Where History and Hysteria Converge...

Take a brief slideshow tour of Central State
http://www.kizoa.com/slideshow/d1504922k5834261o1/where-history-and-hysteria-converge

'Please to no come back again ever!'

BEEN FOLLOWING THE EVENTS unfolding in Cairo and other Egyptian cities the last few weeks, all of the demonstrations, rallies, riots and clashes between the government and protesters. And that includes the harsh crackdown on professional journalists and amateurs able to get their word out through blogs and Facebook. There hasn’t been this much calamity in that country since Moses commandeered an uprising, leading his folks on an exodus away that thick-headed Pharaoh, who couldn’t get the hint after some fairly dramatic plagues.

Sadly, people wielding tremendous power so often are unable to read the handwriting on the wall. I don’t know enough to know whether President Mubarak should pull a Nixon, but it seems at this point he has no ttrump card in the hand he’s playing.

All of this has gotten me to remembering about my own brief time near that part of the world during the winter of 1991. You see, the magazine I worked for had bought my pitch to send me and staff photographer John Simon to Saudi Arabia to cover the unfolding Desert Storm war. Remember that? Saddam Hussein’s troops rumbled into oil-rich Kuwait in August 1990 and occupied its capital and other key places. Kuwait’s ruling class was able to get the hell out of Dodge into safer havens while the lower and largely imported hired hands were forced to hang on nearly eight months under a brutal force.

A sweet song and a dead leaf

During last week’s ice storm I was fortunate to have the flexibility to work from home for two days, thanks to the Internet and ability to tap into my company’s internal server. It was a good opportunity for a variety of reasons: I could wear my battered Grateful Dead sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, not have to scrape the whiskers from my face, drink endless cups of Cuisinart-crushed fresh coffee, and do what I do most days when I am not wearing the button-down uniform of the typical day.

I was working the “Operation Snowflake” beat in the Frozen City, wondering why Al Gore and the other zanies were noticeably absent for interviews during this assault, and I was providing updates on closings and delays about our hospitals and other pedestrian communications. While refilling my “I Love Grandpa” coffee mug at one point, I could hear the creaking of sagging tree limbs, similar to the sounds of my knees and elbows when I get up each morning. 

And then I heard a faint sound of a bird – singing its blessed heart out against that cold chorus. It was the sweetest sound of optimism I ever have heard.