Old Glory (Vintage Departures) by Jonathan Raban BOOK REVIEW - FIVE STARS

 BOOK REVIEW- Five Stars

Old Glory: A Voyage Down the Mississippi (Vintage Departures) by Jonathan Raban

“Riding the river, I had seen myself as a sincere traveler, thinking of my voyage not as a holiday but as a scale model of a life. It was different from life in one essential: I would survive it to give an account of its end. The journey would turn into a complete narrative, where life—my own life—could be only an unfinished story with an inconclusive plot.” The author, Jonathan Raban

Jonathan Raban’s account of floating down river across America on the mighty Mississippi and being submersed in every type of political, religious, and regional controversy that cursed a country that is often diverse and extreme paints a vivid picture and weaves an adventure.

Interesting and educational, this story is an on going escapade.

EXCERPTS

“I think God made the Mississippi as a sort of warning, to prove that things really can be worse than you think.”

I ran into the man again. “You’re not still thinking of going down that river, are you?” “I’ve written off about getting a motor.” “It’d cost you a hell of a lot less if you just swallowed a packet of razor blades.

The state fair sprawled across a hillside and a valley, and at first glance it did indeed look like a city under occupation by an army of rampaging Goths. I’d never seen so many enormous people assembled in one place. These farming families from Minnesota and Wisconsin were the descendants of hungry immigrants from Germany and Scandinavia. Their ancestors must have been lean and anxious men with the famines of Europe bitten into their faces. Generation by generation, their families had eaten themselves into Americans. Now they all had the same figure: same broad bottom, same Buddha belly, same neck less join between turkey-wattle chin and

sperm-whale torso. The women had poured themselves into pink stretch-knit pant suits; the men swelled against every seam and button of their plaid shirts and Dacron slacks. Under the brims of their caps, their food projected from their mouths. Foot-long hot dogs. Bratwurst sausages, dripping with hot grease. Hamburgers. Pizzas. Scoops of psychedelic ice cream. Wieners-dun-in-buns. Stumbling, half-suffocated, through this abundance of food and flesh, I felt like a brittle matchstick man.

The sound of dice being shaken in a wooden cup. “That’s a rattler. He’s in there somewhere.” Tickety-tickety-tickety. “He’s moving away from us now. He was right close up when I first heard him.” The noise of the snake was lost in the rustle of the leaves. “A while back, this was a real good place for rattlers.

When I was a kid, we used to come out and hunt them. You got twenty-five cents for every rattle then. They was trying to exterminate them. Then a whole lot got drowned in the summer floods.

There was rattlers all over, trying to climb aboard. They was just desperate to get on anything that was floating, logs, boats, I guess they weren’t discriminating too much. It wasn’t me they was after, it was just a ride on my boat.

Whenever anyone’s been in trouble in the world, we’ve gone in there to help them. Hell, we helped you out when you was in trouble in World War Two. Now America’s in trouble, and everyone’s looking the other way. No one wants to help us. Even your country, you ain’t going to come in with us and lend a hand. Even you.” His jowl was set in a melancholy line of deep personal grievance. “I reckon in America now, we ain’t got but one friend left in the world. Know who that is?” “I’m sorry it’s not England.”

“South Korea.” He gave an irritable snort of laughter. “Fuckin’ South Korea!”

I wasn’t a traveler at all; I was just another rubberneck in a city that made its living out of credulous rubbernecks. Go buy a guidebook! Take a buggy ride! Get your picture painted! Eat beignets! Listen to the sounds of Old Dixie! Have yourself a relief massage; then go home, shmuck!

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The Berlin Wife by Marion Kummerow - Book Review - Five Stars

 

BOOK REVIEW FIVE STARS

The Berlin Wife: A totally gripping WW2 historical novel about bravery against the odds by Marion Kummerow

An eye-opening novel that is timely and based on true history. 

In this age of enlightenment it is unfathomable that an entire adult population could be duped into voting for and backing a Fascist with a criminal record.

As an introduction to this era and the political climate that precipitated a Fascist government which quickly spread over Europe and beyond resulting in 13 over run countries and millions of victims, I recommend listening to the audio book; The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer.

Pay special attention to 1943.

It has been said that Americans can be sold anything, even a war. The last war they won was in 1945.

EXCERPTS:

Did you know that he recently founded his own party, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party? It already has fifty thousand members.” Joseph puffed out his breast, leaving no doubt that he was one of the fifty thousand.

“This is the problem of all democracies. The commoners are simply not educated enough to know what is good for the country, they tend to put their personal benefit over everything else. We need a strong ruler in Germany to reunite the states.”

I have experienced more crises in my life than I care to remember. All have passed sooner or later. Those who are prepared will profit, the rest goes under.

You just sit back and let the inflation do its work. I’m quite certain a currency reform is the only way out of this depression, then you have got it made.

“Hitler is our man,” Joseph said as he took the offered cigar. Julius shook his head. “I don’t see how. He’s too hotheaded, has no political experience, no allies, and, most importantly, no backing in the population.”

Hitler has to stifle his rhetoric if he wants to be successful.”

The task was done. Germany was on its way to a bright future! And he would be an important part of it.

Joseph offered a toast. “Our leader Adolf Hitler can always rely on his SS. We will do our duty. Heil Hitler!”

A vicious coup had been prevented and everyone in the unit would receive a promotion.

Over the course of a week, not only had fifty SA leaders in the hotel been eliminated, but also Ernst Röhm had been arrested and shot on Hitler’s order.

