Brown v. Board of Education Turns 60–So What?

Brown v. Board of Education Set the Stage

By: Terry Donnelly

May 26, 2014

On May 17 the landmark Supreme Court decision, Oliver Brown v. Topeka, Kansas Board of Education, celebrated its 60^th birthday. The case overturned a portion of the 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson decision that allowed the creation of the segregated cast system practiced in the old Confederacy of ‘separate but equal’. The Plessy decision stated that blacks could be segregated from whites if the provided services were of equal value. From this, most of the Jim Crow segregation laws were validated. In fact, there was nothing close to separate but equal facilities from drinking fountains to hospital waiting rooms across the South.

Brown v. Board of Education overturned the section of Plessy v. Ferguson dealing with public education. In 1954 under the hand of Thurgood Marshall arguing for Oliver Brown and his daughter, the court decided that separate but equal did not apply to public schools. Brown’s daughter was to be admitted to her local school and not have to travel a distance from her home to attend an all black school.

Well done–except for the fact that the law languished for almost 20 years with only a smattering of instances in which the case was invoked. In 1957 after waiting three years for, what the state called ‘gradual’ school integration; nine well-qualified black students were registered into the all white Little Rock, Arkansas Central High School. Governor Orval Faubus tried to keep them from attending. He managed to pit local law enforcement, trying to keep the nine students out, against National Guardsmen sent by President Dwight Eisenhower to get them in. The students were finally admitted.  

In 1962, James Meredith was the first black student to enroll in the University of Mississippi. Meredith was well qualified, as he had successfully been studying at Jackson State University for two years after a stint in the United States Air Force. Not surprisingly, Mississippi Governor Ross Barnett tried to keep him from matriculating. Again, it took federal intervention from President John Kennedy for Meredith to be allowed to exercise his constitutional rights.

Governor George Wallace of Alabama stood in the schoolhouse door in 1963 and delivered his “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever” speech trying to keep two black students out of the University of Alabama. Wallace failed.

These three instances got national attention, but the 1954 ruling was still waiting for general enforcement. School districts just didn’t know how to apply the law on a wide spectrum. If individual blacks wanted to go to a local school, mostly, they were allowed. But, there was nothing like equal education for the masses of black students attending separate public schools. The reason was that there was little integration of local housing. White kids lived in white neighborhoods and went to the local school. Blacks did the same. The problem was black schools did not get the resources necessary to be quality schools. Pre-Brown v. Board of Education separate and unequal customs still existed.

In the early 1970s states started putting pressure on their school districts to start enforcing Brown. Districts began experimenting with forced bussing of kids away from their local schools into sometimes far away schools so that the numbers of black and white students in classes better matched the ratio in the particular school district. There were all sorts of programs proposed to integrate schools, but none of them were satisfying anyone–black or white. The kids wanted to stay close to home, go to school in the neighborhood, play on the sports teams, and be a part of the social atmosphere of a school. This was not possible if students were bussed away from their local school and often had to get right on a bus after school and ride for perhaps an hour back home. One plan even had teachers teaching first and last periods on the bus as the black students commuted to a formerly all white school for the middle part of the school day–six classes a day, two on the bus, four in the school building. Not a chance of ever working.

The rule of thumb for forced bussing was that black kids rode busses and white kids ‘welcomed’ them into their schools.

No educator wanted to see kids leave their local school. Having a local school is part of what makes public education work. The problem was, and is, housing patterns. Until neighborhoods are totally integrated, the problem of segregated schools will persist.

The other solution is to equally fund and staff every local public school. Schools get equal state funding, but more affluent communities build bigger and better buildings and supplement funding to make their school the best possible. Good for them, but the problem still exists–poor black neighborhoods still do not get an equal education to more affluent areas of school districts. Today, the division is not just black and white. As is the plight of most big cities, the inner city–black, brown, white–lags behind affluent areas.

We cannot allow a large portion of our children to be undereducated. The problems of poverty, education, housing, to name a few, can only be solved with a quality education of every student. Brown v. Board of Education called attention to the problems and provided a legal resource for providing an equal education to all American students. But, a legal ruling isn’t enough.

Bussing was not the answer. It wasn’t even a noble experiment. It was a failed political answer to a problem that needs a more universal solution. We all have to believe that education is the silver bullet out of poverty and every student deserves the very best chance to achieve his or her potential if America is to achieve its potential. The highly successful schools can point to themselves as models, but until we all believe every kid deserves an academy-like education, and look beyond our own parochial needs and decide to support every kid in every school, education will remain a reason for the great American social and economic divides.

