Letter 144: 25 APRIL; Australia's Decoration day; remembrance of dinghies past

There is nothing quite so perfect as a memory that really never was.

The mention of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Battle of the Coral Sea (8 May 1942, A.M.D.G.) by Australian Prime Minister, Malcom Turnbull, conjures up pleasant memories of the twenty-fifth anniversary of that first allied victory in the Pacific that stemmed the Japanese blood-flow toward my favourite country on Earth. Peter Jones, my next door neighbour, and I 'pinched' his father's dinghy and rowed all the way across Sydney Harbour to Woolloomooloo to greet two of the three U.S. Navy ships in from Viêt Nam (or so I assumed): the carrier, U.S.S. Bennington, and the destroyer, the U.S.S. Emerson. 

The Yanks were friendly. I tried a head-fake on Peter to illustrate the metaphysical oddity of the International Date Line, when I asked a sailor aboard the Bennington what day it was. Expecting him to answer Saturday, as per the U.S., he said, in effect, "Sunday, of course." Rats. It was the trip back that was interesting, though we had seemingly and narrowly avoided getting rammed by a gigantic liner, 'The Empress of Australia' (supposedly a car-ferry) on the way over; I am sure that we were nowhere near the mighty vessel but the waves she left in her wake made me glad I had skipped breakfast for this episode of “Mission lmplausible”. 

Anyways, we were already past the Admiralty House, almost home when we rowed in front of this very large supply-ship, the U.S.S. Sacramento, said to be 75,000 tonnes. The junior officer on the bow was not impressed with my greetings, as I informed him I was from the great metropolis of Pittsburgh. He rather directly told Peter and me to get the Hell out of there, using words I would not utter for another two or three years. The Sacramento was pulling in, perpendicular, to some wharves to tie up and had to go into reverse to turn the vessel before she went aground and ended a Captain’s career.

Apparently doing so when the two wayward lads were in front of her, would have sucked us right under. Of course, as ten year olds, Peter and I had no idea of the hazards of life on the high seas. We should have noticed that the Harbour Police's P.T.-size boat was keeping its distance. Peter and I were dead, beat; we each took an oar and heaved ourselves away and then spelled each other rapidly, once away from the Sacramento. Getting bawled out had been unpleasant. Only later did my dad inform me of the danger faced sublimely; ignorance may or may not be bliss but it is less prone to panic.

For the twenty-seven years until his early demise, Dad loved to tell that story every once in a while. Apparently, the Sacramento was blowing her fog-horn or something. In telling the story, which accumulated interesting (if apocryphal) details as the years went by, Dad would add the flourish of the pulling-down gesture of a skipper honking loud and wide. That cloudy Sunday May morning in the Autumn of 1967, my father observed to my mother (who would be 87 years young today, as Bob Prince would say) that two kids were stuck in front of the big ship.  Then Dad realized who those two benighted souls were. 

My parents now got very worried; Mom exclaiming her concern and Dad, ever the engineer, focussed on what to do. Immediately, he notified Ray Jones, Peter's father. Well, obviously, Peter and I extricated ourselves from our unknown (if ever really extant) peril. Once ashore, Ray Jones subpoenaed Peter to return home immediately. Once in our flat, my mother kissed me, inexplicably, and my father really let me have it, equally inexplicably. Hey, I was just being patriotic, man! It made no sense, at first, except for the razzing received from my angelically diabolical little sister, Claire​. That was her standard operating seizure. How could God pair such a rancid tongue with so innocent a visage?

Letter 143: The Water of Time

"A-L-C-I-B-I-A-D-E-S!"  --Ben Sylvester, 9th grade History  teacher, September 1972
"No, Mister McDonnell, a newspaper would not have said 411 B.C. back then."
"Sir, I was joking..."
Chuckling now, "You like to make history fun, don't you? --conversation with Ben Sylvester, October 1972
"Some look at the glass as half empty; others as half-full. Moi? I just drink it." --Yours truly, who knows when or who (is the original source); Harrison disclaimer hereby invoked

"Raymond Spruance, the quiet warrior, will go on to win many victories in command of ever vaster forces. Yet, in history, like Nelson of Trafalgar, he will remain Spruance of Midway." --Herman Wouk, War and Remembrance, 1978 (novel) and 1988 (mini-series)

Always disposed toward learning more about the great battle of Midway Atoll exactly two years before D-Day, I heard about this John Ford documentary and decided to give it a go. The thing about an old propaganda film is to watch it the right way. This was a trick I learned at Choate one late Saturday night when Mr Yankus wasn't around and we had invaded his apartment to watch Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon flics, I can not remember which after four decades.

