tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69917427389435575202024-03-05T08:53:58.115+01:00A Strange Place Called HomeMy Walk Across America on the Great Peace MarchLaura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-51404546230608289882025-12-03T16:12:00.003+01:002011-02-26T09:19:05.326+01:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
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<a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/strange-place-called-home-my-walk.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Introduction</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><br />
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</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-one-100-from-ten-people-and-ten.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“$100 from Ten People and $10 from A Hundred People”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-two-loo-ziannah.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Loo-Zianna”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-three-this-isnt-march-i-signed.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This Isn’t The March I Signed Up For”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-four-leave-march-leave-march.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Leave the March! Leave the March!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-five-peace-march-is-our-home.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The Peace March</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> IS</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Our Home!"</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-six-youre-just-like-me.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re Just Like Me!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-seven-california-nevada.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“California – Nevada!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-eight-peace-city.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Peace City”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-nine-chernobyl.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Chernobyl”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-ten-my-feet-would-be-very-soar.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My Feet Would Be Very Soar”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-eleven-close-your-eyes-and-open.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Close Your Eyes and Open Your Hand”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twelve-mantle-of-grace.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“A Mantle of Grace”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-thirteen-god-save-us-from.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“God Save Us From a Single Vision”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-fourteen-armageddon-outta-here.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Armageddon Outta Here”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-fifteen-mad.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“MAD”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-sixteen-come-spinning-down.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Come Spinning Down”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-seventeen-be-here-now.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Be Here Now”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-eighteen-okay-god-send-me-sign.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Okay, God, Send Me a Sign”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-nineteen-farms-not-arms.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Farms, Not Arms”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-love-day.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Love Day”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-one-fifth-root-race.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Fifth Root Race”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-two-i-am-patriot.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I Am a Patriot”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-three-cherry-mary.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Cherry, Mary, Lobster”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-four-howie.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Howie”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-five-you-are-new-day.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You Are the New Day”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-six-youre-macrobiotic.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re Macrobiotic?!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-seven-this-is-our.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This IS Our Opening Day!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-eight-i-want-test-ban.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I Want a Test Ban Treaty Under My Tree”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/11/chapter-twenty-nine-please-dont-pet-my.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Please Don’t Pet My Dog”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/chapter-thirty-peace-march-my-foot.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Peace March, My Foot!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/chapter-thirty-one-from-california-to.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“From California to Randall’s Island”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/chapter-thirty-two-yall-lookin-good.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Y’All Lookin’ Good!”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/chapter-thirty-three-sweet-pea.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sweet Pea”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/chapter-thirty-four-jellybeans.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Jellybeans”</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://astrangeplacecalledhome.blogspot.com/2010/12/epilogue.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Epilogue</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><o:p></o:p></b><br />
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</div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-39738881255847616872010-12-03T16:10:00.022+01:002011-09-05T21:13:48.119+02:00Epilogue<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"> In the years following the march, my father used to joke that I was responsible for the fall of the Iron Curtain. To this day, the question remains unanswered in my mind: Did the Great Peace March contribute to the end of the nuclear arms race? Within three years of the march, the Berlin Wall came down and communism collapsed across Europe. People rose up and, with relatively little violence, forced communist governments to step aside and allow free nations to emerge. The world that so many people had told us was impossible had come to pass. There were many powerful forces at work to end the Cold War—millions of people at all levels of society, many of whom had endured tremendous suffering over a lifetime yet maintained faith, who schemed and planned and waited, and who recognized when the time had come for a change and at that moment had the courage to seize the opportunity. To their credit, leaders on both sides responded to the inevitable and managed fragile transitions. Had<i> we</i> played a role in turning that big wheel? Perhaps the Great Peace March invigorated some grassroots along the way; perhaps we empowered some people to add their voices to the many who wanted to end the Cold War and forge a sane nuclear policy. Or, maybe, as Ram Dass suggested, our quest was not so much about huge, historical change but about ourselves in the creation of a community. Maybe it's that creation of community that will, in the end, put the last of our nuclear weapons to bed.</span></div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> As for the peace marchers…</div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc_AhXNBzMv8g9Jt1ogID5j1ZjO-0raaqPR5YAAkrIstNj1mRe5L2NDtmYho_z6hXQHjV4f_0pkqVqxQKv1dpr6Dmu2SG5DR75du4aIJg3ohqJ6AnoY2Ua5neUiKLnns-tpXRDv9d1a0a/s1600/000014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc_AhXNBzMv8g9Jt1ogID5j1ZjO-0raaqPR5YAAkrIstNj1mRe5L2NDtmYho_z6hXQHjV4f_0pkqVqxQKv1dpr6Dmu2SG5DR75du4aIJg3ohqJ6AnoY2Ua5neUiKLnns-tpXRDv9d1a0a/s200/000014.JPG" width="135" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Bill continued to travel and write. His Buddhist studies took him to Zen monasteries across the United States. Twelve years after the end of the peace march, he published his first novel, winning the Hemingway Prize for New Authors. Since then, he has written several novels and an important collection of Zen stories. He is settled in the American Southwest where he and his wife, also an accomplished author, lead writing workshops.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"> I lost track of Tom for several years after the end of the march, but I recently tracked him down in North Carolina where he lives on a sheep and llama farm. A mule, a goat and a hen house full of chickens reside there, too. Tom is dedicated to his son and daughter, his stepson and stepdaughter, and his beautiful new wife. When he isn’t shearing sheep, he has a career as a school counselor. </div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"> Iris Bean Blossom married Michael, the burly blacksmith from the Living History Farm in Des Moines. They moved from Iowa to a community in the Pacific Northwest where Michael builds eco-friendly houses and Iris makes aprons and quilted pot holders for sale at the local farmers’ market. They grow organic vegetables and flowers and have two very lovely daughters. She still sees the world through rose colored glasses.</div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVP97wG0VAPWHD4onQron16gaRbAlpdSbjxNl2kU9-VVoFAn9_3tkn-Uo3xFOkKvdSg0K0yQupuVVFgJqh2f8xjEsUi0JtN486UhPCszjWag0yu6sFpIdBNZ7dMG_7CyiJxXZIYEsVr5O/s1600/Unbenannt-24_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVP97wG0VAPWHD4onQron16gaRbAlpdSbjxNl2kU9-VVoFAn9_3tkn-Uo3xFOkKvdSg0K0yQupuVVFgJqh2f8xjEsUi0JtN486UhPCszjWag0yu6sFpIdBNZ7dMG_7CyiJxXZIYEsVr5O/s320/Unbenannt-24_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Evan returned to Salt Lake where he entered university to study art and architecture. He now designs Olympic villages and other enormous venues. He lives in Denver with his wonderful wife, also an architect and political activist, their daughter, a budding artist, their son, who plays a mean guitar, and their dogs, Scoobie and Baloo. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> As for me, after the march, I returned to the classroom to teach civics and world studies for eighteen years. I never tired of talking with young people about how our democratic government was founded, how it's organized, and the way a democratic society is supposed to work. As a result, I have had the awesome opportunity to read the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution dozens of times. In recent years, I moved to the European continent where I now live with my ever-loving husband, our 100% vegan daughter, and our dog, Athena, goddess of wisdom - and war. I teach in an international school and hope every day to start a new adventure. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS</b></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I am deeply grateful to everyone who supported the Great Peace March. Thousands upon thousands of people made donations large and small, stood along the road to greet us with smiles, applause and shouts of encouragement, and invited us into their homes for a meal, and shower, and a comfortable place to sleep. If you are reading this, please know that you had an enormous impact on our success. In addition to showering us with your generosity and hospitality, you proved by your numbers that nuclear disarmament had significant support among the American people. You turned the tide. You made it happen.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> My fellow peace marchers know full well the debt of gratitude we owe one another for creating a bond that can never be broken. Best of all, we have collectively forgiven one another that debt and live instead in the steady stream of energy that the peace march created. We are a mighty flood and a celebration.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Heartfelt thanks to Roy Finch for recording my original songs at his studio in Connecticut; to Sienna Lyon for valuable social networking advice and Fredrik Sjoberg for expert technical support; to Jane Hurst, who kindly digitalized my songs, and to Jane (again), Judy White, John Windle, Jeanne McCrea, Stephen M. Randall, Sean Murphy, Pamela Wrigley, and Charley, Michael, and Rosemary Monagan who gave me valuable editing feedback and the encouragement to keep writing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Special thanks to Jennifer Wood, my writing partner, for sharing her open heart and seeking mind. I will long and fondly remember the many hours spent over manuscripts and ginger tea at the Literaturhaus in Berlin. Reader, when you are done here, as, indeed, you nearly are, I recommend a visit to Jenn's wonderful memoir at: http://dachauisalsoatown.wordpress.com/. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> My husband and daughter allowed me two precious gifts among many: time and solitude. I could never have done my best work without you. Thank you. I love you, too. </div><br />
</div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-75419359649857647132010-12-03T15:58:00.036+01:002011-11-15T18:03:23.430+01:00Chapter Thirty-Four: "Jellybeans"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hSev0pT0gXsBSvvm53bwRDsomgyW7nsXs129zCq1CrIZbOMNaRKgeSQz4dqw_v2MIbnMhHTWuKj5Wvx7XEW_59mlOl-1r1sc0FcRG5UHlb-63NOO_IKPqicwMFxNkPl0r7Wu3rwOupVl/s1600/n1508570350_30144784_4965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hSev0pT0gXsBSvvm53bwRDsomgyW7nsXs129zCq1CrIZbOMNaRKgeSQz4dqw_v2MIbnMhHTWuKj5Wvx7XEW_59mlOl-1r1sc0FcRG5UHlb-63NOO_IKPqicwMFxNkPl0r7Wu3rwOupVl/s400/n1508570350_30144784_4965.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim, Evan, Iris, Tom and Me Crossing the DC Line</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In a field in suburban Maryland, a long line of exhausted, ecstatic peace marchers held hands and shouted out the states for the last time. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“…Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The day was clear and cold. We wore down vests, woolen hats, scarves and gloves. But the excitement made us shiver. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“…Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Friends, families, local activists, students, even a few news reporters came to watch the final border crossing. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“New Jersey, New York, New Jersey…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom and Dad were there, beaming with pride. As we called out the last few states, I hesitated, knowing the final chapter was coming to an end. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“…Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland…” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Together, we took one giant step across the line.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Washington, D.C.!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We made it…everyone cheered and hugged one another. We made it…everyone went around grinning and shaking one another to be sure it was really true. We made it… everyone laughed; some cried. Some fell on the ground; some jumped in the air; some held hands and spun around. We made it. I tried and failed to make sense of the moment. There had been so many steps, so many extreme highs and lows that the final step into Washington seemed oddly uneventful. As I looked around, the thought occurred to me that my family and friends, the people who before the peace march had known me best in the world, really had only the slightest notion of the enormous experience I now shared with my fellow peace marchers. We had made it. Now we had to walk into town and convince our leaders to represent our cause. We gathered as a main march and walked to our encampment off Michigan Avenue near the National Shrine. There we pitched our tents for the last time and prepared for our final rally.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad Met Us at the DC Line</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For nine months, Saturday, November 15<sup>th</sup> had been the one and only date on our appointment calendars. It seemed like a miracle that we had finally arrived at the place and time that everyone had held in mind for so long. Our encampment wasn’t really on Michigan Avenue—it was on cloud nine. We awoke and floated through our morning preparations. With the patience of thoroughbreds at the starting gate, we gathered in “city mode.” Finally, we proceeded down Michigan Avenue to our assembly point at Meridian Hill Park, also known as Malcolm X Park, on 16<sup>th</sup> Street. My parents, Deanna, my nephews, Ray and Gabe, my friend Vi Murphy, and Brendan, a young friend of hers were all there to walk with me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_WNyrzfz9fsG2lNtO9sVcUtsnWmJwuK1JGVi6_KE_ysUPeiOZeTUmVdsP_3BxZPkb8Ek2IL3TkIwlQDIqV6a4W9IG_SoXeITvb-nEvIZgr6dkdQNRTr7kzxTActY5weHX0Qd_Fpheex8/s1600/n737721004_2313817_4344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_WNyrzfz9fsG2lNtO9sVcUtsnWmJwuK1JGVi6_KE_ysUPeiOZeTUmVdsP_3BxZPkb8Ek2IL3TkIwlQDIqV6a4W9IG_SoXeITvb-nEvIZgr6dkdQNRTr7kzxTActY5weHX0Qd_Fpheex8/s400/n737721004_2313817_4344.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming into the Final Stretch</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM9wh25eULByfEYcUjd1XmhqQMdfA3ioUot3DmyHZNc7ReWO-HKtvFz3Wqy7A3gk83V-XZho-a_cWMU3w_lkNeFjZuPBUGIJdyMqjaYPdpXm1ko5j2fTnEqY4iOt4q2iBJ4O1S6xr6W8t/s1600/Unbenannt-38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM9wh25eULByfEYcUjd1XmhqQMdfA3ioUot3DmyHZNc7ReWO-HKtvFz3Wqy7A3gk83V-XZho-a_cWMU3w_lkNeFjZuPBUGIJdyMqjaYPdpXm1ko5j2fTnEqY4iOt4q2iBJ4O1S6xr6W8t/s400/Unbenannt-38.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Personal Welcoming Party</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Somewhere were Grace and Martha. Eileen, the woman with whom I’d spoken about the dangers of nuclear disarmament just a few weeks earlier in Carlisle, had come, too. There were others who'd said they'd be there, though in the crowd it was impossible to know who had come.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSttL04_F1meXjrg6rixaeQX6IRmbie9Ysz2KPbJJENSWwt4STj7W9V2vayB_sY3Ie2k8eYN6JEDnQpyizzVd49uSLTf7093yyQ40R3lG9TSs24hZCtXtl0WhRwqjh6PTkN1MhkNM49usg/s1600/Unbenannt-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSttL04_F1meXjrg6rixaeQX6IRmbie9Ysz2KPbJJENSWwt4STj7W9V2vayB_sY3Ie2k8eYN6JEDnQpyizzVd49uSLTf7093yyQ40R3lG9TSs24hZCtXtl0WhRwqjh6PTkN1MhkNM49usg/s400/Unbenannt-32.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People Brought A Message of Nuclear Disarmament from Near...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtR7wGDGJSnqCsDcn4nMRuh_AEaCm5_dnSJ7cISTrDKTT2pT7HiZFM5jPuCNfz1RUmUFpkI7doF_Nzl6dKroYcQeiFDAOInSDoUf8qbn_8aa8QyKN1hChBv7uhJmJavEPq128j0dOh0ac4/s1600/Unbenannt-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtR7wGDGJSnqCsDcn4nMRuh_AEaCm5_dnSJ7cISTrDKTT2pT7HiZFM5jPuCNfz1RUmUFpkI7doF_Nzl6dKroYcQeiFDAOInSDoUf8qbn_8aa8QyKN1hChBv7uhJmJavEPq128j0dOh0ac4/s400/Unbenannt-27.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and Far</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFe2YQVAQQ5kS4K1SiLVx4bK-ksZXl8jYN06kg0cOKSHRHte-2EblOYkkthgsYy02qh5FSJsdiVaN00eVk_-PXXtYhZIR0J1FtMx2VYmvXgN9_YXQgKKEymRb-yNb-gX8BJLzUFyxHXpL/s1600/n1664765251_160851_3958344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFe2YQVAQQ5kS4K1SiLVx4bK-ksZXl8jYN06kg0cOKSHRHte-2EblOYkkthgsYy02qh5FSJsdiVaN00eVk_-PXXtYhZIR0J1FtMx2VYmvXgN9_YXQgKKEymRb-yNb-gX8BJLzUFyxHXpL/s400/n1664765251_160851_3958344.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Families Separated for Months Now Rejoined Loved Ones</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I noticed a large banner from Westlake School in Los Angeles. Ray and I walked over to talk with them. Their teacher said they had followed our progress ever since we left LA, and the students had raised their own money to fly east and meet us for the rally. I congratulated them and shook their hands and thanked them for coming all that way. It never occurred to me that they might be just as excited to shake my hand as I was to shake theirs. As we continued our walk through the park, Ray was taking in all the sights and sounds. At one point, he stopped to get my attention. <br />
"I have a plan," he said.<br />
"What's your plan?" I asked.<br />
“We should take those guys who make bombs and put them in jail,” he said.<br />
"Hmmm," I replied, "interesting."</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought it a plan worth putting to the test. There were a number of police officers on duty in the park, waiting to escort us through the streets.<br />
"Why don't we find out what the police think of your idea?" I suggested.<br />
"Okay," he replied.<br />
We picked one out of the crowd.<br />
"Excuse me, officer, could we speak with you for a minute?"<br />
Somehow, we picked a winner, because when Ray told him his plan, the police officer listened with genuine interest. Then he paused for a moment, and I hoped for the best, having no idea how he might respond.<br />
“Well,” he told Ray, “it would be even better if we could just get those guys to stop making bombs in the first place.” I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Ray thought about it for a minute. <br />
"What do you think of that idea?" I asked him.<br />
"Ok!" he said.<br />
With his thoughtful reply, the policeman had empowered a little boy to become a peace marcher. I shook the officer’s hand and thanked him. I glanced at his badge. It read, “Garcia,” and I thought, I’ll always remember Officer Garcia’s name, and I did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRJljb8bZd_SZmF5_wAMZLTVTh7YMTwrAjvwLQmJIe8YkDvKNNU7cYHxArJU5k37YDWcQZ38XjbCrxd77fxf7UGDm4-ICmYPrpW9zaCog4KgLteUos_H-iKeogfkepYcg-A0-OWsQvo5Z/s1600/n1664765251_160865_5570571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRJljb8bZd_SZmF5_wAMZLTVTh7YMTwrAjvwLQmJIe8YkDvKNNU7cYHxArJU5k37YDWcQZ38XjbCrxd77fxf7UGDm4-ICmYPrpW9zaCog4KgLteUos_H-iKeogfkepYcg-A0-OWsQvo5Z/s400/n1664765251_160865_5570571.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wearable Peace</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Concluding our tradition of small rallies, the Great Peace March procession of about 15,000 people walked down 16<sup>th</sup> Street toward the White House. We walked the first few blocks in silence. Many held banners and signs for peace and disarmament. Many held balloons. Others held hands with one another. Some rolled in baby strollers, others in wheelchairs. Thousands of people joined together to walk the last few miles. It wasn’t the biggest demonstration Washington had ever seen, but no group had ever walked farther to get there. Marty hoisted Ray up on his shoulders and showed him how to make the peace sign. Ray in turn gave the peace sign to everyone along the way, and then emphasized it again if he didn’t get one in reply. He whispered to me that some people weren’t giving the peace sign back, but I said it was okay, that was their choice. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagkLNJ-YOsYyZEHnupeMl-seFFG_DAMrcRNAr1j0xM1C8eqYJLMYrI0a9FlYwZLB18-upgAxMXvoPu2x8Xgrl1lHACcke_vmotpvK9bWELnq0HWjSmvtcPi5mlmbqWlOY9oeIA2_lQYDX/s1600/Unbenannt-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagkLNJ-YOsYyZEHnupeMl-seFFG_DAMrcRNAr1j0xM1C8eqYJLMYrI0a9FlYwZLB18-upgAxMXvoPu2x8Xgrl1lHACcke_vmotpvK9bWELnq0HWjSmvtcPi5mlmbqWlOY9oeIA2_lQYDX/s400/Unbenannt-39.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking Down 16th Street...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQoQ75xwqvh1M9YiS63K6vz4YYY8QOqWdtLX-pvKHxyV3WnhWE0cw1EmaXNyDT59kilxNvJrYWfeY9g5-SjntwP0OHunAqM6LdubjRyo9EMmPyS-lJLforFEko2-c_VQ1jIqd9Nj0d_j7/s1600/Unbenannt-33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQoQ75xwqvh1M9YiS63K6vz4YYY8QOqWdtLX-pvKHxyV3WnhWE0cw1EmaXNyDT59kilxNvJrYWfeY9g5-SjntwP0OHunAqM6LdubjRyo9EMmPyS-lJLforFEko2-c_VQ1jIqd9Nj0d_j7/s400/Unbenannt-33.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...toward the White House</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0oYsAEJSJ7iqddJE6lIGbyRIs7Cv8NG3by7EnhRV9JOvtOtaWivOqYD8djO0FE77rIN3PmlHy8056fK6wmKlsDtd1QqrfRVirWaC-bPXhF0rs0574mXgI8oxQo6lPYDyMqO93PbWfUGU/s1600/Unbenannt-36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0oYsAEJSJ7iqddJE6lIGbyRIs7Cv8NG3by7EnhRV9JOvtOtaWivOqYD8djO0FE77rIN3PmlHy8056fK6wmKlsDtd1QqrfRVirWaC-bPXhF0rs0574mXgI8oxQo6lPYDyMqO93PbWfUGU/s400/Unbenannt-36.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thousands Became Peace Marchers for the Final Stretch</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time we reached the Soviet Embassy, the silent walk had ended and we called out “Mir y druzba!” the Russian words for “peace and friendship,” to the bystanders on the sidewalk. This being a Saturday, it was unlikely that the embassy was open or that the bystanders were Russian, but some smiled and waved back just the same.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx573OE5e67NjuP1beMWRBv8g5tgqmp8zmbn3M4Zr32csRCxRvD-1yGM-t6Z5BIvfrLwJ1XKocX8PCDsYJCczsSrkVA_R9HLUUMYUJCfJMtNfgT2LfRslAllsm32i2Tve5ZaKUXBZPjx_/s1600/6334_1166468795575_1043560068_30528655_6332622_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx573OE5e67NjuP1beMWRBv8g5tgqmp8zmbn3M4Zr32csRCxRvD-1yGM-t6Z5BIvfrLwJ1XKocX8PCDsYJCczsSrkVA_R9HLUUMYUJCfJMtNfgT2LfRslAllsm32i2Tve5ZaKUXBZPjx_/s400/6334_1166468795575_1043560068_30528655_6332622_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiling DC Cops</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">A few blocks farther along, we passed a counter-demonstration of a dozen or so people carrying “Peace Through Strength” placards. Their signs in the shapes of gravestones were printed with various places in the world where communism had done its worst: Poland, Lithuania, Tibet. Our human river flowed past them with a chanted message in return: “Strength through peace, strength through peace, strength through peace..." <br />
We continued through the business district, crossing K Street just a few blocks north of the White House. The tall buildings and city streets were fairly deserted. Saturday was a quiet day for a demonstration in Washington, D.C. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Counter-Demonstration Voices Were Heard, Too</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCh_-NxarZKInzgEIYxCChd0bx1hu377QokiIS8uhGInv4r353vpvOUG4_5etVMPS9Ex-XYgwlGTOtEBmBanLHBVzsydqTgaonqp_7xwVUyQM3VjqVAUIk9mHEShdru1IjQTrGPoImRc8v/s1600/Unbenannt-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCh_-NxarZKInzgEIYxCChd0bx1hu377QokiIS8uhGInv4r353vpvOUG4_5etVMPS9Ex-XYgwlGTOtEBmBanLHBVzsydqTgaonqp_7xwVUyQM3VjqVAUIk9mHEShdru1IjQTrGPoImRc8v/s400/Unbenannt-35.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They Had More Signs, but We Had More People</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">At Lafayette Square across from the White House, many marchers left pairs of shoes hanging along the fence as a symbol of our long journey and our demand for nuclear disarmament. I would have left mine, but I had only the pair on my feet. We re-grouped and continued to the Lincoln Memorial, our final rally point. The marchers crowded up to the steps of the Memorial and the demonstration spread a ways down the reflecting pool toward the Washington Monument and the Capitol beyond. It was cold, and everyone padded from foot to foot to stay warm. The program of singing and speeches was, for me, a blur: Casey Kasem; Ralph Nader; Collective Vision. There were no words to match the occasion. We needed neither encouragement nor inspiration. If someone had taken the podium and said, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” I’d have clapped and cheered just the same. We had completed our trek. In my mind, we had earned the right to demand nuclear disarmament. Peacefully, of course. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the White House to the Lincoln Memorial</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up the Steps of the Lincoln Memorial</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Final Rally for Global Nuclear Disarmament</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zmfxbhg-h10o8MzMzI2ooNABFDwTMn4qtjzwBvdo4noelRUhtWVy_O6-r15mhi_HGazcC3DKeR4fcDWN00FqDA0WdhPqcqEOIGIQ2uXfRMEaYpfqp3D43NvOdIYI11t55DpJxDexKIHR/s1600/6334_1166470595620_1043560068_30528663_2503505_n_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zmfxbhg-h10o8MzMzI2ooNABFDwTMn4qtjzwBvdo4noelRUhtWVy_O6-r15mhi_HGazcC3DKeR4fcDWN00FqDA0WdhPqcqEOIGIQ2uXfRMEaYpfqp3D43NvOdIYI11t55DpJxDexKIHR/s400/6334_1166470595620_1043560068_30528663_2503505_n_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">November 15, 1986</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually the sun set behind the Lincoln Memorial on the last day of the Great Peace March. Marchers found their way back to camp. My parents had invited a group of us back to their house, walking distance from the rally site. Everyone was exhausted and overwhelmed. It was hard to know what anyone was feeling or thinking. In my mind, there were no soft edges. I tried to keep my thoughts afloat, allowing them to surface only momentarily, like a Magic Eight Ball, so they wouldn’t hurt too much. We drank warm, sweet tea, ate the buffet that my mother had prepared, and shared the last waning hours in conversation. The peace march was ending, and my cup was overflowing. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Peace March at the Lincoln Memorial</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Most marchers stayed in D.C. for several days following our arrival. Some met for a rally at the Capitol. Others conducted civil disobedience and were arrested in a demonstration at the Department of Energy. There were several smaller actions but no single effort that brought a unified message to our leaders. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My father worked some magic on our behalf and arranged an appointment for four of us to visit with Kenneth Adelman, Ronald Reagan’s Director of the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency. Adelman welcomed us at his office where we, dressed in our peace marcher garb with worn shoes, unkempt hair and weathered skin, sat on comfortable sofas around a coffee table. As was the case in the offices of all Republican appointees in Washington, on the table sat a jar of jellybeans, President Reagan’s signature sweet. Danny gestured toward them and Adelman gave him a nod, so he opened the jar and took a handful and munched them as we talked. I silently chuckled. Leave it to Danny to co-opt the jellybeans.<br />