Note: The Civil Rights Act of 1964 voided the rest of the ‘separate but equal’ provisions of Plessy v. Ferguson.

Cliven Bundy reveals his racist beliefs–Niger Innis, where are you?

A Strong Foundation for Racism.

By: Terry Donnelly

April 25, 2014

Writing an opinion column can be hard work. Fortunately, every now and then, someone or some activity makes the job a lot easier. Thursday was one of those days.

Liberals have been beating our collective heads against a wall trying to expose Cliven Bundy, the Bunkerville rancher, for what he is; a common criminal who has stolen from the people of the United States for over 20 years. His worldviews are extreme, but not unprecedented. He claims no foundation for the United States federal government and eschews any laws or authority the feds may try to enforce. He does, however, prance around on a horse carrying an American flag–go figure.

The authority he does cite is that of the county sheriff. Where did he get that idea? He got it directly out of the origins of the segregated, racist Jim Crow South.

After the Civil War, during Reconstruction, Northern military troops occupied the Confederate states to be sure the freedoms granted to the slaves were put into action. For some ten years after the war, black citizens freely voted and many held public office. In 1876 the southern states petitioned to have the occupying troops removed and that they be given their autonomy back. Part of that request stated that the county sheriff was the ultimate authority, and the one officer who could enforce laws–sound familiar?

The North pulled out of southern occupation and within months state and local governments began enacting what would become 90 years of escalating Jim Crow laws that sent black freedoms and equality back to the times of slavery. The vote was taken away as was any hope of holding public office, along with any semblance of integration. 1876 was the start of blacks being banned from theaters, libraries, public parks, and schools. African-Americans were assigned separate drinking fountains, inferior public restrooms, and waiting rooms in hospitals, and even forced to ride at the back of busses to cement the illusion of black inferiority into the Jim Crow South.

The beginning of all this segregation began with the idea that the county sheriff was the ultimate authority of the land.

Cliven Bundy still believes that is true. He has made it clear that he also believes that black citizens would be better off still being slaves. He contends that his thoughts are strictly in the African-American community’s best interest. But, like any bigot, his interest is completely self-serving.

Mr. Bundy is not alone with his strong, loathsome bigotry. There are many, many more who share his views. It is difficult to get many to express their dark secrets so clearly because to do so makes one toxic in the scope of public opinion. Public officials, who once supported Mr. Bundy and his cause of stealing from American citizens, are now running away, no longer wanting to be associated with a person and a cause built on such a vile foundation.

Gov. Sandoval, Sen. Heller, and even some of the Fox News personalities who championed Mr. Bundy as little as a week ago, have made their plea to the American public to forgive them.

We probably shouldn’t. The likelihood of Mr. Bundy being racist was well telegraphed all along and should have been expected by our leading officials. They ignored the warning signs and leapt in head first to show support, hoping for political hay from their base of voters. Those who supported Mr. Bundy aren’t very good politicians to miss the red flags and the voters should reconsider any support at the ballot box for such political hacks.

Also a part of this debacle is Niger Innis. Mr. Innis is running for Nevada’s Fourth Congressional seat, now held by Steven Horsford. Unseating Rep. Horsford will be difficult, as he has done a pretty good job over the last two years. But, one of Mr. Innis’s slams on Rep. Horsford is that he took the easy way out and did not state categorically that Rep. Darrell Issa was not being racist when confronting Rep. Elijah Cummings in a committee meeting a month ago.

Niger Innis stated categorically that Rep. Issa was not being racist and that Rep. Horsford’s refusal to state the same was a disqualifying, and reprehensible act.

Mr. Innis is right. Rep. Issa’s act of cutting off Rep. Cummings and not allowing him to speak was rude and an indication that Mr. Issa is not ready for congressional leadership, but not overt evidence of being racist. Rep. Horsford should have said so. That doesn’t let Rep. Issa off the hook. He may still be a racist, we just don’t know, and only Mr. Issa can tell us whether he is or not.

Mr. Issa won’t do that, but Mr. Bundy did.