While the films seemed laughable in their dated silliness, I decided to try something for one film. Pretend, really put my mind to it, that I was my dad as a kid watching the flic -- to be my father back in the 1930s and what such a film must have been like for him to watch. It worked. I really enjoyed the film. With many years of brain barnacles accumulated, it is not so easy for me to do that these days.

The applicable parent for this Midway news-reel would have been my mother; Dad was likely already in the Navy by then. Mom was twelve in 1942; she lived in Squirrel Hill in the part on Bartlett Street where many Jews lived and so the ghastliness of Germany was already pretty well known.

My grandfather, a proud Swiss German American, hung his head in sadness and shame; many of his business partners in real estate were Jewish Ashkenazi turned Americans over the preceding couple of centuries and all knew something terrible was happening in their Germany.

So I imagine Frank, my grandfather, coming home one evening calling his four girls -- my grandmother and the three daughters -- to go see a documentary in from the Pacific War: John Ford's eighteen minute newsreel on the great battle of Midway.

Challenging as it is, I try very hard to imagine what my mother's childhood home might have looked like -- the art deco feel of lighting, perhaps some deco decor interspersed with older furniture. Then, I imagine the roar of a big car coming up outside in front of the tudor plaster home with its one hundred foot lawn in the middle of a city.

The great thing about Pittsburgh was that this was a life attainable by hard-working middle class people; it was an American dream that really existed once. Grand-pa is jumping out and beckoning his harem to get in the car to shuttle over the two year old Squirrel Hill theater, a mile away on Forward Avenue.

There is a brief argument as Grand-ma is concerned about blowing through too many ration points for petrol; that gas might be crucial for getting to church the following Sunday. I can imagine my grandfather saying, "Come on, Mary, God will forgive us...we gotta see this news-reel about that big battle out there in Pacific."

As my mother, I imagine being in the back seat fighting to carve out a bigger space than that to be allotted to her two little sisters, Adelia (nick-named Nancy) and Katie. The fuss continues until mother Mary lowers the boom; equality is restored. The car's shocks are dulled with prolonged use and no replacements anywhere to be found in city or sight; the ride is bumpy while the three girls play 'bumper' in the back seat -- crossing their arms and side-slamming.

Frank pulls the car up in front the sleek and ultra-modern Squirrel Hill theater. Again civil war erupts in the back seat over the scramble to eject from the metal whale. My grand-mother imposes her maternal, more like martial, law. She gets the tickets and Grand-pa parks the car and walks back.

To keep the mission on track, Frank does what he does best -- he dotes on his darling daughters, promising an ice-cream cone, one that looks like a sky-scraper, from Isaly's or perhaps a soda from Rosen's -- after a quick supper. That meant some yummy food at a delicatessen on Murray Hill. The girls had hit it big.

So their attention span is safely locked in for at least the twenty minutes of the news-reel. The Squirrel Hill Theater is smaller than the great big movie houses downtown like the Warner or Fulton but it is as lush in the hipness of art deco drapes trusseling along the side and big curtain in the front, opening to a new world twice every evening -- three times on week-ends.

The theater still smells fresh and clean like an institution to be respected not an inconvenience to be endured for the sake of entertainment. The proprietor comes out the stage. He is from one of the finer Jewish families -- articulate, educated at UPenn and genteel.

I think hard about the world of a twelve year old in 1942; back then, twelve was still a kid's age though little Mary was already five feet, six inches and quite precocious with her voracious appetite for reading. Nevertheless, that twelve year girl likely did not really know what was happening; what she had been hearing over the past weeks and months did not sound good to her at all.

Some of those older, I mean older, brothers of her friends were gone. Most getting ready to sail to Europe, for obvious reasons. But Midway involved the Japanese -- those people who sneak-attacked our country at Pearl Harbour. Frank was the kind of kindly gentleman who likely said that these Japanese were people, too, like you and me but dragged out to fight.

Such humane dissent was quickly dismissed. The Jewish gentleman steps in front of the curtain. He makes brief eye-contact with my grand-father. He smiles and waves quickly to Frank as he does to some other familiar faces -- his special invitees.

He says, "Thank you for coming tonight to the special showing of this documentary about the great victory the United States of America won at Midway. To most of us, a week ago, Midway was that Howard Johnson's...you know...

"...about a hundred miles along the new turnpike to Philadelphia. Now it is something more, much more than even our new toll road. I am delighted to see many friends here tonight. This news-reel is directed by John Ford and led by Henry Fonda..."