Hitler told his senior SS men, in the same words he later repeated in front of the German Parliament, consisting solely of trusted NSDAP members. About two hundred men had been killed: Only Vice-Chancellor von Papen evaded death and was placed under house arrest.

Hitler had won on every count, and at the same time had shown his people that he was their sole leader, who would ruthlessly oppress any and all critics, no matter who they were or how much power they held.

The Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor supposedly protected the racial purity of the Master Race and forbade “miscegenation”, or inter-breeding, between Aryans and Jews.

Reich Citizenship Law additionally stipulated that a Jew, and to a lesser extent a half-Jew, did not belong to the German race and nation, thus was not allowed to have the Reich citizenship.

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373 Mind-Boggling Facts and Questions from the Puzzle Vault by Nayden Kostov - book review

 

BOOK REVIEW

373 Mind-Boggling Facts and Questions from the Puzzle Vault by Trivia and Quizzes by Nayden Kostov

Entertaining, thought provoking and informative. A collection of often overlooked truisms that are sure to expand your knowledge base.

EXCERPTS;

President Johnson admitted as much in 1965, telling Congress that the actions of Black Americans who had joined the civil rights movement “called upon us to make good the promise of America. And who among us can say that we would have made the same progress were it not for [their] persistent bravery, and [their] faith in American democracy?”

When Johnson uttered these words, Congress was polarized; the Democratic Party was coming apart at the seams; and the country, by denying Black citizens access to the ballot box, was undemocratic in fact.

In other words, the Washington that passed transformational legislation outlawing racial discrimination, expanding access to healthcare, food, and education, and slashing the poverty rate was just as broken as the Washington of today. Ordinary Americans still found a way to win, as we now must. Poverty will be abolished in America only when a mass movement demands it so. And today, such a movement

American labor is once again on the move, growing more boisterous and feistier by the day, organizing workplaces once thought untouchable. A renewed movement for housing justice is gaining steam. In a resurgence of tenant power, renters have formed eviction blockades and chained themselves to the entrances of housing court, meeting the violence of displacement with a force of their own. The Poor People’s Campaign has elevated the voices of low-income Americans around the country, voices challenging “the lie of scarcity in the midst of abundance” and mobilizing for things like educational equity and a reinvestment in public housing.[

They march under different banners—workers’ unions and tenants’ unions; movements for racial justice and economic justice—but they share a commitment to ending poverty in America.

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Poverty, by America by Matthew Desmond - Book Review

 

BOOK REVIEW: FIVE STARS

Poverty, by America by Matthew Desmond

It is past time to wake up America!

The Europeans refer to America as the land of the working poor where there are over 800,000 homeless.

This book is a reality check. It has been said that the Americans can be sold anything, even a war.

EXCERPTS:

I have met poor Americans around the country striving for dignity and justice—or just plain survival, which can be hard enough: home health aides in New Jersey who belonged to the full-time working homeless, fast food workers in California fighting for a living wage, and undocumented immigrants in Minneapolis organizing for affordable housing, communicating with their neighbors through the Google Translate app. This is who we are: the richest country on earth, with more poverty than any other advanced democracy. If America’s poor founded a country, that country would have a bigger population than Australia or Venezuela.

Almost one in nine Americans—including one in eight children—live in poverty. There are more than 38 million.

Instead, we let the rich slide and give the most to those who have plenty already, creating a welfare state that heavily favors the upper class. And then our elected officials have the audacity—the shamelessness, really—to fabricate stories about poor people’s dependency on government aid and shoot down proposals to reduce poverty because they would cost too much. Glancing at the price tag of some program that would cut child poverty in half or give all Americans access to a doctor, they suck their teeth and ask, “But how can we afford it?” How can we afford it? What a sinful question. What a selfish, dishonest question, one asked as if the answer wasn’t staring us straight in the face. We could afford it if we allowed the IRS to do its job. We could afford it if the well-off among us took less from the government. We could afford it if we designed our welfare state to expand opportunity and not guard fortunes.

Americans throw away more than that amount in food every year.

What could $177 billion buy? Quite a lot. We could ensure that every person in America had a safer and more affordable place to live. Every single one of us. We could put a real dent in ending homelessness in America, and we could end hunger.

Companies are doing all they can to avoid paying what they owe. Wealthy families, too, have found new ways to weasel out of paying taxes. Studies have shown that most Americans pay 90 percent of the taxes they owe, but the ultra-rich pay only 75 percent. This is possible because affluent have increasingly come to rely on a burgeoning industry of tax professionals who have devised ingenious ways to get around investing in the common welfare.

When corporations hide profits in tax havens, and when rich families stash valuable assets in offshore accounts, they defraud the American public, forcing everyone else to pay for their greed.

“It seems to me that people who earn nothing and contribute nothing get everything for free. And the people who work hard and struggle for every penny barely end up surviving.” Universal programs, like a universal basic income (UBI), get rid of this baggage. Designed to benefit a large number of people, sometimes irrespective of their standing, universal programs are less polarizing and so are considered more politically durable.

I’m not calling for “redistribution.” I’m calling for the rich to pay their taxes. I’m calling for a re-balancing of our social safety net. I’m calling for a return to a time when America made bigger investments in the general welfare. I’m calling for more poor aid and less rich aid.

