Cleaning up our collective mess from the '60s

Like many of those who marched in the civil rights and anti-war movements of the 1960s, I have been thrilled to see a new generation of prosecutors reopen some of the long unsolved crimes of that era, especially the series of attempts to solve murders of African-Americans and their white supporters in the South during that violent era.

Unlike many others, I have also been pleased to see the purported leftists from groups like the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA), and their fellow travelers held accountable for some of their heinous crimes.

But there is a next step that must be taken, and that, at this writing, remains undone. I was reminded today once again of the unfairness of one particularly unnecessary and brutal killing -- that of Betty Van Patter, in December 1974.

The reminder came in the form of an excellent article in the Los Angeles Times, LAT story, written by David J. Garrow, a senior fellow at Cambridge University, author of "Bearing the Cross," a Pulitzer Prize-winning biography of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

He lauded the recent Congressional vote to approve the Emmett Till Unsolved Civil Rights Crime Act, which would authorize up to $13.5 million a year in new federal spending for investigations into "cold case" killings like that of Till, a black teenager who was murdered in Mississippi in 1955 after supposedly whistling at a white woman.

Garrow writes, "These better-late-than-never prosecutions are certainly laudable; such horrendous crimes should not go unpunished. But there is a problem. Entirely overlooked in Congress' consideration of the present bill is the way it unthinkingly adopts two of the most widespread but nonetheless false myths about the civil rights movement: that it took place only in the South and that it ended in the late 1960s."

He further notes that "those (Black) Panther apparatchiks who were responsible for the December 1974 disappearance of party bookkeeper Betty Van Patter, an idealistic white leftist who had discovered Panther financial shenanigans and whose battered body was found in San Francisco Bay" remain unpunished.

Thank you, Mr, Garrow, for properly setting the context of Ms. Van Patter's death. She, too, was a civil rights hero, though one very few have yet come to recognize. Bringing those responsible for her death to justice would finally help to heal the untreated wounds of an era when those purportedly working to make things better exploited naive supporters and then arbitrarily eliminated them when they tried to point out that the ends do not always justify the means.

Shame on you, book author still getting lecture invitations on the east coast, and living your hypocritical PC life in New York City. Shame on you, author and former leader of the party living around Atlanta, still breathing fire. One of you ordered Betty's killing and the other of you did the deed.

Our world can never be put right until the two of you are held just as responsible for your murderous deeds as those hateful old white Klansmen who, one by one, are finally being prosecuted in the South.

There are only two options -- justice and injustice. I want to see the day the two of you are dragged in from your comfortable perches and face the consequences of what you did that night when you snuffed out the life of an idealist, a mother, a person who would later have known the joy of being a grandmother.

You are the true racists.

And that is the saddest legacy of the work we all did in the '60s. The people that Betty was trying to help became the very monsters we all wished to defeat. Nothing justifies murder.

Shame on both you, and you know exactly who you are, EB and FF. May you both rot in hell! Or, better yet, in prison for killing Betty Van Patter.

-30-

Morning After Blog

Cowboys and bar-hall girls partied all around me last night as I calmly typed here in the lobby (only spot where I can get wireless.) It was noisy, lots of cheerful chatter, drinking and gambling going on. You could hear the dice slap the table, the shrieks of the winners (and losers), and the constant rushing around of young girls in frilly satin dresses.

Most of the women were middle-aged and wore revealing red dresses with black garters, stockings, scarves and bountiful hairdos.

The men wore cowboy boots and hats, fancy shirts and belts, mustaches and beards.

Floozies and ranchers, drinkers and gamblers. Amidst this scene, I sat alone, in conventional garb, trying to remain inconspicuous. Several revelers insisted on getting to know me, however. Ladies perched down beside me and asked "How can you work in the middle of all this?"

I explained that once you've worked in a crowded newsroom, you learn how to turn out the chaos around you concentrate. Meanwhile, they explained that their event was a surprise 60the birthday party for a local man in the real estate business. Most of those present seemed to be connected with real estate, which is booming in these foothills.

I gathered a bunch of information about prices to file away for future consideration. They offered me drinks -- nope. Water? Nope. Eventually they drifted away and I continued my work.



Do you ever get a hankering for a certain kind of food, just a random passion that demands to be satisfied? This frequently happens to me. Last night, my friend and I found one treat we both were seeking -- a big bowl of spicy calamari. It was listed as an appetizer but it was so good and so filling, we couldn't finish it all. So, I just had spicy calamari for breakfast.