Adelman invited us to share our views and listened as we each spoke in turn about our walk and our mission and our message. Adelman replied by saying that global stability relied on parity in the nuclear arsenals of the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. He believed that the nuclear arms race was keeping the world from dissolving into chaos. I was startled when Adelman added that we, the peace marchers, were some of the most dangerous people in the country. The four of us countered that our nuclear policies had created a world where our own children doubted they would reach adulthood. We said that the proliferation of weapons that could easily bring about the extinction of the human race was itself causing chaos. We said that the nuclear arms race was neither a viable foundation for national security nor a viable legacy for our children. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I didn’t have the sense that we swayed Mr. Adelman’s views much, but I hoped we had impressed upon him the fact that a huge number of Americans were fed up with the nuclear arms race and wanted it to end now. Adelman was frank and firm, attentive but unwavering. We left hoping that we had planted a seed of peace. It was the best we could do. I was thankful for the opportunity to speak with someone who, were he so inclined, was in a position to stop the nuclear arms race. At least Mr. Adelman knew now that the Reagan administration’s policies would not go unchallenged. As we departed the agency, Danny shook Adelman’s hand and said, “You’re blowin’ it, man.” Adelman appeared to take it in stride. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The students at the Maret School invited me and my march friends as guest speakers. Grace made all of the arrangements so we could visit as many classes as possible. In the final assembly, we gathered in the theater. We pitched the tent—the one the students had donated to the march—on the stage. Students and teachers filled the seats and half a dozen marchers sat at the edge of the stage. I had been in the theatre many times, but it felt a little strange to be a guest speaker on my own home turf. Still, I was excited to be returning to the young people who had sent me off on this trek in the first place. In a brief speech, I thanked the students for their support and reminded them that it had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i>candid discussions in the eighth grade humanities class that inspired me to think about what I could do to end the nuclear arms race. The other marchers introduced themselves, and we took turns answering questions and sharing stories. One student wanted to know whether we thought the peace march would do any good. To this we replied that we hoped we had talked to enough people along the way to raise awareness, but we admitted we really didn’t know for sure. I hoped that by our presence we were proving that adults really did care about their future and were doing what we could to end the nuclear threat. At the end of the assembly, we officially returned the tent to the school. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day, I joined a small group of marchers who spoke at Sidwell Friends School. Their student-run peace organization had followed the progress of the peace march all the way across the country. The students were informed and politically active leaders of tomorrow’s peace movement. Their views were very much aligned with our own, and, not unlike our meeting with the Society of Friends near Des Moines, our discussion was about not whether but how to dismantle the nuclear weapons. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My cousin, Martha, invited me to speak with the students in her religion class at Gallaudet University, America's renowned university for the deaf. Martha’s students were welcoming and inquisitive. She had invited an interpreter so that everyone could relax and communicate easily with one another, and we did. I had never realized how difficult it was for hearing impaired students to stay abreast of current issues and news events. In the days before the Internet, closed-caption TV news was not widely accessible, and reading the newspaper was time consuming, especially for a university students with busy study and social schedules. Consequently, many of the students in Martha’s class asked questions of a more general nature about the nuclear arms race. Facts that would have been out of my reach when the peace march began were now at my fingertips, so, in addition to talking about my peace march experience, Martha and I filled in the informational gaps. The visit was tremendously rewarding, and I wished we’d had more time together. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Slowly, over hours and days, the peace marchers trickled out of our campsite on Michigan Avenue. Friends resisted saying goodbye. Groups huddled in big tearful hugs. The click-click-click of tent poles being dismantled echoed across the camp for the last time. Marchers rolled up their sleeping bags and tents and pulled their green crates off the gear trucks, loading them into cars that would take them to a strange place called home. With thousands of people milling around, most of whom were unknown to me, I couldn’t find all the friends to whom I wanted to say goodbye. It seemed impossible that we wouldn’t be together again tonight or tomorrow or next week or next month. I couldn’t appreciate the significance of the departure. We had all said hello and goodbye so many times to one another and to so many hundreds of people along the road that the last goodbyes just didn’t resonate with me. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As for my close circle of friends, we should have gone to a cabin in the mountains or a cottage at the beach or a farmhouse in a cornfield somewhere for a while. If I hadn’t been exhausted and numb, our last few hours together might have been too much to bear. After eight and a half months and over 3,000 miles together on the road, Iris, Bill, Tom, Sheila, Danny, Georgia, Marty, and Willa all said goodbye. When Evan said it was time for him to get into Tim’s van and drive back to Utah, I knew the Great Peace March was over. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The last event I attended on the Great Peace March was a tree-planting ceremony in the nuclear-free town of Garrett Park, Maryland. Because it was late in the season, we planted a tall, sculpted wooden post with the word “peace” carved into it in several languages. Mayor Justine designated the final boundary of her longest, thinnest forest in America. For me, the tree-planting ceremony closed many concentric circles. Garret Park was an easy walk from childhood home, an easy walk from my elementary school; an easy walk from the woods and fields and streams of my youthful wanderings. I had been in Garrett Park a thousand times. I had checked out my first library books there; attended Girl Scout meetings there; I had even stood on the main road as a young patrol guard and helped a little kindergarten girl cross safely home at lunchtime there. The house I grew up in was a few miles away, but in a real sense, the Great Peace March was ending in my back yard. Could there have been anything more complete than that? <br />
Yes, there was. The universe winked her eye, opened her hand and offered one last, round, bouncing, synchronous gift. The name of the street where we planted the last peace pillar of the Great Peace March? It was Clermont Avenue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-69123989670456271652010-12-03T14:53:00.015+01:002011-11-03T17:40:24.045+01:00Chapter Thirty-Three: "Sweet Pea"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite thousands of miles through unfamiliar neighborhoods and cities, there was only day when I got completely stranded on the peace march. It was the fifth of November. I was with the usual suspects, Evan, Georgia, Iris and Sheila, and we had spent the morning in Philadelphia. Our plan was to catch public transportation through South Philly to our next campsite in Newark (pronounced “New Ark”), Delaware. We knew where we were going but had only a vague notion how to get there. We transferred from one city bus to another and then another, until finally we got off at Chester, a dingy little fringe town on the outskirts of the city. It was raining intermittently. At dusk, the streetlights blinked on, most of them, anyway, bathing the empty streets and auto repair lots in a jaundiced fog. The shopkeepers had already covered their storefronts with metal shutters for the night. We went into a convenience store to buy something to drink. The checkout counter was separated from the rest of the shop by a wall of thick Plexiglas. When shopkeepers have to protect themselves from being robbed and murdered by their customers, you know you’re in an unsavory part of town. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy81YQILEDhMA3PzsjCPMFa1Zq9S9I575d48daoZim4m4FTtGJ-GEaKDyoaXZxd30klYXJ1GTdqjqzSZ2xsKebhvfqtvpIWvkgix1CeB46YfC-OIaGyR2ju-uvHeG5vLq1DY_xaQ9EgVnZ/s1600/17531_1300268195976_1508570350_30770648_6628269_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy81YQILEDhMA3PzsjCPMFa1Zq9S9I575d48daoZim4m4FTtGJ-GEaKDyoaXZxd30klYXJ1GTdqjqzSZ2xsKebhvfqtvpIWvkgix1CeB46YfC-OIaGyR2ju-uvHeG5vLq1DY_xaQ9EgVnZ/s400/17531_1300268195976_1508570350_30770648_6628269_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Sheila, Georgia and Evan Getting Lost in Philadelphia</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The five of us walked along the main street, wondering why the bus we’d expected to catch was nowhere in sight. We came upon a police station. The officer inside told us that the public bus had stopped running for the night. He directed us to a Greyhound depot saying that we might be able to catch a bus to Newark from there. We continued through deserted streets to the Greyhound station but found it closed. It seemed that everything was shut down for the night. Now we had no way to get to camp. A little farther on, we came to an ice cream store still open. By this time it had started to rain, so we stepped inside, bought a couple of cones and discussed our predicament. Maybe the police officer was wrong about the bus. It seemed an unlikely place to call a taxi. Besides, we didn’t have enough money for a cab. The shop owner overheard our conversation. “Where are you kids trying to go?” he asked. It hadn’t occurred to us to ask him for help. We explained, and he said as soon as he finished closing his shop, he would drive us to camp. We were so grateful. We all packed into his station wagon and headed for Newark, defroster blowing full blast, windshield wipers slapping in the rain. I was sitting in the way back, so I couldn’t hear or contribute much to the conversation, but our driver had gotten us out of a fix, and we thanked him again and again for his kindness. By the time we arrived at camp, the sky was pouring buckets. We thanked him one last time and stepped out into the rain. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Camp was no more than a cluster of peace march vehicles. Everyone had gone to Marcher-in-the-Home. Someone had set out a walkway of wooden pallets to save the few remaining marchers from walking through the water, but otherwise, camp was rapidly deteriorating into a muddy mess. Everything was dark and quiet except for the pounding rain and one or two generators providing electricity to the kitchen, which shone like a hearth. We joined the small huddle eating dinner and reviewed our situation. It did not look promising. The gear trucks were shut, and we had no tents or sleeping bags. Just as we started wondering whether we could sleep in one of the trucks, a car appeared out of the darkness. It pulled up beside us, and the passenger side window rolled down, revealing a friendly-faced woman. She shouted through the spattering rain, “Does anyone need a place to stay tonight?” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Fran and Nick made us feel completely at home. Our rescue from a miserable night was reason enough to celebrate. We took turns showering and sat comfortably in their living room while they plied us with snacks and drinks and endless questions about the peace march. We told them story after story about our trek, and they, having traveled widely, told us theirs. We sat looking through albums of their travel photos, imagining all the places in the world we had yet to see. I wanted to walk the Great Wall of China and the Erie Canal. Others wanted an African safari or a sailing adventure. We were in good company for dreaming of future travels. Finally, one yawn led to the next, and we all wished each other sweet dreams and went off to bed. It rained hard all night, and every time I surfaced from sleep to hear it pouring, I was thankful for the roof over my head. I didn’t know then that our night with Fran and Nick would be the last Marcher-in-the-Home of my journey. Their hospitality on an especially nasty night came with one request: bring their personal message of nuclear disarmament to Washington, and we left them with the promise we would. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, New Jersey, Delaware… </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The November 6th border crossing brought us into Maryland, our last state before our arrival in Washington, D.C. I had moved to Maryland as a child and lived there for ten years, through high school. Because my family had maintained strong ties with Connecticut, however, I never developed a “home state” attachment to Maryland. After I graduated from high school, my parents had moved into Washington and I left for college. I didn’t feel compelled, as Evan had in Salt Lake, and as Iris had in Des Moines, to act as a tour guide as we entered the state. Besides, the sightseeing part of our journey was over; the point now was to push through Maryland and into Washington.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering Maryland, Our Last State</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we entered the northernmost part of the state, a rumor spread among the marchers that the region was a hub for Ku Klux Klan activity. By this time, we had heard and dispelled so many rumors that most of us weren’t even listening anymore. We had become adept at handling people who disagreed with our political views, and our Peacekeepers had been able to handle the occasional heckler or bottle thrower at the gate. At our first campsite in Maryland, however, although we had received permission from the town leaders to camp in an open field overnight, a small group of neighbors came out and pointedly said, “You can’t stay here.” The confrontation was limited to a few people, and they hardly represented the whole state, but I felt disappointed and a little embarrassed that the first people we encountered in Maryland were rude and inhospitable. My first thought was, “Don’t these folks know that we’ve already crossed the entire country and proven our good reputation all along the way?” Normally, our Peacekeepers handled volatile situations, but in this case the Maryland state police stepped in and told the locals to back off. It was not a nice welcome to the Old Line state.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A few mornings later, somewhere between the Maryland border and Baltimore, I woke up, dressed, climbed out of my tent as usual, looked around, caught a glimpse of nine or ten people—and did not recognize a single soul. A strange feeling came over me. Where did my peace march go? Who were all these clean, perky people? To my weary eyes, they looked like hungry baby birds, beaks wide open, noisily chirping for a worm. I wasn’t sure I wanted all these strangers on my peace march. I was already tapping the last of my reserves and no longer had the strength to initiate newcomers with small talk or road stories. With so many new people in camp, it was hard to keep track of our personal belongings. We had become familiar with each other’s stuff—a fanny pack, a floppy green hat, an orange down vest, an alpaca sweater, a rainbow beret, a black bandana, a wooden cane—and we knew what belonged to whom. We generally left each other’s things alone. But now everything was in a jumble. I couldn’t put anything down and expect to find it in the same spot—or at all—ten minutes later. As our numbers grew, marchers, especially new marchers, were constantly making all-camp announcements about “lost” or “stolen” belongings. More importantly, with all the newcomers, everyone’s gear no longer fit on the gear trucks.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rally for Global Nuclear Disarmament in Baltimore</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The morning walk brought us to lunch near a restaurant called the Cider House. Grace was waiting in the parking lot there when we arrived. It was always a nice surprise to see her. Grace drove Evan and me into Baltimore where we ate some seafood, read the City Paper and walked around the Inner Harbor. I had been there many times, but Evan had never seen Baltimore. When we returned to camp toward evening, I discovered that my sleeping bag and sleeping pad were gone. I was furious with myself because I should have been in camp to collect my belongings in the afternoon when they were unloaded from the truck. Now it was getting dark, and I realized that anyone could have taken them. I searched everywhere and asked around, but it was hopeless. I was frantic. I still had Alfred’s sleeping bag with the broken zipper, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. A cloud of worry settled over me, but this time is wasn't just passing clouds. This was a serious problem. I was so exhausted; I wanted to cry. I layered on all the warm clothing I owned and wrapped Alfred's sleeping bag around me. The ground was rock hard under my tired, sore hips, and the cold air crept in where the zipper should have been. I was peeved and miserable, and I spat a few choice words to the darkness before surrendering to a fitful night. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">November 9th. I was awake at the first gong—the last Sunday of the march. Overcast skies. With Grace’s visit, we’d probably drive part of the way, though with the march nearly over, I really wanted to walk. These were moments to savor. I couldn’t contemplate the meaning of this experience. I knew it was something extraordinary, but in our day-to-day, step-by-step lives it all seemed pretty normal. It was too much to reflect on, and I was too tired to try. Everything had changed: even my face felt different. Physical endurance so outweighed physical appearance that my facial features had become irrelevant—I had stopped thinking about what I looked like. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maryland School Children Came Out to the Road to Greet Us</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slappin' Five for Peace</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Grace, Evan, Tom and I drove into Bel Air and stopped at a little bakeshop for coffee, fresh-baked pastry and the Sunday paper. The Great Peace March was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Washington Post</i> Sunday magazine cover story. We took turns reading it and in the end agreed that although the article was fair and accurate, you’d need a forty-page special edition just to scratch the surface. I was impatient to get back to the march. Grace dropped me at the first rest stop while Evan and Tom rode ahead to lunch. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Walking southward along Route 1, I stepped into a roadside bar to use the facilities. Inside were a big, dark room decorated with a few glowing beer lights, and a lightly populated bar. The bartender kindly gestured me toward the restroom. As I was leaving a few minutes later, an older man at the bar in a lime green leisure suit called out to me. “Sweet pea,” he began, “can I ask you a question without being rude?” I thought for sure he was going to say something racy, but he continued politely. “Where are you going and what is your cause?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I felt relieved and a little ashamed that I had presumed he would be uncouth. “I’m on a peace march,” I answered. “We’re headed for Washington, DC.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">He waved me over and asked the bartender to bring me a Pepsi. I sipped it and found it oddly delicious and refreshing. I went into detail about where we’d started and all the states we’d been through, and what we were hoping to accomplish. He was a kind man, respectful and attentive; and when he wished me well on my journey, I felt well wished. I thanked him and thanked the bartender and said goodbye and stepped back out into the daylight. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I continued walking, a little high on Pepsi, contentedly meditating to open the heart chakra. Four miles down the road, my friend Wendy from Los Angeles appeared at the rest stop. My heart was wide open, and Wendy Bell was the perfect person to see. What a soulful woman she was, and what a great supporter of the cause. Wendy had really been with me in spirit all the way. We talked about the end of the march and my plans for the future. Wendy suggested graduate school, but it seemed out of reach for me. Frankly, I didn’t know if I was smart enough to get into or finish a graduate school program. Wendy gently pressed. She thought I should pursue it, so I promised I would give it some thought. I asked if she could stay to walk or sing or camp, but she said she had to be on her way, so we hugged big hugs and said goodbye. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79W8NC88Ui0l1jAjSx0IzEl4UOM3kzYZUKSYF5d_Drd9pDlEvk0lPe7AqS3_RQwjPptlBQ2gGVK12pNNP-SQzQNKIogDCAWnhLV62L3qpKE9waeKVP0VS6EF4WH0qusOrISWr_T9pj_5B/s1600/n737721004_2789694_998486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79W8NC88Ui0l1jAjSx0IzEl4UOM3kzYZUKSYF5d_Drd9pDlEvk0lPe7AqS3_RQwjPptlBQ2gGVK12pNNP-SQzQNKIogDCAWnhLV62L3qpKE9waeKVP0VS6EF4WH0qusOrISWr_T9pj_5B/s400/n737721004_2789694_998486.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange Plants</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At camp, I spoke with a fellow marcher who knew American Sign Language and had signed many of our events on the march. I wanted to be sure we were prepared for hearing-impaired supporters who might join us at the D.C. border crossing and beyond. My cousin, Martha, a long-time peace activist and an enthusiastic supporter of the march, taught at Gallaudet University, Washington’s college for the deaf. She promised to spread the word among her students that the peace march was coming to town, and I wanted us to be ready to welcome them. Cynthia, our ASL expert, said she would be on hand. I needed to be in Washington for the radio interview the following day, so I hitched a ride into town with Grace. As we drove around the Capital Beltway in Silver Spring, the setting sun lit up the golden spires on the Mormon Temple. It looked like we were heading into Oz.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">November 11<sup>th</sup> was an overcast Veterans’ Day with intermittent rain. Tim from Utah had arrived to finish the march. He had driven Sage all the way from Salt Lake City. In the morning, he and Grace and I walked down to the Vietnam Memorial. Between the grey skies, the intensity of the memorial and the emotional ups and downs of the ending march, my mood was somber and shifting. The Vietnam Memorial was crowded with veterans and their families and friends searching for familiar names among the thousands etched into the reflective black stone. A steady stream of people slowly passed the wall as the path sank deeper into the earth and the wall grew steadily higher, indicative of America’s growing involvement in the conflict. Where the path rose gradually up to ground level again and the wall grew shorter, people stood aside in private meditation, or talked with one another in whispers. Some wept or shed quiet tears. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I noticed a familiar striped sweater some distance away and walked over to say hello to Phil from Nebraska. I remembered then that he was a Vietnam veteran. As we talked, Phil shared an amazing personal revelation. He said that he had come to the memorial every year since it was erected after the Vietnam conflict ended. Today, he said, he had come for the last time. He was sure he would never need to come back again. Phil looked slightly overwhelmed, as though by saying the words he was finally making it so. I had heard people describe the Vietnam Memorial as “sacred ground,” and standing with Phil, I knew it was true. We shared a warm embrace to celebrate his enduring courage. I felt privileged to be in that moment with him and to witness the healing power of the Wall and the Great Peace March. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Later in the day, I participated in the radio interview at WAMU with fellow marchers Herb, Keith, and Morris. The Fred Fiske radio program was a long-running call-in show popular with Washington D.C. listeners. Fred was known for doing his research and asking probing questions of his guests. He asked about many aspects of the march, from the early organizational difficulties to the logistical considerations; from our political views to the nature of our community. He gave each of us an opportunity to construct a piece of the story. I talked a bit about the fact that the peace march was much like any other community, and that we had mourned the death of one of our marchers, but also celebrated the joys of weddings and a birth. When Fred opened the phones, I was surprised and pleased when Colleen Shea, a former student from Maret School, called. “What can students do?” she asked. It was a lobbing softball that allowed me to put in a plug for young people to study the nuclear issue and begin to follow current events and take an active role in our democratic system.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newest Peace Marcher: One More for Our Team! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">November 11<sup>th</sup> was my last journal entry. The last four days of the march were a convergence of emotions, a collage of overlapping events, and a swell of newcomers joining us for the final march and rally. It was impossible to find time to write anything down, and there would be no more rest days.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tim drove me back to camp in Sage, the same Sage that had taken us to Mexico eight months earlier. He and I talked about the march, but I felt a little uncomfortable saying too much about how great it had been. I didn’t want him to think that I was suggesting he should have stuck with it. At the same time, I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask him why he had left back in Nevada. It seemed like a sensitive subject. We returned to camp just outside Baltimore. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Between Baltimore and D.C., the nighttime temperatures fell very low. I still hadn’t found my sleeping bag, so I asked my friends if they would mind sleeping in my tent so I could stay a little warmer. Everybody jumped at the excuse to sleep all bundled up and tucked in together like puppies. Each night we were four or five sleeping side-by-side in a tent designed for two or three. Tim even brought a wall-to-wall foam pad from his van into the tent, so we were all unusually comfortable. Aside from keeping me warmer, tenting together toward the end of the march was fun and probably therapeutic for all of us.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGL4bPuzYP1qDrfl4cpuiTiCABYx35A5uKb_l-QsHkJU_aahqUQMaWXNlZ4GYtNuFeaNgDCoJlWP1wbz47C3_gGO4V0nThZCekgLMq3nBtvLDrXYbniEdTqj8McaGUkWwJE7KNQT0lrAZ/s1600/n737721004_2313816_4039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGL4bPuzYP1qDrfl4cpuiTiCABYx35A5uKb_l-QsHkJU_aahqUQMaWXNlZ4GYtNuFeaNgDCoJlWP1wbz47C3_gGO4V0nThZCekgLMq3nBtvLDrXYbniEdTqj8McaGUkWwJE7KNQT0lrAZ/s400/n737721004_2313816_4039.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One cold morning all of us were waking up, I sat inside my tent, looking out the front door. I spotted Alfred with his towel draped over one shoulder, obviously returning from his morning wash-up. He was dancing. Alfred was always dancing. He floated on air and held his arms out as if he were leading a lovely lady. He was good friends with Tom, and he knew we occasionally tented together, so he danced up, peered in and asked in amazement how many of us were in there. I laughed and sheepishly explained that several of us were all sleeping together to stay warm. Alfred nodded his approval and said that the overnight temperature had been eleven degrees. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-9995556549511005332010-12-03T14:12:00.022+01:002011-09-05T21:29:20.791+02:00Chapter Thirty-Two: "Y'All Lookin' Good"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b> </b>The Great Peace March had been welcomed at Cal State University and Chafee College in California, Notre Dame University in Indiana, Shippensburg and Penn State in Pennsylvania, and Caldwell College in New Jersey, but at Rutgers University I had the added pleasure of sharing the rally—and the peace march—with my family. My mother’s family had a special connection with the university. Her brother, my Uncle Jack, had attended Rutgers and spent much of his career at the university as a mechanical engineer. Not to be outdone by her big brother, my mother had studied at Douglas Women’s College, graduating in music with a minor in mathematics. Jack’s wife, my Aunt Nikki, was a staff librarian at the university, and his son, my newlywed cousin, Terry, had earned undergraduate and graduate degrees there. Terry had always wanted to drive big rigs, and Uncle Jack said fine, but first Terry had to earn his bachelor and master’s degrees, so he did.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I went into Bayonne, New Jersey, to meet up with my mother and my grandmother. We traveled down to Rutgers together. We drove onto the campus, but the march hadn’t arrived yet, so we walked over to the student center for a slice of pizza. Uncle Jack arrived, and then the march arrived, so we went outside to cheer them as they walked in and gathered at the rally site. Eli, Libby, and Annie from Ohio spotted us, and came over to say hello. I introduced them to my family, and everyone started talking. Between my family and the peace marchers, I felt a little overwhelmed, but Mom carried the conversation, finding out where everyone was from, and Uncle Jack asked questions about the plan for D.C. Eli said I should give a speech at the D.C. rally. I laughingly said, “Okay, I’d be glad to,” and immediately started imagining what I would say if I did. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Uncle Jack introduced me to Dean McCormick, the dean of the college. Dean McCormick told us he had called for a teacher strike after the bombing of Cambodia during the Vietnam era. It had been a tense time on the campus and a bold step for a young professor to take. His story reminded me once again of the long continuum of peace activism in the United States. Dean McCormick said he sincerely hoped our march would move the government in the direction of nuclear disarmament. We thanked him for welcoming us to Rutgers. I felt proud to be part of a family tradition on a campus that took a stand for global nuclear disarmament.<br />
I scrounged a few index cards and kept them in my pocket to write down ideas for a D.C. speech. Eli had gotten me thinking about it. Even if it would never happen, it was a good exercise to think through culminating ideas. Now that the march was coming to a close, what did I have to say about it all? As if in response to the question, someone invited me to participate in an upcoming radio interview in D.C. on November 11<sup>th</sup>, Veterans’ Day. In the meantime, I read several eye-opening articles about life in the U.S.S.R. One told the story of a Russian man whose dream was to be a photographer, but the communist system forced him to work in a factory instead. The story brought me to tears. The benefit of full employment under communism paled in comparison with the liberty to determine one’s own destiny; and yet the faces of unemployed Americans haunted me. Was there something in between? Was there something else? The nuclear threat trumped all political and economic systems. Both capitalism and communism would be annihilated in a nuclear war. Maybe nuclear disarmament would free us of more than just our most dangerous weapons. Maybe it would expose our respective strengths and weaknesses, and allow us to build better ways of life.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day, we walked twelve miles into Princeton. The march was unevenly kinetic now. Marchers came and went more frequently as the east coast provided constant opportunity for community outreach and Marcher-in-the-Home. New marchers appeared every day, overlaying their fresh dynamism on a veteran group that was otherwise slowing down to Washington. New marchers wanted to hear all about the cross-country trek while old marchers mustered the last of our energy to complete the remaining two hundred miles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlY-YwoIby4EN7-TyqLN-k_gJaHtZpcVvHY8nO51GuzQV06kKp2iSNyl0_rS0YvmixSvKIFOCXWNEDcku8YBzGxtmpwbO2NPO6_58PGgtDqqIaNICufM32Y2gR-w8xou_QZlaGNOxw-Bp/s1600/000011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlY-YwoIby4EN7-TyqLN-k_gJaHtZpcVvHY8nO51GuzQV06kKp2iSNyl0_rS0YvmixSvKIFOCXWNEDcku8YBzGxtmpwbO2NPO6_58PGgtDqqIaNICufM32Y2gR-w8xou_QZlaGNOxw-Bp/s400/000011.JPG" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Princeton was orange, of course, but also yellow and scarlet and ocher and tawny and burgundy and sienna and all the warm colors of autumn. Tom was waiting to hear from two college friends who might take us in for the night, so I didn’t set up my tent. Instead, I walked to the nearby village across a lovely little bridge over a river that shimmered in the early twilight. The village of Princeton seemed to have a uniform dress code. Women wore pleated woolen skirts, turtle neck shirts, cable-knit cardigan sweaters, knee socks and loafers. Men wore button-down collars, crew neck sweaters, corduroy trousers and penny loafers. I had never seen so many preppies in all my life. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Jack-o’lanterns flickered to life along the main street. Halloween decorations festooned the shop windows; Indian corn hung on the doors. I strolled along, window-shopping, and stepped into a hat shop to buy a black, woolen beret. With the cooler temperatures, wool seemed like a good idea. Townsfolk milled around, taking up good spots to watch the Halloween parade, and I joined the crowd. Finally, the pageant began. Little ninjas, witches, baseball players, and ballerinas streamed by as we clapped and cheered from the sidewalk. An Incredible Hulk pulled a red wagon with his tiger baby sister on board. A man standing next to me started speaking to me completely in French, explaining that the French feast of St. Barbara in February was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la meme chose</i>—the same thing. Maybe it was my new beret -- or my past life on the Children’s Crusade -- but for some reason I understood every word he said. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Back at camp, I collected my gear and headed out for Marcher-in-the-Home with Tom's college friends, Charlotte and Carolyn, who lived in a nearby townhouse community. They were relaxed and welcoming, and we hung out in their kitchen making supper and talking about college days. Nostalgia carried them back to memories of mutual friends, familiar places, and the professors they liked best. I had been to three colleges in five years, so I hadn’t experienced the cohesive bonded that Tom and his two friends shared. When they asked about my college days, I explained that after deciding to drop my music major at Colorado College, I spent a year studying in London and then returned to Washington to finish at George Washington University. I admitted that had only a couple of college friends and that I had never gotten to know my professors beyond the classroom. I chose not to mention that while I’d had some great experiences during my college years, most of them had little to do with actually being in college. The three of them stayed up until long after the dishes were washed and put away, and longer still after I bowed out and went to bed. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the morning, Carolyn and I talked for a while. She was a nurse at a hospital in New Brunswick, and she was struggling in her professional life, frustrated that so many doctors ignored the advice of nurses, who, after all, were also medically trained and spent far more time with the patients on the hospital wards than the doctors did. She said when she had dreamed of becoming a nurse, she thought doctors and nurses would cooperate, but she had rarely seen it actually happen. The idealism that had brought her to nursing had already begun to fade. Carolyn said she envied the community we had established on the peace march, one of authentic cooperation. I explained that the peace marchers weren't always as cooperative as we appeared and told her about the dress code and the kitchen strike. We had a good laugh about that. As a "thank you" for her hospitality, I gave Carolyn the lapel pin I’d been wearing. It read: “Don’t Mourn, Organize.”