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Embers of the Hands: Hidden Histories of the Viking Age by Eleanor Barraclough - Book Review Five Stars

 

Book Review - Five Stars

Embers of the Hands: Hidden Histories of the Viking Age by Eleanor Barraclough

Excellent well-written and edited in-depth coverage of an era in history that ever after altered many generations to come. Worthy of more than five stars.

EXCERPTS:

Scandinavia as an interconnected cultural sphere involving other indigenous peoples who inhabited the peninsula. These groups did not necessarily share the same linguistic background or cultural practices as the Norse, and yet they were notable players in the Viking Age story. The most important of these were those known as Finnar by their Norse-speaking neighbors. They were the ancestors of Scandinavia’s modern-day Sámi population. For the most part, they were nomadic hunters and fishers with ready access to valuable Arctic furs and skins. Their primary territories ranged across the far north of what is now Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. Hailing from Arctic Norway, Ohthere himself made much of his wealth through trading with and collecting tribute from his neighbors. But the Norse–Sámi relationship was also characterized by intermarriage and cross-cultural influences. There is also archaeological evidence that the Sámi also operated in southern areas of Scandinavia.

Through the eighth century the north began to develop rapidly in new ways. Much of this had to do with money. After the economic slump that followed the fall of the Western Roman Empire, a new influx of silver coins spread into northern Europe, lubricating the wheels of trade. Already by the year 700, new trading centers had sprung up on both sides of the English Channel. There was Quentovic, near Boulogne on the French coast; Hamwic, just outside what is now Southampton; Lundenwic, an Anglo-Saxon trading port upriver of the old Roman city of Londinium, where Westminster now stands; and Dorestad near the mouth of the Rhine, in the modern Netherlands.

The importance of food production, it is no surprise that the basic unit of Viking Age society was the farmstead. The people who lived on it tended to be largely self-sufficient. They grew, fished or hunted whatever they could, bartering with neighbors or itinerant merchants for anything else.

Other necessities, such as textiles, tools and building materials, were also produced at or near home. Animals were exploited down to the last useful sinew. The majority of the population lived close to subsistence levels much of the time, although fluctuating between scarcity and abundance from season to season and year to year. Life was tough and unrelenting, kept up through physical effort in the face of an uncompromising natural environment. Their material world was one of wood, wool, flax, bone, stone, leather and antler, hand-wrought and fashioned, with metal a precious commodity to be treasured and recycled.

The Norse world converted to Christianity far later than most of northern Europe. This means we have far more information about their pre-Christian beliefs and practices than, say, those of Anglo-Saxon England before the conversion. But on the other hand, this can lull us into a false sense of security. We need to remember that our written descriptions of Norse pagan practices and beliefs come from outside the system. Texts from the Viking Age itself were written by Christian or Islamic writers from other parts of the medieval world. They tended to be openly repulsed by whatever they deemed ‘pagan’, and reluctant or unable to understand it on its own terms. Later texts from within the Norse sphere itself were written well after the conversion to Christianity. This makes it difficult to know whether these accounts actually reflect what people did, said or believed centuries earlier.

There are times when love and lust lead to sex. There are times when sex leads to pregnancy, and times when it doesn’t. And both outcomes can prompt a range of emotions, from the very good to the very bad. Every single human living in the Viking Age was there because of sex and pregnancy. But it’s extraordinarily hard to find evidence of the experience of pregnancy, with all its complex emotions and potential outcomes, in either the written or the material record. Partly, this is a consequence of the fact that, if you had a womb, you probably didn’t have much of a voice in the official records, and so that limits the types of evidence available to us.

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RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WAR YEARS. 1940-1945 - John M. Grimsrud

 

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WAR YEARS. 1940-1945

I was born in 1940.

My first remembrance of those war years is that I could see real hate in everybody’s eyes as they chanted “kill the Nazis.” The chant “kill the Nazis” became “kill the Germans” by the end of the war.

There were 13 countries overrun by the Axis powers (Fascists), Germany, Spain, Italy, and finally Japan.

The U. S. issued 13 different commemorative five cent postage flag stamps depicting all of these overrun countries.

A link to the stamps: Click here.

I obtained a three by four foot world map that I framed and made into a stamp map where I affixed and labeled the countries stamps, and so opened my education in geography and interest in world history.

In 1944 when I was four years old, I ran away from home. Getting a beating, slapped around, and having soap rubbed in my eyes got me going. Mom said that I hurt her and now she was going to hurt me.Grandma’s apartment was nine blocks away, and I was on my way.

Wartime gasoline rationing made the streets quiet, and the East End Drug where Grandma’s apartment was located I knew well. It was my best-loved sanctuary…I loved Grandma, and she loved me. She named me stakkar, and said in Norwegian that means “poor thing.” Grandma was fully aware of her daughter’s personality and her eccentric dangerous behavior.

Great aromas wafted up from Grandma’s humble little kitchen where Scandinavian cookies were always in abundance. Her dessert specialty was prunes whipped up in whipping cream, oh so good!

Grandma was also a “poor thing.” When Grandma was sixteen years old she and four of her brothers set sail for America saying a final farewell to family and friends, and returning was not going to be an option.

Grandma told me a story about when the sailors played a prank on her bringing her a banana to see what she would do with it. Her little Norwegian village was isolated amd only accessible by boat in good weather with no electric or phone where they spoke only an Old Norse dialect. She had never seen a banana.