A hush quickly descends the audience -- even the three sisters, though they know not why. Who can forget 'The The Grapes of Wrath', in which Ford and Fonda had teamed up and teemed out, just eighteen months before, in a manner the young Mary never forgot.

Now the three girls want candy but Grand-ma flatly states that sweets will ruin their supper, dining later than usual this Friday night; and, if they keep it up, they can kiss the cone good-bye, too. The girls sit still. My mother, a little older is more interested in the topic of the evening. Nancy and Katie take their cue, more from sister Mary than mother Mary.

The theater's owner wraps up his remarks, "I think you will find this film to be sobering, ladies and gentlemen; it has real footage from that titanic clash." He bows slightly; the friendly audience obliges him with a polite applause -- from five hundred almost exclusively white faces.

Pittsburgh's Jewish community is already leading the charge for change on behalf of negroes. Nevertheless, with the rumors coming in with refugees from Poland, these good and decent people who make Squirrel Hill -- no, all of Pittsburgh -- special are pre-occupied. Though it is only 1942, the Forward Theater that night has some black faces in the audience. After all, the negroes are fighting, too.

The theater's proprietor, rather shy and modest, blushes slightly and leaves the stage and the lights go down; the music starts up; and, the great curtain in undrawn slowly, almost deliberatively, so solemn is the short film twelve year old Mary is about to watch, eyes widening and tears welling along the way.

The barnacles are scraped. I am in a simpler time, a more modest time, when sticking out was not part of a core curriculum born of the atomizing forces of technology and social media. I am ready to watch this film and see it not as dated propaganda but as the soul-food for a hungry people, desperate for good news...

A PARTING ASIDE
Bravò, NetFlix! Messrs Diller, Rudin and Spielberg are trying to hearken back to film-makers like John Ford and their untold role in World War II. Out of this effort came some of the great American films of the Twentieth Century: 'Mrs Miniver', 'It's a Wonderful Life', 'The Best Years of Our Lives', 'Battle of San Pietro', et al. Of course, other Producers / Directors made great films, too (e.g., Ernst Lubitsch, Hal Wallis or Frank Lloyd).

But Messrs Stevens, Huston, Capra, Wylie and Ford went into the hornets' nest to bring the war, and its aftermath, home to the rest of us. And, yes, as the mind settles in 1942, one can be an 'us'. And who can forget that consolation prize winner of this genre? Don't all clap at once!

Letter 142: Old man, look at my life. I'm a lot like you were

How do I start improving myself for the future?

QUESTION on QUORA

Am 15. And still in high school. Facing lots of circumstances good and bad. And I have been looking for a way to utterly improve my self in overall aspect but doesn't seem to work. Things gave been going bad for quite some time now and well I don't know how to even start

Ned McDonnell, former Banker and Diplo-temp (1986-2013)

I was all set to give you a flippant answer. Since you are fifteen, I can not do that; how I wish I had had your clarity at fifteen! Honestly, what you are asking is a lifelong challenge, really the very basic question of one’s existence.

BLUF (bottom-line, up-front): Keep asking that same question every day for the rest of your life.

So, my answer will sound trite but will, hopefully, be at least partially true.

• First, you have already started by asking the question. You are aware that you would like to improve. That is the biggest step.
• Second, most people never make that decision explicitly because it is a hard choice in a world where popular platitudes tend to trump genuine enquiry, where appearances substitute for authenticity.
• Third, take a moment to reflect on the possibility that many of the people I know (e.g., me) still share your desire for self-improvement and yet make the same erroneous assumption: that this inward drive reflects a deficit to be addressed or personality breach in need of mending; that simply is not the case.
• Fourth, when, and if, that sinking feeling does arise, try to remember that you are not an incomplete being as much as a pedestal on which you craft your life’s work as a sculpture.
• Fifth, be flexible and follow your heart; listen to that still small voice within so easily drowned out by the cataclysmic chatter filling one’s daily life (q.v., slide #10). That certainly sounds like a hackneyed response; it most likely is. The intuition devises the strategy; the intellect refines the tactics; and, the will powers the activities. Nevertheless, all that is for naught if one lacks a sense of where (s)he wants to end up; that properly belongs to the domain of the heart.

Briefly, what I am about to elaborate on is simply an idea, not advice. It is for you to reject it and understand why you do; that ‘correction’ begins to dig down into your thoughts, feelings, intuitions and experience to clarify what you want in life and to start to determine what makes sense for you.

The idea I leave with you is the military counter-insurgency framework used in Iraq and Afghanistan , recently updated to add a fifth column of ‘transition’ (q.v., pp. 23-28), which I interpret in everyday terms to be conferring the legacy of your life’s achievements and failures onto others; since that, hopefully, is decades away in your case, I will not elaborate on that hypothetical (since, equally honestly, I really am not sure what it means though I have a hunch).