</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Legs, Not Arms</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom and I returned to camp at Princeton. It was Halloween. The park was gorgeous—huge, flat, spacious, and surrounded by woods of autumn colors. As if that weren’t enough, a nearby lake reflected the colors, only upside down and with the cloud-scattered blue sky at the center. As I walked through camp I came upon Bill dressed up for Halloween. He had wrapped himself in an orange rain fly to impersonate a Buddhist monk. Anyone who knew him would have gotten the joke immediately. Bill had started practicing Zen meditation on the march. His Spirit Walk in Utah, his retreats away from the march, and his solo hike along the Appalachian Trail were all inroads into spiritual discovery. He was dedicated to meditation practice, but he also had a fabulous sense of humor—about Zen and everything. On the one hand, he probably yearned to wear the saffron robes of a real Buddhist monk. On the other, he was no more than a common devotee wrapped in a big piece of orange nylon, looking for a chuckle. “Oh, my god, Bill! That’s perfect, just perfect,” I laughed. But Bill looked worried.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Is this funny?” he asked. “Is this really funny?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Are you kidding? It’s hysterical!” I replied.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">He seemed only slightly relieved. When I asked what was wrong, he explained that he had approached one of the Japanese monks but had been met with a cold shoulder. Bill was disappointed and worried that he had offended the monk. We both knew that in Zen Buddhism, self-deprecating laughter is seen as a release from one’s worldly attachments. Bill was hoping that he and the monks might share a laugh about their common path, but his joke had fallen flat. Maybe the monk was offended or maybe he didn’t have a sense of humor—or maybe he just didn’t have a clue about Halloween.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry – October 31, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Frost expected tonight.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">November 1<sup>st</sup> was a chilly cold morning. I awoke to find Danny and Maria in my tent. They had crawled in during the night because they were cold or too tired to set up their own tents. Neither of them was awake, so I got ready for the day and went to breakfast… my hundredth bowl of oatmeal, and it still tasted good. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Today’s was a sixteen-mile walk into NE Philadelphia. I walked through suburban Philly with Tom, who wasn’t feeling well. Toward the end of the walk Evan, Tom and I stopped to rest along a footpath near a creek. Tom went ahead to camp, and Evan and I stayed and talked endlessly, as usual, about whatever came to mind. At the moment it was old TV shows, including the Star Trek episode about the alien kids with no emotions or ethics. At the same time, we watched two boys at play by the creek some distance away. A bully and his two pals arrived on the bridge overhead and threw stones at the boys playing below. It disturbed me to see the children taunting and annoying one another, but no one seemed to be getting hurt, so we didn’t intervene. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We resumed our walk toward camp and soon ran into the two boys who had been playing by the creek, along with two of their other friends. They stopped and we talked with them for a few minutes. In the course of the conversation, they told us that three of them had fathers who were prison guards. I had never thought about the children of prison guards. A flood of questions came to mind. Did they think about their fathers at work? Did they worry for their safety? Did their fathers tell them stories about the inmates? I couldn’t ask, of course, but I wondered as the boys took off on their bicycles and we continued walking. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A little farther down the road, a boy came out of his house to show us the letter he had written to President Reagan and the letter he had gotten from the White House in return. We read the letters with genuine interest and told him we were proud that he had taken the time to share his thoughts with the president. I said I thought more people ought to do what he had done. He was beaming with pride by the time we wished him well and said goodbye. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we walked into camp, Marty greeted us and asked if I wanted to join a small group who would be speaking and playing music in a prison the following day. I wondered aloud if it might have been the one where the boys’ fathers worked. I felt apprehensive about going into a prison, but the fact that I had met the children of some of the guards made it seem a little less remote. It seemed like a rare opportunity, and I trusted Marty’s judgment, so I agreed. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">November 2<sup>nd</sup> was a sixteen and a half miler into Huntington Park in Philadelphia. I was in an excellent mood as we marched through a poorer section of North Philadelphia and many people, mostly African-American, came out to wave and wish us well as we passed by. People came to the sidewalk to say hello and shake hands and slap high fives or hold a quick conversation or tell us, “Y’all lookin’ good!” or wish us luck or give us Halloween candy; and we had no police presence to prevent us from interacting. We had lunch in a downtown square where local college students joined us for an informal rally. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Philadelphia Rally: Residents of All Ages...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOnFMlc9ly-W9VmDc3LqU1gziNpAT54HNwtKNKr6J57XcpP53drzb7XITg5-9OajjGd-3Yiw-UCHnft1DZh-BBKSYVVUyXXJyEemsDtouHjy3mlf-Q8ihL1_hOZCt4S_tftV3d0l6OwTA/s1600/6334_1166450675122_1043560068_30528535_5619120_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOnFMlc9ly-W9VmDc3LqU1gziNpAT54HNwtKNKr6J57XcpP53drzb7XITg5-9OajjGd-3Yiw-UCHnft1DZh-BBKSYVVUyXXJyEemsDtouHjy3mlf-Q8ihL1_hOZCt4S_tftV3d0l6OwTA/s400/6334_1166450675122_1043560068_30528535_5619120_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking Out...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdvm358uJw6Ws8L00O3zxtKTHc1nAVTUju6_CWMExmixhX9C8RnQcn0MFWINZJdDE_ftNV3wJcl8Q7PMo-D1K8vju-43gF9QJQ6lfCpDq0-qsAv8kukYIoJzXCjHtLA3qabxTSiLvoDLv/s1600/6334_1166452955179_1043560068_30528544_5000648_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdvm358uJw6Ws8L00O3zxtKTHc1nAVTUju6_CWMExmixhX9C8RnQcn0MFWINZJdDE_ftNV3wJcl8Q7PMo-D1K8vju-43gF9QJQ6lfCpDq0-qsAv8kukYIoJzXCjHtLA3qabxTSiLvoDLv/s400/6334_1166452955179_1043560068_30528544_5000648_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in Support of... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rrZauHatHLLa2nJTZcSHf8hAuw0lB1pIu3vBzMgPzOFVjfaHKt8C5N7MhbFXzF_5phQjIHPBnnBCC99a-A7BH6T0C-gQwblQa84mLZfebuDZwENidBT0a4MvF9xtIJEqSohkC5GuEqbY/s1600/n1664765251_161784_1977828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rrZauHatHLLa2nJTZcSHf8hAuw0lB1pIu3vBzMgPzOFVjfaHKt8C5N7MhbFXzF_5phQjIHPBnnBCC99a-A7BH6T0C-gQwblQa84mLZfebuDZwENidBT0a4MvF9xtIJEqSohkC5GuEqbY/s400/n1664765251_161784_1977828.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Global Nuclear Disarmament</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I joined Georgia and four other marchers heading to the Buck’s County Jail. I couldn’t even imagine what to expect. Rev. Larry Davis, our host, picked us up at camp in his van. As he drove, he explained that the six of us were coming to the prison as guest speakers at the weekly prayer meeting, a favorite time for those inmates who attended. Most of the inmates were serving sentences of two to ten years, some for serious crimes like armed robbery or rape. Male and female inmates were not generally allowed to be together in the same room; the weekly prayer meeting was an exception to the rule. We would follow a program of prayer, songs and stories, and Rev. Davis would be in charge. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Though our host spoke calmly, the worst possible images came to mind. Foremost were the photos I remembered from the Attica prison riots in upstate New York. I also recalled a television program called “Scared Straight” that my sister Cassie and I had watched when we were teenagers about juvenile delinquents whose rehabilitation included a field trip to Rahway prison in New Jersey to be harangued by hardened offenders. It was not a peaceful feeling to know that in a few minutes I would be in a room with a similar class of criminal. On the other hand, except for a school trip to the county courthouse in fifth grade where the tour guide pretended to lock Timmy Moran in a cell, I had never been in jail, so I was curious, too. The guards at the front desk “processed” us as they took our jewelry, identification tags and belts and sent us through two sets of heavy security doors that closed loudly behind us. Now we were on the inside. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Reverend Davis guided us down a brightly lit corridor, and as we walked along, I glanced into some of the rooms. One appeared to be a recreation room. I caught a quick glimpse of a television set mounted high on the wall, colorful, molded plastic chairs and some exercise equipment. It didn’t look half bad. I was picking up a strange feeling of familiarity. All at once I realized that the interior of the building—the lighting, the furnishings, the carpeting, the colors—strongly resembled my junior high school. That struck me as ironic. I didn’t know which was more peculiar, that this prison looked like a junior high school or that my junior high school looked like a prison. I half expected to see Miss Schumer or Coach Wallace come walking up the corridor asking to see my hall pass. We entered a small classroom with a table at the front, an upright piano against one wall, and chairs arranged in three or four rows. A low divider split the room left and right, one side for the men, the other for the women. We had a few minutes to get organized before a guard led in the inmates.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> As the men entered, Georgia sat at the upright piano and played Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer,” setting an upbeat mood. I was relieved that the prison guard stayed and stood attentively at the side of the room. The group of about twelve men crossed the front of the room and found their seats to our left. The first thing I noticed was how young so many of them looked, how old so many of them looked, and how respectful they were of us and of the prayer meeting time. After a few minutes, the women entered and sat to our right on the other side of the divider. Most of the women appeared to be in their twenties, but their behavior was like that of unruly junior high school girls. As soon as they were seated, the women tried to make eye contact with the men. A couple of the young men returned their glances until Larry calmly got everyone’s attention and led us all in singing “Amazing Grace.” We followed a program of songs and stories and readings. The men were attentive and polite. They listened and sometimes nodded or muttered a quiet word of agreement. I sang a few verses of “Come Spinning Down” as a kind of prayer, and I taught everyone “Stand With You.” The inmates encouraged us by calling out while we were playing.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> “Sing it!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Lord have mercy!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Their calls moved me to sing more soulfully. When everything on the program had been read and sung, Rev. Davis brought the service to a close and invited the inmates to ask questions and share insights. They very respectfully broke the ice with humorous opening comments about our cross-country trek. It occurred to me that, like the rest of America, these inmates knew how to make us feel welcome in their home. The time went very fast, and when we were done, the women went out first, and a group of men formed a line to shake our hands and, much to my surprise, ask for our autographs in their prayer books. One man asked if I could write down the words to “Stand With You,” in his book. It was humbling to realize that our walk across the country was, perhaps above all else, an awesome expression of freedom. When the inmates blessed us on our journey, I felt truly blessed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—November 3, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rest day in Huntington Park in Philly. Gorgeous, warm, sunny day as I write this. Feel like writing a newsletter. No typewriter. A Red Cross blood drive comes to the march and sets up in a pavilion in the park, so I give blood.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Election Day. Evan, Tom and I walked into downtown Philadelphia and wandered around the city. I bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miracle at Philadelphia,</i> a book<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>about the creation of the U.S. Constitution. As we crossed a traffic circle, we witnessed a young driver crash her car into another vehicle. In a blink of an eye, Tom was in the street helping the drivers. No one was seriously hurt, but the young woman was hysterical, sobbing and shrieking that her father was going to kill her when he found out she had crashed his car. Tom got her attention and calmly convinced her. “No,” he said, “your father is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>going to kill you. He's going to be glad you're okay.” Then he added, almost light-heartedly, “This car isn’t as important to him as you are.” She listened to him and regained her composure. We stayed until the police arrived a few minutes later and then continued on our way. I complimented Tom on his ability to calm the young woman, but he didn’t think it was a big deal. He didn't seem to notice that he had a unique talent for bringing peace to people in distress. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In camp, marchers were talking about civil disobedience upon our arrival in Washington. The Department of Energy, which administered the Nuclear Test Site in Nevada, was one possible target for demonstration and arrest. I didn’t have any objection to people getting arrested to make their point if they wished, but I had qualms about the general public viewing them as representative of the whole peace march or of the thousands of people we had met along our way. I also had doubts about the effectiveness of civil disobedience in conveying our call for nuclear disarmament. People demonstrated in the nation’s capital all the time, and Washingtonians were pretty blasé about demonstrators getting arrested. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOix-ejIg7mysSDTD_V1iYHmTZm4dqSKZFZbcKOLJVD-yaCvXTNZ40d1vcdrShiHsTzPpF7TPjvdJiY79q2ZulBH2w5mEDS2sYgcXIQR1FWAKdV2Q95xc27aB_t6_vCYqPsrLY99i4tY-/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOix-ejIg7mysSDTD_V1iYHmTZm4dqSKZFZbcKOLJVD-yaCvXTNZ40d1vcdrShiHsTzPpF7TPjvdJiY79q2ZulBH2w5mEDS2sYgcXIQR1FWAKdV2Q95xc27aB_t6_vCYqPsrLY99i4tY-/s400/IMG_0164.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Invitation Flyer</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The idea of a Great Peace March “ripple effect” was of growing interest to many marchers. We wondered if our presence in towns and cities had any tangible impact on the population. A week or two beyond Philadelphia, word went around camp that the crime rate in the part of the city though which we had passed had dropped by fifteen percent in the week after our visit. It was a compelling piece of data. I had no way to confirm its accuracy, but it made me wish we had been able to gather similar information all the way across America. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-39616359652233000382010-12-03T10:35:00.021+01:002011-09-05T21:20:36.851+02:00Chapter Thirty-One: "From California to Randall's Island"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">October 23<sup>rd</sup>. Today the Great Peace March completed our walk across America. Coast-to-coast. We were, as far as we knew, the largest single group to cross the continent. We were certainly the most ecstatic. Everyone was beaming with excitement as we stepped onto the George Washington Bridge in Fort Lee on the New Jersey side and started across the Hudson River into Manhattan. I had crossed the GW Bridge dozens of times, back and forth from our home in Connecticut to my grandparents’ house in New Jersey—the GW was our “over the river” to grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving—but always by car, never on foot, and never at the end of an eight-month trek. Marchers carried banners and flags and signs; we linked arms and skipped and sang. New Yorkers sped by in their cars, occasionally giving us a beep, but mostly ignoring our parade. They had no idea we had just walked more than 3,000 miles to get here. Far below, the Hudson River flowed down to New York Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Evan, Iris and I held hands. Tom was way too excited to hold hands; he clicked photos instead. He must have taken a hundred. We practically soared across the bridge, but it still took a good ten minutes to walk the whole span. I turned around a couple of times to take in the colorful fall foliage on the hills below Fort Lee, but really I was looking all the way back to California.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw091zB27lnypgcFQd9T-xEMZuFIzIirxu42xkwcGMBHzuDgk9LM8ghkPWHmzURQwjoTORfv3pMIV5tGOnr0PSXa4ESHi5YWOgCOdnptMq5cQVG4ftik3tnexaJXZEF-Ka2riPvKTtCTA/s1600/n1508570350_30144769_9182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw091zB27lnypgcFQd9T-xEMZuFIzIirxu42xkwcGMBHzuDgk9LM8ghkPWHmzURQwjoTORfv3pMIV5tGOnr0PSXa4ESHi5YWOgCOdnptMq5cQVG4ftik3tnexaJXZEF-Ka2riPvKTtCTA/s400/n1508570350_30144769_9182.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iris, me, Evan, Alfred, Kate and Fergus Crossing the GW Bridge...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7laxuExlJ2R9QctnjsHQ4vSTX5DiP1eCY-C1W56pnernlO5c7pZza-1vEbwDvfjAPiZdjrhyphenhyphenTNO9_1QS0b4Z6tND_yi1hc1ZrRSKZBLdZkX9t66mcWc22D2Duyj-g4vdi08qUfX1L1ert/s1600/17531_1300267475958_1508570350_30770632_7767769_n_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7laxuExlJ2R9QctnjsHQ4vSTX5DiP1eCY-C1W56pnernlO5c7pZza-1vEbwDvfjAPiZdjrhyphenhyphenTNO9_1QS0b4Z6tND_yi1hc1ZrRSKZBLdZkX9t66mcWc22D2Duyj-g4vdi08qUfX1L1ert/s400/17531_1300267475958_1508570350_30770632_7767769_n_2_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...Over the Hudson River...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTEl9puUdSFlxXKVrC1rRZC7Q86wx9rsUfZcE_3if7nctJtaFp0FBu2Lp1NA_Lgcnfp8cysu5U72CSMwGBXgKuzpycpKslGH4Oa2vIv_mLvtWCXF0Jd9Im6VZWlnVyU8AaHManoD4GpuZ/s1600/000012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTEl9puUdSFlxXKVrC1rRZC7Q86wx9rsUfZcE_3if7nctJtaFp0FBu2Lp1NA_Lgcnfp8cysu5U72CSMwGBXgKuzpycpKslGH4Oa2vIv_mLvtWCXF0Jd9Im6VZWlnVyU8AaHManoD4GpuZ/s400/000012.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and Down the Ramp into Manhattan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">New York City peace activists greeted us with smiles and crates of apples and cries of “Welcome to the Big Apple!” as we arrived on the New York side of the bridge. The walkway spiraled downward to the street below. Everyone munched apples and floated down Riverside Drive in a long procession to Grant’s Tomb where lunch was served. By the time we got there, I had lost track of my walking companions, so I sat atop the marble steps, eating my lunch and watching the crowd. A man I didn’t recognize, a New Yorker, perhaps, climbed like a monkey on the statues. Marchers sat in groups here and there on the monument steps or on the graffiti-painted benches in the park below, talking and eating. It felt good to be alone, enjoying a bird’s eye view of the celebratory gathering. Above the towering columns on Grant’s Tomb, the inscription read, “Let Us Have Peace.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After lunch, I joined a small group of marchers who climbed the bell tower at the Riverside Church to look out over the city. I had family connections with New York, but they had skipped a generation, so I was only vaguely familiar with the city and its layout. My father’s mother, who had died in the Spanish Flu epidemic long before I was born, was a New Yorker. Her family lived on Perry Street in Greenwich Village. Her father was a founder of the Emigrant Savings Bank, and a little street corner called Mulry Square near St. Vincent’s Hospital was named for him. It was on that corner where an all-night diner, made famous in a painting called "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper, once stood. My father’s “Uncle Joe” Mulry, a Jesuit priest, was president of Fordham University in the Bronx early in the century. These were people who had helped build a city, but they were people I never knew. It was my mother’s mother who had taken us on the bus into the city as children, from Bayonne, New Jersey to Macy’s and Wannamaker’s, the enormous downtown department stores where she loved to shop. Going into New York with Baba was an adventure. She expected us to stay with her, to watch where we were going, and not get lost, and we did as we were told. My parents encouraged a love of the city, too. Like each of my siblings, I celebrated my seventh birthday with a day trip to see the Empire State Building, Central Park, and FAO Schwartz, the famous toy store. I didn’t know New York intimately, but as I looked out over the crisscrossing avenues and the bustling passersby, I felt happy to be here at last. It took a while to realize that if the Great Peace March had crossed America, it meant that I had, too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kKnqpU34gfinJ1dLiofERJONp1ye5_IHEP8UnusqnPvdeIwLg6aom2ntnmu-4-fnFup9QeiWHSYC-6AqyLx5qfUKveJo2lTtBzq-9tNTge_mMZRPDIOwEBJuR8vKFMZ85cex2G_qMvUv/s1600/7129_1162281871589_1664104734_397828_7937695_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kKnqpU34gfinJ1dLiofERJONp1ye5_IHEP8UnusqnPvdeIwLg6aom2ntnmu-4-fnFup9QeiWHSYC-6AqyLx5qfUKveJo2lTtBzq-9tNTge_mMZRPDIOwEBJuR8vKFMZ85cex2G_qMvUv/s640/7129_1162281871589_1664104734_397828_7937695_n.jpg" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Time </i>Told Our Story in a Nutshell</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We gathered in tight “city mode” and walked up 6th Avenue and into Harlem. A strong police escort guided us and hampered our outreach. We rushed down the streets instead of slowing down to talk with people. Perhaps it had to be that way, but we hadn’t had such a high level of security since the day we departed Los Angeles. Though we were kept at a distance, many local people waved and greeted us as we passed. “Are you marching against crack?” someone shouted. Crack cocaine was the new street drug. Crack dealers were brazenly taking over urban neighborhoods, and crack addiction was pulling families apart.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“No, it’s a march for global nuclear disarmament,” a marcher returned. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Expressions changed to mild puzzlement, but we had to keep moving. We didn’t have time to explain that we had come all the way from Los Angeles and were headed for Washington, D.C. At a glance, our cause probably seemed overly broad, or narrow, or just plain impractical for an area faced with a more immediate threat. A few marchers jumped out of line to have conversations, but except for a brief rally which seemed designed to allow local politicians to garner votes in the upcoming election, we had no opportunity to explain or gain support for our cause. Still, the people of Harlem were friendly and supportive, and they spurred us on to Washington. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We approached the East River and crossed into our camp on Randall’s Island. I was singing, “This land is your land, this land is my land from California to Randall’s Island…” changing the words to suit our surroundings as we walked along. Our campsite was located under the Triborough Bridge between the South Bronx and Manhattan. I took in the view across the river. I had seen the rough parts of a lot of cities, but I had never seen slums that look as though a bomb had fallen on them. These were, I remembered, scenes from a documentary film called <i>Koyaanisqatsi</i>, the title of which was taken from a Native American term that meant “life out of balance.” I wondered if people really lived over there. Meanwhile, under the highway overpass on our side of the river was a crumbling sports stadium that must have been magnificent a half-century earlier. A dozen or so NYC cops, some on horseback, patrolled the entrance to our camp. I was glad to see them there. For the next two days we would camping in, of all places, New York City.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As soon as I set up my tent, I realized just how exhausted I really was. It had been an exciting day, but the cumulative effect of the march was taking hold. My hips ached, making it difficult to sit or sleep on the ground; the muscles in my legs were always sore; and my right knee felt rubbery and weak. I was determined to finish the march, so I ignored my aches and pains and hoped that a period of rest afterward would repair the joints and bring the spring back into my step. There wasn’t much point in complaining about it anyway: we still had three weeks and two hundred miles to go. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">October 24<sup>th</sup> was our New York rally day. We were in “city mode.” New York City mode. Big Apple mode. We all left camp together, forming a main march several hundred strong. We marched back through Harlem, then down through Central Park to Columbus Circle where we were to be met by “thousands of supporters.” We arrived in Columbus Circle and beheld the modest crowd who had come to rally with us. We were accustomed to small turnouts—only Clevelanders had come out over ten thousand—but we had held out a glimmer of hope that maybe New York would be a turning point. Nuclear disarmament obviously affected everyone on the planet, but from what I had gathered walking across America, it was not a priority with most people. It made me wonder why we peace marchers took it so personally. My friends and I joked about why our “thousands of supporters” hadn’t arrived:</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“They probably got lost on the subway.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Maybe they got mugged in Central Park.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Or, possibly, they had something more important to do…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yeah, like returning library books.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Nevertheless, we joined with those who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> come to walk with us and continued to Dag Hammarskjöld Square near the United Nations. Our keynote speaker, Jesse Jackson, spoke directly to the nuclear issue. Yoko Ono, who had made a critical donation that had breathed life into the march back in Barstow, took the stage. I had never seen her in person or heard her speak. Her message was simple and brief. She quoted John Lennon: “We can make it. We can make it. Together we can make it.” At first I thought maybe she could have said a little more, but on second thought I realized that this was Yoko Ono, our faithful benefactress, and she didn’t really have to say anything at all. She had already spoken with her actions. I joined the other marchers cheering her with all our might. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After the rally ended, the marchers split up and went all over Manhattan to do informal outreach in the city. New Yorkers were unaware of our presence, and I felt foolish walking around the city trying to get people’s attention. On the subway ride back to camp, Non-Dairy Jeff failed to convince the rush hour commuters to sing along with him on, “If I Had a Hammer” and “We Are the World.” I chuckled, but the New Yorkers sat stone-faced. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On October 25<sup>th</sup>, our second rest day in New York, an organization called “Peace, Jobs and Justice” coordinated a second rally, but I decided to stay in camp. I was not inclined to split hairs, but if the rally had been pointedly about nuclear disarmament, I probably would have gone. Instead, I took the opportunity to rest up for the road ahead. I ambled over to the long-unused stadium and found that the locker rooms were actually open to us. They had been recently renovated and were clean, neatly tiled and brightly lit. After a steaming, hot shower, I spent a couple of hours on the Bookmobile. Poetry, photography, gardening, and one self-help book about men that presented a depressing and disturbed view that reminded me of none of the men I knew or admired. I wondered who had donated that little gem to the peace march. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I walked over to the main entrance and joined Danny, who was on Peace Keeper duty, and a local man named Bradley, a tall man who looked to be in his twenties. Within a few minutes, I could see that Bradley’s was a fragile psyche wedded with a brilliant mind. On the one hand, he was informed and well read, and he conversed on any number of topics—political, historical and literary—but he was emotionally volatile, and it didn’t take long to see that his mental stability was uncertain, too. Bradley wanted to join the peace march. He was desperate to be accepted. When we had a private moment, Danny and I put our heads together. He had been talking with Bradley for several hours and said that the newcomer was out of touch with the most basic social skills and possibly out of touch with reality. When I expressed serious doubt that Bradley could function in our community, Danny reluctantly agreed. Bradley’s presence re-opened the question of the Great Peace March as an all-inclusive community. The earlier situation with Howie had set a precedent that we might deny a person entry into our community or expel a member who proved to be a danger to himself or to others. With Bradley, we were concerned not about violence but about his inability to meet the physical and mental demands that every marcher encountered. I agreed with Danny that we would have to shoulder Bradley all the way to Washington, if, indeed, he could make it out of New York without falling into despair. And, we wondered, if Bradley did join us and then later had to leave the march, would he have the resources to make his way back home? Danny created a safe space for Bradley to talk through the idea of joining the peace march. With grace and sensitivity and humor, he was able to show Bradley that while our community accepted him as a person, the Great Peace March was not a good place for him. It took a while, but eventually Bradley departed of his own volition.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For me, Bradley’s appearance in camp highlighted another emerging issue. We were about to walk down the east coast, the most populated corridor in the country. We were living outdoors, camping in urban parks, and sleeping in tents, all with minimal security. Every night, the Peace Keepers took shifts patrolling the camp and guarding our front entrance. Many times across the country they had encountered locals who were intoxicated, in crisis, or who wished to do us harm. They talked people down and transformed anger into lucidity and lucidity into accord. They were as adept at making peace as they were at keeping it. I heard one story about a small group of locals who came late one night to make trouble, stayed in camp talking with the Peace Keepers all night and ended up joining us for breakfast. But starting back in Pennsylvania, several new, unfamiliar faces, joined our ranks every day. It was increasingly difficult to know who was a marcher and who had just wandered into camp. I wanted to believe that our community could transform hostility into harmony, but as our vulnerability grew, I wasn’t sure our “mantle of grace” would hold.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9dVXa9W-2crB_ypC2bfpnnBbC1JgKHhvlwTxcWDAULPd8STQA6pUlzkxNmcu7JzrQyJlRvlQTrBF-eR0lx-py4kZlhl1e8sqMdjpl6rtGfnhk3G9pYg6in_B7R8pc7jhoSvXfQygwe8a/s1600/n687671471_1702286_2726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9dVXa9W-2crB_ypC2bfpnnBbC1JgKHhvlwTxcWDAULPd8STQA6pUlzkxNmcu7JzrQyJlRvlQTrBF-eR0lx-py4kZlhl1e8sqMdjpl6rtGfnhk3G9pYg6in_B7R8pc7jhoSvXfQygwe8a/s400/n687671471_1702286_2726.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Pang while falling asleep: The end of the march is near.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Sunday, October 26<sup>th</sup> was our day to depart New York City. If all went well over the next three weeks, our route would take us down the eastern seaboard: southward into New Jersey, Delaware, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and, finally, into the Nation’s Capital. I awoke to the sound of rain, lots of rain, falling against my tent. My sleeping bag felt warm and dry and perfect for dozing. My pink nylon dome still held the night’s dreams. Our departure was scheduled for 6:30 a.m., but by 6:20, not a soul in camp had stirred. A distant voice announced a delay in departure until 7:00. Twenty minutes later, camp was still sound asleep in the rain. The voice called out again, delaying departure until 7:30. A full hour later we finally awoke and broke down camp, commending one another on our righteous lifestyle: “No arms race, no rat race.”</div></div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-42018894790081707332010-12-03T09:40:00.028+01:002011-02-24T16:56:11.014+01:00Chapter Thirty: "Peace March, My Foot!"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">It rained so often through late September and early October that our tents were wet almost all the time. Mildew started to take hold. Marchers used silver duct tape to patch up the tiny holes in the floor. Evan's looked like the celestial sphere. Much as we loved them, our treasured dome homes were not going to last forever. Collectively, we ignored the fact that everything—tents, clothing, shoes, the gear trucks, and probably we, too—smelled damp and musty. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr4o2dlGCmdaUrjXapKHt1lR_LFP6XzRSHrTAaGGOziLv9wsgsTpE5ZLDZzE3LzHQr5LWveNjpoEwa_SKPzTQl51GG6S-q7SGsSy3x9osM2GJYo8I5LJiZbEpxvkbt5CD46yGF7KW2lAp/s1600/n520295325_1416551_6817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr4o2dlGCmdaUrjXapKHt1lR_LFP6XzRSHrTAaGGOziLv9wsgsTpE5ZLDZzE3LzHQr5LWveNjpoEwa_SKPzTQl51GG6S-q7SGsSy3x9osM2GJYo8I5LJiZbEpxvkbt5CD46yGF7KW2lAp/s400/n520295325_1416551_6817.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 80%; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How do you spell precipitation? "P-e-n-n-s-y-l-v-a-n-i-a"</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>We adapted and equipped ourselves for the rain. I bought a pair of men’s galoshes—okay, rubbers, but I didn’t like to call them by that name—and slipped them on over my Nike Airs. They were an excellent solution: lightweight, completely waterproof, perfectly trim, and, when not in use—seldom in the Keystone State—compact for storage in my green crate. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Nights grew cooler and restorative sleep, more elusive. Even in a sleeping bag rated to minus twenty, my body leaked warmth at night. Common advice was to sleep without any clothes on at all, which I tried once even though I didn’t like the feel of slimy polyester against my skin, and besides, whenever I slept naked, I had those naked-in-public dreams. In any case, sleeping naked proved no warmer. Instead, I slept in long johns, socks, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a woolen hat. I also layered my down vest and my woolen sweater between me and the sleeping pad. With all that, I was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">still </span>cold. Relief came when the zipper on Alfred’s sleeping bag broke. He bought a new bag and gave me the old one to use as a blanket, bless him, and that kept me warm.<br />