Grandma and her brothers headed west in America and did not stop until they reached a place where they could speak Norse. North Dakota is where they settled, but it was not yet a state, and Indian raids were serious business. You could see a long way in Dakota Territory but you couldn’t see much. There wasn’t anything to obstruct your view, not even a tree for a bird to sit in…they had to hop around on the ground. The soil was fabulously rich, and farming was a dream come true, not like rock bound Norway. Land was free for the taking.

Grandma married Edwin Benson, a landed Norwegian. He and his brother weren't taught any work ethics, and after the parents died the farm was lost. The sad part was that oil was later discovered on the farm land.

Grandpa Benson took a job as a watchman on the railroad when he moved to Superior, Wisconsin, with his wife and three daughters.

When the great depression hit and the “Hoover Days” began the family took up residence in a humble shanty in the woods east of Brule, Wisconsin.

My father married my mother, Myrtle Benson, the second of the three daughters and provided her widowed mother Bertha an apartment above his East End Drug Store.

Back to my runaway story, yes it was “poor thing” Grandma.

Grandma’s apartment:

Prominently displayed on her living room wall was a large sepia photo of her younger brother in his military dress uniform. He died in 1918.

I met one of Grandma’s brothers, Ingvald, who was a cook aboard a Great Lakes ore carrier that frequently called at Duluth-Superior harbor. He would always came to visit his sister Bertha arriving by city bus. One day when I was with my father in his car in downtown Superior, I spotted Ingvald at the corner of Belknap and Tower where he would transfer to the East End bus line. My Dad stopped and picked up Ingvald and drove him to Grandma’s apartment above the East End Drug Store. Gasoline was rationed at this time. but Dad received gasoline ration stamps because his drug store did home deliveries of medicine. Dad’s blue Studebaker coupe had to out last the war, rusted out floor boards and all.

Back to Grandma’s apartment, and my runaway story:

Grandma had a still working very old desk top tube radio that we would tune into for noon time weather and news plus some favorite evening broadcasts. During the war news was especially important for us and couldn’t be missed.

Her well-worn dining room table and chairs were part of a set with a bureau of drawers filled with her few valuables.

She treasured an envelope from her family in the Old County. It had been opened and resealed with an ornate tape decorated with Nazi swastikas. Inside the envelope the letter had been meticulously blanked out to censor the message. This was my first hand look at Fascism that was spreading across Europe with lightning speed and killing thousands in its wake. From the very northern tip of Norway on the Arctic Ocean at Kirkenes all the way south to the Straits of Gibraltar in southern Spain fascism had total control of the west coast of Europe. This was frighting and resistance was imperative. The U. S. was at the same time battling fanatic Kamikaze Imperial fascist Japan in the Pacific Ocean.

I have to interject that in 1944 I was only four years old, but I have to expand on this monumental story of my family’s involvement of resistance to Hitler’s Nazi invasion of little neutral Norway with a population of 3 million.

In the predawn hours of April 10, 1940, three German battle ships flying British flags stealthy and deceptively entered the Oslo Fjord refusing to halt on demand and identify themselves. My Grandfather’s nephew then performing his military duty (national guard), took aim with his Krupp German made cannon and sent 1,600 of the deceptive invading Nazi’s to the bottom of Oslo harbor. Neutral Norway whether they wanted it or not had entering the war and would be brutally occupied. They would be just one of the thirteen invaded countries of WWII.

Grandma’s oldest daughter, Esther enlisted in the military and was off to war. Her youngest daughter Nelly Bergland married a career military man who served five years in Europe during WWII, and was later sent off to Korea.

My dad’s older brother Lawrence was inducted into the army infantry and shipped off to North Africa and then to Italy where he was involved in the bloodiest invasion battle of WWII at Anzio, Italy. That brutal experience altered him for life.

Dr. Rudy Christianson, my father’s very best friend, I called him my “Uncle Rudy” gave his life to the war effort taking amphetamines “speed” so that he could do his life saving surgery until he literary dropped. Less than three years after the war his heart quit.

My father was deferred from military service because he was vital to the efforts at home, but his father, born in 1879, was eligible to be called to service. I remember my father, born in 1908, telling me that regarding military inscription of his father, he told him,

“How could they take an old man like you?”

Back to Grandma’s apartment: I was safe with Grandma.

There came a knock on the door and Grandma had me hide in her bedroom. There was a police man inquiring about me. Grandma protected me, and she sent the policeman on his way.

In retrospect looking back on this incident I learned about poisonous personalities and how deceptive and cunning they could be. Bipolar psychopathic personalities are impossible to live with and absolutely no positive outcome can ever be expected.

What sparked my memories?

I recently listened to the audio version of the book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer. I highly recommend it. It is apropos to our current times.

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Small Acts of Courage by Ali Velshi, Book Review-Five Stars

 

BOOK REVIEW: FIVE STARS

Small Acts of Courage: A Legacy of Endurance and the Fight for Democracy by Ali Velshi

This is a powerful treatise, conveying messages extremely important and timely.

This absorbing family history is worthy of more than five stars.

EXCERPTS:

If we want to prevent the murder of the next George Floyd, it will require more than just reforming the way we police. It will require us to build a society where the rights, privileges, and protections of citizenship—and the responsibilities of citizenship—are shared by all. As my family’s hundred-year journey illustrates, for far too many people, achieving true citizenship and belonging in a new country is no easy endeavor. It can be long, arduous, and beset by discouraging setbacks at every turn. And for all of us as a society to work together to build a shared notion of citizenship, to build a truly united there are those who still maintain a sort of “yes, but” defense of Great Britain’s imperial project: that it was worthwhile because, in the end, the British left their former subjects with the rule of law and better railroads and “Western values.”

