Fog City

I was asked by a 17 year old high school student studying in Switzerland, how old was I, what was I doing, what was my opinion of, and what was the mood and climate in society, especially the protests, of 1968. We've never met but I was happy to oblige.

My Response:

Re: Questions from Natalie
Thomas Raher <tomraher1@yahoo.com>
To:
Thomas Raher

Apr 28 at 1:44 PM

Hi Natalie,
    I'll try to be forthright and lay a bit of my historical landscape. In 1968 I was 20 years old, and it really does seem like a very long time ago. I was serving in Uncle Sam's Army, having been drafted in 1967, and was stationed in Germany. Consequently I was isolated from actively protesting and the military mandates as little outside news, especially public outcries against the military, as possible. Let me go back a bit. Prior to service, as a teenager, and product of divorced parents and a radically dysfunctional family, I rebelled. I had black friends and lived with a black woman, while immersing myself in the black culture. I learned a great deal. Back to the Army. While hanging out in the barracks with black buddies, listening to the soul of Motown, the news of Martin Luther King's assassination spread like wild fire. Of course I was dumbfounded and tried to express my shock to my friends. But the pot was simmering and rage was palpable. They asked me to leave because, obviously as a white man, I was a symbol of all their oppression.
    So you can imagine an entire society torn, the fabric frayed. The political climate as I quickly learned, was divided along racial lines and those pro and con for the Viet Nam war. The manifestations of this climate, this hurricane, were many. Blacks said no more, expressed by the Black Panthers, students opposing the draft protested and took over college administration buildings. The police, well they just got more aggressive. But still being in the Army, I was insulated and only slowly becoming aware of the push and pull of the right and left, and black and white. I saw who was being shipped to Viet Nam, and it wasn't Joe College. Poor whites and an inordinate number of young blacks were fodder for the whims of the military industrial complex. My philosophy on many things was evolving and expanding.
    The events of 1968 radicalized and numbed me, and my opinions solidified then, have varied little. My opinion of the power elite and their class war hasn't changed. In '68 I was of the opinion, with the emergence of left leaning politicians, and the ongoing civil rights movement, that a thread of social justice and fairness for all, would seep or creep back into our collective consciousness. King was murdered, Kennedy was murdered, I'm afraid that opinion was short lived. Skepticism and suspicion ruled.
    The protests went on and would go on for years. Young men were burning draft cards. The nightly news, which we saw very little on the base, reported the number of deaths each day. Families were divided, those believing in stopping Communism, and those who saw the war as waste. My time as a soldier was winding down, and I was becoming ever more grateful I hadn't been sent to Viet Nam. I believed it was wrong, and I didn't want to die. I was siding with the protesters more and more. I was frustrated and saddened, and after the horrific assassinations, my only sliver of hope was a Humphrey victory at the riotous convention in Chicago. He lost and my hopes were dashed. I guess '68 was when I actually became cynical. Cynicism resides firmly in my psyche.
    Nothing has changed actually, from then to now, and I suspect things could be considered worse now. At the time, protests, passing civil rights laws, ending the war, ousting Nixon, we mistakenly felt we made a change. But look at what's happening now. Right wing governments are xenophobic and fostering hate. Trump is building a wall and trampling on civil liberties. Brexit has divided England. And if worrying about the social climate isn't enough, our actual climate is teetering on collapse.  The protests continue for all manner of human rights, and here the police continue to kill unarmed blacks without repercussions. A football player, Kaepernick, protests police brutality and there's protests in the form of white backlash. Racism. Endless war. Corruption. It's been 50 years and.......

Natalie, I hope I haven't been to off putting, but I really don't see the world through rose colored glasses. Although your mom's photos have a positive affect. Thanks for listening. Good luck with the project and your future!!

P.S. My wife read your questionnaire and wanted to respond, I think she'll be sending you her thoughts. OK?

A snapshot or two of me in the Army, circa 1968!

Fog City

February 22, 2019

So What?

I’ve been thinking that it could be possible to use this essay format for writing blog entries. It shows the date and title and formats the writing in a easy to read block. Christine, my beautiful wife just returned from a baseball game at USF, where the Dons won. She was so excited she ordered a Round Table pizza. Actually it’s not much of an excuse because tradition has it, we always have pizza on Friday night. It is Friday isn’t it? Well the street lights just went on so we have to call the kids in from playing in the street. Oh they are all grown and have their own kids, how wonderful!