I wasn't the only one who was starting to feel the wear and tear of the journey. The work coordinators started to crack down on who could board the Workers’ Shuttle. Fatigue was setting in, and many marchers were tempted to hitch a ride. At all-camp meetings and in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Great Peace March News</span>, there was a constant drumbeat: everyone out on the road and keep walking. As we passed through Harrisburg, I half-jokingly offered an enticement to my friends: If we just turn south down Interstate 70, I said, we'd be in Washington in about two weeks. But there were no takers for my ditch-the-peace-march plan. Anyway, I had to agree with them that walking into New York City promised to be pretty amazing, and the Big Apple was only about ten days away. As the one-month mark approached, emotions about the end of the Great Peace March started to percolate. I was not overly sentimental, but I sensed that after our continental crossing, the trip down the East Coast would seem to go quickly. A lot could happen in one month on the peace march, but the end was drawing near.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha20cucSYx2362EFPyEnHKoFUeZarS3eLZMjjVLJqQEK1dz_LX-lbV3C3P5JvOphfng5vsWmoq86-Y2-IDd5Gq-Pe3L3kUpveNumpNQwu4SLSwoMzl1vGX7VJXf-N1atLZnB2MCSDHOx-m/s1600/n687671471_1816267_7936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha20cucSYx2362EFPyEnHKoFUeZarS3eLZMjjVLJqQEK1dz_LX-lbV3C3P5JvOphfng5vsWmoq86-Y2-IDd5Gq-Pe3L3kUpveNumpNQwu4SLSwoMzl1vGX7VJXf-N1atLZnB2MCSDHOx-m/s400/n687671471_1816267_7936.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace March Family</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">October 14<sup>th</sup>. We awoke to a light rain. It was Georgia’s birthday. I brought her breakfast in bed and sang, “Happy Birthday,” not the traditional dirge but the upbeat number composed by Tina Liza Jones. I gave her an earring as a gift—just a token, really—and apologized for not being able to provide better weather for her special day. Before the march departed, someone called for an early morning town meeting. We gathered, wondering what was up. A marcher proposed that we come up with an all-camp response to the failed Iceland mini-summit. There were high emotions among those who spoke. People were fuming at Ronald “Ray-gun” and his Star Wars missile defense program. We all knew it was a ridiculous notion that any system could hold back twenty thousand nuclear missiles. To protest Reagan’s failure to negotiate a drawdown, many marchers wanted to fly the American flag upside-down. I thought it was a knee-jerk reaction that would do more harm than good. It would alienate us from the local public and send a message that we were generally anti-American. People might think we’d flown the flag upside-down all the way from Los Angeles. Where would that get us? Others expressed the same opinion, but the majority was adamant, so we flew the flag upside down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The walk was an eleven-miler to Penn State University near Reading. The upside-down flag didn’t seem to draw us any more flak than usual. On campus, I had a hot shower at last. The previous two showers had been coldwater, and in the interim I had set a personal record I didn’t wish to break: six days without a shower; or was it eight? I’d lost count. A few minutes of warm water and soap transformed my body, mind and spirit. I was elated, and, despite my Magilla Gorilla legs and underarms and my terrible, self-inflicted haircut, I felt beautiful. I dressed in fresh, clean clothes and wandered across the PSU campus to the college library, a light-filled, modern building with a bright orange interior. Oh, to be fresh and clean and browsing through books. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">An hour of library research uncovered a few more facts about the Children’s Crusade. I wanted to find out how, if all the children perished or were sold into slavery, we knew anything at all about their fate. The record was scant, but from what I could piece together, Europe heard nothing more from the child Crusaders until some eighteen years later when a priest appeared in France out of nowhere with an amazing story. He claimed to have survived, along with several hundred children, on a merchant ship that landed in North Africa. The children, he said, had been sold into households in Cairo and eastward as far as Baghdad. Somehow, the priest had escaped, and, like the lame boy in Robert Browning’s poem, had returned to tell the tale. The priest then disappeared into obscurity. How his story was recorded or by whom, I couldn’t ascertain. I returned to camp with a head full of questions. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">As the days got shorter and mornings, colder, I stayed curled in my sleeping bag until daylight hit the side of my tent. The fear of missing breakfast usually got me moving. I had observed that the big oatmeal pot was always last to be taken away for washing at the end of breakfast. Luckily, I loved oatmeal. Even though breakfast was technically over, I could still get a bowlful with milk and raisins. I scanned the camp for anyone else perambulating at a leisurely pace, usually Evan, semi-comatose before coffee, checked the map posted on the little turquoise Info-Com trailer, and hit the road. At the end of the day’s walk, I was famished. I headed straight to the kitchen where loaves of sliced whole grain bread and a bucket of peanut butter were always available. I hastily concocted a thick peanut butter sandwich and wolfed it down. Two hours later, I’d eat a full dinner. I had put on, I guessed, about ten pounds of solid weight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGgbnuV3e_DyoCRlsYcyR1xci66fx9cj2uzw5pG76JzZ5aYgVijvfBdnhVwMWEr6rhkrx9hcSuMtVIkzY9rIPdDdE_88Ig2A57G0Lsh6E4TMoYvVobbNXQXMlqV5u0rJjEpdyl-rBRSh4/s1600/17531_1300267475958_1508570350_30770632_7767769_n_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGgbnuV3e_DyoCRlsYcyR1xci66fx9cj2uzw5pG76JzZ5aYgVijvfBdnhVwMWEr6rhkrx9hcSuMtVIkzY9rIPdDdE_88Ig2A57G0Lsh6E4TMoYvVobbNXQXMlqV5u0rJjEpdyl-rBRSh4/s400/17531_1300267475958_1508570350_30770632_7767769_n_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iris, Me and Evan</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">On our way to Allentown, I walked until lunch when the temperature started to drop and the sky threatened rain. I had not taken my rain gear, so I thought it would be best to ride to the next site and work in the afternoon. Even though I almost never opted to ride when it was my day to walk, I felt like a “march potato” sitting on the Workers’ Shuttle. When we arrived at the parking lot in Allentown, I helped unload trucks, but it wasn’t my usual day, so it wasn’t my usual crew. The loaders were pretty ticked off at the “march potatoes” and “scum bags” who had left their belongings, as usual, in a slimy, disheveled heap under the trucks in the morning. When one of the “march potatoes” came to claim a “scum bag,” one of the loaders really laid into him, scolding him about his state of affairs. “Peace march, my foot,” she said, “You make me want to throw up!” And she stomped off in a huff. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">In Allentown, our campsite was within sight of an amusement park and a restaurant for body builders called “Eat to Win.” It was getting colder as the sun sank in the afternoon sky, so I put up my tent and crawled in to take a nap, hoping to preserve energy and stay warm. I woke up a short while later and went to check my mail, and on the way back I was surprised to see my sister’s husband in the parking lot. Raleigh had made arrangements to perform in camp that evening. I was so pleased that the marchers would have a chance to hear him play. It was Marcher-in-the-Home, and most of the camp had gone to warmer digs, but the hundred or so remaining marchers were in for some good entertainment. As night fell, the temperature plummeted. Marchers dragged their sleeping bags out of their tents and huddled together on the grass in front of the outdoor stage. Somehow, Raleigh managed to keep his fingers warm enough to play his hammer dulcimer and banjo and guitar, and he got everyone singing along, thinking about the meaning of friendship with the Soviet people, and reflecting on the importance of the march. The marchers loved his humorous political one-liners. After the concert, I was thrilled when Raleigh invited me to stay at a nearby Holiday Inn. It was freezing cold in camp, and at the hotel, I had the extravagances of a hot shower, a cold beer, a warm place to sleep, and even the unexpected pleasure of listening to my all-time favorite singer, Bonnie Raitt, on David Letterman.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Journal Entry - October 16, 1986</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh one-liner: "If voting could change things, they'd make it illegal."</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The next day was a rest day in Allentown. I went to breakfast with Raleigh and he talked about the political situation in Nicaragua. I knew little about Nicaragua and mostly listened and asked questions. After breakfast, Raleigh took off to his next gig, but before he left, he gave me a gift from my nephew, Ray: a fresh whole pineapple, my favorite of all fruits. I played music all day with Joel, Evan, Bill, Georgia, and another marcher named Torry. Six hours of music felt great. With a little more practice, I thought, “Little White Line,” the new song I had finished, would sound pretty good.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some keep the map in hand, and some stand by the wayside,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some keep the candle burning for the traveler in the night.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I keep my eye on the land, canyon and countryside,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All along, along this journey long.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s a little white line, it’s a long white line, it’s a little white line<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s a long way. (2X)<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some come from far away, some are living nearby,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some let the line between them disappear like the wind and sand;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I hold my caution to me; open up that line. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here I stand, here I stand, here I stand.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s a little white line, it’s a long white line, it’s a little white line<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s a long way. (4X)<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here I stand, here I stand, here I stand.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i>We are a mighty flood; We are a celebration (4X)</i><br />
<i>Here I stand, here I stand, here I stand.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>(Click here to listen to "Little White Line.")</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzIyOTc7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjI5Ny0wZjUiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjI3MDQ7fQ==&autoplay=" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed height="28" width="335" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzIyOTc7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjI5Ny0wZjUiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjI3MDQ7fQ==&autoplay="></embed></object><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Saturday, October 18<sup>th</sup> was going to be a big day for two reasons. First, it was Evan’s birthday. Second, a marcher named Pat had organized a benefit talent show for the Great Peace March in Tarrytown, N.Y. Several of our in-house “acts” were scheduled to perform, and Evan and I were on the program. I woke up excited and nervous. Tonight we would sing for a whole theater full of people. It would be a great opportunity to bring our anti-nuclear message to a big crowd. I couldn’t wait. We sang and ate birthday cake at Evan’s tent. After the march, in the afternoon, Georgia, Torry, Willa, Bill, the Birthday Boy and I all loaded into Bill’s van and headed for N.Y. We got lost in New Jersey and passed the time singing in the back of the van while Bill figured out the route. We were all a little punch drunk, spontaneously revising song lyrics. Joel’s “Bird talk, bird talk, so much fun to me,” became, “Road kill, road kill, it’s all the same to me.” When we started seeing signs for the Tappanzee Bridge, I sang a song my sister Cassie and I wrote called “The Monkey Can’t Meet His Maker Without a Ticket to the Promised Land” because it had a line in it that went, “He told me on the Tappanzee, salvation ain’t free for a chimpanzee; The monkey can’t meet his maker without a ticket to the promised land.’” Poor Bill. I think he stopped for directions in every gas station in New Jersey. We watched a spectacular harvest moon rise like the Great Pumpkin above the wooded eastern hills. Eight moons since White Oak. One moon to go. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">When we finally arrived at the Tarrytown Music Hall, a charming, old theater from the Vaudeville days, it was love at first sight. The lights, the lobby, the red carpet, the old ticket booths all felt like home to me. I had been involved in community theatre as a child, mainly because theatre was one of my mother’s passions. I had played one of the King’s children, the one who peeks under Anna’s big hoop skirt, in The King and I. My mother played Anna. I loved the backstage scene: actors being sewn into costumes; women—and men—in heavy stage make-up; lines being rehearsed to the air; actors between scenes in a state of half-dress and not even minding. Even as a child, I knew that this was a kind of playground for grown-ups. As I got older, I assisted with make-up, transforming my neighbors and my friends’ parents into lovers and villains and chorus girls. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Pat met us at the theater and took charge. We went into the dressing room—not that we needed to put on any costumes or makeup; we were already decked out as peace marchers—to wait for the show to begin. I wondered whether any famous actors had sat here long ago, murmuring lines into the mirror before the curtain call. As usual, I had a little stage fright, but I chalked it up to excitement, and I was pretty sure it would disappear once I started to sing. We went backstage and Pat came back to tell us that the “house” was still small and that we would wait a few minutes to allow more people to arrive. We went backstage and peeked through the heavy curtain. In a theatre of two or three hundred seats we had an audience of only about thirty people. You know you have a small crowd when you can count them. It wouldn’t be a big gala performance after all. I swallowed my disappointment and put on an excited-to-be-here face and a good show. Besides, we had to buoy Pat who had hoped to bring a message of nuclear disarmament to his hometown and was feeling pretty depressed by the turnout. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-Oz5HZJ8FMYnv5BL_ilAUE096VdaNTVOqGD0UTdIZKu-c6XYCE6riZixEfIFiFj_T9MffOtQgWUyYhdZV4E_D1bIoSKk3SKQujUv9EFFusypZHAZdNTc0o71Q_8k-dKvoAgAKVjt_Llx/s1600/n1664765251_161785_4181062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-Oz5HZJ8FMYnv5BL_ilAUE096VdaNTVOqGD0UTdIZKu-c6XYCE6riZixEfIFiFj_T9MffOtQgWUyYhdZV4E_D1bIoSKk3SKQujUv9EFFusypZHAZdNTc0o71Q_8k-dKvoAgAKVjt_Llx/s400/n1664765251_161785_4181062.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes</td></tr>
</tbody></table> The range of styles and talent among the peace marchers was broad. Rhoda and the peace march kids performed “Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes” as movingly as ever. Everyone’s performance was heartfelt, and the audience couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. They even called for an encore, and we gladly obliged them with “Big Yellow Taxi.” Because there were so few of them and so few of us, the whole performance took on a casual “let’s-put-on-a-show” quality that made everyone feel at home. On the way back to camp in the van we were elated, talking and singing at first, and then quiet as the adrenalin slowed and we all calmed down. It had been a full day, and, for Evan, a memorable birthday. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The following day we walked twenty-one miles to Anderson through lovely farm country in northern New Jersey. I never knew New Jersey was so beautiful. I’d only been on the New Jersey Turnpike and in the industrial area around Bayonne where my grandparents lived when I was a girl. Whenever I stayed with them, I’d wake up in my grandparents’ house to an acrid stink that made me wonder why there was always a roof being tarred somewhere in the neighborhood. It was years before I realized that the odor was actually coming from the nearby oil refineries. I’d been to the New Jersey shore as a child but was too young to remember much except that I’d had a case of impetigo and wasn’t allowed to go into the swimming pool. I had always heard people poking fun at New Jersey as smelly and polluted, and my limited experience had confirmed that view. After all these years, it was a pleasant surprise to see that the “Garden State” had a sylvan side. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQffT56Fs1u5O2g_uBxwdMoEvTEEC9-zFRyDgEVElwq_WL3oMErklKyXKmlt_UE9bNgJWcSkCKcmhtBzJIvi7RM-pJ3wPOMgdJ1G_fRiXjmWPMxQdlzfUdRGC0SC7HTUN7JEgNFe1mozs9/s1600/10230_1130019731810_1266729305_30321866_3428344_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQffT56Fs1u5O2g_uBxwdMoEvTEEC9-zFRyDgEVElwq_WL3oMErklKyXKmlt_UE9bNgJWcSkCKcmhtBzJIvi7RM-pJ3wPOMgdJ1G_fRiXjmWPMxQdlzfUdRGC0SC7HTUN7JEgNFe1mozs9/s400/10230_1130019731810_1266729305_30321866_3428344_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Japanese Monks Keeping Tempo</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Evan and I were talking our way through one of the towns along our route to Anderson when we were stopped in our tracks by something huge, enormously huge, rising up behind the office buildings in front of us. It looked like a gigantic, grey wall; a huge, grey tidal wave about to crash over the town. For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing, and then, as it took shape, I realized it was something I had never seen before—a blimp slowly lifting off from the airport that lay just beyond the buildings. We watched as it floated like a big, friendly, grey whale up into the sky and swam off toward the Atlantic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Evan spotted a fruit stand where the girls in charge gave us apples and fresh apple cider. I was carrying the pineapple that Ray had sent me. Deanna must have told him how much I loved pineapple, and I was thrilled to have it because we sure hadn’t seen any on the peace march. I asked one of the girls at the fruit stand if she had a knife we could use to cut it up. When she was done, we all stood around, the fruit stand girls included, talking and slurping sweet, juicy pineapple until it was all gone. Nothing could have made me happier. We cleaned up and thanked the girls and went on our way. A little while later, much to his delight, Evan found that some local folks were serving coffee on their front porch, so we joined them and chatted with the neighbors and a few other marchers who trickled by. It was a day of smooth, easy walking, friendly talks, and simple gifts from the community. When individuals in a community were generous, it gave the impression that the whole community was that way, and I had the growing impression that most Americans were very much that way. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Message to Washington: "We Like Peace and Friendship; We Don't Like War"</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Grace appeared, driving up the road, a wonderful surprise. She gave us a ride to a nearby retreat center where the owners had offered marchers free access to their facilities so we could take showers. The woods along Stephensville Road were a world of magnificent fall colors and glinting, golden sunlight. After we had showered and were feeling revived, Grace drove us out to our campsite in the countryside near Anderson. The light and colors were indescribable. Who would believe pink leaves? A painter of such a scene would have been called a surrealist, but the scene was right there before our eyes. The next day, too, began with a brilliant orange and pink sunrise that set the autumnal hills ablaze and illuminated our faded dome tents. This was definitely the peace march I had signed up for. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">With my methodically planned layers and Alfred’s hand-me-down sleeping bag, I had stayed warm all night, but Grace said she was chilly even though her sleeping bag was rated to twenty degrees. Since it was only for a couple of nights, she said, she could handle it; she’d be back in a warm bed tomorrow. We laughed at her love of creature comforts and more so at the fact that I didn’t envy her. It was a workday for Evan and me. The gear was frosty. When the trucks were loaded and locked, Grace drove us into Dover, New Jersey where we stopped at a café for breakfast and talk of the march. Grace wanted a full report, and Evan and I enjoyed the opportunity to review events. I outlined the information and Evan provided the dramatic interpretation. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdf6dMDk88xkD9ba_C0ZmHm2O_wY_mUNzbeMnwyPzGa_aXUR82fQvCZ0InyFaU7WPs12j-ngC4zzyvefU6NsTLu7KFCc9mjFeFQ8OPh9gjJemjr-nlwH9IBuBkf2n830n78H7UjGy9YYFS/s1600/n1508570350_30144768_8876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdf6dMDk88xkD9ba_C0ZmHm2O_wY_mUNzbeMnwyPzGa_aXUR82fQvCZ0InyFaU7WPs12j-ngC4zzyvefU6NsTLu7KFCc9mjFeFQ8OPh9gjJemjr-nlwH9IBuBkf2n830n78H7UjGy9YYFS/s400/n1508570350_30144768_8876.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grace and Me Tackling the NY Times Crossword Puzzle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We found our campsite, a baseball field in a city park, in time for the gear trucks to arrive. I was surprised when Grace joined the team as we unloaded the truck. Grace had countless strengths, but brute muscle power was not among them. When we were done, she rubbed her shoulders, saying she might need some Ben Gay before the weekend was over. I looked out over the sea tents and commented that she sure wasn’t going to find any around here. We had left Ben Gay somewhere back in the desert. We were beyond Ben Gay. We had a good laugh about that. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">We set up our tents in the park and sat near them, basking in the autumn sun. I thanked Grace for bringing the nice weather with her. Evan made art with tent poles. Evan was always building something out of found objects: salt shakers, toothpicks, drinking straws, driftwood, tent poles. To him, the world was a big, open container of Lincoln Logs. Grace was fluent in Spanish and spoke with a group of Hispanic kids who were having a look around camp. I could understand only bits of the conversation, but their eyes widened when she said we had come all the way “de California.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Grace offered to take me out to dinner, so we found a local Chinese restaurant. During dinner we talked about the indescribability of the peace march, the frustration and impatience that came with maintaining intense focus on one nearly impossible goal, the remarkable coincidences that occurred among the marchers, and Abraham Maslow’s concept of peak experiences. Later that evening I noticed that if you lived outdoors all the time, going to bed in a sleeping bag on a bitter cold night didn’t seem all that bad; but if you spent three hours talking over cups of hot jasmine tea in a Chinese restaurant and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> went outside to sleep, it seemed much colder. Grace left before sunrise the morning, headed back to school in D.C. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">We had a twenty-one mile walk to Caldwell College in Caldwell, NJ, along roads crowded with cars. We were just two days from the Big Apple and the completion of our cross-continental trek. I walked and talked with Iris and tried not to be disgusted by the smog and traffic. Unlike me, Iris was not thrilled about entering New York City. The energy of the city was too much for her, she said, and the noise and pollution far outweighed the amenities. After lunch, I walked with Danny and another marcher named Ellie, and we sang “Coats and Ties” in three-part harmony. Danny came from a huge family of all boys, and he had enough energy for six people. He was an avid reader and a critical thinker, and I welcomed the way he challenged my assumptions. He also loved to sing. It was usually Danny who started singing first, and he almost always asked if he sounded any good. I thought he had a nice voice and a good ear for harmonizing, and I told him so, but he was never convinced. Fortunately, his opinion never kept him from singing anyway. With Ellie’s third harmony part, “Coats and Ties” finally sounded complete, just as I’d imagined it. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Journal</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">At the college, Tom phoned his sister, who lived nearby. Her husband picked us up and took us home to stay with the family for the night. They and their five kids made for a boisterous household. We had a big family dinner, after which I helped one of the boys with his homework, and then we all sat in the family room and watched the third game of the World Series. The Sox got clobbered 7-1 by the Mets in a game with no spectacular plays. Rachel and Greg were totally welcoming and easy to hang out with, just what I would have expected from Tom’s family. It was comforting to hear the adults in the family refer to their mother as “Mommy.” Whenever all her children called her on the same day, they said, their grandmother would exclaim, “My cup runneth over!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">At camp the next morning, I loaded the gear trucks and boarded the Workers’ Shuttle to Leonia. On the complicated network of roads and highways close to New York City, we got lost six times. I had nothing better to do than to look out the window and keep count. One marcher talked non-stop in the back of the bus. I didn’t think anyone could talk that much for that long and have absolutely nothing to say. No one was listening to him, but we had no choice but to ignore his rambling opinions peppered with expletives. Such was our coalition of humanity gathered to bring about a peaceful change. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Eventually we found our site, a soccer field at a city park in Leonia with the highway running nearby. Smog hid the sky. Even the pink-red-orange-yellow autumn leaves looked dull. We waited a long time for the gear truck to arrive. Our truck drivers had to move along the same convoluted route we had taken. At last they appeared, and we unloaded the gear in time to greet the main march with a round of applause. Tomorrow: New York City.</div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-74536617528316297412010-11-30T22:00:00.012+01:002011-09-05T20:54:44.221+02:00Chapter Twenty-Nine: "Please Don't Pet My Dog"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Morning dawned chilly and clear, a fine autumn rest day in camp. Most marchers had gone to Marcher-in-the-Home, so the agricultural fairgrounds in Harrisburg were all but deserted. Marcher-in-the-Home had evolved since the beginning of the march. From our first Marcher-in-the-Home back in Claremont, we had gone into local homes primarily out of need. Over time, however, we learned the value of our home stays as opportunities for community outreach. When hundreds of marchers stayed overnight with local families, the better part of a town was engaged in conversations about nuclear disarmament. By the time The Great Peace March crossed Pennsylvania, we stayed with local residents so often that some marchers referred to our overnight stays as “Moocher-in-the-Home.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I stayed in camp to rest my hips and legs. Pennsylvania’s cooler temperatures and perpetual rain required extra layers of clothing that were cumbersome and made each mile a little more taxing. But what started to wear on me most was the walk over the Appalachians, America’s eastern mountain range. I had learned in elementary school, as American children do, that the Appalachians stretch from Maine to Georgia and are old mountains, worn down by millions of years of erosion. In comparison, the young Rockies cut a jagged profile against the western sky. (As a child, I absorbed a broader interpretation of this lesson: youth as towering and dangerous; old age as hunched and gentle.) What I hadn’t anticipated was the difficulty of walking up and down the Appalachian Mountain roads, which, unlike the gradual Rocky Mountain switchbacks, were engineered to follow the contours of the terrain up and down every mountain. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">This problem was exacerbated by another feature of modern road design. Anyone who has stopped along the road to change a tire knows that the shoulder isn’t completely flat; it’s sloped away for drainage. Consequently, the walker steps about half an inch lower on the left foot than on the right; then the right foot steps up the half-inch, and so on down the road. It doesn’t seem like much, but after thousands of miles, all those little uneven steps throw the skeleton out of alignment, and the ankles, knees and hips start to suffer. By the time we’d reached Pennsylvania, I was beginning to feel the wear and tear on my muscles and joints. When I lay down to sleep at night, my hips were exhausted. I didn’t experience pain, just fatigue. My calf and thigh muscles felt fit and strong, but my knees seemed to be losing their elasticity and range of motion; they felt slightly swollen all the time, and I couldn’t bend them all the way. Like many others, I started to wonder about the long-term damage the peace march was doing to my body.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjTclw-dV-xWDgI-QGQbSjol7oka4hPLOhxdR10VaTqzki4hVzQO-QRq38yASpATR2zU0iV8HWbrNOKwRLq50qVvIuy1vLtVpDzFtOw7C9GOoIp-Bppci5mnByDie4tvcId8qveBMucbE/s1600/000006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjTclw-dV-xWDgI-QGQbSjol7oka4hPLOhxdR10VaTqzki4hVzQO-QRq38yASpATR2zU0iV8HWbrNOKwRLq50qVvIuy1vLtVpDzFtOw7C9GOoIp-Bppci5mnByDie4tvcId8qveBMucbE/s400/000006.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early Morning in Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My plan was to rest, but an active day unfurled, and I acquiesced. The kitchen crew surprised us with eggs cooked to order, an indulgence made possible only because so few of us had remained in camp. After breakfast, I joined Georgia, Marty, Tom, and the Boulder gang—Danny, Julia, Allie, and Sheila—in a café, where we celebrated Sheila’s birthday. Gourds, pumpkins and mums brightened the farmers’ market with fall colors. We drank sweet, sparkling apple cider and mingled with the local residents. “Test Ban Treaty” and “Stand by You” played—fully orchestrated and to an appreciative audience—inside my head. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the afternoon, Tom and I walked into one of the fairground buildings and found a horse show underway. I took a deep, satisfying whiff of fresh hay, sawdust and horse manure as we entered the arena. I thought it would be fun to watch for a while, but it was actually kind of sad to see the riders force their horses over high jumps set at short intervals. Having seen playful steeds galloping on the open range in Utah, I no longer believed, as I had heard equestrians claim, that show horses enjoyed their stiff routines. The woman sitting in front of us complained loudly about her daughter who was riding in the show: If it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth doing at all. If that were the case, I thought, we’d still be wallowing in the dirt back in Barstow. All the creatures at the horse show seemed oppressed, so Tom and I left and walked back to camp. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqxy-Lwh1sAYKYIE3_Bz7uHDHw6ITGZKWQeTfAPEZa70DHEoPyLe2eUotf861FxKqKnoGmFVdKn8dJa-wjwBAczPLa344CA8CKqcJEJWiyEvc0qdwuhyoxJGzTCy2Vh32NP8h96-W7639/s1600/F1000042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqxy-Lwh1sAYKYIE3_Bz7uHDHw6ITGZKWQeTfAPEZa70DHEoPyLe2eUotf861FxKqKnoGmFVdKn8dJa-wjwBAczPLa344CA8CKqcJEJWiyEvc0qdwuhyoxJGzTCy2Vh32NP8h96-W7639/s400/F1000042.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peace March Kids and a Bottle of Bubbles</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the evening, a group of us sat around talking in our tent neighborhood. It was Sheila’s birthday, and a couple of her friends had come to visit, so everyone joined in the conversation. Sheila introduced the idea of a “life of peace,” and the idea that the sum of one’s individual actions and decisions potentially comprised a “life of peace.” People started talking about “drawing positive energy” to themselves, not an uncommon theme among marchers. The idea dispatched several trains of thought in my mind. The first was based in quantum physics: If everything in the universe was made of energy, and all forces naturally affect one another, then perhaps the power of human intention could bring about physical change. But did a person really have the power to draw love or a miracle cure or a winning lottery ticket—or global nuclear disarmament—to himself? Next, I considered the Eastern philosophical model: yin and yang describing a cosmic balance between neutral opposites like light and dark, male and female, or strong and weak. The concept of balanced energies, fundamental to the Eastern mindset, made more sense to me than Western, warring counter-concepts like virtue and sin. It was the Western mindset that seemed to require “drawing positive energy,” which, I assumed, was necessary in order to stave off the equal and opposite negative energy, which brought me back to physics. At some point my train of thought petered out, and I lost interest in shoveling in more coal. When people suggested that the peace marchers draw positive energy to ourselves, I usually smiled and nodded in mild agreement, but I really wasn’t sure what they were talking about. On the other hand, there was the matter of that little, white cardboard heart on the road back in Iowa. I still had no explanation for that. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Bill had returned from the Appalachian Trail. Evan, Tom, Iris and I were curious to know how it had gone. In his inimitably entertaining way, Bill told stories about the difficult walk over rough terrain, carrying a backpack and camping, more often than not, in the rain. It seemed to me that Bill just couldn’t make the Great Peace March hard enough. His woeful stories from the Appalachian Trail made our trek seem cushy by comparison. I confessed that I could never have done our cross-country walk if we’d had to carry backpacks; I’d have had to stop and rest every two hundred yards. Everybody laughed because they knew I was not exaggerating. I could load hundreds of pounds of gear and walk twenty miles, but put a backpack on my back and I'd have been grounded.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">T-BAG was meeting in one of the town hall tents, and they were embroiled in a disagreement. About what, I didn’t know, but I overheard the heated conversation as I passed by, and it made me think it might be the perfect time for a musical debut. Georgia and I still hadn’t sung “Test Ban Treaty” for the Test Ban Affinity Group. I quickly found her and made a plan. We stepped quietly into the tent, politely interrupted the discussion and asked if we could sing them our new song, which we thought they would find apropos. They were a bit bristly, uncharacteristically so, as these were some of our friends, but they agreed to stop for a few minutes to listen. By the time we finished singing the last chorus, there were smiles all around. “Test Ban Treaty” was their new anthem. Georgia and I stepped out of the tent and high-fived, satisfied that we had created something good and hopeful that T-BAG could return to their discussion in a new light. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9F2XSOznmur4XEESLqhHS8pkk1Qy9klt_dE81qF8krnIfqebiR15vw4T45WBbSpOHjGXwfTEFOlxdQsgFvvHGoAU5Edr1dt4ZuWek5kyiQOzsnuSZlkGUAPGq4-wCkmuVONbYPdDRVCm/s1600/17531_1300266475933_1508570350_30770609_7170314_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9F2XSOznmur4XEESLqhHS8pkk1Qy9klt_dE81qF8krnIfqebiR15vw4T45WBbSpOHjGXwfTEFOlxdQsgFvvHGoAU5Edr1dt4ZuWek5kyiQOzsnuSZlkGUAPGq4-wCkmuVONbYPdDRVCm/s400/17531_1300266475933_1508570350_30770609_7170314_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the evening, the Great Peace March kids presented a production of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes</i>, based on the true story of Sadako, a Japanese girl who lived in Hiroshima and developed leukemia soon after the U.S. dropped the atom bomb. An old Japanese legend told that folding a thousand paper cranes would make a wish come true. Sadako’s wish was that she would continue to live despite her leukemia. The little girl folded 644 origami paper cranes before she died. It was a tale of hope and sorrow. The peace march children had worked together to create a script that reflected a child’s awareness of the dangers of nuclear war, and they incorporated elements of Japanese culture into their interpretation, improvising costumes and a modest set. As drama coach, Rhoda had worked her magic. The players acted their parts flawlessly, and their beautiful performance moved us to tears. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Two local women whom I had met in Harrisburg the previous day found me in camp. They had gathered up all the neighborhood kids—there were seven—loaded them into their van and brought them down to see the peace march. I showed them everything and explained how we all worked together. The children were fascinated, some a little shy, others curious and questioning. We visited the post office bus, the mobile kitchen, and the Bookmobile. We boarded the school buses so the children could take a look around and see where the peace march kids went to school. As I walked my guests back to their van, one little girl gave me a posy of yellow wildflowers “for good luck,” she said. I gave her a hug and thanked her for the flowers and for the luck, and for coming to visit us. After we waved goodbye, I pressed the flowers into my journal so I could keep them there forever.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers "For Good Luck"</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For me, October 11th was a miserable walk, not catastrophic, just disjointed and unpleasant. I had my period and was feeling neither amiable nor energetic, but I still had to put in the day’s miles. I walked with Evan, who was invariably agreeable, but neither of us had bothered to look at the day’s map or write down directions through Harrisburg. The first few miles took us into an old, run-down neighborhood. We stopped at a place called the Deluxe Diner so Evan could have his morning tankard of coffee. He and I talked about Willa’s new van and how cool it would be to turn the whole vehicle into a giant message board inviting everyone along the route to join us in Washington on November 15th. After coffee, we continued walking through the tumbledown neighborhood, but we had no directions and had to find our own way. We passed a fabulous mural covering the entire side of a tenement building. We talked about the schism between blacks and whites and rich and poor in America. We were not getting an overwhelming feeling of welcome as we walked down the street. We passed one home, and a Doberman puppy came to the fence. We stopped to see it. “Excuse me; please don’t pet my dog,” a man on the porch said sternly. His words were polite but his tone was short-tempered and angry. He was training it to be a guard dog. I apologized and backed away, embarrassed and a little miffed that interacting with a friendly little puppy was so clearly the wrong thing to do. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After two thousand miles on the road across America, Harrisburg was my first contact with a neighborhood where people gave me the sense that they didn’t want us there. I wanted to leave, but when we asked a couple of the neighbors for directions, they brushed us off, saying they hadn’t seen or heard of any march. Could they really have heard nothing about hundreds of people walking through their neighborhood? Eventually we found a few familiar stragglers three or four blocks away. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan and I wended our way out of the downtown neighborhoods and into the suburbs. The walk through Harrisburg had made me nervous and insecure. My hormones were making me moody. We went into a grocery store to buy some food as we had gotten out of synch with the march and missed lunch. In the produce department, a middle-aged woman approached and asked if we were peace marchers. When we said we were, she reached into her handbag and gave us two dollars. "To support the march," she said. We thanked her as she explained that her anti-nuclear stance stemmed from her husband’s death from bone cancer. Her daughter-in-law died from cancer, too, she said, and she wondered aloud whether maybe nuclear waste was polluting our environment. She asked if we would bring her concerns about nuclear safety to Washington. Here we were, standing in the produce department of the grocery store as this woman shared some of the most painful chapters in her life. We were complete strangers, but as peace marchers we became envoys, couriers for messages that had to be carried in the heart. I could feel her burden shifting to us. We told her we would walk in memory of her husband and daughter-in-law. We thanked her for her donation, which, modest though it was, endowed us with the authority to make an appeal on her behalf. She said she wished it were more. We assured her that thousands of donations like hers had brought the peace march across the country. We exchanged kind wishes and continued on our way. I didn’t let on to Evan, though I probably would have felt better if I had, but after hearing this woman’s painful story, and on top of the unfriendly interactions we’d had earlier in the morning, I had a heavy heart. I wasn’t a brave peace marcher. I wanted to sit somewhere for a while and cry. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The route took us along a typical suburban American highway: acres of business corridor strung together by miles of telephone wire and a wide, white sidewalk that seemed never to have seen a pedestrian before the arrival of the peace march. Everyone else was in a car. Here and there, a newly rolled, asphalt parking lot formed a smooth black moat around a hermetically sealed office building. The little patch of lawn and recently planted trees were a vain stab at restoring nature. In seven months of walking across the country, one thing the Great Peace March had never been was boring. Even the flatlands of Nebraska had posed a unique challenge. But the day had already been an emotional one, and the ugly, overdeveloped suburbs disgusted me. I started to grumble to Evan that I thought it was a sin that people had bulldozed rolling farmland to build tract developments and bland little office parks. Evan listened patiently and politely changed the subject. He was a true gentleman, but if there was one thing he did not tolerate well, it was anybody up on a soapbox. Usually, I took his hint, but on this particular day I just wouldn’t step down. We were growing irritated with one another when something strange happened. A car drove by, and as it passed, a smoke ring formed outside the passenger window. After the car passed, the smoke ring hung in the air, growing larger and larger, and spinning slowly, like a big lasso until it gradually floated upward and dissipated into thin air. I watched in wonder and asked Evan if he had ever seen anything like it, but he must have already been ignoring me by then because he registered only mild interest as he assured me he had not. I resumed my pouty mood. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We continued walking, searching for a place to stop and eat the food we had bought. I started grumbling about the sterile landscape. A few minutes later we spied two lucky picnic tables situated between the office buildings—a little oasis. I credited Evan for conjuring them up. I wondered aloud if anyone would mind our using their tables, but Evan commented that the people who worked inside probably never even looked out the windows. We sat and ate lunch, using Jason’s Swiss Army knife to slice up an apple for dessert (we always shared food; the less we had, the more we shared) and then continued on our way. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Another mile down the road and I was whining again. Evan must have had enough of me by then. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d been contemplating an inconspicuous shove into oncoming traffic. A few minutes later, an old-fashioned, brightly-colored roadster sped by on the highway, then, a minute or so later, two more, then three, and, for the next fifteen minutes or more, dozens of cool, old roadsters sped past, apparently on their way to a roadsters’ convention. They were all shapes and colors, some closed and some convertible top; the drivers were wearing all manner of roadster garb from floppy driving caps to goggles. It was enough to distract me from my slump until we found our way to our campsite, a soccer field in a town park with a big outdoor stage. I had one more complaint, but this time, considering my menstrual condition, it was a valid one: the facility had no showers. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">That afternoon, two marchers, Stan and Sue, got married on the outdoor stage. Sue wore a stunning scarlet dress and Stan wore blue jeans and a jeans jacket. Jen, one of our ministers, married them. I didn’t know them personally, but it was exciting to think that two people were being married on the peace march. There were so many couples who got together—and even more who broke up—on the march. We talked about how great it was to have a wedding where you could invite five hundred guests but didn’t need to plan—or pay for—a thing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wedding Ceremony</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The D.C. office staff arrived to explain the process for making suggestions for our arrival in D.C. As far as I could tell, the process for the process was itself a work in progress. We were a little more than a month away from the end of the march. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On October 12<sup>th</sup>, my journal says, we walked to a campground in a field near a barn. With scores of campsites behind us, it was already getting harder to remember one field, one fairground, one farm from another. Remember that site back in Iowa? You mean the one in the big field? With the white barn?</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I went over to Georgia’s tent to sing. Some of the little girls came to listen. The little kids were always wandering around camp looking for something to do. They had gotten good at using found objects—balls, string, sticks, scarves—as toys, and they always seemed to comply with whatever buddy system their parents had imposed. Aside from the unavoidable tears of childhood and an occasional temper tantrum, the children seemed to have adjusted to life on the road as well as anyone else in camp. A man up from the D.C. office walked over and joined in. He sang some peace and environmental songs. Georgia and I sang “Test Ban Treaty.” By the time we were done, it was raining again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry - October 13, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Iceland peace mini-summit in Reykjavik fails as Reagan refuses to offer Star Wars as a bargaining chip as previously promised and walks out of the summit. No future summit is scheduled. The camp watches on TV. Nearly agreed to huge reductions over ten-year period but then blew it when Gorbachev insisted that testing for the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) be confined to the laboratory and not brought into space. Still, in his address, Reagan calls the summit “a breakthrough.” Rhetorical doublespeak.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-72345734010239872362010-11-29T21:00:00.022+01:002011-10-15T10:21:03.415+02:00Chapter Twenty-Eight: "I Want a Test Ban Treaty Under My Tree"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Fairgrounds, fairgrounds, fairgrounds. I was starting to feel like a prize pig. The Pennsylvania state fair season had passed, and local leaders kindly granted us permission to camp at a string of fairgrounds across the state. It was a lucky break for us. Fairgrounds met our basic needs: flat fields for camping, parking lots for vehicles, shelters—some with the luxury of picnic tables—for relaxing, a relatively secure perimeter, and, occasionally, washrooms with showers. By the time we arrived, the dog days of summer were long gone. Proud kids leading blue ribbon calves, toddlers covered in candied apple, and men in aprons judging fruit jams were October memories. Except for an occasional sprig of hay in the stalls, the grounds were swept clean. </div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At the entrance to every campsite, we set up a welcome table where two or three marchers greeted locals. "Tabling," as we called it, established a starting point for visitors to pick up a free brochure or purchase Great Peace March t-shirts, baseball caps, bumper stickers and pins. A colorfully painted sign, “Make Donations Here” stood in front of the table. We never knew whether the day's donations would add up to a few dollars or several hundred, but it was the steady flow of small donations that kept the march on the road. The welcome table was also the starting point for tours. We took turns acting as tour guides. If you happened to be passing the welcome table in the afternoon and heard a welcomer call out, "We're lookin' for a tour guide, anybody?" you would just step up and take the visitors around. At the Pennsylvania fairgrounds, it must have been strange for the locals, many of whom would have visited the summer fair a few weeks earlier, to see the hog races and the tractor pull replaced by five hundred plucky peace marchers and all our paraphernalia…and to think that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we’d</i> be taking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them </i>on a tour of their fairgrounds. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the evening of October 7th, I joined large number of peace marchers to hear Ralph Nader speak. The auditorium at Shippensburg University was crowded with local residents and university students. Nader wore his signature dark green suit and thin, striped tie. His talk ranged from the madness of standardized testing in schools to the dangers of junk food on our calorific population, from the politicizing of the media to advertising’s degradation of our youth, from the scam of health insurance, to the hope of citizen powers. Knowing we were in the audience, he spoke of the nuclear arms build-up, too. Nader impressed me as articulate, rational and extremely knowledgeable. His enormous capacity for factual information made his arguments hard to refute, and his speech was so packed with data that I wished I’d had a way to record it all so I could listen to it again later. Nader’s talk was current and focused on the future. Like many Americans, I viewed Nader as a hero of the common man because he had championed—initiated, really—the cause of consumer rights. I pondered his assertion that the Democrats and the Republicans were really birds of a feather who kept the wheels of corporate America greased and prevented the political machine from evolving beyond the old boys’ club of the mid-19<sup>th</sup> century. A couple of hecklers in the audience made it known that they disagreed with Nader’s criticism of the Reagan administration, but he took it in stride. By the time we returned to camp, my head was swimming with facts, and I wished I’d had the brains to remember them and keep them all straight. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">October 8<sup>th</sup> was a frosty morning. We loaded the trucks, and I ran to catch a quick shower in the bathhouse at the fairground before the Workers’ Shuttle left. I braced myself against the cold water as it sprayed over my head and down the back of my neck. After the initial wave of goose bumps, my body went numb, and then it was just a matter of soaping up and rinsing off. A brisk rub with the towel failed to bring the feeling back into my skin. I dutifully applied body lotion to protect against the elements, dressed gingerly, careful not to let my clothes touch the wet floor as I stepped into them, dried between my toes to avoid athlete’s foot, cleaned my ears, brushed my teeth, air-dried my short-cropped hair under the electric hand dryer, packed up my belongings and hurried outside just in time to catch the Workers’ Shuttle to Carlisle. By the time I crossed the threshold the warmth was returning to my hands and feet. I took a deep breath and thought to myself, “Wow, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> felt great! I’m going to remember that shower.” And I did. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Workers' Shuttle</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In Carlisle, I waited for a long time for the trucks. For some reason unknown to me, we were down to just one truck cab, so the drivers had to haul one trailer at a time. It looked as though it was going to take a while, so I hitched a ride into town in Bill’s van and went in search of a post office. I had written down the lyrics to all my songs and sealed them in an envelope to send to myself. This was called the “poor man’s copyright.” Having worked briefly in the music industry in Los Angeles, I was sensitive to the need to protect one’s artistic work. I wasn’t expecting anyone to publish the songs, but they were my creation, and it seemed wise to claim them. With the poor man’s copyright, if all else failed, one could at least prove with the postmark a date before which the songs were composed. I wasn’t gone long, but by the time I returned to camp, the trucks had arrived and the crew had already unloaded them. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Bill left to hike part of the Appalachian Trail. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We had lots of visitors to our encampment on a roomy soccer field in Carlisle. I met a young woman who came by with her baby daughter to have a look around. Her name was Eileen. She was friendly and inquisitive. She admitted somewhat apologetically that her husband worked in the nuclear armaments industry in Carlisle. Remembering the research I’d done on military contracts back in the PRO-Peace days, I shared my concern that nuclear disarmament would require a careful retooling of the economy so that people could move into peacetime jobs. I had never had much luck engaging my fellow marchers in a discussion of the disadvantages of nuclear disarmament, but Eileen was relieved that someone had considered this angle. She said she favored nuclear disarmament, but she was torn because it would mean that her husband would lose his job and their family’s income. We agreed that the call for disarmament came with a set of serious responsibilities because of the economic impact it would have on millions of livelihoods. We talked at length about other things, too: her daughter, life in Carlisle, and life on the peace march. In the end she concluded that perhaps her husband could find another line of work if we were going to move forward with nuclear disarmament. As we said goodbye, she wished me good luck, and I invited her to meet us at the rally in Washington. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By this time, a number of “affinity groups” had evolved among marchers who shared common interests. One was the Test Ban Affinity Group. They called themselves T-BAG. They headed up an all-camp letter-writing campaign calling for legislation to stop nuclear testing. The T-Baggers were always busy and always up for a good political discussion. They were all in their twenties and had the aura of former high school student government presidents: clean cut and working within the system. Though I wasn’t a member, T-BAG was the group with whom I felt the greatest affinity because we shared the view that disarmament relied, in part, on engaging the government as an agent of change. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Another affinity group was the Anarchists, one of the best-organized groups in camp. They tented together and always posted a black flag in the middle of their neighborhood. Their number seemed to grow gradually to two or three dozen members by the time we’d reached the East Coast. The Anarchists were politically active in the Great Peace March City Council. They campaigned on the anarchist platform of dismantling the council, but because they never achieved a majority, they were unable to accomplish their primary goal. In the meantime, they put forward, and we elected, two representatives for the duration of the march who were, as far as I could tell, as conscientious and reliable as anyone else on the council. They maintained a perspective that kept everyone alert to the purpose and value of our elected body.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A sizeable group of older marchers, some of whom were well into their sixties and seventies, really pushed themselves to close the book on the nuclear arms race. They stepped into the limelight to drive home the point that the Great Peace March was not just a young person’s march. They wanted the public to know that older people with a lifetime of experience and wisdom supported nuclear disarmament, too. A group of them banded together and called themselves “Over-50’s,” becoming a voice for senior views on the issue. As a counterpoint, some of the more senior marchers refused to join the “Over-50’s” because they viewed it as “ageist,” but the affinity group became a powerful voice for senior view nonetheless. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Hands down, the best-named affinity group were the IGUANAS: Impatient Gays United Against Nuclear Arms. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ralph Nader’s talk kept coming back to me. He was critical of so much in America. He described countless obstacles to change. Nevertheless, Nader’s explanation of “The System” was more hopeful than Jerry Rubin’s. Rubin’s ideals seemed pie-in-the-sky, whereas Nader had proven his effectiveness in transforming the system in his fight for consumer rights. My problem was that I couldn’t see where “The System” ended and “the People” began. I was not naïve; I knew that the military-industrial complex and the motives of profit and power were no friends of global nuclear disarmament. Both Rubin and Nader had implied that greed was the greatest adversary to peace, and they warned that the power brokers would not step aside without a fight. What I liked about Nader was that he believed in democracy and the rule of law. He worked within the system to change it. Nader also made it clear that in our pursuit of nuclear disarmament, walking across America would be the easy part.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to the US Army War College, Carlisle, PA</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdS_zipnJ8z0RiQWDwEVBGxPJpVJrJoSjmyctCioSJ5zMqM4ia52_FOz7aKjdknGmJVQTVYyP8K-8ZyQYjawdnkWqmSkKpgPr7KSsgVLHU0knF2rvOE2aoxJmweSfb2J5__KP2HbC-1Tz/s1600/6334_1166453075182_1043560068_30528547_638584_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdS_zipnJ8z0RiQWDwEVBGxPJpVJrJoSjmyctCioSJ5zMqM4ia52_FOz7aKjdknGmJVQTVYyP8K-8ZyQYjawdnkWqmSkKpgPr7KSsgVLHU0knF2rvOE2aoxJmweSfb2J5__KP2HbC-1Tz/s400/6334_1166453075182_1043560068_30528547_638584_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Demonstration at the US Army War College</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">On October 9th, we walked to the U.S. Army War College in Carlisle to demonstrate at the main gate. A war college? What a concept. I never even knew we had one. I shook my head in dismay every time I thought about it. The glory of military service had recently been severely tarnished by the disastrous Vietnam conflict. In its wake, Vietnam left fifty thousand American soldiers dead, a failed military strategy, a gash in the American psyche, and thousands of homeless men sleeping on park benches and grates in cities all across America. As a nation, we gradually came to recognize them not as faceless winos and junkies but as cast-off Vietnam veterans whose lives had been destroyed in combat. The failures of Vietnam made conventional warfare an easy target for peace activists in the 80’s, but the issues surrounding conventional warfare paled in comparison with the moral problem posed by thermonuclear warfare. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Our strategy of nuclear warfare was fundamentally a policy of suicide, homicide, and genocide. In giving or following orders for a nuclear strike, service men and women would bring about the destruction of not only the enemy’s military forces but also millions of enemy civilians. More to the point, it would also annihilate one’s own troops and civilians and allies and most of humanity and very possibly all life on the planet. This kind of warfare had nothing to do with the acts of honor or heroism typically associated with military service. In the end, it had nothing to do with gained or lost territory or winning an ideological war. There would be no medals for honor or valor at the end of a nuclear war. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Some marchers insisted that all military conflict—all war—was wrong. In a long discussion with a group of fellow marchers, I questioned the immorality of raising an army against the Nazis in World War II. It seemed obvious to me that Hitler’s Third Reich was a perfect example of a good reason to go to war. One marcher asked if I knew that there had been conscientious objectors during World War II. I was taken aback. I had no idea. I had certainly never read about them in any history book I’d read—or taught. I had no idea that thousands of American men had refused to fight even the madness of an Adolf Hitler. Some conscientious objectors went into battle as unarmed medical personnel; some served on the home front in the United States Forestry Service building dams and bridges; others worked in mental wards; and some served time in prison for their pacifism. After I took a minute to digest the new information, I asked pointedly, “But what would have happened if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> Americans had refused to go against Hitler?” At this, one marcher played his trump card. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“What if,” he asked, “the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Germans </i>had refused to fight for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hitler</i>?” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The fact that he had strayed far from the historical record was irrelevant to him, and that was where he and I parted ways; he focused not on gritty social realities but on a lofty vision of world peace: everyone on earth, a conscientious objector. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I tried to imagine what the U.S. Army War College taught and who was enrolled there. Did the professors train young men and women to run better wars? What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a better war? I had to admit that all the wars I’d ever heard of could have used quite a bit of improvement. For starters, how about a war where nobody gets injured or killed? Couldn’t we give the young mathematical and engineering minds of our nation something better to design than wars? Wouldn’t we be better served by training young engineers to restore the sick rivers and rusting industrial sites and impoverished company towns we had left to ruin all across the country? I wondered about the thread of war that seemed so thickly woven into the fabric of American history. I pondered why I had never learned about conscientious objection as part of my normal education. I wondered what else the school boards and textbook editors were leaving out. Tangentially, I wondered if the reason so many “Women’s History “ courses in colleges had been degraded and marginalized was not because they were about women but because they weren’t about war. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">It was getting hard to maintain a peaceful attitude about warfare. What worried me most was that Rosie the Riveter no longer needed an Adolf Hitler or a Pearl Harbor to galvanize weapons production. The Cold War had produced a dangerous passivity about nuclear proliferation. All Rosie needed was a designated enemy, a media machine selling bad news and propaganda, an entertainment industry churning out TV shows and movies that vilified the enemy, and an educational system promoting submissiveness and fear in our children. We had certainly succeeded in the latter effort. By the mid 1980’s a significant number of kids in the country believed that a nuclear war would end their lives before they reached adulthood. One study at the time reported that next to the death of a parent, nearly eighty percent of the children surveyed ranked nuclear war as their greatest worry. You didn’t need a diploma from the U.S. Army War College to see that we had overplayed our hand.</div> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSDQ6rxgcrEyKatrzOv7KrKa3lY7aBW8So93Ds0pFgMzVAutyJF4NR99lWYyivVvbkWpagtympR4b_SOmYTKee6qADdd1YTIq6aQtnGgroEx1qOHc37cFg19Vs6S2tjlD_CE9KvCuHcmY/s1600/6334_1166454675222_1043560068_30528555_3930787_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSDQ6rxgcrEyKatrzOv7KrKa3lY7aBW8So93Ds0pFgMzVAutyJF4NR99lWYyivVvbkWpagtympR4b_SOmYTKee6qADdd1YTIq6aQtnGgroEx1qOHc37cFg19Vs6S2tjlD_CE9KvCuHcmY/s400/6334_1166454675222_1043560068_30528555_3930787_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Die-In at the US Army War College</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">A large group of marchers staged a “die-in” in front of the Army War College, followed by a peaceful vigil outside the main gate. I took what I considered to be the more radical approach and turned around to stand <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with</i> the guards at the gate, facing away from the college, and a small group of marchers near me did the same. I wanted to demonstrate that it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our </i>U.S. Army War College. We sanctioned its existence. With our tax dollars we paid the salaries of its professors and kept its doors open. Presumably, that meant we should have some input into its mission and its curriculum. At Carlisle, the growing taproot of radicalism that had for months been feeding the march began to feed me, too.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIteVEs20XI0Tx9D3_EVMY5Vbhz607Ipg5FFvXfjNdg8CjPDIOKNjXILTjOKW2K6MYzandWdlrHqa_qnMem2ibybO6wd03jLa3VQCHjEqGcVZlH5wSI0aemZccVpqaaZ1DveCReGpkv8X/s1600/F1000037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIteVEs20XI0Tx9D3_EVMY5Vbhz607Ipg5FFvXfjNdg8CjPDIOKNjXILTjOKW2K6MYzandWdlrHqa_qnMem2ibybO6wd03jLa3VQCHjEqGcVZlH5wSI0aemZccVpqaaZ1DveCReGpkv8X/s400/F1000037.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the Demonstration in Carlisle</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After the demonstration, I opted for the worker’s shuttle through Mechanicsburg, across the Susquehanna River and into Harrisburg. The afternoon had turned cold and windy, dark clouds scuttling across the sky as though they had someplace important to go. That put me into camp early, so I looked around for some work that, as Evan would put it, needed doin’. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A local TV news reporter was looking for some peace marchers to interview, so Georgia, Marty and I volunteered. She was friendly and curious and seemed genuinely open to hearing our story and our views. We gave her and her camera crew the full tour. I had matured in handling questions about peace march logistics and the nuclear arms race and for once felt in control of my comments. It helped that both Georgia and Marty were well informed and that Georgia infused the conversation with her natural effervescence. The reporter stayed for an hour or so and took copious notes in a little notebook. I wondered what she had written down and whether it would evolve into a story I’d recognize on the evening news. I also realized how helpless one really is at the mercy of the media. As she and her crew packed up, she thanked us and said to look for the story on TV that evening. She had less than two hours to edit the report before it went on the air. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After dinner, Georgia, Marty and I went to Peace Academy to watch the broadcast. Just as our story came on, the television went on the fritz, but Marty quickly fixed it and we eagerly watched our sixty seconds of fame. As soon as it was over, we launched into a critique. It was important to all of us that we leave an honest, accurate impression of the peace march, and we thought we had managed to do that; we had even included a comment about the importance of voting in the upcoming elections. On the negative side, we agreed that we could have fit in more facts about the nuclear issue. We had yet to develop the knack for condensing eight months of the Great Peace March into a one-minute newscast. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Later that evening, several of us were sitting in the food prep trailer cutting watermelon for breakfast and singing songs. The lights in the trailer went out, due to the wind, we guessed, so we set our knives down for a while and sat talking in the dark. The discussion turned to what we really wanted from the peace march. Georgia started fooling around, making up a saucy blues tune, “I want a test ban treaty under my tree, I want a test ban treaty, give it to me.” I took up the Christmas theme and improvised a first stanza: “I don’t want no hat or high heeled shoes; I want a gift that will make the evening news…I don’t want no diamonds or LTD; I want a test ban treaty under my tree…” We harmonized the chorus in between, feeding off one another’s righteous attitude. Georgia followed up with two spontaneous stanzas of her own. The rest of the world disappeared; she was uninhibited and free. I was goading her on. Once or twice, the lights flickered on and the creative flow momentarily slowed, but when the wind blew them off again, the surge resumed. I improvised a final verse, we sang the chorus once more, and the song was done. That’s how “Test Ban Treaty” was born. No re-writing, no revising. We stepped outside and debuted it for some unsuspecting marchers sitting near the kitchen. Georgia and I were on cloud nine. We sang joyfully, mischievously. We knew they were going to love it, and they did. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want a test ban treaty under my tree,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want a test ban treaty, give it to me (x2)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t want no hat or high heeled shoes,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want a gift that will make the evening news;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t want no diamonds or LTD,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want a test ban treaty under my tree.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want a test ban, I want a test ban</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I don’t want no wrappin’, ribbon or bow,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I want the only thing sweeter than mistletoe</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Give it to the country, give it to me,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Give it to the world and set us free (with a…)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Test ban, you know we really need a test ban</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want my stocking stuffed with somethin’ legit,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And a test ban treaty, well I know it would fit;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I like my chestnuts roasting by an open fire,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well that’s quite nice, but my one desire</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is for a test ban, you know I really want a test ban</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Listen to me, Santa, I’m talkin’ to you,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And there’s just one thing that I want you to do;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When you come dancin’ on my chimney top,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wanna hear you say, “This testin’s gotta stop,”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With a test ban, you know we gotta have a test ban</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We really need a test ban, we really want a test ban.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>(Click here to listen to "Test Ban Treaty.")</i></div><br />
<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzIzNzU7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjM3NS0xMmQiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjM0NTE7fQ==&autoplay=" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed height="28" width="335" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzIzNzU7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjM3NS0xMmQiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjM0NTE7fQ==&autoplay="></embed></object>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-87565767113081299482010-11-29T20:13:00.009+01:002011-09-05T20:46:40.001+02:00Chapter Twenty-Seven: "This IS Our Opening Day!"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We bade farewell to Macrobiotic Annie the next morning and headed out into the rain for a thirteen-miler through Pittsburgh. Like Youngstown, Pittsburgh was an exhausted old steel town rusting at the edge of a lifeless river. On the banks, two old friends fished together, though surely they could have caught nothing more than glimpses of an earlier time. It was eerily quiet on the streets except when voices swelled inside a neighborhood bar or someone tore by in a souped-up car. This was our economic legacy? Depleted resources; polluted air; dead rivers; and workers tossed into poverty after an industry waned and died? On the other hand, (Evan would gesture “on the other hand” with big, wide, open arms to show that what was on one hand in the American system was a world away from what was on the other hand in the Soviet system), it was impossible to accept the wholesale oppression of civil rights under communism. We could only guess how many millions of Soviet citizens had been silenced, imprisoned or murdered because of their political beliefs. Both ideologies had to change. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that ending the nuclear arms race would eliminate unemployment and poverty, but at least it would take our minds off total annihilation and return us to the perennial problems of humanity.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefWBC2uMa8-b8GYkv1R2XcSBOCI8aEKYqVqPOnHRyNUyB2IAuHD-nOP4-i_wZeoCsytljrLMs0faqBsHuvi0Ui4OmaNhJLEBl4WxPtSFGsGEMWcRWI4gn6EQYQAq3xAgDhLu7MpYCiC-l/s1600/n687671471_1714955_7015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefWBC2uMa8-b8GYkv1R2XcSBOCI8aEKYqVqPOnHRyNUyB2IAuHD-nOP4-i_wZeoCsytljrLMs0faqBsHuvi0Ui4OmaNhJLEBl4WxPtSFGsGEMWcRWI4gn6EQYQAq3xAgDhLu7MpYCiC-l/s400/n687671471_1714955_7015.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One evening we gathered on the lawn in front of an outdoor stage to hear Jim Scott, recently of the Paul Winter Consort, perform for the marchers. The rain had tapered off, so many marchers came out to the concert. The Paul Winter Consort played New Age ambient music and was known for incorporating the howling of wolves and the singing of whales into their compositions; I assumed Paul Scott would perform music of the same persuasion, and I was not disappointed. He had a sweet voice and a round, mellow sounding guitar. His songs were more structured and lyrical than those of his former consort, and he didn’t use animal sounds. One of Scott’s songs, “Common Ground,” was about what it means to belong to a circle of friends. It made me nostalgic for my peace march friends even though they were sitting right next to me. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We headed eastward out of Pittsburgh along our familiar trail, Route 30, the old Lincoln Highway. I had to make a couple of phone calls, so Tom, Evan and I borrowed a car and drove to a diner where I could use the pay phone and Evan could ingest his morning tankard of coffee and regain human form. I phoned my brother David to wish him happy birthday, stupidly forgetting it was six a.m. in Los Angeles. He said it was okay, he had to get up soon anyway, but I think he was just trying to make me feel like less of an idiot. It was great to talk with him. David had witnessed our disastrous encampment back in Barstow, so to give him a positive status report about our progress through Pennsylvania was all the more gratifying.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Lincoln Highway: "L" for Lincoln</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The day’s walk was nothing but parking lots, gas stations, and miles of telephone wires. It reminded me of a cartoon by R Crumb where the rolling, forested countryside changes first into farmland, then into a small town, and finally, into strip mall America, telephone poles and wires crisscrossing the sky. As I walked along, I thought about what people had done to the environment here and in thousands of similar places around the nation. I had a hard time understanding how it had come to be that in wealthy suburbia, where taxpayers had the resources to create attractive, balanced communities, businessmen and developers had somehow been empowered to cut down the woods, cover the streams, bulldoze the fields, pave the earth, string up power lines, and put people into cars and children into shopping carts. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had grown up in Montgomery County, one of the wealthiest counties in the nation. Rockville Pike ran through it. The five or six mile drive north from Edson Lane to Gaithersburg was a textbook example of uncontrolled suburban development. One of my neighbors spent nearly his whole life testifying before the local zoning board to keep our little neighborhood intact. Within two years of his death, every acre of land he fought to protect had been developed. All of the streams and fields and woods of my youth were completely gone by the time I was twenty-five years old. Not seventy-five, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">twenty</i>-five<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> Developers turned sparkling creeks into storm drains, deep woods into office “parks,” and shady old footpaths into concrete sidewalks. The natural environment that had inspired a sense of adventure and wonder in my young soul had been completely obliterated. There would be no new generation of nature lovers. The developers had won. In the name of commerce they had destroyed the native beauty of my Montgomery County. Why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were </i>American developers so violent toward nature? As I encountered the strip mall development outside Pittsburgh, my soul wore an expression like the face in Edward Munch’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Scream</i>. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I entered the new campsite. A group of filthy, parasitic marchers, whom many unceremoniously dubbed “Scum Bags” after the wet, slimy, unrolled sleeping bags they left under the trucks each morning, swarmed under a picnic shelter eating food that they had strewn across the table. Admittedly, we were all living on the grubby end of the grubbiness scale, but the “Scum Bags” had sunk to an exceedingly rank state. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I walked past the “Scum Bag” picnic and headed to the Bookmobile, my refuge. In the early planning days, someone at PRO-Peace had had the foresight to ask each marcher to donate two books toward filling the shelves on the Bookmobile. The resulting collection, eclectic and leftward leaning, emphasized peace studies, relationships, outdoor living, and New Age spirituality. Some books, like the one about edible plants, made me wonder if the donor expected the peace march to be an exercise in wilderness survival. The books about communal living hit closer to the mark. I browsed at will and sat contentedly with the books in my lap in the quiet space under the skylight. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Later that afternoon, a group of us hung out between the kitchen and the prep truck playing guitars and singing—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Up On the Roof, Stoned Soul Picnic, You’ve Got a Friend </i>and other songs. Willa joined in on her congas. Danny had returned from an unexplained hiatus and came to harmonize. It was a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was in an upbeat mood, perhaps for the simple reason that we had stayed dry all day.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After dinner, Evan, Tom and I walked down a quiet road to a convenience store, and sat on a curb overlooking the empty parking lot, sharing a pint of ice cream. As we sat there chatting, taking turns dipping our plastic spoons into the container, a small truck rear-ended a car on the street right before our eyes. In a moment’s time, Tom was at the vehicles, stabilizing one of the passengers. Evan and I hadn’t even had a chance to stand up. The next car down the road happened to be a police cruiser. The officer got out, and he and Tom took control of the situation. In a few minutes, an ambulance arrived and transported the passenger away from the scene. Evan and I watched the whole event unfold. After the ambulance departed and the tow trucks arrived to haul the cars away, Tom returned to us, saying, in his best Three Stooges imitation, “Ya never know, ya know?” He said the injury didn’t add up to more than a whiplash, but he said it was lucky that the cop happened by so quickly. I said I thought it was lucky that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he </i>happened to be sitting right here, but he brushed off the compliment. He said he had done what anyone would; I replied that he had done much more than I could have. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At our camp in Bedford, a local woman arranged to bring a mobile recording studio to record Wild Wimmin for Peace, who in turn invited me to record a song. I felt excited and nervous. I chose “Come Spinning Down” because the inspiration had come to me so powerfully along the road and because it was a song about women. I had had some experience in a recording studio with my brother’s band back in Los Angeles, so the process was not completely unfamiliar to me. While I was waiting for my turn, I listened to the new tape by Collective Vision. They had dedicated themselves to singing and playing together since the early days of the march, and they sounded really good. Their cassette made me a little envious that they had honed their musical talents and skills and represented the march—and the cause—with their music. I was unable to tap their depth of commitment, and I wondered why. The engineer called me up. Everyone in the room was quiet. I closed my eyes to concentrate. When I was done, there was a pause and then people clapped. It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be applause at the end of the song, because to me it was more of a prayer, but it was nice to hear that people liked it. Normally, there’s a chance to record a few versions of a song and then select the one that turns out best, but here there was just one take and no opportunity to hear it played back, so I left, high on excitement, hoping I had captured the spirit of the song. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After dinner I got my guitar from the gear truck, and Evan and I sat on a picnic table under a shelter in the park. I was still feeling high from my brief recording session. We sang “Lucille” together. His voice sounded beautiful on the harmony part. I sang “Come Spinning Down” because he had only heard it once if he had heard it at all. Hannah came rolling up on the grass—literally—rolling head over heels—and requested “Long Walk to D.C.,” so we sang it while Alec, who was also on our loading crew, played his bongos. We played “Big Yellow Taxi” and had a good time talking and laughing together until another storm approached, and we put away the instruments and headed to the local lounge for a beer. Other marchers were already there, and they applauded as we entered, and someone shouted, “The entertainment has arrived!” We all laughed and settled into our seats just as the thunder started to roll overhead. The rain came down in sheets against the windows, and the lights flickered in the storm. We didn’t get around to any more singing, but we had a good time at the bar, and on the way back to camp in the aftermath of the storm, we took off our shoes and sloshed barefoot through the grass. The mud felt nice between the toes.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On our rest day at the muddy fairgrounds in Bedford, I found myself with nothing much to do. I wanted to write a letter but couldn’t find a place to sit down that wasn’t muddy or wet, so I wandered over to the Great Peace March Wimmin’s group meeting. Theirs was a tight-knit affinity group, not to be confused with the Wild Wimmin for Peace singers, and on that day they were engaged in some heavy “processing.” Emma from Utah and Willa invited me to join the group, but the others quickly voted for me to leave. I was in no way involved in their issues and was completely comfortable with their decision, but it occurred to me that perhaps some of our affinity groups had become essentially “closed” groups.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I wasn’t looking to join a conversation; I just wanted to find a dry place to write a letter. I wandered to the finance bus and then to the middle school bus, but it seemed every “indoor” space was being used. Finally I met Joel from Boulder. He said he had quit Collective Vision, the peace march band. Joel was an excellent conga player, an important component in the rhythm sound of the band. I asked him why he had decided to quit. It was taking up too much time, he said, and it was taking him away from the mainstream of the march. He asked if I wanted to play music, so we hung out in his little bus and he taught me one of my all time favorite songs: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bird Talk</i>. It was a Joel original, with a finger-snapping swing beat and a happy melody. Appropriately Joel, the lyrics were whimsical and natural, all about the birds and the trees and the animals in the forest, ending with, “Bird talk, bird talk, so much fun to me…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward evening, I shouldered my laundry bag and walked across the street to the local Laundromat where my fellow marchers had been washing and drying and folding clothes all day. Every washer was washing; every drier was tumbling. I was lucky to find an empty machine. I purchased a little box of soap powder from the vending machine on the wall, put a load into the washer, closed the top and fed in the quarters. As the water began to fill, I walked over to a young woman, the only non-marcher in the place and obviously the owner, and said hello. “It looks like you might make more money today than you have since you opened,” I suggested.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> She looked at me with an incredulous expression on her face. “This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> our opening day,” she said. “We just opened for business this morning!” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I burst out laughing. “Oh, my gosh,” I said. “This is the best grand opening ever!” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">She really did seem stunned. I gave her a big hug. She told me a little about herself, and I told her a little about myself. We quietly watched the evening news and shared a bag of potato chips while the marchers kept dropping quarters into the brand new washing machines that, like the peace marchers themselves, kept right on agitating. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At a gorgeous site near Breezewood, Pennsylvania, Mother Nature treated us to a beautiful sunset. What a gal. We sure needed a hiatus from all that rain. It was October 4<sup>th</sup>, Rosh Hashanah, and the kitchen crew served a delicious matzo ball soup. My circle of friends ate together like a family, sitting on the ground with our bowls on our laps. There was a Board of Directors meeting to discuss the dissolution of the Great Peace March as an incorporated entity. In less than six weeks we would be in Washington, and within a few days after our arrival, the Great Peace March would cease to exist. Wind and rain sent us into our tents after dinner and continued all night. Hunkered down, I wrote a little song with a simple melody:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Give me your hand, I will hold true.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Give me your song, and I will sing it to you.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Give me your truth, and I will listen.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Give me your faith, and I will follow through.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Give me a chance to stand by you.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day’s walk was a nineteen-miler through the rolling Appalachian Mountains, the mist heavy with the scent of pine and fallen leaves. Everyone seemed “up.” People were talking about “forty days to go.” We were taking on the occasional new marcher, easily identifiable by the fresh GoreTex, creaseless walking shoes, bright, white socks, stylish haircut and the taking of lots of photographs. I walked with Christine, a therapist from San Francisco, who had joined us the previous week. She asked about group dynamics—how marchers got along and what they did about it when they didn’t. Basically, I said, the interactions on the Great Peace March were the same as those of people in any community, but the context accelerated and intensified many relationships. I told her we had marchers who were trained as mediators and described some of the issues that had come up earlier in the march. I told Christine it was good that she had come to walk with us for a few days so she could experience the community for herself. We passed the time in a conversation that ranged widely but settled on the possibility of linking biofeedback with synthesizers and computers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPQiuqs3H36b3Z734Wii9JRl3Fz2suiOd8qgFhyWXOfvf7lENsHpgqJEWE8dGDwvGXZKjAjDkdPjpL6lZA2H094I2FZ7WSbjKcZsjUv__uPAwvkbiakvLf6I1dE3gPOngNi6JCpW-Bpih/s1600/000010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPQiuqs3H36b3Z734Wii9JRl3Fz2suiOd8qgFhyWXOfvf7lENsHpgqJEWE8dGDwvGXZKjAjDkdPjpL6lZA2H094I2FZ7WSbjKcZsjUv__uPAwvkbiakvLf6I1dE3gPOngNi6JCpW-Bpih/s400/000010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Recycling</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Christine had two children my age. It was weird to think that I was walking with someone old enough to be my mother. I hadn’t gotten to know many of the older people on the march, or any other time in my life for that matter, primarily because I usually felt a little intimidated by people older than myself. With a few exceptions, grown-ups, especially those I had encountered in school and university, seemed impatient and demanding and authoritative. But Christine acted like a peer. Unlike most of the older adults I knew, she let me know that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>had something to offer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>. Naturally, she asked me to take some photos of her along the way, and I gladly obliged. Coming around a slow bend in the road, we noticed the old Suburban station wagon that belonged to the Collective Vision musicians up to its hubcaps in gravel on the runaway lane. The Pennsylvania state police were talking with them and taking a report. Collective Vision had evidently lost their brakes coming down the mountain, a frightening situation to be sure, but by all signs, no one had been hurt. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At that moment, I heard my name being called, so I said goodbye to Christine and scanned the side of the road. A friend from D.C. who happened to be driving through Pennsylvania found us and stopped by for a visit. It was a miracle she found me, and I was glad she did because she was one of the most upbeat people I knew. Hillary was a close friend of my sister’s and had contributed to Cassie’s fundraiser. She was thrilled to see that the Great Peace March had made it this far after all the trouble we’d had getting started. She couldn’t stay long, but before she hopped back into her car she promised to spread the word that we were headed for the East Coast. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After lunch, Marty, Georgia, Bill stood on the front porch of a country store sharing dessert: a bag of M&M’s. I called them by their Mexican name: “Dos Emmes.” We headed out on the walk again until we spotted—Grace!—waiting for us at the side of the road—with her brand new Volkswagen Jetta. It was a great surprise to see her. True to her Detroit colors, Grace introduced her new car as if it were a member of the family. Marty, Georgia and Bill continued walking while Grace invited me for a test ride into McConnellsberg. We walked around town, visiting the antique stores and second hand shops, as I filled her in on the latest news. Each antique store was a little adventure back in time. One item that really amazed me was an old Victrola still in perfect condition that played 78 rpm records just as it had a century earlier. We ate at a local diner and talked more about the march, our families and mutual friends, and school. Grace was on her way back to D.C. and couldn’t stay, so we waved goodbye as she pulled out and headed down the road. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—October 6, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are camped in a beautiful, high field in a valley about twenty miles west of Shippensburg. Windy day. A hawk soars, tilts, wavers and soars again above a distant field. Marchers trickle in ahead of the main march. Oddly, in this pastoral setting, there is no sign of livestock, but two dogs frolic on the lawn of a nearby home.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Daniel Berrigan and Mitch Snyder spoke to us during lunch break. I had heard of Daniel Berrigan. He was a Catholic priest and an activist against the Vietnam War, but I was a youngster then, and I knew only that he had been a radical Catholic who had been arrested for civil disobedience. He had recently founded “Plowshares,” an organization dedicated to eliminating nuclear arms. I was more familiar with Mitch Snyder because he had done hunger strikes to draw attention to the plight of the homeless in Washington. He had established himself as a hero to some, a thorn in the side of others because he took his hunger strikes into some of the most affluent neighborhoods in the city. In his talk to the peace marchers, Berrigan advocated civil disobedience as a means of protest. He got me thinking about whether civil disobedience would divide our camp or unify it; whether it would advance our cause or hinder it. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5mM1vnD6h1WCmWsSGOD1RwxuavN8u5jRicypMMNyQj-q2ZRSN9n0e-LkjxY-3tciJKd-XzCbMWQ1ogLtoF1Lsqy1iVHitl5NZ9D3ab3R-9FFEidpa5nE9-7Fshv-pj6sJPiVXjELJABLA/s1600/n687671471_1721664_5158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5mM1vnD6h1WCmWsSGOD1RwxuavN8u5jRicypMMNyQj-q2ZRSN9n0e-LkjxY-3tciJKd-XzCbMWQ1ogLtoF1Lsqy1iVHitl5NZ9D3ab3R-9FFEidpa5nE9-7Fshv-pj6sJPiVXjELJABLA/s400/n687671471_1721664_5158.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Berrigan</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It seemed to me that the effectiveness of civil disobedience was situational: you sit at the counters at the soda shop; you march to the sea to make salt; you remain at the front of the bus; you step over the line at the Nevada Test Site. You pinpoint an unjust law, and you break it; or you block a specific unjust action. The Great Peace March had the potential to become a strong force for civil disobedience, but the Americans I’d met by and large were not interested in bringing about change in this way. Again and again, I heard people telling us to “bring a message to Washington.” I was less interested in breaking laws than I was in pressuring Congress to pass new ones that would end the nuclear arms race. Nuclear test ban legislation was already being debated in Congress; I wanted to target and build on that groundswell. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At times like this, when fellow marchers cheered the radical perspective of Berrigan and Snyder, I felt like a conservative. I didn’t see our leaders as adversaries. To me, they were people just like us; people who would respond if we demanded their attention. Maybe it was because I had grown up near Washington, D.C., and congressmen and senators lived right in the neighborhood. Besides, it seemed hypocritical to seek openness with the Soviet Union and then maintain an antagonistic relationship with our own leaders. It wasn’t that I disparaged civil disobedience; I just thought it was a grave act to go against the rule of law, a last resort to be used when all other means of communication had failed, and one that could backfire if employed before all other efforts had been tried. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the other hand, I agreed completely with Berrigan and Snyder that the Great Peace March needed to focus on our central purpose—global nuclear disarmament. They were right that while marchers had many other issues they wished to address—apartheid in South Africa, Native American land rights, restoring our rivers, animal rights—we couldn’t do it all, and to try to do so would weaken the reason we had come together in the first place. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For me, our secondary message, if there was one, was in what we had learned by living together as a community. While I wasn’t keen on a collective vision, I was most intrigued by our collected wisdom, the experiences that together made the Great Peace March unique. Some marchers said that “Peace City” was their first “real community.” It seemed to me that this idea was related to our message of global nuclear disarmament. Our group had done one simple thing. We identified a serious problem and were using our lives to solve it, joining many thousands of people all around the world who had, as the saying goes, made their lives speak. The Great Peace March community was unique but not all that unusual. In some ways, it resembled the original Christian communities based on a message of love, another dangerous, powerful, radical idea. As the end of the peace march neared, many of us were asking ourselves, “What more can we do with our potential to create communities?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Another thought that Berrigan and Snyder raised for me was the question of leadership within the march. The peace march hadn’t bred any outstanding public spokespeople. It was almost taboo to suggest that one person among us might speak on our behalf. Each of us viewed him or herself as a spokesperson for the march, and that was as it should have been. Nevertheless, it surprised me that there was no one among us who, by native talent and temperament, if nothing else, had evolved as a spokesperson. I had hoped that one such person would make a memorable speech when we arrived in Washington. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-44591011055356541392010-11-29T19:06:00.013+01:002012-09-15T13:37:12.122+02:00Chapter Twenty-Six: "You're Macrobiotic?!"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">From our site in Warren, I caught a ride to the next campsite where </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I learned that most marchers had gone into Marcher-in-the-Home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">My friends were staying with a local couple, Vince and Amelia Chamberlain, so I found my way to their house.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I knocked on the door and when Vince opened it, I introduced myself and asked if he had room for one more peace marcher.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He laughed and without hesitation invited me in.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vince introduced me to Marty, Georgia’s beau who had just arrived on the march. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Marty was tall and slim. His ruddy complexion and long, straight blond hair and blonde beard reminded me of the picture of Leif Erikson in my fifth grade history book.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vince then showed me to a guest room where I put my daypack and sleeping bag.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He told me to make myself at home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amelia, our hostess, had taken Iris and Georgia to a beauty salon to have their hair done.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> What</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> a great idea. I liked Amelia already for having thought of it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I wished I’d arrived in time to join them, though my hair was already cropped so short that if you clipped any more off, you’d have to call it a crew cut. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A while later, everyone returned, coiffed and manicured. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We all commented on how nice they looked.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">With everyone on hand, we transformed the house into one big party with our conversation and laughter and stories.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The dining room table groaned with food as we enjoyed the comfortable flow of eating and talking, talking and eating until we all sat back in our chairs, stuffed to the gills. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amelia moved us into the living room where the conversation continued.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As we talked, I folded copies of my latest newsletter, stuffed them into envelopes and wrote out the addresses. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We talked at length about the corner society had painted ourselves into with nuclear arms and the decisions our governments had made up to this point. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We shared our personal histories and asked about one another's interests.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vince and Amelia couldn’t get enough of our peace march stories.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Their questions and comments just egged us on.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“How about a Great Peace March cookbook?” Amelia asked.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We groaned and recounted our too frequent encounters with jicama, cabbage, peanut butter and blood oranges.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vince and Amelia laughed and suddenly understood our gushing appreciation for the home-cooked meal they’d served.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“What will you do when it’s all over?” asked Vince.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“No!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">No!” we all yelled.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“We don’t want to think about it!”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Marty, the newcomer, hungered for clues to what he’d missed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Every now and then one of us would mention something the others hadn’t remembered or experienced first hand. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Already the Great Peace March story had become an untamed, people's history</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vince and Amelia found it all very entertaining. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Eventually we talked ourselves out and retired to beds and sleeping bags and a good night’s sleep.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We spent a leisurely morning at the Chamberlains’ eating a hearty breakfast and reading the newspaper, a rare luxury on the peace march.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It felt like an extravagance to have showered before breakfast. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At some point, Georgia started to munch an apple from the fruit bowl at the center of the dining room table.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When she was done, she picked out another piece of fruit and took a bite, all the while talking and laughing with the rest of us.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At the end of an hour or so, she had eaten the entire bowl.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amelia asked graciously, “Would you like some more fruit, dear?” Georgia realized suddenly what she had done.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">She was embarrassed, but we all thought it was funny.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amelia wondered aloud whether Georgia was suffering from vitamin deficiency and kindly refilled the bowl from a seemingly endless supply of food in the kitchen. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The Chamberlains engaged us at so many levels that none of us wanted to leave. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Apparently the feeling was mutual.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amelia showed off her T-Bird and gave us a tour of town, and she invited us back to the house again for dinner, this time joined by their daughter, her husband, and their little grandson.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The evening was another party buoyed by great food and lively political discussion.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Finally, we really did have to head back to camp.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We loaded into the car and drove to Wick Park in Youngstown.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We arrived after dark and said our heartfelt thanks and fond farewells.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In a long string of great Marcher-in-the Home experiences, our stay with the Chamberlains stood out as especially special.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The smell of dusty leaves in Wick Park signaled a change in the season.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Autumn had arrived. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">An eighteen-miler took us southeast from Youngstown to New Middletown.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In the early morning we headed out onto the road that took us past miles of hulking, dead steel mills—enormous buildings with caved-in roofs, broken windows and heaved-out walls.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It was hard to believe that just a generation earlier these steel mills had stimulated a vibrant Mid-western economy, which had in turn sustained America’s position as a world-class industrial power.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Now, kudzu vines crept in at the windows and a jungle of weeds, some as tall as trees, pushed through the cracks in the concrete foundations—Mother Nature reaching up to reclaim her land.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSr_wAZPSVI7H_nKfRtgP_B-OHqX6k8_VBJ4p8OMZAH5LFE3VpzjCI0pPLBHaai8qwW1rPloV9_Kp__y3yeSJvz7rk3NktzeRpsPanwxf2xMGY5u6-5Dps3iQ2oP1poXzbm1xYfWAzTMf/s1600/000016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSr_wAZPSVI7H_nKfRtgP_B-OHqX6k8_VBJ4p8OMZAH5LFE3VpzjCI0pPLBHaai8qwW1rPloV9_Kp__y3yeSJvz7rk3NktzeRpsPanwxf2xMGY5u6-5Dps3iQ2oP1poXzbm1xYfWAzTMf/s400/000016.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Many Abandoned Factories</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I remembered an illustration from my high school biology textbook depicting a house and yard and showing how, left unchecked, native plants would eventually succeed one another until they reached a climax community.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Within three years, tall grasses and meadow wildflowers would completely overtake the neatly trimmed lawn. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">After ten years, shrubs would grow to their full habit, and sapling trees would take hold.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Fifty years on, the house was barely visible for the dense hardwood forest. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As we walked past the battered scene, I was overcome by a desire to fix it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I imagined pulling down the factory ruins.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I wanted to oversee a plan to haul away the scrap metal and broken concrete; I wanted to turn the land over to sprouting seedlings and let new rain refresh the nearby creek.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Like the boy in </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">My Side of the Mountain</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">, I wanted to pitch my tent and live outdoors, waiting until time had re-established the meadows and woodlands, and the animals returned.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I imagined all of this as we passed the worthless rubble of industry.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I wanted to give nature a chance to start over.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The peace march continued down the streets of the company town neighborhoods past blocks of positively decrepit row houses.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Could people really be living in these dilapidated homes with their sagging gutters, their bald, trash-strewn yards and rusting chain link fences?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Except for the occasional graffiti, no one had painted anything here in decades.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A sign posted on each front gate, “Beware—Guard Dog,” made me wonder what treasures lay inside.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">With uncertain smiles and suspicious glares, the faces of impoverished Americans appeared at the windows, in paint-chipped doorways and on the tumbledown porches.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Occasionally, someone returned a wave, but most people just stood and stared as we passed, as though the weight of life had ironed out every last smile.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Whatever the benefits of our Cold War economy, meager few had reached this neighborhood. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">One day’s walk brought us out of the urban ghetto and into affluent suburbs where smiling people served us water from coolers in their front yards, or coffee and doughnuts from behind folding tables they’d set up along the sidewalk. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">What invisible boundary kept these worlds apart?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Here was a Mexican border within our own United States.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Here, people clapped and cheered and flashed us the peace sign and shouted, “Good luck,” and “We love you!” and “No more bombs!” as we passed by. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Teachers brought their students out to greet us; bosses and employees stood talking on the sidewalk, watching as we passed. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Iris and I went into a bakery to buy one biscuit each and left with two bags full as gifts from the owners “to share with your friends.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">People on the street welcomed us and handed us apples and Girl Scout cookies, and the local Dairy Queen passed cups of ice cold Coke over the counter free of charge.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">On the other side of the tracks, we had failed to achieve even the smallest bead of interest; on this side of the tracks, we were stuffed by lunchtime. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6b8Z0xhqQCGApy8PMr2Pd_kIcE2uKZJRszv4SFnlp1I1ry2yxYPPiUHvB5CAuuKb09EsR3lIpoSGWbBTVJLOGrqNnFm6RUcNaQSGj9vjDct0NZxeHLBThNyrNOuf5UaEQV1SYvsuP8Ra/s1600/17531_1300268115974_1508570350_30770646_6564020_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6b8Z0xhqQCGApy8PMr2Pd_kIcE2uKZJRszv4SFnlp1I1ry2yxYPPiUHvB5CAuuKb09EsR3lIpoSGWbBTVJLOGrqNnFm6RUcNaQSGj9vjDct0NZxeHLBThNyrNOuf5UaEQV1SYvsuP8Ra/s400/17531_1300268115974_1508570350_30770646_6564020_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An A+ Welcome From Local Students</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We stopped in Poland, Ohio, where Mayor Justine planted a tree and presented the mayor with a key to "Peace City"; in return we received a wooden gavel.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Here I first noticed that the trees were tipped with orange and yellow.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">One dogwood was already pied bright red and green and looked like Christmas.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">But it wasn’t Christmas; it was bee season.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As we approached our campsite just outside New Middletown, we passed a lush clover field where two deer grazed, oblivious to the steady stream of marchers flowing past.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Bees buzzed around a long row of supers at the edge of the meadow.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A brook abutted the campsite.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The sign said Honey Creek.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I inspected optimistically but found that it was, alas, only water.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Iris went hunting for four-leaved clovers and returned with one for me, which I pressed into my wallet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At dinnertime, two colorful parachutes appeared high in the sky and slowly floated closer and closer until at last two men touched down right in the middle of our camp. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In the evening, Andi, who had made a video of the march, showed it in one of the town hall tents, and a small group of local musicians came out and played old timey music until bedtime.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The long, busy day was still with me as I lay down to sleep.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I had walked through two Americas, one where people lived in comfort and safety, and another, just a day’s walk away, where people suffered the humiliation of poverty.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Ironically, the nuclear bomb served to soften the distinctions between races and classes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It was, as one poster put it, “an equal opportunity destroyer.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Journal Entry—September 22, 1986</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The East—No Doubt—The East</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">September 22</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">nd</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> was a chilly autumn morning.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I lingered in my sleeping bag and listened to a cricket chirping so slowly that I couldn’t identify the sound until the air warmed up and his engine got running a little faster.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Poor guy, his days were numbered.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A thought germinated in my mind.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Maybe humanity was like that a cricket chirping on a chilly September morning, destined to perish as winter settled in.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Perhaps we were, in a Dylan Thomas phrase, “a bird, all but one of its fires out.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Maybe, as the pinnacle of creation, human beings had inadvertently crafted our own harsh extinction.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Then again, maybe after a nuclear winter, Earth would, as some believed, restore herself and evolve new species, ones with a more balanced set of priorities and a greater sense of responsibility.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Poor little cricket.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I loaded the trucks after breakfast and hitched a ride on the Peace Academy bus.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I shared my concerns about the fact that the D.C. office was divided about our arrival plans, but no one on Peace Academy seemed concerned.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Perhaps D.C. was still too far away.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I had the sense that folks on Peace Academy thought that plans would work themselves out, and maybe they were right.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I decided to let it go.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Peace Academy approached the Pennsylvania state line.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It was raining hard.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The driver slowed down, and all of us called out: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio… Pennsylvania!” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The next day was a fifteen-mile walk that brought us through towns linked by the steel industry and the Beaver River.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The first part of the march was along a busy highway, way too close to traffic.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Cars and trucks zoomed by, making it impossible to talk or walk comfortably with one another or make eye contact with the drivers as they passed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We came through Baden and into Ambridge and walked the last mile or so through “Economy Park,” a frugal name for an inviting, green recreational area established, the sign said, in 1957</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">—</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">just like me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We camped at the top of a hill around a big, white barn.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Rows of apple-laden trees lined the fields; everything was dampened by intermittent rain.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was in a foul mood in the dinner line that evening.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Because of the on-and-off rain, the kitchen crew had designated one of the town hall tents for serving dinner.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The dinner line snaked into the tent and along the buffet line, but there were too many of us to all fit inside, so we filled our plates and snaked right back out again to hunt down a dry place to eat.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I didn’t like taking my food to my tent because it meant taking off wet shoes and clothes and then having to put them on again to take the plates back to the dishwashing trailer. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I usually stood outside the town hall tent in the rain and tilted my head forward to let the bill on my rain hood direct the rain beyond my dish.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The only advantage of eating in the rain was that by the end of the meal, the dishes had nearly cleaned themselves.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">So, I was standing in line with a sour puss, wishing I had my Walkman so I could disappear into NPR’s “All Things Considered” on the radio, when spontaneous applause erupted from the end of the dinner line.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Someone shouted, “’All Things Considered’ just announced that the U.S. Senate has refused to fund future nuclear testing!”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The whole dinner line burst into cheers and laughter and applause; whoops echoed down the line.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">For those who had been arrested back at the Nevada test site, it was an especially sweet moment.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">For all of us, it was a great celebration.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Everyone chatted excitedly through dinner.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Maybe we </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">could</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> move our government to a new way of thinking.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Afterward, many of us could not settle down.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Libby shared a bag of cashews, sent by her mom, and clusters of marchers stood talking by the dining tent.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We were giddy.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Our message really was being heard.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Some remained skeptical, but I felt proud and hopeful that our representatives were finally listening.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdZPBr1oiB8N7XmPX4dX_-crOdX6OVyqOhxjhNAKGmCva1cF1WiC8_Lv5QZTeSFYgmTA2-zongKYnZqseQr5t-keZiyV9K06NS4yGSKrDU0CyukgsB4KC3x7UlV03RKxwxm3Yt7qU0A_3/s1600/17531_1300266115924_1508570350_30770600_2932360_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdZPBr1oiB8N7XmPX4dX_-crOdX6OVyqOhxjhNAKGmCva1cF1WiC8_Lv5QZTeSFYgmTA2-zongKYnZqseQr5t-keZiyV9K06NS4yGSKrDU0CyukgsB4KC3x7UlV03RKxwxm3Yt7qU0A_3/s400/17531_1300266115924_1508570350_30770600_2932360_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antics</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">September 24</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> was a Wednesday workday.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">With all the rain we’d had, loading was getting a little tricky.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Everything was wet, including the shelves inside the truck that we stepped up on to stack the gear up to the ceiling.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Nobody liked standing in the rain, passing wet tents and sleeping bags, so we worked as fast as we could.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">That made the slippery task of stacking even trickier.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">By the time we were finished, my muscles were tense from keeping my balance, and my clothes were damp from handling all that wet gear.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Two thousand miles behind me, and I had yet to buy a decent pair of rain pants.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Evan and I hitched a ride with Campscape—today it was Bill, Eliot and Harry—in Bill’s van.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We had driven a few miles down the road when the van up and died.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Much as they tried, no amount of fiddling would bring her back, so Bill and Eliot headed back to camp on foot to see if they could get help.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A short while later, Chuck, a sweetheart of a guy with big-framed, thick glasses and a Wild Bill Hickcock moustache, pulled up alongside the van and asked,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“You guys need some help?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Yes!” I said, indicating with some urgency the direction in which they had departed. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Give Bill and Eliot a ride back to camp.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">After he’d left I realized I hadn’t even said, “Please.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Chuck drove off to find them, and Evan, Harry and I waited in the van.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">There was no place to go and nothing to do, so I read a copy of “Family Circle” magazine I found on the floor.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">How it got there was a mystery.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I smiled at the thought of Bill subscribing to “Family Circle,” but I was glad to have something to read to pass the time: an interview with Ron Reagan the younger; a tale of a lost first love; summer recipes; pillow craft designs; the story of a father who stayed home to take care of his quintuplets while his wife worked; and an article about safe places to live in America.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Chuck returned a short time later with Bill and Eliot.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They fiddled around with the engine some more and figured we might be out of gas.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Since most of the gauges in Bill’s van had stopped working some time ago, it was hard to tell.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Chuck would drive to get some.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Harry went with him to be dropped off at the march.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Now Evan, Bill and I waited. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We had a grace period of about three hours between the time we had finished loading the trucks in the morning and the time we needed to be at the next site to unload them.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We played guitars and sang some songs, but we were getting nervous about how long it was taking to get to camp. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">After a long time, Chuck returned with the gas.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He poured it into the tank and then cleaned the fuel line.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">That was the problem, he said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The van started, we thanked him, and we quickly got back on the road.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">By the time we arrived at camp, the march had already arrived.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A few people had started unloading the trucks, but most marchers were just standing around in the pouring rain waiting impatiently for their gear.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We called out and got lots of help, but everybody was soaking wet and miserable and ticked off at us for not having their stuff ready.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Nobody wanted to stick with the unloading until it was all done.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As soon as they saw their bags, they walked away with them.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I couldn’t really blame them, but it made our job much harder because we had to keep stopping and asking for more help.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I felt bad for Bill and Eliot and the other Campscapers who had to put up a big town hall tent in the pouring rain so the kitchen crew would have a place to set up the serving tables for dinner.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Eventually, we got it all done.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">After dinner, everyone was dry and fed and feeling a little more upbeat.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It hadn’t been a horrible day, just a miserable one, and the unhappy Pennsylvania sky was still weeping at bedtime.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq4nNeUZZSBWxsyd6hP7oGaDnrpJAqhm8QiIYS3qIHnGKHuZa2LwwkjeVT_CZhm1d0FARpFEMZl8b9MCsiyL2SWAN4zvs8wfbcQfSVB4U_r88W55O3wEzMu3PpGcQ34waWXeAyPTVr4Oh/s1600/n737721004_2789696_7155934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq4nNeUZZSBWxsyd6hP7oGaDnrpJAqhm8QiIYS3qIHnGKHuZa2LwwkjeVT_CZhm1d0FARpFEMZl8b9MCsiyL2SWAN4zvs8wfbcQfSVB4U_r88W55O3wEzMu3PpGcQ34waWXeAyPTVr4Oh/s400/n737721004_2789696_7155934.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Heading into Pittsburgh, we had Marcher-in-the-Home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I felt a head cold coming on and was debating whether I should go into anyone’s home at all.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At the last minute I gave in, figuring it would be better to be indoors than to spend another night inhaling mold spores in my rain-drenched tent.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I found the only remaining marchers, we called them Non-Dairy Jeff and Non-Dairy John, waiting for a host family.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They said they always had trouble going into Marcher-in-the-Home because both of them kept a strictly macrobiotic diet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At last, a woman arrived and asked if we were looking for a place to stay.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We said yes and asked if it would be too much to take all three of us.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Her face lit up with a more-the-merrier expression that made me think she wished she could take the whole peace march home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">She opened the trunk, and we threw in our gear as we introduced ourselves.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Her name was Annie.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We drove off, everyone talking about the march, about Pittsburgh, about the gloomy weather.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When we got around to talking about food, Non-Dairy Jeff mentioned that he and Non-Dairy John were both macrobiotic.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Annie</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">’s face went blank.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“You’re macrobiotic?!” she said.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Uh-oh, I thought, this was going to be a disaster.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">She probably spent three hours making a big, cheesy lasagna for us.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I’m </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">macrobiotic!” she exclaimed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The four of us burst out laughing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I hadn’t previously encountered many macrobiotics, but I was pretty sure no one had ever seen any happier than these three.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was just going along for the ride.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The moment we arrived at Macrobiotic Annie’s apartment, the three of them went right into the big kitchen, and Jeff and John snooped through every cabinet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">You’d have thought they’d died and gone to macrobiotic heaven.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Every other minute John or Jeff would call out, “I can’t believe you have…adzuki beans!” or “agave” or some other ingredient I’d never even heard of.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Annie</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> was ecstatic and insisted we all make ourselves at home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Meanwhile, I was tired and getting stuffier by the minute.