"...being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art..."

Andy Warhol

The Unforgiving Minute

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

VISTA Health Advocates

During the winter of 1968 I was involved in a special project at the headquarters of VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) a division of the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO), the agency formed to lead the Johnson administration’s efforts in the so-called War on Poverty.

We wanted to see what impact we could have if we created a special program which selected the very best of the best and brightest who applied for the VISTA program; gave them special training and put them into a small group of counties in the rural south. We called it the VISTA Health Advocates program.

It was a project which would have approximately 20 VISTA volunteers. They would be placed in six rural and very economically depressed counties in Eastern Arkansas.

I was tasked, with among other things, as a young Management Intern at OEO, the job of selecting the participants in the Health Advocates program. I personally went through the thousands of application folders for the VISTA volunteer program and selected applicants who had been campus leaders and who, in their applications, exhibited some special talents that caused them to stand out from the rest. I was 25 years old, so I was passing judgment on people who were essentially my peers.

Once selected, the Health Advocates attended a special training program in Austin, Texas, and were then placed into the field in Eastern Arkansas.

Among the volunteers were the only VISTA medical doctor (Dr. Blumenthal) and nurse (Corinne Cass). We put them in Marianna, Arkansas, the county seat of Lee County. At the time it was the fourth poorest county in America with an average annual income of just over $1200.

There was no health care for poor whites or poor blacks in Marianna. If you were ill you had to make a three hour drive to Little Rock or Memphis. We decided to put together a rudimentary health clinic. There was no space and we couldn’t rent space from white merchants so we started the health clinic in the back room of the black owned funeral home. In many small towns in the south, the most prominent and wealthiest black man was the owner of the funeral home. That was the case in Marianna. He owned a Cadillac and was very refined and worldly.

We needed an executive director for the clinic which we called the Lee County Cooperative. Somehow we found Olly Neal. He had grown up in Marianna and then moved to Chicago. He had returned to Memphis and we hired him to run the clinic. He was an extraordinary charismatic man.

Once established, the Cooperative became a vehicle for all manner of community activity, not just health and nutrition. When we first began work in Mariana we discovered that only 18 to 20% of the registered voters were black, while more than half of the population was black. Clearly, a voter registration campaign made a lot of sense.

Over time, enough black voters registered to provide a black majority in the electorate.
The logical next step was to run a slate of black candidates for each office on the upcoming election.

Election night, as ballots were being counted from the precincts around the county, it was looking very likely that the black candidates would win. With only a handful of “mixed” race precincts left to count, the black candidates were ahead. At that moment, the County Sheriff and his deputies arrived and confiscated the ballot boxes. The next day it was announced that the white candidates had won.

It was a classic example of racist Southern United States election politics. I was outraged and wanted to immediately contact the U. S. Attorney with a claim of election fraud. Olly Neal restrained me and said, “You don’t live here. I live here. We know what to do next time and we will win.”

And, Olly and the people of Lee County, Arkansas did win. Olly continued to successfully manage the Coop, then returned to school where he ultimately obtained a law degree. He later became a judge on the Arkansas Court of Appeals, retiring in late 2006.
In 1996 I attended a dinner for Hilary Clinton and had the opportunity to speak with her briefly about my time in Arkansas. I mentioned the name, Olly Neal. Hilary said, “I know Olly Neal. He is wonderful. He is a judge on the Arkansas Court of Appeals.”

A couple of years ago Olly and I traded phone calls but didn’t connect. I just did a search and found that among other things, he just contributed $1000 to Hilary’s Presidential Campaign.

Breakfast with the County Judge

I had been traveling in and out of Eastern Arkansas with regularity in my role as liaison between headquarters in Washington, DC and the field operations of the VISTA Health Advocates program located in six rural counties along the delta of the Mississippi.

On one trip I stayed overnight at the Holiday Inn at the interchange at the freeway exit for Forest City , Arkansas. The freeway was new as was the Holiday Inn. Arkansas had boomed under the tutelage of the Governor Winthrop Rockefeller, but that boom had missed, as booms do, the lower socio-economic rungs of the ladder.