Fog City

Trump: State Of The Union: A Guest Blog By Thomas D. Raher
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2019
When I listen to and watch Trump, two physical reactions take place. First, I shake my head from side to side continuously. Second, I chuckle in rhythm with my head shaking. Why? Because I'm agog! My political consciousness goes back to the Kennedy murder. I'm old. So my head shaking has spanned many and varied presidents. And I've chuckled at the lies and hypocrisy of pretty near all of them. Although, in my opinion, Nixon and Little Bush have run neck and neck as the most absurd. But, at least, all of the previous "leaders" consistently, at one moment or another, were actually presidential. Until now!

Let me state, I'm not an educated man, but I've read a book or two, which I think qualifies me to be a bit critical in my observations. I'm certainly not critiquing the whole talk as if I was a PBS pundit, but a couple of issues touch me. Also Trump's style, his bullying, is of particular interest.

I thought his hour and a half sing-song address touched very little on the actual state of our union. His tired generalities, platitudes with no substance, and slogans were disingenuous to a fault. Why in God's  name did he feel the need to resurrect World War 2 veterans, and, what appeared to be, a very uncomfortable Holocaust survivor? From my back row seat, I thought this prolonged display, totally irrelevant and misguided. I actually felt sympathy for the old boys, having been so exploited. Of course they may have relished the attention, I don't know. But I do know there's no shame in Trump's game, and his self-praise is embarrassing.

I recently watched, again, a few early episodes of "Mad Men," a show reminding me of my dad during that period, and the inevitable demise and dysfunction of our family, but I digress. I was struck by the real similarities between Don Draper and Don Trump. I saw in the TV depiction of an era and its male dominated culture, exactly what Trump symbolizes. His whole agenda is an AD campaign, filled with unverifiable facts, lies, serious manipulations, jingoisms, slogans and fear. His goal of course is to sell a product the consumer, the voter, us, doesn't need.

THE WALL

His sales pitch for "The Wall" is simply astonishing, manipulating our fear. Our Fear! The Trump train continues thundering down the rails. The noise forces us to take notice even though we try to stifle it, to muffle it, to silence it, but it's inescapable. The bombast, the lies, the manipulations are relentless.

Once again I refer to a film, life imitating art or vice-versa, "The Taking of Pelham 123." The similarity to the Trump train is unmistakable. A psychopath and his gang hijack a subway train and chaos ensues. The crazed leader thrreatens to kill everyone on board unless the city pays a large ransom. Sound familiar? Thousands of government workers are held hostage, unless "The Don" receives ransom money for "The Wall!" The saga continues.

Frankly, I feel like a hostage. I've spent the last two years trying to avoid the Trump train. I haven't publicly expressed my sentiments because I'm from a generation that doesn't talk about politics or religion. I don't follow "The Don" on social media, which, by the way, is another presidential travesty, and I tune out news concerning his shenanigans. That said, these have been some of my thoughts, and now I retreat to the shadows.



Thomas Raher lives in San Francisco. His book, "Letters from a Working Stiff" (2013), a collection of letters spanning the years 1988 to 1995, is available from Lulu.

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Fog City

LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST

I’ve often heard the line, “live life to the fullest.” What exactly does that mean? Usually I notice said refrain, after someone experiences a near death occurrence. Cancer patients in remission, near fatal car accident victims are some common proponents of grasping more tightly to what they’ve been given. And when given a second chance, just what is it we become more aware of?

When I put myself in those shoes and think how could I live life to the fullest, my mind reels. My perception or concepts tend to see exaggerated efforts, huge and risky endeavors, and experiences beyond mundane, daily activities. Like climbing Mt. Everest, parachuting period, single handedly sailing across an ocean, or hiking North to South America, things I’m not going to do.