Missing from this messy flurry of activity is Niger Innis.  Mr. Innis supported Mr. Bundy in his recent efforts, but has been absent from the conversation since it turned blatantly racist. Like Mr. Innis challenging Mr. Horsford to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a simple question. I now pose the question to Mr. Innis.

Yes or no, Mr. Innis. Is Cliven Bundy racist? 

Celebrate Black History Month: Repost from Mesquite Citizen Journal, Feb. 17, 2014

Grieving Part of Black History Month Celebration

By: Terry Donnelly

The problem with writing about Black History is that it doesn’t make for pleasant reading. February is the month chosen to celebrate Black History, and there is a lot to fete, but the American portion of African-Americans in history remains pretty dismal.

The theme that holds the story together over nearly 400 years is murder.

During the early 17^th century the first black captives were brought to American ports and sold into slavery. For 250 years blacks were owned by white landowners and treated as chattel–chattel that could be legally destroyed on any whim.

After the Emancipation Proclamation and the Civil War, freed slaves were citizens and their continued slaughter had to become more creative.

In 1937 Abel Meeropol, a New York high school teacher, wrote a poem titled “Strange Fruit”. He added music and Billie Holiday famously began singing the mournful song in 1939. The strange fruit in the song was recognition of the hundreds of black men lynched and left hanging in trees along the roadsides in the Confederate South.

There was no abatement of black homicide in the former slave owning states, and to make matters worse, the grievous acts were not publicized, investigated, or punished.

Starting in 1955 the leaders of the Civil Rights Movement first addressed the publicity problem when Chicago teenager Emmett Till was murdered in Money, Mississippi for whistling at a white woman. His mother made the call to display his grotesquely beaten body for all to see. Photos that ran in the northern newspapers started to draw attention to what was still common activity in the South. The murdering brothers were well known, but never stood trial.

Dr. Martin Luther King and his contemporaries learned quickly that newspaper and even better, television coverage would bring awareness to their plight and plea for equal rights. In 1964 the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, one of several alphabet named groups organized to protest for voting rights and call for the repeal of Jim Crow laws, spawned a program in which northern college students could come to Mississippi for a Freedom Summer to help advocate for voter registration, equal treatment, and education. On the heels of the mainly white student volunteers came the press to report on the activity.

No sooner had the volunteers arrived than three of the members, Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, and Mickey Schwerner were murdered on June 21. The boys had been investigating a church burning and were arrested for speeding on their way back to the base camp. They were released from jail late at night and were immediately kidnapped by Ku Klux Klan members. All three were shot dead. Andy Goodman had only been in Mississippi for 24 hours.

Without police assistance, volunteers began a search for the missing boys, hoping to find them alive. The search took six weeks. As the summer program was ending, President Johnson sent in some 250 FBI agents with cash in their pockets to bribe locals to assist in finding the boys' bodies. They did so on August 4^th. The three, two white New Yorkers, and a black local, were murdered because they were working for civil rights.

This story is bad enough, but the story that filled the six weeks the manhunt was conducted is even more astonishing. As many people began turning over rocks and looking in ponds for the missing boys they began to find other bodies. A decomposing carcass would be found and determined not to be one of the boys. There was general relief to think the three may still be alive. Not just one body, but body after body of black men were found. The count was mounting. Each negative ID was met with relief that it was not one of the boys until the searchers realized they were finding dozens of tortured and murdered citizens who had never been found, and there was no one being held responsible for any of them.

Seven men, including one sheriff’s deputy, were convicted in federal court on an obscure federal law in the case of the three Freedom Workers. The lesson was learned that if tried for murder in local courts the men would not have been convicted. Jail time is jail time.

Fast-forward to the 21^st century and we find that little has changed. In 2012 George Zimmerman shot and killed Trayvon Martin because the armed Zimmerman claimed he felt threatened by the unarmed teenager. In fact, Martin was found in a non-black community. His presence was unwanted and punishable by death. A judge and jury agreed that Zimmerman had done nothing illegal when he fired his gun into the chest of the boy who had gone for a walk.

Ending this week is the first trial of Michael Dunn. Dunn, who is 47 and white, is claiming he too felt threatened in 2012 by a group of black teenagers in a car playing loud music. Dunn didn’t like the music, let his feelings be known, and an argument ensued. 17-year-old Jordan Davis challenged Dunn with nothing more than words. Dunn opened fire into the car killing Davis.

Davis’ only crime was having a big mouth. His punishment was execution.