In the morning I came down for breakfast and walked into the restaurant. The hostess said, as came in with an associate, “The County Judge is here and would like to have breakfast with you boys.” Well, the County Judge in the rural south was typically the most powerful elected official in the county and presided not only over the court, but over the county itself. Often, the county judge lacked any legal education, and in fact, may not have had any education beyond the 8^th grade. No matter! Even handed justice in the rural south didn’t require education; it just required good common sense.

We sat down across from the Judge, whose name I don’t recall. He was silver haired and lean. I asked him why he wanted to see us. He said that he wanted to talk with us; that he didn’t like us, “….enticing the Nigras to demonstrate.” I told him we were working with VISTA and working with volunteers in his county. Recently two volunteers had moved into a small town on the east side of his county. Within days of their arrival they had both been severely beaten by some local thugs. I asked him how that could happen in his county. Clearly, he knew about the beatings. He said they had been beaten because, “….when they came into town they just failed to properly identify themselves.”

That day I drove around his county in my rental car checking on various volunteers and projects. I was followed all day at an uncomfortable distance by one the Sheriff’s deputies. I have a strong recollection to this day, of the hair standing on the back of my neck.

"Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their
common sense."

Gertrude Stein

Letter Writing

My mother just celebrated her 90^th birthday. 120 of her friends attended the reception for her at the First Methodist Church. It was a wonderful event, largely a testament to the fact that she has kept in close touch with family and friends.

My mom is a great letter writer. Letter writing is fast becoming a lost art. I read with great interest in the Times yesterday that the personal papers of Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. had been obtained by the New York Public Library. Among the trove was the correspondence between Schlesinger and many of the notables of the last half of 20^th century in America. As the piece reported, “About one-third of the 400 boxes of material consist of Mr. Schlesinger’s voluminous correspondence, which in many cases includes both sides of the exchange. Mr. Schlesinger routinely stapled copies of his responses to letters that he had received. “It’s not just who he corresponded with,” a librarian said. “It’s that these were two- or three-page letters exchanged — often about the most pressing topics of the day.””

What will become of the history of this new computer age? Will the New York Public Library receive some computer disks from the estate of the next generation’s premier historian? Will they have archived and kept their correspondence through transitions from 5 and ½ to 3 and ¼ to CD to DVD and on to the next medium?

Mom’s correspondence has all been handwritten. She learned Palmer Method cursive at the Cove School, a small country school outside of Ellensburg, Washington where her family homesteaded in 1876. She practiced at the chalk board and wrote hundreds of sentences as a child. Today, her cursive is every bit as perfect and legible as when she graduated from the 8^th grade.

I grew up writing cursive as well. We practiced with our pencils on lined paper beginning in the third grade at a point when our brains and our manual dexterity coalesced to allow the formation of those carefully crafted letters. Practice made perfect. Of course, my practice was aided by the occasional need to write 500 sentences that proclaimed that I would no longer pull the hair of the girl who sat in front of me, or some other indiscretion.

There was something more to the learning of cursive than the simple ability to communicate thoughts in written form. Cursive had a certain flair and elegance and was, when well executed, an art form that communicated not only ideas but something of the personality of the writer as well.

Today, my children don’t learn cursive in school. It has been dropped from the curriculum. I think the loss is a significant one. Not only are children now deprived of an opportunity for tedious, disciplined learning but the fine art of letter writing is undermined as well. Rigor, as an element of the educational process, has been replaced with every increasing opportunity for expression. But, it seems to me, expression finds its fullest form when it springs from a solid base of disciplined learning.

In addition to the loss of cursive, and the death of the fine art of letter writing, the future will miss the opportunity to receive into its archives the reportorial work of the custodians of its history.

