members because of the benefits and the pay scale. Non union jobs paid less, had less benefits and offered no security for the worker.

Now, unions are less than half of what they were. Reagan crushed the air traffic controllers in the eighties and it hasn’t stopped. Now, the unions, like the Teamsters, are fighting for their own lives and because of the instability of the economy, wage and benefit concessions are being cut wholesale. Michael Moore’s movie about capitalism tells of an airline pilot that must work a second job as a coffee house barista to attempt to make ends meet. And that’s a union pilot. The disparity that once existed between union workers and non union workers has disintegrated, and probably rightfully so to a degree. It was such a wide chasm at one point. That was when unions were strong and membership flourished. When the corporations in America found ways to change that union landscape and get their products out into the markets without union labor, unions started to crumble. Less members meant less health and welfare payments and less money overall which led to failing pension programs and even more stinginess for benefits.

Even the eight hour workday is gone. Companies like WalMart hire a plethora of part time non union workers. None of them working enough hours in any one week to be eligible for company paid or subsidized benefits. In the trucking industry, there aren’t many drivers that still come in at eight a.m. and punch the clock. They are called in at random times and only work the hours needed. The Teamsters have fallen to their knees.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe as corporations go, the Teamsters might be as bad as any other corporation that is trying to make the bottom line as big as it can for stockholders. Some lower on the food chain will suffer, but some will prosper. After all, the twenty plus years my brother worked and paid into a pension fund gave them a lot of money that he’ll never get. It’s there somewhere. Someone is getting it.


One joke is that the Teamster Logo uses the twin horses because the horse is the only animal that can sleep standing up.

I must admit and confess. When I worked under the auspices of the Teamsters, I took every morsel they gave me. We prided ourselves as a code of honor to get paid for the least amount of work that we were asked to perform. The joke was our motto, which was, "Show concern, but take no action." By the way, they have all the money I paid in too. All together, about 14 years as a teamster in seven different Teamster locals. The St. Paul 120, Minneapolis 544, Minneapolis 638, California 399, Chicago Local 11, Chicago CTDU Local 1 and Chicago Local 705 IBT. I have no chance whatsoever to see any of the pension deposits paid into the fund in my name from any of these jobs.

My point? The times, they are a changin’ and have been for a long time. When this country stopped producing products and sent millions of jobs overseas by ending tariffs and opening up free trade, we, as Americans, lost jobs. The unions we thought would protect us from this failed to protect, and in fact, fell to the standards of the very industries they told us they were saving us from.

If the unions had remained strong, I’m not sure how it would be. If Ronald Reagan had not stepped in to crush the air traffic controllers and show the unions that they had no choice but to stop escalating wages and benefits, things might be different, but I’m not sure if the difference would put America back to work. This article about India’s Labor unions is interesting. Maybe it’s just a matter of time before things start coming back home. But that’s India.

China is a very different animal. The government is making foreign interests set up trade unions in China. This guarantees the flow of money into China. The American corporations have forsaken our own people to make more money now with no idea what the future will hold. It’s a wait and see chess game and so far, it looks like America and the Teamsters are in a checkmate. Who knows, maybe some day it won't be cheaper to operate a complete manufacturing facility in China for a fraction of what it would cost to do it here in the United States. Imagine the prosperity to American business and labor to rebuild infrastructure and operate factories that actually make something right here on our own soil.

There are many more sides to any story. The earlier part of this article tells of my own experiences as Teamster union member. The latter is some opinion based on the news as reported. The real issue is very much more complicated. But it does have to do with money, a lot of money. Seems that history has shown us that In America, when large quantities of money are involved, the existence of foul play goes up. This has been the case with the Teamsters in the past.

Peace.

A Connection to the Vietnam Graffiti Project

The official insignia of the 22nd Infantry regiment.

The reunion I went to a few weeks ago was somewhat disappointing to me as I didn't get to see or meet or shake the hand of anyone that I actually knew and served with in Vietnam. That doesn't mean it was a bad reunion or that it wasn't a good worth while experience. There were many people I met there that I didn't know before. Like the artist I mentioned in an earlier post, Jim Nelson from Kansas. I gave a set of audio CD's I had made along with a DVD to Jim as he showed a genuine interest in the works. He wanted to pay me, but I declined. After all, I had the technical equipment to make the discs and the cost of the blank CDR's and DVDR's was nominal. Jim insisted and sent me some prints of his art work. I received them in the mail recently and I am grateful. They are beautifully done and describe a lasting memory of a young soldiers life, fighting in a war, in a land far far away. Jim also does other work and has painted many book covers and portraits over the years.