Are these grand efforts and all they entail really living life fuller? Say you slip on Everest ice and slide to your death, or the chute doesn’t open and wham, or a raging storm sinks your boat and you drown, well your fans can sing, he lived life to the fullest. I don’t know, I tend to approach the idea of a fuller life a bit differently. Say I know I’m going to die, which I do, we all are, and I’ve been given a relative time limit. I ask myself, how can I be happy, or happier? What makes me happy and is happy what I want, and is happy equal to fullest?

Let me just interject, knowing I’m going to die does not make me happy. I’m a septuagenarian and have given considerable thought to the subject of a full life. I’m also a pragmatist and understand clearly, happiness (fullest) is personal and subjective.

Happy 1, marked by joy
Happy 2, marked by good fortune
Happy 3, eagerly disposed to be of service
Happy 4, well expressed and to the point

So if I stir these ingredients into the stew of a full life, I honestly don’t see traipsing up mountains as a goal. I can though, use the examples of two figures I admire, Gandhi and Mother Teresa, who climbed mountains and sailed oceans daily, humbly smiling, fortunate to be in service to their fellow man.

I think it’s important to realize a full life is a personal domain. The defining qualities of a full life are not determined by others, but by you. Various monks, Buddhists, Trappists et al, dedicate their lives to austerity, compassion, and harmony, attributes I consider quite fulfilling. This is where I turn inward on my quest for a full life. Knowing I don’t have the resources or desire to triumph over obstacles like mountains and oceans, I can strive to see clearly – to see what makes me happy, calm and joyful and express it.  Understanding is triumph. When I’m silent like now, thinking of these words and what they mean to me and trying to convey them, I’m joyful, I’m happy. Can’t this moment be considered living life to the fullest? I say yes.

The funny thing is I apply this logic, my logic, to all my actions and observations. Each morning when a flock of geese honk their way over my house I revel in our connectedness. When the neighborhood children stop to play in my wife’s fairy garden, and hold the small seashells to their ears, listening for the sound of the ocean, I appreciate the harmony. I can climb two city blocks and see both the Pacific Ocean to the West and turning East, the City’s striking skyline downtown. My Everest. Most significant of this inward looking triumph is family. Logically I reflect, contemplate and dwell on my good fortune, which is my wife, my sons, their wives, and my grandchildren. This family web of consciousness spreads and covers most all my world. All that I see or do has links to family. Fullness.

I won’t bore you with my medical history, but I can attest to being faced with the notion, “I better live my life to the fullest.” What is the fullest? I subscribe to the idea, the mundane, our daily life, what we do and don’t do, are the components necessary. Being aware, being aware of yourself and your surroundings. When you are sitting in your chair and worried about living your life to the fullest, you are. Know it.

P.S.
I would be remiss if I didn’t include a note about the flip side of living a full life. I have some experience in the field and I know more than a few who would discard or discount my earlier thoughts. Those, who would embrace the vices as a means to fulfillment, and shirk all responsibility while diving head long into final debauchery. Oh well, death awaits either way!