Casserole

The word spread
rapidly through
the small rural
community

She was not
doing well

After years
of failing health
she was now passing

It was a blessing
but nonetheless
it was difficult
and a time for
family and friends
to gather around

They sat silently
in the front room
and puttered in
the kitchen
waiting for the
inevitable

There were three
casseroles

Really!

“We found a body but
we caught the most amazing
fish though.”[1]

Yeah, we were walking through
The woods to get to this really
Cool fishing hole. It is really deep and
Has the eddies that move back against the
Cliff on the far side.

I had my old bamboo rod and that spinning reel
That my Grandpa gave me

There was this leg sticking out of the leaves
On the trail.

I caught a bunch of grasshoppers yesterday
Evening and dug up some nightcrawlers from
The worm farm by the back door.

It looked really gnarly like it had been there a
Long time

I had a fresh set of Eagleclaw No.10 hooks
And some new leader and I rigged up a bobber
So I could drift in with about eight feet of line
And let the bait move back into the eddy with
Three small lead BB weights on the line

Gawd it was amazing. When it hit it was like
A freight train.

Billy ran back to call the cops.

It grabbed that bait and took the hook and almost
Jerked the pole right out of my hand. Jesus did it
Pull that line.

But I kept working it and working it and just kept
Breathing like my Grandpa said until my arms were
Aching.

It was unbelievable. It was 18 inches long. A big
Fat rainbow. I think I hooked it last summer and lost it.
I’m gonna take it home and bread it and fry it.
It was so amazing.

Yeah, really!

---

[1] From the movie, Jindabyne, a loose adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story “So Much Water So Close to Home.”

P. O. V.

It hurt my
Head to think
About the universe
Expanding out
Forever without end

I was six years
Old and struggled
With that
Perplexing notion

Until, one day walking
In my backyard
To climb my
Favorite apple tree

It occurred to me
That if I were
Small boy
On Mars
It might hurt my
Head to think
Of a universe that
Had an end

And it might
Seem normal for
The universe to
Go on forever

Nearly sixty years
Have passed since
That day and I
Still find comfort
In the idea

That you can
Imagine a different
Point of view
And it will stop
The hurt in
Your head.

“Missouri on a Leaf”

It was a metaphor
That could grace
His tombstone

An epitaph stood
For what had been

He had in mind
More a sense
Of becoming

He read it years ago
In a“Beat” tract and
It immediately embodied
For him that sense
Of freedom and wonder
That he wanted for
The core of his life

It meant nothing at
All but yet it held for him
Wonderful possibility

Where are you going?

“I’m going to
Missouri on a leaf”

The Edge

You stand on the edge
Thinking for a moment
Do I go forward?

Knowing in some way
That your life will change
Inalterably if you
Take that step

Knowing that
Whether you move
Or not your life
Will change

Knowing that the
Edge is not a cliff
But a knife
That slices your life
Into before and after

You need only claim the events
of your life to make yourself yours.
When you truly possess all you
have been and done, which may
take some time, you are fierce
with reality.

Florida Scott Maxwell

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.

Scottish mountain climber
W.H. Murray

Tears of Joy

I entered
Her dressing room,
Hugged her
And burst into
Tears
Don’t be sad
She said

I’m not
Sad, I mumbled
Through
My sobs

They are
Rare, these
Tears of joy

Those few
Times in a
Life when
The magic
Combination
Of love and wonder
Bring a flood
Of emotion

I had surprised
Her back stage
After a cross
Country trip

To watch
Her perform
The lead in
Swan Lake

She was the
Swan
Transfixing and
Elegant

And she was
My little girl
Now grown up and
A star

Holding My Hand

Hold my hand
When we cross
The street

We do it
For safety
And security

And we do
It for comfort
And affection

As children grow
Hands begin
To stay busy
Or in pockets

“I’m big now”
No need to hold
Hands to cross
The street

But old habits
Are slow to die

I remember still
That time and place
When my daughter
Elizabeth last reached
Spontaneously for
My hand

It is a moment
I treasure

The last time
She held my hand

Headstone

It was beautiful
Dark brown
And rose
With a high polish

The name across
The granite jumped out

There is a moment
Of shock when
You see your name

It was Memorial Day
And Dad’s headstone
Had just been installed

“I like the font,”
My daughter said.

