Selah from the sidelines

Forty-something years ago, I was on a freshman football team at Evansville Central High School coached by a fellow named Reno DeMuth. He stood about 27 ½ inches tall, had a chest like a beer keg, but had a frothy countenance, flowing clearly to every string-bean and fat boy on the squad. And that commanding voice he had, which roared us into action on many occasions:

I don’t know what you knuckleheads are thinkin’ the way you just did that! But on this field I am a creature, in the classroom I am a teacher… but I am always everywhere a preacher! Now take your rear ends outta your helmets and give me the minutes we need to win this game!

Coach DeMuth entirely played all three roles, but most of all, that third job description. Evangelizing to get 50-something hormonal hooligans working together. 

The Eden of our hearts

So sorry but not surprised to hear about the Kardashian-Humphries split and the demise of the Katy Perry-Russell Brand nuptials. In an age where marriage and relationships come and go faster than a drunken athlete’s Tweets, none of us should be surprised.

We have been living in a disposable world for quite some time. Not quite sure when it began but I suspect it made its arrival about the time disposable diapers and razors came onto the scene.

 Any more, if the Internet service you have runs too slow and it’s hard to get a wireless connection, just get rid of what you have and upgrade. All that cheesy and intriguing stuff offered in television ads (why do most of these items usually only cost $19.95, plus shipping and handling?) that breaks down fast, we soon discard or “re-gift” to the less fortunate. Get rid of it.

It’s an odd and ironic phenomenon, especially when you consider there are a few among us who hoard monstrous tons of garbage, flea-bitten starving colonies of animals and stuff which places them at point of eviction and alienation from their families. And even worse, makes them subjects of reality series.

But I am getting off message, perhaps. I was talking about relationships; more specifically, marriage and its all-too-common disposability. Far be it for me to offer any profound observations on the subject, having been up the proverbial aisle more than once. However, I won’t let that stop me.

Death of the obituary

AT MY FIRST daily newspaperi, one of the jobs of a fledgling reporter was taking obituary information from the local funeral homes. In fact, it was the responsibility of anyone getting the call – cub reporter, desk editor, sports department or any one else not answering the phone call in our smoky, coffee-soaked squalid quarters at the Mount Vernon Democrat building in southwestern Indiana.

As a newly hired reporter back in the Gutenberg press days of journalism, that call often came to me from any our local funeral homes. Initially, I felt my education in the military and GI bill-financed trip through the sheepskin factory put me above such mundane matters. But I was blessed to have received a more important secondary education.

Bill Brooks, the editor and general manager of our humble and aggressive little rag, gently gave me a good education one afternoon while listening to me bitch about the “so whats” of writing an obituary and making mistakes in doing so.

A conversation with two presidential candidates

And two more candidates have tossed their hats into the ring, making a bid for a run at the U.S. presidency in 2012. Both are independent candidates who have refused to align themselves with the Democratic and Republican parties, nor with the surging Tea Party and so-called “Occupy Movement.”

Karl Childers hails from a small Arkansas town and admits having no previous political experience, though he admits he has an admirable track record in repairing lawnmowers and sharpening cutting devices.

Forrest Gump is a lifelong resident of Greenbow, Ala., had a stunning football career at the University of Alabama and then shipped off to the Army, where he later received the Medal of Honor for heroic actions in Vietnam. He amassed a fortune in the shrimp industry, which he largely credits to an Army buddy named “Bubba.”

We thank Misters Childers and Gump for joining us here tonight on CNN News to discuss their views and why they are seeking the White House. Let’s begin with our friend from Alabama…


Q:  Mr. Gump, why did you decide to enter this campaign? More specifically, why are delving into a race of such a high level?
GUMP:  Well, my Mama always said “politics is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Q: Mr. Childers, in the past you’ve shown little or no interest in politics or issues facing this nation. In fact, we have it on record you have never voted. Why are you in this race?
CHILDERS: Mm-huh. There were these two fellars standin' on a bridge, a-goin' to the bathroom. One fellar said, "The water's cold,” and the other fellar said, “The water's deep.”  I believe one fella come from Arkansas. Get it?

A Stroll Among Stones

WE STROLLED along the Indiana Government Center and walked past Fire Station 13. The firefighters apparently had just returned from a call and that immediately caught the attention of my 6-year-old grandson Jack.