We also had oysters, halibut, and a huge salad; and only the oysters didn't come home with us in a box.



My friends, still sleep-deprived from travel and a bit frail by nature, more or less fell asleep at dinner. She perked up later, and we took a late night walk, just as the party-goers were dispersing, weaving a bit with liquid eyes. It's fun being sober in a sea of drinkers, because you are both of them but far apart from them -- the better for observation.

We walked around the town and looked at the stars, so numerous and visible here in the mountains.

-30-

Hummingbird

This morning, standing in my backyard, talking on the phone, working my program, gathering plums, I was stunned by the sudden appearance of a tiny green hummingbird hovering over the flowers in our garden. Saying it was green doesn’t do its coat of feathers justice -- a coat of many colors (as Dolly Parton would say) – nor was I stunned by its simple appearance. I’ve seen humming birds here before, they are common, but never have a seen one land. This one did, twice, on the wire surrounding a tomato plant. Somewhere, I got the idea that hummingbirds never rest, that they always remain airborne. Maybe it’s that they never stop twirling their wings? I was so surprised to see the bird sit still for a moment, I forgot to notice if its wings also stopped moving. I just don’t know.

***

This is a time of great emotional turmoil, highs and lows. So many people I love have been showing up that my head is spinning. At times like this, it’s best to just accept an expanded definition of family.

“We are family.”

Today, the big news was the arrival of my first grandson, James. He is so alert, so curious, and so beautiful. Today, at my house, his other grandpa met him for the very first time. We both, his paternal and maternal grandfathers, agreed he is perfect. Earlier, I gave him an egg carton to chew on (he has two front bottom teeth coming in) and he definitely enjoyed the opportunity.

Later, I took little James out in my backyard and showed him our flowers, and the fruit trees, our hammock, and a few butterflies, and he seemed to appreciate the scene. I told him about the hummingbird, but this time only a bumblebee appeared, buzzing the apples. James eyed the plums but didn’t make a move on them.

***
Hours later, we were headed east on I-80, as the fog blanketed San Francisco’s 49-square-miles in our rear view mirror. We were headed to summer, where temperatures reach into three digits. When we got here, the sun was going down behind the trees and the hills that envelop this place. We sat on the balcony of this ancient hotel that dates from the Gold Rush and watched the main street come alive.

My companion expects she will see ghosts in this old place; the walls have many stories to tell. So far, she only saw a small cockroach. This isn’t one of those redeveloped, fancy hotels, but a semi-rundown establishment that looks its age, which is 155 years, just three years after fortune-seekers first poured into this area.

The hotel advertises that it is the oldest continuously operating hotel in California.

***









After one of the driest winters in recent times, the Sierra snow pack was way too small this winter to avoid very dry conditions this summer. We’ve already had major forest fires in the state, and the water districts have instituted voluntary water reduction programs and expensive public-education campaigns.

The water in the river that runs near this town was noticeably lower than on previous visits. I only glimpsed a few small fish swimming near the spot where we cooled our feet after a brutally hot mid-day hike. The rocky riverbed didn’t provide as many attractive swimming holes as usual, but lots of people were out nonetheless.

The path from where we parked to where we sat in the water passes through a lovely wood of Ponderosa and Yellow Pine, Manzanita, Mountain Misery, Poison Oak, and Bay Trees. Lizards scamper around the boulders lining the river; various birds soar overhead.

We carried two quarts of water and a jar of peanuts. Only one quart remained after an hour-and-a-half in that 100-degree white heat.

***

Whenever I’m out here in the foothills, the history just draws me in. The scars to the landscape from the giant mining operations still remain, as do rusting remnants of the small-time miners along the river’s edge. Here and there are historical markers, as well as a large number of Victorian style buildings.

These days, when a new building is erected around here, they use recycled bricks for its exterior, and the design closely follows the simplicity of the functional warehouse buildings that still dot the city landscape.

This is a place where artists, writers, hippies, and tourists congregate. At night on the weekend, everyone gathers in the town’s saloons and the party begins.

-30-

Summertime

Summertime here, but not like most summers, so far. The city is bathed in heat. Our windows are always open. Of course, the fog is hanging offshore, and even partway over this peninsula, which is almost precisely seven miles square, but so far here in the Mission, we have clear blue skies and 70-80 degrees of heat.

Today, for the first time in two years, I revisited the place my daughter Sarah and my son-in-law Larry were married, down on the Bay at Fort Mason. It is one of those remarkable coincidences that both Larry, and my soon-to-be other son-in-law, Loic, first stayed at the hostel at Fort Mason when they arrived in San Francisco years ago.