The ill effects of colonialism were compounded by environmental catastrophe. Waves of drought parched and devastated the land, wiping out whole crops and herds of livestock, leading to mass starvation. In the first half of the nineteenth century there were seven famines that killed, by conservative estimates, around eight hundred thousand people. The second half of the nineteenth century was worse, bringing seven additional famines that killed over 15 million. All the while, tons of Indian wheat were being exported to feed the British back home, and the money and resources that might have eased the devastation caused by famine had gone elsewhere, taken by the British and used to support their various military adventures overseas. The starving people of India were left with no choice but to go elsewhere themselves. Between 1830 and 1870, nearly 2 million workers left the country in search of better prospects. That was the Big Bang. The Indian diaspora was born.

In a cruel twist of fate, they left their homes and their families to toil on behalf of the same empire that had devastated their native land and forced them onto the open seas in the first place.

Scandal: when companies like MCI and WorldCom and Enron were caught cooking their books to hide billions of dollars in losses from investors. We covered those stories ad nauseam, and it was the first time that we, as financial journalists, confronted the idea that some of the people who we are all excited to have on our TV stations were a bunch of crooks. Then came cascading crises of confidence in our institutions and leadership: the Iraq War, Hurricane Katrina, the 2008 financial meltdown. As I traveled the world reporting, going to places like Hong Kong and India, people would ask me, “Why can’t you guys be more like Al Jazeera?” Meaning: “When are you guys going to stop being ESPN and really report the news and hold people to account?”

I can remember being at CNN the night that Barack Obama was elected, back in the days when CNN had twenty people at a time in the newsroom in rows of desks. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. We were all caught up in watching history unfold, and I was thinking, “This is it. This was the big thing America needed to do that it hadn’t done, and now we’ve broken through that.” Even if you didn’t buy into the absurdities about a “postracial America,” there was a sense that we’d made a giant leap forward, and it was almost impossible to imagine things going backward from there. Obama himself leaned hard on Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous formulation that “the arc of history is long but it bends toward justice.” But with all due respect to both of those men, that’s not actually true. It’s wishful thinking that people need to abandon because it breeds a complacency that things will just continue to get better on their own. Everything about my family’s story tells me that the arc of history bends the way you bend it. That was true with the National Party in South Africa in 1948, it was true with Idi Amin in Uganda in 1972, and it’s been true in America for quite some time. For the past fifty years, extremist right-wingers have been bending it the way they wanted, and with Trump’s election, we finally got to the result of their efforts.

Everyone knew they were breaking curfew and were subject to arrest. These people, thousands of them, had taken it upon themselves to take that risk. But they were just walking, and there was no threat that called for an armed response. I’ve covered the G8 and the G20, these international conferences that draw all kinds of rock-throwing anarchists and the like, and every cop in every major city on earth learned years ago: if you’re trying to control a crowd, you don’t incite the crowd. It’s never good. So the minute they opened fire, I knew it was the result of a deliberate choice. Subsequent recordings that came out indicated, especially when it came to journalists, cops were on a hunt that night. They were jacked up. They were pumped up to do this, and we were fair game. The Minneapolis police chief himself was a decent, honest official, but his power was hamstrung by the police union, and the head of the police union in Minneapolis was a big Trumper.

So you had some cops who were juiced on this whole Trumpian mantra of “You need to rough people up a bit.” Because other than that, there was no reason to do it. None. But they did it. They were excited to do it, and they continued to do it for hours all over the city. They chased people down. It was completely unnecessary, and it was wrong. A few months later, the whole episode came up again because Trump started ranting about it on the campaign trail as part of his whole attack on the media. “I remember this guy Velshi,” he said, recounting the incident. “He got hit in the knee with a canister of tear gas and he went down. He was down. ‘My knee, my knee.’” He was wrong about every detail, by the way. It’s all on video. But Trump makes up lies even when he doesn’t need to.

The truly disturbing part of Trump’s speech was what came next, when he lavished praise on the police for attacking an American journalist. “It was the most beautiful thing,” Trump said, “because after we take all that crap for weeks and weeks, and you finally see men get up there and go right through them, wasn’t it really a beautiful sight?” Then the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.

What makes it important is not only that armed agents of the state believe that it’s OK to take unprovoked shots at both civilians and journalists but also that millions of American citizens are willing to cheer that on. It is chilling to realize there is a large and vocal faction in this country that is ready to burn it to the ground before they’ll share it with anyone who doesn’t look like them or doesn’t think like them. They stand ready to tear down everything that makes America special—indeed, everything that makes America possible, like the right to vote and the right to a free and independent press.

Up until Minneapolis, I thought of myself as someone covering those fights. It was only when I got shot that I fully realized I was in the fight. That belated realization came, in part, simply because, even as a brown guy in Donald Trump’s America, the system continued to work fine for me. It still works fine for me to this day. I make a good living. I go about my life without any real fears for my physical safety. I worry about larger societal problems, but day to day I’m good, which means I have a certain perspective on the promise of this land and I could easily go right on taking that promise as guaranteed. But I can’t anymore, because I know that promise is not guaranteed. To any of us.

It has to be good enough for all of us. As has been said many times by those much wiser than me, if one of us is in chains, none of us are free.