Dunn claimed he saw a gun, but none was found. Saying he saw a gun and claiming he felt threatened even though no one got out of either car, is the ticket to freedom provided by Stand Your Ground laws in 23 states.  Thankfully, because Dunn fired several rounds into the SUV, he will serve time on three counts of attempted second-degree murder and one of firing into an occupied car. But, the murder charge resulted in a hung jury. Florida will try again, but there is little to suggest another jury hearing similar testimony will find making a decision about a white man killing a black man any easier than the first one. Dunn isn’t going to jail for murder, but, jail time is jail time.

Black history month offeers a lot to celebrate. My brethren of color have proudly overcome much and are rightfully putting more and more accomplishments and people to celebrate on the resume. This was a hard column to write, but we must understand the wicked in the world to better enjoy celebrations of the good.

Read more about the Civil Rights movement in Terry Donnelly’s historical novel, First You Hear Thunder.  Contact Terry through the MCJ or go to Amazon or Barnes and Nobel online for a copy.

I've been working on a revision of First You Hear Thunder. The biggest changes have come to the section when Wally and Gene join up with SCOPE and leave from Chicago on a bus to Florida. Here's an excerpt that illustrates some of the changes.

The second week in June, Gene and I traveled by bus to Chicago where we transferred to a bus chartered by Dick Gregory to take us south. For Gene and me south turned out to be Gratiot County, Florida. We both were disappointed. All the action and press were coming from Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. What was going on in Florida? Florida was a resort area where old people retired and baseball teams practiced in the winter.

Dealing with or disappointment about being sent to Florida would have to wait a few days because our first stop was Atlanta, Georgia. Before we were dropped off in Adams City to do our work, we were taken to a conference in Atlanta for a kick-off celebration for SCOPE. We would also attend a variety of training classes in preparation for what lay ahead. The conference started on June 14 and Dr. King spoke to the convention of about 650 college students, 150 workers, and some 400 local volunteers the next day. King told us that he was happy because “this generation of students is found where history is being made.”

That is exactly how Gene and I felt. We felt like we were making history.

Magnetic personalities come along every now and then. Dr. King was one. We saw and heard him speak in a crowd of over 1,200 people, and it seemed like his was the only face seen clearly and his voice the only one heard above all the others. People flocked to be at his side, or at least as close as possible, just for inspiration. It was clear why he was chosen to be the face of the movement. His rise to much more widespread fame came quickly after the onset of the Montgomery bus boycott. It was his aura that shone brighter than all others that propelled him onto the largest stage. President John F. Kennedy was another example. He was able to win the hearts of voters and be elected president of the country after only a short stint of public service. These men had their human flaws forgiven and focus was kept on their heroism. Right or wrong, these charismatic people become our leaders.

For the next three days we were taught about what we would be facing, how to react, and tips about teaching civics to interested citizens in our area.

The list of instructors and lecturers at the conference sounds like a Who’s Who roster of today’s historic civil rights figures. Vernon Jordan spoke and John Lewis led one of the study groups. Rev. Ralph Abernathy was present as was Rev. Andrew Young.  Abernathy was Dr. King’s right hand man until the day King was murdered. Young and Lewis went on to become members of the U. S. House of Representatives. As I write, Lewis remains a member today. Young added Mayor of Atlanta and President Jimmy Carter’s Ambassador to the United Nations to his impressive resume. Jordan practiced law and was a driving force in civil rights legislation. He was part of President Bill Clinton’s inner circle of advisors.

These impressive men instructed us about the dangers, frustrations, and irrational behavior we were about to face. But, their strongest words were reserved to make clear were to be completely nonviolent. If confronted we should let ourselves be arrested and never fight back. Any unsavory act would stain this righteous endeavor.

I had been on athletic teams and had heard tons of locker room pep talks, but the motivation these men instilled in us was a rush of adrenalin like I had never felt before. We bolted out the doors when the conference ended and leapt onto the chartered bus. Our mission was to make the movement proud of us.

We talked and planned all along the six hour, bumpy, dusty bus drive to northern Florida. We talked and planned, but had no concrete idea about the realities we would soon be facing.

Gratiot County, with its county seat, Adams City, is on the northern tier of counties just south of the Alabama and Georgia boarders. It is located to the west of Tallahassee and in 1965; it was light years away from being anything resembling twentieth-century mentality. There were no major league baseball teams and no retirees playing shuffleboard, just a few thousand white and black people living in conditions that were ever so diverse.