Skunk Cabbage

I was five or six
The small creek
Behind the school
Held a patch of
Skunk cabbage.

I would pick some
And chase the girls
Especially the girl
I liked best that day.

The girls squealed
And ran away.

Somehow I knew
They secretly liked
The attention.

Although many years
Have passed and
I haven’t seen or held
Any since my youth
I still chase girls with
Skunk cabbage.

September 2005

Snow Angel

One of my early
Memories of snow
Is making snow angels
And playing fox and hen
In the snow with my Dad
Along side the highway on the
Way to Snoqualmie Pass

Yesterday I visited his
Grave and uncovered the
Snow from the wreath my
Mom had my brother lay
At the place of the headstone

I laid the wreath against
The plastic yellow sunflowers
I purchased at Albertson’s
Grocery store

And then, I lay on the
Ground above his grave
And made a snow angel

Ida and Wes

I am Ron Erickson. Ida and Wes were my Aunt and Uncle. I am honored to stand before you today and give tribute to Ida and Wes. Ida was my Dad, Ed Erickson’s, sister. Many of you in this room know the Erickson story. Homestead in Minnesota. Peter and Julia Erickson had five children. Four girls and a boy. They were homestead stock, Scandinavian immigrant stock, hardy stock. They were forever resourceful.

Ida was born with a club foot. With no doctors and no money, her father, Peter, fashioned an iron brace which he adjusted over time until her foot was straight. When they moved in 1922 to a small place just down the road, and visited a Doctor at Children’s Hospital, he said, “I couldn’t have done any better myself.” The foot brace resides in Ida’s family’s archives.

Early, Wes June intersected with the Ericksons. Wes knew the family. He told me that when he got the news that Peter Erickson was killed in a logging accident right up there on the ridge above High Point he couldn’t believe it, because Pete had a reputation for being safe and smart in the woods.

As chance would have it, the intersection occurred again in the mid 60’s. Ida was widowed and Wes divorced and then began a wonderful love affair.

Many of us share wonderful memories of Rainier Avenue. Great parties, lots of laughter, and easy-going ribbing. And…then picnics on the bare lot at Beaver Lake…and the home there with its always open door.

Today though I want to share stories of love. Wes was devoted to Ida and cared for her with love and compassion. And Ida was full of love and a relentless spirit.

Just weeks before she died, in May of last year, I visited Ida and Wes at the nursing home on Mercer Island gaining strength to go home. My Dad was in an assisted living facility dealing with dementia. In her bed, with Wes at her side she said, “Ed needs to get home. Wes and I will come help take care of him.” Full of love and compassion.

As it turned out Ida was not to see her brother again. Shortly thereafter she passed away.

On Memorial Day we picked up my Dad from the assisted living facility and drove down to Greenwood Cemetery in Renton where a large portion of the extended family resides.

Dad stood by the graves of his parents and sisters and said, “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Ida. I know she would have asked for me.”

A month later, Dad fell, had a cerebral hemorrhage and lapsed into a coma. Ultimately life support was removed. Wes was in the room with Dad when the decision was made. He said, “I want the right decision for Ed. I know what he would want.”

A week in hospice followed before Dad passed away. Wes sat with Mom and the family throughout that week. He was a steady comforting presence. He was full of love.

Wes’ work was complete. A full life. He once said that he wanted to live one day more than Ida. He lived 257 days.

Mom said to him, “Wes, so many people love you and want you to live.” “Oh,” he said, “They will get along okay without me.” He’s right. We will.

But we miss you Wes. And we miss Ida.

We miss the smiles, the laughter. We miss the offer of a game of crib.

And we miss the offer of a toddie.

And we love you.

"You're Only As Young As The Last Time You Changed Your Mind"

Timothy Leary