Fog City

Doing Nothing

Doing nothing is nearly oxymoronic, because it implies the absence of action. Here in lies the conundrum. There is a great deal of activity, mostly mental, involved in doing nothing. Don’t you love the sound of doing nothing, quite melodious. Actually that statement is the first of many thoughtful diversions in the art of doing nothing. Just imagine the time spent comfortably applying musical references, sounds, songs, rhymes, even visualizing dance routines, to the fluid, “ing” “ing” of doing nothing. I think you’re getting the gist, or at least this simple example may set the tone for my explanation.
I’ve had just cause to try however ineptly to define doing nothing. The notion began harmlessly after I retired from regular, daily employment. Friends, relatives, acquaintances and strangers on the street, would ask, somewhat bewildered, what do you do now. What do I do now? Well my first reaction, being of a slightly confrontational nature, was to reply, whatever I damn well please, thank you very much! But I realized those good folks asking were generally curious, as most were of my age, and retirement loomed near and they were confused. I’d observed over time, work colleagues, as well as the average Joe, whether a bank executive or a lineman for the county, all stigmatized themselves, who they were, with the work they did. Their self-induced identity was job related, and hence their consciousness was burdened, chained unrealistically.
I first and foremost realized separation from the mental identity, the working you, was crucial in the transition to a new and better you, where anxiety plays a lesser role. But I found people’s habits aren’t easily changed or discarded. All I can say at this juncture is the more nothing you do, the easier it becomes. Doing nothing can take all day if you don’t try too hard. There’s another rather pertinent aspect to doing nothing, which ties into the work related identity crisis, and that is guilt. Our Judeo-Christian culture is steeped in guilt. There’s guilt for most everything we do, guilt for not coming to a complete stop, guilt for not saying I love you, guilt for calling in sick, guilt for ogling that beautiful woman, and the guilt goes on. Hence when you have nothing to do you feel guilty for not producing. But why?
I believe people wake up and think to themselves, if I don’t do something my day is wasted. They feel guilty. Here’s where I differ. In my long and happy journey to achieve nothing, or at least doing nothing, I’ve eliminated guilt. Some days it takes a good long while disassociating guilt with anything I’m not doing. Here we go, the art of doing nothing. My days are never wasted because what I do or don’t do is guilt free. This concept allows a certain freedom – a freedom to open your mind and absorb. If you’re letting the world in, through your silence, through your solitude, through your doing nothing, your senses are alive. The “ings” of living, seeing, listening, feeling, yes loving, these actions are the essence of doing nothing.
 My point of course is doing nothing is full of action. The key then is learning, acknowledging, accepting the reality of the moment, then doing it, being it, enjoying it. When I make coffee in the morning I recognize it’s only the beginning of my doing nothing. I have the good fortune, knock on wood, to live on a corner, with floor to ceiling windows. This particular environment is invaluable to doing nothing. I can spend an entire morning, and afternoon if I so choose, staring at a moveable feast, to use another author’s fine line, out the window. Watching parents walking their children to school, staring at the regular dog walkers, and making sure their dogs don’t poop on my stretch of sidewalk, checking out the senior ladies marching back and forth on their exercise walk, or and the most befuddling, watching the car parkers trying again and again to properly fit in a space too small. The thing about thinking is after a good long sample of all these endeavors, my mind searches the vault of memory for corresponding experiences. I can relive walking to school, the proverbial mile in the snow, I can remember the wild Weimaraner we had, who strew the neighbors garbage all over the alley, I relive parallel parking with ease, to the astonishment of the officer monitoring the driving exam, all this and doing nothing. I say time well spent.
If thinking guilt free still seems less than adequate for doing nothing, there’s the act of walking, which I consider doing nothing in motion. I will meander to the bank, well not really for there’s no need anymore, to the deli, or to the post office. I always carry my IPhone that I admit is addicting. I especially use the camera to record and share interesting and unique visuals of our beautiful city. These meanderings can zig and zag leading me nowhere in particular, but when I return home I’m full of wonder – the wonder of doing nothing. And as the day wanes like the winter moon, I’m aware I haven’t even read the next chapter of the more than a few novels I have at arm’s length, or tuned into the intriguing detective series I love on cable tv. You see there is more of nothing I can save for tomorrow and the tomorrows after that. Doing nothing is time consuming and endless if you only embrace it.
I found as I age and my world shrinks, doing nothing can actually expand the world, the world that matters most to me, the world in my head, my mind.

Living
learn-ing
stand-ing
stare-ing
listen-ing
laugh-ing
sing-ing
touch-ing
love-ing
think-ing
walk-ing
feel-ing deeply

You get the picture, doing nothing is not doing nothing!

As Sam Wainwright said “See ya in the funny papers!”