Repost of a Christmas Short Story: Enjoy the story and the season!

Last Christmas

By: Terry Donnelly

“One dollar and eighty-seven cents…two dollars and sixty-seven cents…three dollars and eighty-two, three, four cents.” The old couple counted out the assorted change that lay strewn about in front of them.  It was December 24^th and they had small gifts bought and wrapped for their grandchildren and one for the teen who always helped the old woman with her grocery bags. Three dollars and eighty-four cents was all that remained of the money they had to spend for the month.

“That isn’t much.” The old woman was sad. “I hoped to have enough to get a tree for our front window this year.”

“Come on Kitten, we can find something if we try.”

The old man had called his wife “Kitten” for over sixty years. They had been married in a different time. One that seemed simpler. They worked hard and saved a small amount of money over their lifetime, raised a family, and now lived quietly in their retirement years. They needed to count every penny every month, but voiced no complaints. Their spirits were generally upbeat now that they were approaching the end of their time on Earth. They both joyously agreed that they had led charmed lives together and vowed to revel in the simple pleasures they found daily.

Together, the old couple scooped the change back into her timeworn, leather purse, donned their coats and scarves, and headed out the door. Bundled up, they looked a lot alike as they walked–both a bit stooped over, each with a shock of white hair rising out from the wool scarves around their necks. They held hands as much for support as from love.

They turned down the sidewalk toward the intersection where shops and restaurants stood.

When they got to the corner it was nearly three o’clock and not many people were about. The old couple stepped into a fenced lot that was advertising Christmas trees for sale. The owner was preparing to close his stand for the season and go home to his family. His inventory had been pretty well picked over and only a few good trees remained.

He watched as the old couple sized up one tree after another. They turned the trees and stood back to take a better look. Each time, after looking at the price tag, they put the tree back–the prices were all too much.

As they were about to walk home without a tree, the old man noticed a small one tucked into a corner of the lot. It looked okay from a distance, but when he picked it up, he saw the backside was flat and without many branches. The tag for that tree read $5.

“Look!” He tried to sound happy about his find. “We can put this side in our window. It has some good branches.”

“I don’t know.” The old woman was not sure the sparse tree would make their apartment look any more festive.

“Will you take $3.84 for this tree sir?” the old man asked the tree lot owner.

“Sure, why not? I’m about to close up and no one else will be buying any trees this late on Christmas Eve.”

He took the handful of change not bothering to count it.

As the couple left the lot the old man noticed another tree sticking out of a barrel.

“What are you going to do with this?”

“Burn it.”

“Can we take it too?” the old man asked.

The old woman looked at him like he had lost his mind. This tree was worse than the one on which he had spent the last of their money.

“I sure don’t care. It’s yours if you want to haul it away.”

After wishing the lot owner a Merry Christmas and receiving returned greetings from him, the old couple dragged the two scrawny trees back to their apartment.

The old woman went into the kitchen to put some soup on the stove to warm for their dinner. The old man began to tinker with the trees in the living room.

First he began to braid branches from the flat side of one tree into the branches on the flat side of the other tree. After about twenty minutes of twining and tying string around some branches and securing the two trunks together, he crossed two boards and nailed them to the bottom of the hugging trees so they could stand on their own.

He stood his creation upright and stepped back for a better look. The result was amazing! The trees fit together like matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Together, the complementary trees made one full, round, beautiful decoration. It was as if the trees came to life after they were introduced to each other–the faults and shortcomings of one made beautiful by the strengths of the other.

The old man was stunned. He didn’t expect something so magnificent to come from the two, broken, outcast trees.

“Kitten, come in here. Look at this!”

When the old woman emerged from the kitchen she dropped her soupspoon. She stood and stared at her husband’s creation. It looked to all the world as if the two trees were one elegant spruce.

After the old couple had eaten their soup, they spent the rest of the evening winding the two ancient strings of lights they had stored away onto the tree and finally topped it with the only glass ornament they owned. It was a shiny, round bulb with hand-painted stripes. The ornament had belonged to the old woman ever since she was a little girl–it was a prized possession. The old man carefully tied it to the top of the tree as the old woman plugged in the lights.