I also saw a couple of books that were for sale on the vending tables. There were baseball caps, license plate holders, T-shirts, polo shirts and button down denim shirts, all with the 22nd Infantry Society emblem printed or embroidered. Pins and patches for sale, and displays showing pictures and the written word, telling stories from the perspective of the author, who was another Veteran like myself. I believe someone had a scrapbook of pictures on the table. I put my pictures on a DVD along with audio that was sent to me ten years ago by a fellow I served with in 1969.

One of the books that was there was something called The Vietnam Graffiti Project. (This site is from Texas Tech and has pictures) These pictures were of the graffiti the soldiers scrawled on the canvas bedding while traveling to Vietnam on a troop ship. They were sent out of Fort Lewis Washington, near Seattle, where the reunion was held. The first members of the 22nd Infantry were sent over by boat. These guys are what we refer to as "The Originals". The original soldiers sent to Vietnam to fight from our unit, my unit.

I flew over. I was a replacement. These Warriors went over as a fighting infantry unit on a boat. The passage took about three weeks. There wasn't much to do aboard a troop ship carrying men to war. The bunks were close to one another in all directions. When the guy above you climbed into his bunk, it was literally a few inches above your face. Seems that much of the idle time was spent in the bunk and the soldiers wrote messages, thoughts, sayings, prose and drew pictures on the canvas undersides of these beds.


Someone found the ship, a hulk named The USNS Nelson M. Walker in a ghost ship yard in Virginia. The canvas remnants were saved and the graffiti then preserved in actual physical pieces and in the pages of this great book. Can be purchased at Amazon

This Sunday, November First, CBS Nightly News will present a story about the Walker and its graffiti. The story was filmed and produced at the reunion I attended. You can get More Information and I also posted a short article I found about The Vietnam Graffiti Project and I'll post it here:

Albemarle historian behind Vietnam Graffiti Project
By JEREMY SLAYTON
Published: July 18, 2009

The typical voyage from America to combat zones in Vietnam took 18 to 21 days. Confined to a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with sleeping quarters so tight troops had little to no room to move leaves plenty of hours to occupy the mind.
How that time was spent by soldiers is the focus of the Vietnam Graffiti Project, an endeavor started 12 years ago in Keswick in Albemarle County by Art and Lee Beltrone.
"These stories, to us, are very, very important because before long, they're going to be lost," said Art Beltrone, a military historian.
The project began in 1997 when Beltrone found graffiti-inscribed berthing unit canvases from the former troop ship USNS Gen. Nelson M. Walker. At the time, the vessel was part of the Ghost Fleet in Virginia's lower James River.
Some of those canvases are part of the exhibition "Marking Time: Voyage to Vietnam," currently on display at the Virginia Historical Society as part of the museum's look at the Vietnam War era.
Many soldiers left their marks behind on those canvas hammocks where they slept, stacked four high so that "once you got in your cot . . . you had to lay flat on your back because the other guy was coming down and he was inches from your face," said William Painter of Goochland County, who rode the Nelson for his second tour of duty in Vietnam.
Beltrone wants to capture the personal stories of those transported by ship, not only in wartime but also in peacetime. The Vietnam War signaled an end to transportation by troop ships in America, a tradition that dated to the War of 1812, the historian said.
He has recorded experiences from more than 100 soldiers, obtaining audio files of the humorous, stressful or unique experiences aboard the ships. Since the exhibit opened at the historical society last month, he has received names of dozens of soldiers who want to share their stories.
He hopes to get more soldiers today during the Family Day Open House at the historical society on the Boulevard. As people examine the graffiti-lined canvases on the wall, they may get to hear first-hand what it was like sailing to Vietnam aboard a troop ship.
Vietnam veteran Calvin "Sandy" Humphrey of Richmond said he is going to be at the historical society today "to lend a face to the experience, as opposed to just people looking at pictures, reading exhibits."
Humphrey spent nearly 30 days aboard the USNS Gen. W.H. Gordon to make the trip from San Diego to offload in Da Nang, Vietnam. Like Painter, Humphrey didn't leave behind graffiti during his 30-day voyage. He did, however, mail a letter to his parents, chronicling aspects of his voyage.
"I think it's great to read soldiers' personal accounts or, more specifically, their letters home, to know what's going on in their lives -- what they might have been thinking," Humphrey said. "I think this falls right in line with that."
Both veterans said days on ship were filled with boredom, whiling away the hours. In port, soldiers weren't allowed off, unless it was for physical training on the dock. Time was filled by conversation or reading books. The soldiers even read the graffiti left by previous troops.
It was inevitable during those long hours on the ocean that thoughts wandered to the future and whether they would survive to return to the U.S. Humphrey wrote in his letter to family of watching the Golden Gate Bridge slip into the horizon and thinking then "if I, or we, would return."
"In a different sort of way, I wonder if the me that left came back. Was the person that left the same person that came back?" Humphrey said this week.
More than 40 years later, Beltrone is aiming to capture these heart-wrenching stories of a soldier's life on the way to war, with nothing but a vast, somewhat turbulent sea separating them from home.
"What makes it so poignant, I guess, is we were never welcomed home," Painter said. "I never told anybody but my immediate family that I'd been to Vietnam. It was . . . like you weren't welcome home; you were kind of shunned if you spoke it. It was hard to do that, after having spent two years in Vietnam."