The end-state. What does victory for the ‘improved me’ look like? One must imagine his or her life as happy and complete. Is that person wealthy? Is he writing books? Is she happily married with children? Does she run marathons? Is he meditating in service to a life of contemplation? This part is one I and many others have given short-shrift at fifteen, even fifty. Sooner or later, one must confront that question, if only by trial-and-error. Why? Because one needs to know into what (s)he will invest his or her ‘heart and soul’. Without that passion, one burns out with a barren, hand-me-down life whether extrinsically successful or not.

The strategy. Long-term goals are uncertain and likely require modification over time. Thus there is no singular route; in essence, one has to hazard a best guess. This constrains the decision primarily to intuition born out of your experience strength and hope. In essence: what feels right?

The tactics. In the counter-insurgency (COIN) reading I have encountered, this is the mapping phase. Reasoning the best way from the ‘me’ of today to the ‘improved me’, one envisions him- / herself engaging the intellect to establish the route that negates or avoids constraints as well as exploits tapping unique qualities and attributes. In COIN thinking specific to Operations Enduring and Iraqi Freedom, this phase breaks this mapping down into the following elements:

1. Shape (identify and mold the context); clear (eliminate the enemy); hold (consolidate the primacy of power); as well as, build (taking the next ‘right’ step forward toward the land of milk-&-honey).
2. This might translate into everyday life by shape (i.e., preparing for the journey forward); clear (overcome debilitating deficits perceived and mitigate other constraints or risks); hold (refresh and consolidate your knowledge and experience into a plausible narrative); as well as, build (integrate the new knowledge, acquired learning and refined attributes to bridge one from here to there).

Activities. Determined by the tactics. In project management, this is called the work-breakdown structure. To take a simple example. One of the tactics (in the hold or build stage) is going from Birmingham, Alabama to Birmingham, Michigan. The tactic is concrete. What are the things one has to do to accomplish that? (S)he must determine what the priority is: economizing money or time.

Let’s assume it is cost minimization. So, in this example that person chooses to secure a car (i.e., prepares an owned car for the 800 mile trip or rents a car); to fill the gas tank; to pack food and coffee; get a good night’s sleep; go to the car in the a.m.; start the car; drive 300 miles for gas; and, so on. Now if the trip is from Birmingham, Alabama to Birmingham, U.K., one has to articulate a completely different array of activities, starting with the constraint that one can not drive across the Atlantic Ocean.

The key here is not identifying the tasks (implied by the tactics) as much as engaging the will. Driving such a distance is a pain in the pizats for most people. It takes commitment and a self-discipline to do it. After all, it is easier to binge watch “The Man in the High Castle” on Amazon Prime rather than sit in a car for a day or two.

CONCLUSION. Now from my thought to share tentative advice for you to use or leave behind. Goals are uncertain and are apt to change. Try not to place so much stock on attaining the end you have tentatively identified that you transgress your personal values to achieve it. Simply said, the end does not justify the means; the means within our hands today sully or ennoble the uncertain ends of the future.

Secondly, you will get a lot of advice. Please remember that, if you choose a course other than the one identified by someone important to you and you deem your course the more appropriate one, try not to be intimidated by the prospect of that stake-holder feeling pissed-off with, or rejected by, your best decision-making. It is your life.

If my usual feint to humor does not de-fuse the incipient contest-of-wills, I have learned to say, “Just because I am not doing what you suggest does not mean that I did not listen and consider very seriously what you advised me to do…” Is my answer that elegant when I give it, even after five decades? Of course not.

Feelings, amplified by the will, run high; the personal stakes inherent in the relationship are also high. So, if you are like me, your statement will be fragmented and quavering at first. Nevertheless, since what you are saying is an intrinsic truth essential to you, the manner of delivery becomes almost dilatory.

The truth as substance truly trumps the delivery as form. Thirdly, relax and enjoy the ride, old-timer - you are already on Route-66! When those gnawing doubts of your value do arise watch something like “It’s a Wonderful Life”, if you are a ‘he’; watch some thing like “My brilliant Career”, if you are a ‘she’; or, read “The Little Prince”, if you are either unsure or indifferent.

SUMMARY. This long-winded missive reflects to things. That I am indeed a ‘Midnight Senator’ as my dad used to tease me when I was little. More importantly, the framework presented above - whether any of it works for you - represents one possible approach to taking on a fearsome question. As the old saying goes, “How does one eat an elephant? By starting with the first bite!”