With many different colors of bulbs glowing, the tree leapt to life–dancing with light that illuminated its wondrous form. Together they lifted the little tree onto a stool so it would be tall enough for its full radiance to be seen through the window. They pushed the tree into the space that looked out onto the street. Next they carefully placed the few gifts around the stool under the tree and finally sat down on the threadbare, brown loveseat with its faded design to enjoy their new decoration.

Snow began to gently fall in big, white flakes as the day turned to night. All evening as people passed the apartment they stopped and took time to admire the glorious tree in the window. Each viewer took great joy in seeing the dancing lights on the tree made more vibrant when framed by the falling snow. No one guessed that it had been created from two cast offs that would have been without a home this Christmas had it not been for the old couple bringing them in and piecing them together.

After a few hours of admiring their tree and delighting in retelling stories from Christmases past, they reluctantly decided it was time for bed.

“Let’s leave the lights plugged in all night just in case someone comes walking by late who needs a holiday boost in spirits,” suggested the old woman.

After turning out the lamp and before heading into their room, they stood in the glow taking one more long look at their beautiful tree and the fabulous array of shadows the lights cast on the walls. As they did so the old couple hugged each other. As their arms and bodies intertwined they looked to all the world as if they were one. As if they were two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting perfectly together–the faults and shortcomings of one made beautiful by the strengths of the other.

Book Review: Winnie-the-Pooh: Stories for a Lifetime

A Book Review for Life

By Terry Donnelly

If one could own only one fiction book for a lifetime let me suggest Winnie-the-Pooh by A. A. Milne. The collection of short-stories, published in 1926 impart meaning to listeners and readers from age four to 104.

The book doubles as an instruction manual for parents. Christopher Robin gets read to all the time. Ask any teacher and confirm that the one single most valuable activity for developing a child’s literacy is being read to.

In the beginning no small child can resist hearing the wonderful flow of language created by Milne. The characters chase woozles, or is it wizzles? And then they hunt heffalumps. The prose is poetic (Isn’t it funny, How a bear likes honey? Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does?), which enhances a young person’s sense of how language should sound. A friend relates his grandson’s oft-repeated request, at age four to “Read Pooh!” I recall my own children’s similar requests/demands.

Once off to elementary school, kids still love the stories. I defy you to name one eight year old who hasn’t gathered family and friends, donned hats, turned blankets into capes, stuffed any article that could be a makeshift backpack with provisions, and struck out on an “expotition” to the North Pole after a session with Pooh and the gang.

The stories appear to be targeted at six to nine year olds, but so much more is left for a more critical mind. We are not done exploring the depths of Pooh merely because we can also read Catcher in the Rye and War and Peace.

Exactly when was it that I discovered the depth of the writing? I can’t give you an age, but it was when I realized that there was one kangaroo living as two in the home of Kanga and Roo. The yin and yang played out with Kanga, the overbearing mother, keeping Roo, the rascal, inquisitive son, so close that their names mergee into one.

On yet another level there is pure, pun-loving droll humor. Pooh lives “under the name of Sanders”–not because of witness protection, but literally with a sign nailed above his door. Piglet’s grandfather was Trespassers William. That bit of genealogy came from the logical conclusion reached after finding a broken piece of an old wooden sign in his belongings that read only “Trespassers Will…”

Droll humor isn’t your bag? Then how about slapstick? Pooh eats too much honey and subsequently gets stuck in Rabbit’s front door. The ensuing days find Pooh fasting and all the friends in a row (large to small, ending with Small, a beetle relation to someone) pulling Pooh out while Rabbit makes the best of a bad situation by using Pooh’s legs as a towel rack. The scene rivals any Three Stooges film.

Want some nostalgia? Playing Pooh Sticks is a metaphor for any lazy summer day when there was nearly nothing to do–a couple of friends just hanging out watching clouds form, trading some baseball cards, or I guess, being in proximity of each other listening to different I-Pods.

As we age further, we learn of the character’s flaws–their humanity. The sage Owl can’t really spell his own name, but has everyone in the woods convinced he has any answer required. I’d propose that he was modeled after the Beatles guru, Maharishi Yogi, who inspired the song “Fool on the Hill”, but Owl came first.

The terminally insecure Piglet would have been constantly cowering in a corner had it not been for one, rock solid friend–Pooh. There is also the clinically depressed Eeyore. A loner who eats thistles and loses body parts is one to pity, except for the care provided by his neighbors. They act communally, as the model for Habitat for Humanity and provide him with shelter, plus free medical care with a surgical tail reattachment.