Peace to all and a Happy Halloween.

Pictures and My Friend Mel

Northern Wisconsin pine tree perspective.


Motivated and inspired by my friend Mel who writes "Melsdream", I looked through just a few of the thousands of pictures I have on any one of three computers that are up and running at my home, and came up with some photos that I really like. These are all of nature and I have taken them on digital equipment. There are so many more thousands in a large plastic tote box. We've gotten as far as categorizing them by place and ages of the kids, but by no means have them all labeled and in any order.

Taking photos is such an art, and to do it right, they must be labeled and the goings on that are taking place when the photo was taken should be written down. I fail at this. I can honestly say, I like these photos, but I was there, taking the pictures. They are not to be considered professional or even my best effort. I do get lucky from time to time and frame a photograph just right with the available light, but that cultural phenomenon doesn't happen very often. For example, as I was looking through pictures for the choices shown in this post, I thought to myself, "Now where was this one taken? And when was that?" Note to self: "From now on, label each and every photograph you take right when you import them from the camera to the computer from now on, okay?"


Bald eagle, watching my movements

Here are some shots. Mel just posts a photo. Not much of a caption on them. I think she just lets the viewer look at it or makes a little suggestion as to what it might mean to her, or what she sees in it. Of course viewers may see other things, or the view reminds them of another place or experience. It does me. I will look at some of the pictures she has posted recently, of beautiful Fall scenes in what looks like to me, the midwestern rural country, and be reminded of Fall. I'll look out my window and see similar sights, but remember that I saw them two weeks ago, as the winds and rains have changed the view from golden sunlit leaves clinging to trees, to barren branches in black and white against a cold gray sky and mottled dark brown leaves making a carpet over the greenish grass.

I might also mention, Mel also has Fairy visitors that will remark about life and its struggles and joys. As I sometimes struggle through an episode of this time continuum called life. Gentle but poignant reminders of what we might need to have some peace in our hearts. "Fairy Thought for the Day" and "Things I Like" are just but a couple of headings she will use. The ideas are pure, sweet and simple and remind us not to take ourselves too seriously. Her posts have helped me along this path as I fight my demons, and I am grateful. Need an inspiriation from time to time? Then check it out. In the meantime, I hope you like the photographs I've chosen to display.

I'll be busy the next few days, getting ready for our Days of the Dead celebration which will take place on Sunday.

Peace to all.


Buffalo getting ready for roundup.


Buffalo stampede during October roundup, Custer State Park, South Dakota.


Pacific driftwood along the Northern California coast.


Early Spring mountain stream, Central Idaho


Horses on a Tennessee hillside in November


More leaves


Fall leaves sitting on water.


Oak leaf on a sandy Lake Superior beach.