It’s not enough for society to be good enough for some of us. It has to be good enough for all of us. As has been said many times by those much wiser than me, if one of us is in chains, none of us are free. This is what my father and mother and sister knew. It’s what my grandparents and great-grandparents knew, despite their total lack of a formal education. Justice isn’t justice until it’s universal.

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Haakon the Good (Vikings of Norway) by Ole Åsli - Book Review Five Stars

 

BOOK REVIEW

Haakon the Good (Vikings of Norway) by Ole Åsli

This easy reading novel of the Viking era takes the reader through the years of transition into Christianity and the end of the Old Norse pagan ways.

An informative glimpse is provided of everyday doings in a very historical and pivotal point in history.

I found the book well done, interesting, and entertaining.

Excerpts:

‘You are right, young man! Let me explain. In our belief all men are God’s children. And as we priests are God’s voice on earth, we tend to say such things like “my son”. I haven’t given it much thought, truth be told, but you are right, it is a bit strange. And maybe we should be better at explaining our behavior so that we don’t put people off. And you are also right that we are concerned about lying. In fact, that is one of the Ten Commandments; “Thou shalt not bear false witness”, which means that you should not tell a lie. Have you heard about the Ten Commandments?’ ‘No,’ Haakon said. ‘Where I am from, kings and jarls and chieftains give the commands.’ ‘Is that so?

But what do you think about God?’ Siegfried poked Haakon in the chest with his index finger. ‘I think he is one God, among many, who likes getting gifts and giving commands, but gives very little in return. Had he been a king, he would’ve been a bad king. Not a very popular king.’ Hauk almost chuckled. But he held it in, worried about how the tiny man and his God would react. They were in his house after all. He would be close by. ‘And your gods, Thor and Odin, are they more generous?’

‘That was a good game,’ Hauk said. ‘You really showed them how it’s done.’ Haakon smiled. ‘It’s not about winning, Hauk. It’s about finding solutions that help everyone. That’s the true mark of a successful negotiation.’ In a real-life negotiation, trust me, most men will give anything to get the upper hand. They can accept a lot, if they just can walk away feeling they won or got a better deal than their adversary.’

Besides making a good deal for everyone, I’ll have to make my adversaries think they won?’

someone chuckled, and laughter rippled through the crowd. Haakon raised a hand. ‘Nonetheless, I promise to do my utmost to be a fair and just king if you will have me. A leader cannot lead without the trust of his people. A king cannot rule without their support.’ Cheers erupted from the assembly. Haakon continued. ‘But these are just words,’ he said, and the crowd hushed again. ‘It’s easy to say words, as the jarl has just demonstrated.’

Haakon raised his horn of ale in a toast, his voice ringing out above the jubilant throng. ‘To Arrow, a warrior reborn! May his victory remind us that strength lies not only in skill, but in the power of unity!

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The Accidental President by A.J. Baime - Book Review Five Stars

 

BOOK REVIEW: FIVE STARS

The Accidental President: Harry S. Truman and the Four Months That Changed the World by A.J. Baime

Truman’s presidential odyssey began on April 12, 1945, the day Franklin Roosevelt died. It is impossible to overstate the shock to the world FDR’s death caused. “The Romans must have felt this way when word came that Caesar Augustus was dead,” the columnist I. F. Stone wrote at the time.

This amazing book covers the tumultuous days from post WWI, the Roaring Twenties, Hoover administrations "get rich" for financial insiders that crashed markets, saw foreclosures of homes, businesses and brought about the great depression, known as the “Hoover Days”. It also set up President FDR for four terms that saw the United States enter WWII.

After reading this informative and amazing book you will see that FDR’s pick of Harry Truman as Vice President did America a great favor.

What came next derailed American democracy, and was the last war that America would win.

EXCERPTS:

No generation had ever lived through such leaps of innovation so ruthlessly squeezed into a lifetime. The ubiquity of telephones, movies with sound, paved streets roaring with motorcar traffic, the rise of the supermarket with branded products such as Post Toasties cereal and Hellmann’s Blue Ribbon mayonnaise—none of this had existed thirty years earlier. The war had accelerated the speed of modernization. Truman could recall as a young man of nineteen reading about the Wright Brothers’ first controlled flights. Now the U.S. Army Air Forces were flying thousands of 56,000-pound B-24 bombers, equipped with radar and gyrocompasses that enabled the dropping of bombs on precision targets. Racial integration, women on assembly lines—it all felt like an H. G. Wells novel. In the previous eighteen months the nation had come of age.” Americans—especially in Washington—felt the pull of destiny, that their country had become the world’s moral arbiter.

The month had flown by in a montage of historic events. The Axis surrender in Italy, the execution of Mussolini, the suicide of Hitler, the Russian capture of Berlin, Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender, the liberation of death camps, the firebombings of Japan. The United Nations Conference was under way in San Francisco, and the president had been briefed on the most startling secret in human history.

Bastards,” “yellow monkeys,” and vermin-infested “louseous Japanicas.” But American feelings toward the Japanese went beyond racism. A hatred had sunk deep into the American consciousness following Pearl Harbor, a hatred that did not come into play in the European war, even toward the Nazis.

The bomb was on the way.

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On the Move by Abrahm Lustgarten - Book Review-Five Stars

 

On the Move: The Overheating Earth and the Uprooting of America by Abrahm Lustgarten

On the Move is an extraordinary and eye opening look at where our world has arrived today and a glimpse at what now awaits us all.