Finally, there is the anti-Peter Pan moment when we must accept that the routine changes as we grow up. Christopher Robin, the creator and caretaker of this Kibbutz, has to leave the woods and take the next step in life–kindergarten for him–but any transition will apply.

The hope that is present in all good literature remains because Milne argues with Thomas Wolfe and suggests that one can indeed go home again, get together with old friends, and take up anew. Isn’t that the measure of a true friend–one who can be absent for long periods of time, but nary a heartbeat seems to have skipped upon reuniting?

I am fortunate to have a few such friends and I am fortunate to have spent the entirety of my life with Winnie-the-Pooh. Or, is it Winnie-ther-Pooh? Bear isn’t quite sure.

And Now There Is One -- Repost from "Mesquite Citizen Journal" commemorating the death of Mercury 7 Astronaut Scott Carpenter

By: Terry Donnelly

Oct. 14, 2013

On April 10, 1959 seven men crossed the threshold from total anonymity to face the nation and instantly become the country’s biggest rock stars. That day, an everlasting impression was etched into the life of a thirteen-year-old boy. Seeing the Mercury 7 astronauts being introduced for the first time, none of whom he had ever heard, by an agency, NASA, that was equally obscure, became his first life intersection of fact and fantasy.

Those were the men who would touch our imaginations and take over the roles of science fiction characters Buck Rodgers and Tom Swift. They would be the real life heroes who would conquer outer space and walk on the moon. They did not disappoint. Live television coverage and film footage on the nightly news would replace the fantasy novels with frayed covers and well worn pages now left resting, unused, on my bookshelves.

By necessity these men were of average height and weight–they had to fit into a small capsule to complete their missions–but in my eyes they seemed like giants. Seeing them that day in civilian clothes was soon far outstripped when in later photos they showed up in their space suits. Awesome!

Scott Carpenter has died from stroke complications at 88 leaving John Glenn, oddly enough the oldest of the group, as the sole survivor of America’s pioneer spacemen.

Carpenter was born in Boulder, Colorado on May 1, 1925. I lived in Boulder for 25 years and had a constant reminder of the city’s native son when passing, and often making use of, Scott Carpenter Park on the east side of town. Upon leaving Boulder, he became a military test pilot, as were all seven men, before becoming an astronaut. After a split with NASA, Carpenter became an aquanaut and explored the ocean’s floor in SeaLab II in1965. He remains the only human to witness both. Upon retirement, he returned to Colorado and lived out his years in Vail.

Each of these originals was daring, lively, and possessed a child’s insatiable curiosity. They had to love living life on the edge to face the dangers of pushing the envelope of aviation during the first fifty years of flight, but each had human frailty just the same.

Carpenter made just one trip into space and that came in May 1962 when he successfully orbited the earth three times becoming the second human to do so after Glenn did it ahead of him. Carpenter recalls being anxious looking straight up into space and realizing he was sitting on a Roman candle burning at inferno temperatures propelling him into darkness and uncertainty at warp speeds.

In later years he would speak of overcoming those fears and in doing so, gaining the experience of seeing Earth from space and feeling the weightlessness he called his alpha life accomplishments.

On his trip Carpenter became the first to eat solid food in zero gravity in the form of Space Sticks. I can only imagine them as a first attempt at granola bars.

His humanity showed on the trip when he neglected to turn off an important switch and used up too much of his fuel before reentry. He discovered his error when he started to return to earth and had to manually fly the capsule to its sea landing, missing the intended target by over 200 miles. This error caused much concern as it took nearly an hour to locate him. When finally found, he was serenely floating in his rescue raft with his feet propped up on the sides. He casually offered some of his Space Sticks to those who came to pluck him out of the ocean.

This cockiness and casual attitude got him in as much hot water as he was in salt water. He never got back into NASA’s good graces. Later, he broke his arm in a motorcycle accident that was conveniently used as an excuse by his bosses, and he never flew another mission.

Carpenter may be as famous for his send-off to John Glenn when Glenn became the first to orbit the earth as he was for his own flight. As Glenn was being thrust away from Earth’s gravity, Carpenter wished him “Godspeed John Glenn” as a bon voyage. He didn’t coin the word, but used it because it contained both God and speed–great speed being the primary force needed to break our earthly bonds.

Now it is my turn. Godspeed Scott Carpenter.