Fog City

I saw a photo posted on Facebook yesterday by a friend. She was at the super market and couldn't believe eggnog was already shelved in the refrigerator section. My anxiety level involuntarily spiked. The holiday season is truly upon us. It just means my tranquility, my solitude, my sugar levels are all being upset, altered, adjusted, compromised and I have to refocus.
     Actually I had a preview of things to come the past two weeks. Fleet week roared into town, quite literally with the Blue Angels displaying their aerial delights. Also and at the same time, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival rocked Golden Gate Park. I'm sure if you could view the city from high above it would appear overrun by ants. People everywhere! There were obvious obstacles to overcome, but each extravaganza was free and more than worthy. Excitement and enthusiasm was the general mood of all who came to share the wondrous entertainment. Multiple stages provided diverse musical talents and wandering from stage to stage, to hear your group of choice was the norm. The weather complied with the good attitudes, providing sparkling blue skies and comfortably warm temperatures. The clear skies was a blessing for the air show on the bay. Many years our normal fog pattern obscures any chance for the Blue Angels to perform their aerial acrobatics. Not this year, it was actually hot. For the extra million souls who descended on our fair city the weekend was satisfyingly spectacular. Since everyone was in such fine form and happy the inability to get anywhere without significant delays was a mute point. Thank goodness!
     Following such an energy draining weekend, the next one was a combo plate. Remember at seventy going all day takes an inordinate amount of effort. But October marks special events in Raher history. My brother Casey's birthday begins the focus, albeit he handles activities from his end, and our involvement is nil. Our anniversary follows the next day. Then Ramsey's birthday concludes the three days of remembrance. Cassidy and Lauren treated us to dinner, celebrating our forty third wedding anniversary. We enjoyed casual and humorous conversation, which tends to be lacking in most family encounters, simply because the children demand so much attention. And rightly so. But it's always nice to ask questions and receive explanations without interruptions. I left pleased. Ramsey's simple birthday gathering was quite similar in the level of pleasure derived. Being with his son Rowan and basking in our blood linkage has a very life affirming element. Again the conversation over delicious pizza was easy, enlightening and needed. Lovely Reina educated me about ideas, I previously hadn't thought to delve into. For that I'm grateful. Of course being with family, sharing joy, absent of rancor, reinforces emotions and philosophies which guide our journey.
     Although all of these events and encounters were rewarding, they were just a prelude to the onslaught yet to come. To clarify somewhat, all these heavy duty activities were semi spontaneous. Meaning they were sparked by a phone call, a time on a schedule or a notification. They weren't planned well in advance, so I couldn't dwell on the pros and cons, and incite my anxiety meter. Now the next couple months, populated with a string of holidays, raises the annual problems. Who, What, When, and Where. Yikes! Well maybe a cold eggnog will help!

Fog City

Life expectancy, now there's a thought. I just turned 70 and what makes that number significantly different from other ages marked by birthdays, is the national average of the male's life expectancy doesn't extend beyond the 70's. Sobering indeed. Meaning what exactly, well, I won't see my grandchildren graduate high school, or marry. But that's alright. My three sons have accomplished enough to accentuate my existence with meaning and for that I'm at peace. One goal I'm striving to achieve is fifty years of marriage, and that is a joint effort, which pushes the boundary of that life expectancy number. You never know!
I spend time now remembering, comparing experiences, placing significance, and analyzing, applying regret or not, wondering how things might have been different, and do I really care. Second guessing is futile. Then there's perspective, how I view my life from this vantage point, looking back. I cringe at some of my youthful indiscretions. At the time they didn't seem significant, just thoughtless acts of expression, usually misguided. Experiences I hope to share by writing a small memoir, but I hesitate because time dilutes our ego driven self importance, and in the end my life like most all of us, is irrelevant in the grand cosmic chaos.
But getting old has its trials. First it doesn't help to spend much time looking in the mirror, because the person you see and the person you thought you knew can be radically different. The process of aging is so slow, well it does seem to accelerate the older I get, but the ideals, the ethics, the etiquette, the foundation for a persona, were built long ago. As I age and my perspective and tolerances change the foundation remains pretty much intact. Therefore when I'm bombarded by changes from the youth culture, I naturally resist for a time, until I compare my past to their present, and realize it's just the cycle of life. Perspective. Go with the flow, or drown!
The physical aspect of getting old is probably the most difficult aspect to reckon with. Activity use to be a defining characteristic, and to accept the erosion of that definition can be depressing. Playing, working, being extremely mobile become more difficult, even painful. Adapting without prejudice or bitterness, are key to remaining optimistic and hopeful, when all you really want to do is fall down a well of cynicism. Balance. Physical balance and mental balance, daily exercises which provide needed awareness. Walking and reading help.

Still playing at 70!

Thanks Ashby
Oh to be 8 again!

I'm 70, I like to be quiet, and yell. I like to laugh, and cry. I like to listen to my heart strings, and watch the world go by. My grandkids remind me the children are worthy!