Walking around Black Point Battery, the meadow behind the hostel, I remembered many details about that day that Sarah and Larry got married. Tonight, close to midnight, Sarah and her son (my grandson) James, will be arriving here.

This is the season of love in San Francisco. Those very few "warm San Francisco nights" happen now or in the fall, which is our actual summer. Sweet, sensuous nights, with music playing softly and Napa grape juice on the table, with candlelight. It's an Otis Redding kind of night.

Plus, Apple's stock rose to an all-time high of 132.75 today. It's enough for a small-time investor to feel rich! What better way to earn a thousand bucks a day, even if it is only on paper?

-30-

Happy Birthday America

No photograph could capture the local scene. The Mission District of San Francisco tonight has exploded with fireworks on every block. Far away from here, on the Bay, the City's official celebration is taking place. Here, the unofficial celebration sounds like a guerrilla war zone.

But this is me this afternoon and my gf's leg.



Today my special friend arrived from Tokyo. Here she is in motion.

My girlfriend and I walked throughout the neighborhood tonight. She jumped at the loudest booms, which were indeed shocking. Car alarms were triggered, cheers went up. Children laughed and ran, covering their ears after they lit bombs and rockets that lit up our sky.


Earlier, we sat under the plum tree in my backyard. My sweet friend lay in the hammock, and ducked as ripe plums dropped all around us.

We are as one

China pressured World Bank to cover up pollution-related deaths .

If you follow this link, you'll learn that the Chinese government successfully pressured the World Bank to cut from a recent report the conclusion that pollution has caused about 750,000 premature deaths in China each year, the Financial Times has reported.

Here is the comment I posted when I read this story:

Terrific story, getting this out. The Chinese government needs to be embarrassed and the press is the only way to do that. Especially, with the Olympics looming, China wants to look good -- this is the best moment for the rest of the world to extract some commitments to a new age of environmental regulation.

This kind of emphasis on critical global reporting is what MyWire presents to readers, while other sites present celebrity news, etc. With the new awareness that we all are interconnected, and able to communicate worldwide with just a few keystrokes, the challenge facing humanity is how will we help one another do the right things to survive as a species?

A critical building block in forging a new world consciousness will be an active press, an investigative press, a fearless press. In the case of this particular story, the international press and global public opinion can jointly exert helpful pressure on a government overseeing an exploding economy that needs to be pressured for its own good, and for the good of us all.

=30-

Summer of Love '07

As I noted yesterday, my odd preoccupation with colors has rubbed off on my youngest daughter, who's come up with very interesting interpretations. Meanwhile, today is a special day, because my oldest daughter has arrived to begin the final planning for her wedding, which will be just under three weeks from now.



It's hot tonight in San Francisco, the sky is clear and the stars are bright. It is sweet having my first-born with me; tonight we improvised a dinner without a name -- onions, broccoli stems, garbanzos, hot sausage, sweet corn, a ton of spices, pasta and shredded cheese. It tasted pretty good, especially when we dipped olive bread into it.



My little kids are not here; they've flown east to stay with their grandparents for two weeks, and I miss them -- transitions are always hell for me. Before she left, Julia insisted on making a welcome sign for Laila -- it is taped to our front door now, and is the first thing Laila noticed when she arrived.



Julia wanted to experiment with green dyes and sand dollars, in the hope this helps us create the centerpieces for Laila's wedding party. She came up with a pretty cool outcome.



Then she came up with an even cooler idea -- colored ice cubes. Drop them in a clear drink, say bubbly water or vodka, and they will create a light show worthy of the acid-fueled trips so familiar to those who were tripping, circa 1969.








The boys are growing their hair long this summer. Reminds me of the original Summer of Love. I wasn't here, in the Haight, though I did move into that neighborhood six years later. But I was in Boston, New York, and Washington, where smaller, but no less intense gatherings were happening/
The romanticism of that era revisits us when we look into the innocent young faces of boys like mine, with their freckles and red hair, one straight, one curly, but both full of the promise of what love is truly about.
The romanticism of that era revisits us when we look into the innocent young faces of boys like mine, with their freckles and red hair, one straight, one curly, but both full of the promise of what love is truly about.




The large, chaotic, extended Weir clan is gathering this summer. We will have parties, and we will celebrate a marriage between one of us and special partner, of French origin. Our multicultural family will embrace this wonderful event with ~150 friends and relatives, including our youngest member, little James, who now has (count them!) two teeth!

-30-