Late Fall sky in Northern Wisconsin

Los Dios de Los Muertos, 2009

This beautiful quilt, given to us by a good friend a couple of years ago, holds a place of honor at our celebration.


I’m getting pretty darn excited. The Days of the Dead are quickly approaching. They take place on November first and second every year. We celebrate by having an open house at our place. Everyone who wants to be there is invited, but we do make an invitation and send them out to friends. Many of the people I invite can’t make it, but I tell them about it anyway. Maybe I’ll get a surprise some year and someone I thought would never make the journey will show up.


A close up showing pictures of our loved ones, the "dead bread" and some mementos of what they liked when they were with us. (Someone must have loved Mountain Dew)

I can see it now. I invite a blog friend that I have been in contact via e-mail and blogging for the past four years and he/she shows up:

“Hello, can I help you?”, says I as I open the door after the loud knocking.

Yeah, it’s me. I’m here for the Los Dios de Los Muertos party!”, Says the surprise guest.

“Well, who the hell are you?”, I ask.

“I’m (put your name here), you invited me to come”

That scene, followed by laughter and hugs, then each of us telling the other how they don’t look anything like their avatar and their hair is much grayer than thought, (and fatter too, but we’d never say that to each other's faces).


Here are some of the spirit guests that might show up. As you can see, they are dressed up and ready to party!

Anyway, it’s coming up November 1st, 2009. It’s a Sunday this year. In the past, folks asked us to have the party on a Friday or Saturday night. Well, if November 1st didn’t fall on a Friday or Saturday night, we couldn’t do it. It is traditionally the first and that’s when we host it. We usually start in the evening, after dark, but this year, we will start in the mid afternoon so more friends can make it. Plenty of space if you need a place to stay. I'm making Italian food this year. Traditional Mostaccioli with meatballs and sausage. I'm baking cookies too. Folks bring things and there is always plenty of food.

Here's your invitation right here:

Click on it to enlarge.

There are many thoughts and practices about The Days of the Dead, but most definitions explain it as a time when the spirits of those we love and have lost might have a chance to pass through the realms and visit us. In some places, the people gather and spend the night in the cemetery, then return home in the morning and start the celebration by sharing food and fun all day. Hence the “Days” of the dead. First day in the cemetery, second day at home partying.


People gathering and having fun around the food.


Another table full of food. Most people bring a dish to pass.

We celebrate right from the get go with food and fun. People are never asked to leave and if it goes into a second day, well that’s okay. As far as we know, the visiting spirits might hang around all night anyway.


I love this picture of the decorations and the lights taken from outside when we lived in Ashland.

Here are a couple of sights that explain the tradition. The first site has many pictures of scenes from throughout Mexico. You can see from the pictures of our past celebrations they are similar.

This second site is informational and includes a recipe for Pan Muerto, or Dead Bread. It is said the spirits need certain things to help them on their journey. Bread and water to nourish for sure. The bread is made in special shapes. We buy a loaf or two of Pan Muerto from a local Mexican panaderia, (bakery)

We lost our oldest daughter over 18 years ago. She was involved in a car accident. While foundering around trying to make sense of it all in November of 1991, six months after the event, we stumbled upon the display of Days of the Dead culture in old Los Angeles while we visited there. The idea gave us inspiration to do the same at our own home and remember our dearly departed daughter. It has caught on and we celebrate every year.


The Ofrenda, (alter), in 2006.

The first year, we had a shoe box size alter sitting on an end table. As you can see in some of the pictures, the Ofrenda, as the alter is called, has grown to be a quite large and colorful affair. Many blogger friends have sent me pictures of loved ones to put out on our alter. If they were hung there once, they will hang there forever, or until the owner asks for them to be removed.


Ofrenda in 2007

If you can’t make it, I understand. If you want a loved one included at our place, send me a picture with a name, (e-mail okay as I can print one), and we’ll include it. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. The idea of it all means a lot to me. It has kept the spirit of my daughter alive in more than the usual way for us. We remember our daughter all the time, but this special celebration is like having all the Christmases and birthday parties she's missed since she left this world. For all we know, she’s in the next room enjoying herself and hasn’t left us at all.

Peace to everyone.


This is an alter of ours from 2001.


Our Lady of Guadalupe is there, in spirit