He was feeling somewhat jaunty and adult-like, wearing the green Army combat green fatigue shirt I had worn decades ago and had given him the night before . It didn’t matter that my last name was above the breast pocket.

Just don’t say anything about our names and maybe they’ll think I’m an Army guy, Grandpa!

Fair enough.

A few more steps and we were standing on the apron of the Indianapolis 911 Memorial, a small plaza overlooking the fountains of the Downtown Canal. It was an early quiet Saturday morning, less than a week after a special dedication ceremony marked a place to honor the memories of the lives lost on that horrible day a decade ago.  Stone benches on which to sit and reflect.  Stone markers recalling the timeline of that day in New York City, the Pentagon and a field in Shanksville, Pa.

And two miniature towers loom overhead  – two support I-beams which tumbled when the World Trade Center collapsed.

A trickle of hope for a thirsty world

So much angst, anger, disappointment and despair in the world these days. The global economy teeters; terrorism in its many ugly forms killing in the name of God or any warped secular persuasion ; gangster warlords fostering famine in poor nations;  and politicians in every nation more focused on preserving their cancerous careers and their goose-stepping  agenda than serving the publics they have sworn to represent.

Well, every now and then us so-called mentors of future generations need to take a step back, keep our mouths shut and observe from those whose lives are just beginning. Want to talk about real profiles in courage, consider Rachel Beckwith.

Some time ago, this Seattle girl embarked on a mission to celebrate her June birthday: Forget the cards and presents and all that. She wanted people to contribute to her quest to provide clean and safe drinking water in those desperate niches of the world, places where people die because they don’t have it.  And that death toll continues to rise.

Rachel did her homework. She urged contributors to donate to www.charitywater.org, which locates and drills for freshwater in needy places.

Growing Kids in a Backyard

RECENTLY, I TRAVELED TO MY BOYHOOD TOWN in southern Indiana for a long-overdue visit with my Mom, daughter and sister and their families. It felt good to be back in terra cognito, spending the weekend in the home where I grew up from the time I was five. Familiar turf, by and large, surrounded by a changing neighborhood once elegantly dubbed “Country Club Meadows” by an enterprising developer named Guthrie May, who transformed Evansville’s north-side in the post World War II years by building affordable housing for veterans able to buy homesteads for their growing young families. 

My Mom supplemented my Dad’s income from the late 1960s and continued the work until only a few years ago with baby-sitting. Today, we are a far too-sophisticated folk to call it that; we now call it child care services. Hundreds of people in Evansville owe part of their mothering and upbringing to my Mom. Sometimes, she runs into some former grey-haired youngster in public and they recognize her loudly and proudly.

Just take a look at that backyard, son, she told me one evening. This yard has never had that much grass!  It was plush, straight and as green as the brightest emerald. Indeed, the turf never looked this way in the 50-something years the Stutevilles staked claim to the property. And for good reason: kids at play for generations, even long after my brother, sister and I moved on.

Got me to thinking about something a neighbor once remarked to my late Dad. You have to understand that Gerhard Frenz (the adults called him “Gary”) ironically had immigrated and resettled at no expense in our  ex-GI subdivision after serving in the German army during “The Big One.”

Buck, why do you let all of those kids come over there and trample down your grass?, he asked, gesturing to a lawn as pristine as Hitler’s flower garden at his Eagle’s Nest retreat in Berchtesgaden. Truth is, no kids – even his own – were allowed to play in the Frenz backyard, much to the chagrin of his children.

My old man never was one to delay replies, especially those which irked him.  Well Gary, I’m busy growing kids right now. And when that’s done – maybe  I’ll grow me some grass.

Mr. Frenz just walked away shaking his head not really understanding. To this day, I wonder if he ever knew that his youngest son Frankie was one of the best Kraut-killers in our juvenile reenactments of our dads’ grim work.

AND SO FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT TWILIGHT, I walked out onto the back patio of my Mom’s well-kept home on Kensington Avenue and fired up a Macanudo. There was a waft of meat on a grill drifting through the neighborhood. A couple of loud-mouth mutts were barking their conversation back and forth while a few lightning bugs’ butts were beaming with that neon, summer yellow. The air was a dense as the collective brain power of Obama’s board of economic advisors; a thickening humid haze slumping.