Hydrocarbon combustion and more water to flush have reached their finite limits. People can be sold anything...even a war.

This is a must read book to read and heed!

Excerpts:

Despite all the talk about the climate crisis, we’ve scarcely begun to consider what is expected to be one of the largest impacts: the next great human migration.

The heat waves in the United States in 2023 were hotter and longer than those of 2022 and 2021, which were in turn worse than those of 2020, and so on. Federal data shows that those heat waves, on average, have gotten successively more intense over the last decade. In some places the droughts have gotten worse, too, the reservoir levels lower and the wildfires more destructive, while in other places the rainstorms are more torrential.

According to just about every metric, the world was hitting critical warming benchmarks sooner, and with more dramatic consequences, than expected. The most dramatic changes—ice cap melting, drought, and the thawing of the frozen Arctic—appeared to be occurring faster than even the most alarmist of climate scientists thought possible.

Arctic permafrost could push the planet over a tipping point, leading to the sudden release of so much methane gas now trapped in the soil that global atmospheric greenhouse gas concentrations will continue to rise steeply even if governments effectively curtail industrial emissions.

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The Ice Master: The Doomed 1913 Voyage of the Karluk by Jennifer Niven - Five Stars Book Review

BOOK REVIEW: FIVE STARS

The Ice Master: The Doomed 1913 Voyage of the Karluk by Jennifer Niven

The Ice Master: The Doomed 1913 Voyage of the Karluk is a true life well-documented Arctic Ocean exploration expedition that is fast moving and guaranteed to keep the reader enticed to the very last.

EXCERPTS:

The people of the Karluk be allowed to speak on these pages in their own distinctive and passionate voices. In some places, they speak directly, and all dialogue that appears in quotes in this book comes verbatim from their own diaries or letters, or from interviews with the descendants and survivors. Likewise, any insight into the feelings or thoughts of these people comes from the feelings and thoughts explicitly expressed in their journals and descriptions of the Arctic conditions are either quoted directly or adapted from specific observations from journals and diaries of the men who experienced them.

By 1913, the Northeast and Northwest Passages had long been found, and so had the Bering Strait. The Greenland ice cap had been crossed, and the North Pole was claimed for America by Peary. But the Arctic remained much of a mystery, and the majority of its highest frozen regions were still unexplored.

They had passed through the Bering Strait and were now entering the vast Arctic Ocean. They celebrated that night with a bottle of wine. Even the teetotalers—Bartlett, among them—celebrated the momentous event, the Karluk circled the edge of the ice pack, nosing her way sluggishly through the thickening fields of white. This ice was permanent, the enormous, free-floating rafts a fixed part of the Arctic horizon, yet always shifting and drifting. Each September as temperatures began to drop and winds increased, the ice would inevitably merge into a solid, impenetrable force. Toward the end of the season, the ice would grow violent, crashing and raftering, floe against floe, as they crushed everything that lay in their path, sometimes pushing one another into great ridges, which were as insurmountable and as high as mountains.

1911, explorer Fridtjof Nansen observed: “Nowhere else have we won our way more slowly, nowhere else has every new step caused so much trouble, so many privations and sufferings, and certainly nowhere have the resulting discoveries promised fewer material advantages.”

He knew the dangers of Arctic travel. He knew it hadn’t been much improved or advanced since Leif Erickson sailed his ship from Greenland to North America a thousand years ago. He knew the ice could trap or crush a ship until it sank without a trace. He knew a man could freeze to death or be attacked by a polar bear. He knew there were no radio transmissions or air travel over that part of the world. He knew if a ship was lost, it was lost.

BARTLETT WAS JUST as unhappy with the choice of the crew as he was with the choice of the ship. Selected out of desperation from along the western coast of Canada, one of the crewmen had only a pair of canvas trousers to his name before signing on, two of the sailors were traveling under aliases, two men smuggled liquor aboard even though it was forbidden, and the cook, twenty-year-old Scotsman Robert “Bob” Templeman, was a confirmed drug addict. He made no secret of it, carrying around a pocket-sized case that held his vials of drugs and hypodermic syringes. He was a nervous man to begin with, anxious, high-strung, and rail thin, and the drug abuse had added years to him.

Siberia meant “Sleeping Land.” It was wild country and the coldest region in the northern hemisphere, with temperatures falling to minus ninety degrees Fahrenheit in deepest winter. Only in the heart of Antarctica did temperatures ever dip lower than they did in northeastern Siberia. It was Bartlett’s first experience in this place, and he had never known such bitter, destructive cold or such harsh weather, even near the North Pole.

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American Wolf by Nate Blakeslee Book - Review - Five Stars

BOOK REVIEW: FIVE STARS

American Wolf: A True Story of Survival and Obsession in the West by Nate Blakeslee

This is truly an interesting book about American wolves with many noteworthy points to ponder.

It has been said that the Americans can be sold anything...even a war.

Politicians with enormous checkbooks filled with other peoples money just couldn’t resist bankrolling the project of reintroducing wolves in parts of America where they had disappeared. Politicians are notorious for screwing up an ambush as is revealed in American Wolf by Nate Blakeslee.

Read it and pass your own judgment.

The wolf domesticated became the pet dog, man’s best friend and the worst enemy of a bicycler.

EXCERPTS:

Yellowstone’s wolves multiplied just as fast as Smith and his team had hoped they would. By the winter of 2003, the 15 wolves released in 1995, along with an additional 17 introduced a year later, had become a population of 174, divided into fourteen packs spread throughout the park

Now, just fourteen years after the first pens were opened in the Lamar Valley, the wolf population in the Northern Rockies had grown to over seventeen hundred animals.

They’d found a video of wolves demolishing a dairy cow and sent it to a couple of dozen members of Congress. He wondered how many of them had had the stomach to watch the whole thing. Louie had never lost an animal to a wolf, but he’d seen the aftermath on other people’s ranches: calves so thoroughly shredded that they looked like they’d swallowed dynamite, the snow covered in blood. Wolves and sheep were a particularly disastrous combination; stripped of their natural defenses against predators after centuries of domestication, sheep were known for making no attempt to escape when wolves came calling, and the result could be widespread carnage.

In the last count taken before wolves were reintroduced in 1995, over nineteen thousand elk were roaming Yellowstone’s Northern Range. By 2010, that number had plummeted to six thousand, roughly what it had been back in the 1960s, before rangers stopped culling the park’s herds.

Everywhere human civilization flourished, wolves were routed, until Homo sapiens, not Canis lupus, became the most widely spread species. Ironically, the dog—a domesticated wolf—became the first line of defense against depredating wolves, which grew more common as wild prey populations declined under pressure from human hunting and loss of habitat. Romans sometimes referred to dawn as inter lupum et canum: “between the wolf and the dog.” Dogs ruled the day, and wolves owned the night. Humanity’s most beloved animal and its most despised were essentially the same creature, but the wolf’s threat to the shepherd’s livelihood poisoned relations between men and wolves, and the wolf’s reputation never recovered. In Western culture, the wolf became an embodiment of wickedness, from the Middle Ages, when the werewolf myth first appeared, to Grimm’s fairy tales in the early nineteenth century. Early Christians—“the flock,” as believers were called—saw themselves represented in the sheep; their shepherd was God. The wolf that preyed

upon the flock was the devil himself. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service had brought the devil back to the Northern Rockies.

They didn’t relish learning how to deal with a predator their own ancestors had so decisively defeated long ago.

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Reflections from the North Country by Sigurd F. Olson - BOOK REVIEW FIVE STARS

 

BOOK REVIEW – FIVE STARS

Reflections from the North Country by Sigurd F. Olson

This philosophical masterpiece and compendium of insightful reflections is worthy of reading at a pace that gives the reader the time to absorb messages hidden within.

Sigurd Olson conveys his ponderous thoughtful persuasive messages in a joyful easy flowing style. I loved it.

EXCEPTS:

That became our theme song all the way. No matter what the adventure, and there were many, one of us would say, “I’ve been happier, but I can’t remember where.”

I have come to feel laughter and fun on the trails may be the secret of the joy of travel, as when one of my companions, Blaire Fraser, bellowed into an Arctic wind north of Great Slave a seaman’s ditty he loved: “Once I had a Spanish gal, and boy she was a dandy,” that song somehow took the bite out of the wind.

Intuition is different from instinct, the latter being a response to physical and physiological stimuli. When one is confronted with sudden danger, Adrenalin pours into the body in preparation for battle, flight, evasive action. When the hair rises on one’s neck and one is conscious of being followed or facing the unknown, reactions to such fears are instinctive.

Aces are born, not made. “We can train fine fliers,” he said, “but when the crunch comes, only those who act automatically survive to become aces.

I have seen horses hesitate before crossing a bridge they considered unsafe, have watched Indians skirt ice that looked perfectly solid to anyone else and have been with them when they sensed the coming of wind or storm, or an aura of impending doom.

Indians, woodsmen, farmers, and all those who spend their lives out-of-doors can smell the weather. This sense is not prompted by arthritic twinges or meteorological knowledge, but a certain something way down deep.

An old prospector friend of mine, Harry Moody, wrote me just before he died near Flin Flon, Manitoba, that we could sit across a fire from each other and carry on a conversation without saying a word. “I know what you think,” he said, “and you know what I think. It is enough just to be together sitting around a fire. We do not have to tell each other our thoughts or what we might be going to do.”

Wisdom is the key to a fuller life. If a richer one for me is enjoying my environment to the fullest, then it is up to me to cultivate my awareness of all I see.

Strangely enough there was a certain emptiness within me, and it was a long time before its full significance dawned. In a sense I matured during that moment of realization. Now I was an old-timer and could say “I’ve been to the Bay.” Someone said, “Do not take from any man his dream”; when a dream is gone, hope is gone, and life can become drab and without purpose. As long as a dream is ahead, there is always something to look forward to. No doubt that was the reason for the letdown when we came to the sea, but it was not long before I knew it was only the beginning of another dream: to see the Far North rivers of the Canadian shield. Eventually I did this, and found each realization was but an open door to another adventure. I remember so well the first time I saw the famed Athabasca after coming down the Fond du lac from Reindeer and Wollaston, the Athabasca I had read about in the journals of the fur trade, a three-hundred-mile sweep to Fort Chipewyan at its far western end, the place from which the Athabasca brigades came when heading for the Churchill and Grand Portage Post. Nor will I forget my first sight of the enormous reaches of Great Slave Lake with its countless islands, the gateway to the Coppermine River, the Thelon, and Great Bear Lake farther north; of the Great Bear River with its ninety-mile plunge to join the Mackenzie, the enormous waterway to the Arctic Sea, which the explorer Sir Alexander Mackenzie had thought was the way to the Northwest Passage and the Orient.

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