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I told the others I wasn’t feeling well, and they took me on as their personal project.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They told me to go take a rest.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“We’ll make you something to eat, and you’ll feel better,” Annie promised.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I went into the living room and made a nest on the floor in the corner.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I rolled out my sleeping pad and sleeping bag and prepared to crash.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">To the sound of kitchen cabinets opening and closing, water gushing in the sink, and merry chopping on the cutting board, I fell fast asleep.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When I woke up a couple of hours later I found that my macro medics had prepared a meal unlike any I had ever eaten before: Warm miso soup, lightly steamed carrots, burdock root, and kombu, whatever that was, sprinkled with seaweed over brown rice.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The portions were moderate.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was hungry and curious, so I ate it all and found everything surprisingly delicious and filling. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We sat around the dining room table for a long time talking about the march, and about macrobiotics.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I asked everyone the reasons for choosing the macrobiotic diet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Annie</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> and Jeff said their health was improved by eating natural, simple foods, uncooked if possible, and they liked the idea of relying on local produce rather than food that was shipped long distances.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They wanted to eat in a way that sustained themselves, local farmers, and the earth’s resources.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">For John it wasn’t a choice; he had dangerous food allergies, and this was the only diet that saved him from chronic skin conditions, outbreaks of hives or more serious allergic reactions.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They each admitted to having a huge sweet tooth, and that launched them into a sharing of their favorite macrobiotic desserts, many of which seemed to involve plum paste or rice sweetener, and all of which were unfamiliar to me, though I was otherwise pretty well versed when it came to desserts. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">We talked until late.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Amazingly, I noticed my stuffy sinuses and ears had already started to clear.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Everyone said good night and we all went off to sleep in Macrobiotic Annie’s apartment.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was relieved to be in good hands, but the other three must have felt enchanted.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I woke up in the morning feeling noticeably better.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">If this virus was passing already, I could only thank the odd combination of roots and seaweeds and bean curd soup I’d imbibed under macrobiotic care.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I told Annie and Jeff and John that I was feeling much better, and they were pleased but not all that surprised.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They told me a macrobiotic diet helped cleanse the body of impurities.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Breakfast was a similarly strange and delicious concoction, and by mid-morning my normal energy had returned with a surplus that made me want to get out of the house and see the neighborhood.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">At Annie’s suggestion, I walked toward an area called Shady Side, and as I strolled along, I thought about how I felt.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I definitely had a head cold; it had not gone away, but I felt as though my body was literally cleaning itself.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">My nose was runny, but the fluid was warm and watery, not the usual acidic mucous that irritates the sinuses and nose and skin.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">My body was calm and resting, but I still had energy, a mode I’d never before experienced.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I had never had a head cold where I wasn’t struggling against fatigue, so I was pleased.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In Shady Side, I found an outdoor sporting shop and bought a pair of GoreTex rain pants.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was shocked that they cost almost a hundred dollars, a big bite out of my paltry budget.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As if it weren’t abundantly obvious, I quietly justified the purchase: I was living outdoors in the elements where it had rained almost every day for the past month, and, in the weeks to come, I would need them as a layer against the cold.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Back at the house, Annie kindly offered the use of her home library, so I read “Say Goodbye to Sleeping Beauty” and a few chapters of “Momo,” a children’s tale by a German writer, Michael Ende.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Non-Dairy John spent the better part of the afternoon cooking up another delicious meal, and as we sat around the dinner table, I told everyone how great I was feeling and that I’d probably be macro if every meal didn’t take three hours to prepare.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They chuckled but added that for them, there was nothing more enjoyable than working together in the kitchen.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I lacked their passion for cooking, but how could I disagree?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">They had enlightened me through food, and I respected them for it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In the evening, I snuggled in my warm, dry nest on the floor and wrote a letter to Mom and Dad.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Outside, the pattering continued against the windows.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I took my brand new, hundred-dollar rain pants out of the shopping bag, sliced off the tags using Jason’s Swiss Army knife, rolled up the pants and tucked them into my daypack.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Macrobiotic on the inside; Goretex on the outside. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Hah, I thought, let it rain.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-34150436117410577922010-11-28T20:01:00.003+01:002011-09-04T14:41:09.273+02:00Chapter Twenty-Five: "You Are the New Day"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Plane, bus, train to Princeton Junction. Cassie and I spotted Mom by her snow white hair on a distant platform. She was standing near a big poster that read, “Lunar Space Station.” We had to laugh. Mom was the science mind of the family, an amateur archaeologist and something of an astronomy buff. She would have preferred meeting us at a lunar space station instead of plain old Amtrak. After big hugs, we chatted nonstop in the car on the way to the hotel. Cassie and I had news and Mom asked a million questions. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Everyone was in good spirits for Terry and Ginnie’s wedding. All of my mother’s side gathered at the reception, a beautiful site overlooking the Delaware River. I spent a long time talking with my grandmother, who was eighty-seven years old and loved nothing better than a party. It was Terry and Ginnie’s big day, so I was restrained in sharing news of the peace march with my aunts, uncles and cousins. I had the feeling that a couple of them would have joined me for the remainder of the trek if they could have. The last time I had seen my family, the peace march was in tatters in Barstow; now we were making our way through the Buckeye State. I briefed them, but the stories were already becoming too numerous to recount and the experience, difficult to put into words. It took a long time to retell a peace march story, what with the geographical references, the people involved, and the cultural and community context. I slowly became aware that most people did not have the time or patience to listen for more than a minute or two. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After the wedding, I traveled to D.C. for a few days. I hoped to lend a hand at the Great Peace March office in planning for our arrival in November. I stayed with my parents in their home off P Street. With four solid walls around me, I had a hard time sleeping in a bed at night and living indoors during the day. Sitting at the dining room table was odd. Sitting in a chair was odd. Sitting at all was odd. I felt as though I had stepped off a fast-moving escalator; my legs wanted to keep moving. I was also intensely clean. On the second morning, I paused in the shower with the soap in my hand to wonder why I was washing my body so soon after yesterday morning’s shower. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom and Dad took me to hear one of their favorite vocal groups, The King’s Singers, at Wolf Trap, a concert venue in Virginia. The group performed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a cappella</i>, their tightly harmonized voices evoking a wide range of emotions. Their performance of a piece called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Are the New Day</i> moved me to tears. “Thoughts that we as humans small; could slow worlds and end it all,” the lyrics said. I reflected on the fact that the peace marchers were nobody special, but we all believed that by doing something extraordinary, we could rise above our everyday limitations and find the strength to overcome what we considered the great folly of our lifetime. The lyric continued, “Hope is my philosophy; just needs days in which to be…” The number of times people had asked, “Do you really think the peace march will do any good?” and I had responded, “I sure hope so.” But hope was static without action, and the song’s final line, “You are the new day,” spoke to the promise of the future. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had lunch with Dad at his favorite spot, the Cosmos Club, an exclusive gathering place for men who had made a contribution to society. The club’s halls were lined with photographs of eminent scientists and politicians and diplomats. The dining room tables were set with silver and crystal and white cloth napkins. Dad and I talked about the mindset of young people living under the nuclear threat. I told him about the study showing that many children were dubious about surviving to adulthood, and he seemed moved by the fact. We talked about the conservative Reagan administration and their unwillingness to respond positively to the overtures made by the Gorbachev government for reaching a peaceful agreement on nuclear arms. Dad favored a “cautious” approach. Of the two of us, he was by far the more conservative. I asked what, then, were our chances for reducing the nuclear arsenal. Like me, he felt that any lasting change would have to come through our lawmakers on Capitol Hill. So, the Great Peace March was on the right track. He didn’t agree right away, but I could see it sinking in. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Before lunch was over, we discussed one other topic. My father was an avid reader and writer. He urged me to write about my experiences on the peace march. I told him I was keeping a journal but added that the challenges of living on the road made daily writing impossible. He cautioned me to get the details down while they were still fresh in my mind. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the next few days, my father and I discussed the legislative process and the upcoming elections. Cranston would have a hard Senatorial race in California, he said. Markey was uncontested in his congressional district in Massachusetts. I reminded myself to get an absentee ballot. My father suggested I run for elected office. The idea seemed preposterous, but out of curiosity I picked up a Congressional Directory and read some of the biographies. It only took a few minutes to see that my interests and temperament were totally incompatible with the job. I wouldn’t have survived the limelight, the intense competition, or the rancorous environment. I didn’t have a law degree, and I wasn’t interested in getting one. However, I thought of several peace marchers who would have made excellent candidates. Lawrence, a young anarchist who served on the city council for the duration of the march, would have enjoyed the intellectual challenge of the job, and he had tough skin and a quick mind under pressure. Several members of the Test Ban Affinity Group and a couple of the Wild Wimmin for Peace had the right stuff for a political career and would have represented our cause well. There were at least a dozen people who came to mind. When I imagined Capitol Hill peppered with elected peace marchers, it made me smile. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I went to a meeting at the Great Peace March office near Dupont Circle in northwest Washington. The GPM office was in a church basement at the edge of Rock Creek Park, just north of P Street. Having lived several years in and around Washington, I hoped to help in working out details of our arrival or perhaps in offering names of local people as contacts in government and education. As the meeting commenced, I realized that with just eight weeks to go before our arrival, the staff did not have a concrete plan in place. When I asked what they had in mind, some expressed frustration in dealing with the city’s bureaucracy. I didn’t know much about organizing big events, but I had witnessed many demonstrations, protests and marches in Washington. “There are demonstrations in D.C. almost every day,” I pointed out. “The police handle parade permits all the time. They have a standard procedure in place. There’s no need to re-invent the wheel; it’s just a matter of applying for the permits from the Park Police.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, we already applied for the permits to demonstrate near the White House,” said one staffer, “and we have permission to gather on Capitol Hill.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Okay, but we still need a parade permit?” I asked.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yes, because we haven’t identified a march route yet,” a staffer pointed out.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’m concerned,” I said, “that if we don’t get these in, we may miss deadlines.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">There was more. Another staffer pointed out that the office was bogged down in disagreement among themselves as to how the march should conclude. Based on what they told me, though no one said so directly, I had the sense that there were a few among the absentee staffers who wanted the Great Peace March to subvert the U.S. Park Service protocol and that they were intentionally stalling the process. Maybe they were still operating on David Mixner’s grandiose plan for large-scale civil disobedience, but the peace march had evolved into something very different, and the D.C. organizers needed to come together to support the march that actually existed. I urged the D.C. staff members to come and spend time on the march so they could get an idea for the kind of planning that would be appropriate to our arrival in Washington. Before the meeting ended, we brain stormed a list of possible campsites, march routes and demonstration sites.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Back at home, Mom and Dad heard my frustrations and offered suggestions for a viable plan. In a family of able political and social organizers, these were not talents or skills that came naturally to me. I preferred to stay behind the scenes. I did have ideas for ending the march that would take advantage of what D.C. had to offer. I thought, for instance, that we might camp at Haines Point on the Potomac River near an inspirational statue known as “The Awakening.” I thought we should all converge on Capitol Hill on one day to meet with our legislators. But my suggestions had no sticking power if I couldn’t be in D.C. to develop plans and see them through. Understandably, the D.C. organizers were working on ideas of their own as well as those of marchers who held positions of leadership on the march. It was hard to know who had the ear of the D.C. staff and what was being suggested. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I sat in the basement at my father’s IBM Selectric and typed up another newsletter, taking comfort in the knowledge that sixty or seventy supporters continued to follow my progress. Writing helped me articulate recent events; the thought of another person reading my newsletter forced me to choose descriptions carefully. I massaged the wall-to-wall, shag carpeting through my stocking feet and gazed from time to time at the family photos and personal artifacts that populated my father’s workspace. I wrote, more hopefully than I believed, that plans for our arrival were “falling into place,” and that permits to march at the White House and Capitol had been submitted. I invited my supporters to join us for the final march into Washington or, if they couldn’t be there, to write letters to their representatives that would coincide with our arrival. It was a luxury to have a warm, dry place to write. When the newsletter was done, I caught up with my peace march journal. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom and Dad invited an old family friend, Glen Matthews, to dinner. Glen was a community organizer with many years experience. He was interested in the Great Peace March, in part because he supported nuclear disarmament, but also because he was intrigued by the idea of creating a community from scratch. At dinner, he recommended several local community leaders who might help in planning for our arrival. In fact, our DC office had already contacted some of these people but had been unable to make things gel. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I mentioned to Glen that I had heard from peace organizers across the country that petty disagreements often prevented the movement from gathering enough of a ground swell to accomplish lasting change. Glen nodded knowingly and asked if I was familiar with “Beyond War,” a group with which he was affiliated. I said I wasn’t. He said that their simple, clearly stated goal was to make war obsolete. I was intrigued by that angle. The “Beyond War” motto had put its finger on one of the problems that had been percolating in my mind for several weeks. Next to my fellow peace marchers, many of whom were true “peace activists,” my views seemed almost hawkish. I was not walking for peace; I was walking for global nuclear disarmament. I wasn’t against peace, of course, but peace seemed a nebulous goal, like blowing bubbles into the wind. I wasn’t sure we’d recognize peace even if we’d arrived at it. However, when Glen introduced the idea of making war obsolete, that goal seemed tangible, and certainly nuclear war <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> obsolete. As one of the signs in camp put it, “Nuclear War Doesn’t Prove Who’s Right…Just Who’s Left.” That clever phrase, “making war obsolete,” Glen said, helped many peace activists overcome differences and work together. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">September 18<sup>th</sup> was a busy day as I prepared to return to the march. Dad very kindly donated enough money to fund my newsletter, so I prepared everything Cassie needed to send them out. Mom offered to take me shopping for new clothes. She was the camper in our family, the one who had encouraged my love of the outdoors by sending me out to explore the woods and creeks and fields near our home. While Dad preferred a hotel and restaurant, Mom was fine with a camper and cook stove. It was easy to be with her. She understood my motives. We kept the shopping list short: underwear, a pair of pants, and a plaid flannel shirt for the cold days ahead. I wondered what I would remove from my crates to make room for the new clothes until I realized I’d be wearing layers from now to the end of the march. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I returned to the GPM D.C. office for a second meeting only to discover that some of the staff who had not been present at the previous meeting had already discarded every brain storm idea we had drafted. I was not the only person to express dismay that a small group had effectively co-opted the planning process. By the end of the meeting I concluded that I could not be helpful on the D.C. end. Our arrival in Washington would be, as they say, what it was. My place was on the march.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom and Dad had been generous, supportive, and totally amazing as parents go. The next time I would see them would be as I crossed the border into D.C. at the end of the march. As it turned out, their friend, Glen, was headed north and generously offered to drive me back to our camp in Warren, Ohio. On the way, Glen asked me to tell him more about the march. I threw my mental net into the sea of peace march experiences and hauled up a few stories and facts and insights, but the images and events were all infinitely connected, and it was hard to give shape to any one story. I jabbered what sounded to me like an incoherent stream of thought. I was relieved when he slipped a cassette of a “Beyond War” program into the cassette player. The program brought together songs, stories, and autobiographical vignettes on a common theme of moving beyond war. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The presenters included a retired U.S. Navy Admiral named Gene LaRoque and Russell Schweickart, the astronaut. I was impressed. These were not your typical liberal peaceniks. Schweickart talked about traveling into space. He recalled looking out the tiny window of the spacecraft back at planet Earth, a little dot in space. As he looked at his home planet far away, he said, he realized that everything he knew, all of history, all of man’s accomplishments, all of man’s wars, everyone he loved, lay on that tiny planet; and how fragile it all seemed. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Schweikert also talked about his early days in the U.S. Air Force when his duty was to transfer nuclear bombs to and from the airplanes that carried them. Waiting on the airfield for the planes to land, he sometimes would lie on his back looking at the night sky full of stars, thinking about our nuclear weapons. He said he assumed that political leaders and high-ranking military officers understood better than he the purpose behind our nuclear strategy. As he matured and rose in rank, however, he came to wonder whether the men in charge could really justify the nuclear arms race. He began to question the assumption that nuclear weapons were necessary and came to believe that the authority and responsibility for nuclear warfare lay not with our leaders but within him and all of us as citizens. That’s how Schweikert became an advocate for nuclear disarmament: by learning to think for himself.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I listened to Glen’s tape, wanting to remember every word. I was moved by the possibility that as a construct of man, war could be transformed and left behind. Much to my delight, at the end of the cassette was The King’s Singers performance of “You Are the New Day.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After the cassette ended, Glen and I talked about peace groups and the peace movement and the peace march. What I appreciated most about him was that he was persistently positive, and he asked great questions: How were people recording the events on the march? What were the organizing structures? Whom did I admire and why? Glen was genuinely curious and open-minded; discerning but non-judgmental. He gradually dropped the expectation that I would or should be at the center of the Great Peace March organization, and we spoke at length about what was most important to me: to stop the bomb from destroying the awesome beauty of our earth and restore our children’s faith in the future. Glen dropped me at the peace march site, but the marchers had already left for the day, and the vehicles were nearly all gone, so, unfortunately, I was unable to show him our camp. I appreciated the ride so much, but mostly I was grateful for a thought-provoking conversation. I should have been the one leaving him with a gift, but as I gathered my belongings and said goodbye, Glen gave me the “Beyond War” cassette.</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-4595663874254401162010-11-28T11:02:00.018+01:002011-09-02T20:25:58.244+02:00Chapter Twenty-Four: "Howie"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Cassie made a life for herself on the peace march. By noon of her second day, she had already joined the kitchen crew—and recruited <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> to wash and chop celery and potatoes for dinner. Now that she was getting acclimated, I quizzed her—What’s the mayor’s name? Who is the peace march band? What’s Evan’s hometown? Who just lost his first tooth?—and was amazed by how much she already knew.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When we reached Port Clinton, the local town authorities offered the peace marchers a free ferry ride to Sandusky on Lake Erie. It sounded like fun, so Cassie and I decided to join the group. We walked in a long procession through Lakeshore, a tidy, gated Methodist community. There were few clues that this was a Christian community, but as the dock came into view I noticed a huge cross hanging above the gangplank. Suddenly, the vision of my hands-on healer at the Healing Light Center back in California returned to me in a flash. I had nearly forgotten my past life as a child Crusader sold into slavery on the north African coast or drowned in the stormy Mediterranean Sea. And now, here I was in Port Clinton, ready to step aboard a boat under the sign of the cross. Was this my karmic return? Was I destined to perish on a free ferryboat ride on the Great Peace March? Gordon Lightfoot's famous ballad, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," came to mind, feeding my rising fear—that a shipwreck on the Great Lakes was not outside the realm of possibility. I told Cassie what was running through my mind, and she responded, charitably, I thought, given the absurdity of my concern. “You don’t want to go?” she asked. But pulling out now was impossible, really, as there was no backtracking to Sandusky. Besides, my worries were ridiculous, so I ignored them and boarded the vessel—with the same blind faith that carried the kid Crusaders aboard those flimsy ships back in 1212.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The boat was crowded with marchers. Cassie, Iris, Georgia and I found places on the deck next to the pilothouse. From there I could hear the ship’s radio. If a sudden squall or waterspout appeared to endanger our voyage, I wanted to be the first to know. While carefree marchers moved about the boat, chatting and admiring the passing scenery, I took a visual inventory of the lifeboats and life vests. Inside, a man played merry water tunes—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Proud Mary</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Sea Cruise</i> and others—on a Hammond organ. I was distracted from the pleasures of the trip, the experience oddly improved by the prospect that these moments might be my last. The news headline in my mind read: “Peace Marchers Drown at Sea.” When we finally filed down the gangplank in Sandusky, I was relieved to have survived a karmic false alarm -- and happy because Ohioans met us at the dock with lemonade and chocolate cake. The whole ferry ride had taken all of fifteen minutes. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie and I walked the rest of the way to our next campsite, set up our tent and settled in for the evening. A man named Howie was in camp, attempting to rejoin the march. Howie was a marcher whose increasingly volatile behavior was becoming a problem for our community. Some weeks earlier he had completely lost his temper when a woman rejected him. He lashed out at her by spraying a fire extinguisher into her tent. Several marchers intervened and ejected Howie from camp. I didn’t know the details of Howie’s personal issues or history, but even with a layman’s eye, I could see in his face an expression of constant agitation. Howie was looking for trouble. Although he had been asked to leave, he kept returning to the march, and each time he did, he tested our philosophy of inclusivity. We wanted “Peace City” to welcome everyone, but we could not accept a dangerous person into the fold. This was a true crisis of community and, to my way of thinking, one of the few truly consequential discussions of the Great Peace March.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone announced that there would be a talking circle to discuss Howie’s return. Several marchers with counseling experience had been involved in his case for many weeks. Thankfully, they took a central role in moderating the discussion. I stood, along with many other marchers, in a large group gathered around the inner circle. We stood elbow-to-elbow and listened with all due seriousness to the conversation. Are we an inclusive community or not? Can we reject a person because of mental illness? Where do we draw the line? Are we rejecting this person because of our own fears and ignorance? Can we risk having a person among us who might be a danger to others? Do we have a responsibility to protect one another from danger? What responsibility do we have to Howie? Is the Great Peace March the best place for Howie? Who are we to decide? Every once in a while, someone from the larger group would offer an opinion or question, but mostly we listened to those who knew Howie and his situation best. In the end, they reached consensus, and we in the larger group agreed, that if he wanted to join the peace march, Howie had to seek outside professional help. He had to present a report from a medical professional stating that he was of sound mind and not a danger to himself or others. In a sense, this was not unlike the medical examination any of us who had joined the march back in the PRO-Peace days had submitted, but Howie’s malady, we all knew, was serious. No one felt happy or very much relieved in handing Howie an ultimatum that essentially ejected him from the peace march. In the larger picture, it was a blow to our ideal of a community that could be entirely inclusive.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpovBD_zWZ9Q6BAmo9ki4lzxFQsNOEwlqMyBewS3nLe2np1rGGYkYVQpP8CvL3B-pS5yuiPGgQVXUNk05K4JODga57wBSz0l4P7Tqq9_8OSJG3RJX3Ai6gGg3dChg9ZM3_eF8-hcj-nXIm/s1600/n687671471_1702283_2669_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpovBD_zWZ9Q6BAmo9ki4lzxFQsNOEwlqMyBewS3nLe2np1rGGYkYVQpP8CvL3B-pS5yuiPGgQVXUNk05K4JODga57wBSz0l4P7Tqq9_8OSJG3RJX3Ai6gGg3dChg9ZM3_eF8-hcj-nXIm/s400/n687671471_1702283_2669_2_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All-Camp Meeting</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—September 9, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the evening I take a peace march bus to a local hearing concerning the Davis Besse Power Plant. There are three major nuclear power plants along this section of Lake Erie. The Davis Besse Plant was recently shut down. The owners want to re-open the plant, but a group of citizens have gathered to reject the plan. The question is how large a diameter is a “safe” zone for an emergency evacuation in case of an accident. The owners and many of the employees believe that there is no danger in re-opening the plant. The citizens’ group feels that there is no area large enough to make re-opening safe.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is much talk here about a worst-case scenario, and the owners argue that they have so many security measures that no serious accident could possibly occur. The citizens’ group hopes that by increasing the size of the evacuation zone, they will make it so expensive to evacuate that the local government will refuse to provide funds for an evacuation program and the plant will remain shut. The present diameter is ten miles, which, in case of a major nuclear accident, the citizens say is ridiculously small. They push to make the diameter fifty miles, a size that will then overlap with the other power plant evacuation zones making the very idea of evacuation unworkable because there will be no safe zone. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our presence here is much appreciated by the local citizens’ group and very much resented by the plant owners who say that we should stay out of local business and local problems. Because we are nomadic, we integrate with the local community wherever we go. For the few days that this is our home, local concerns become our concerns. Local concerns are part of a larger whole. We have met the Downwinders and heard about the devastation of Chernobyl. We are not welcome in this community discussion, but we make our view known nonetheless, by our sheer numbers. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Finally, the governor’s committee hears the testimony of a former nuclear physicist, a tall, lanky man who presents an evacuation scenario set in mid-winter where, for whatever reason, a ten-mile area around Davis-Besse would have to be evacuated. In the style of Jack Geiger, he includes each and every factor. Snow and ice would cover the roads; there would be difficulty in moving the elderly, the physically and mentally handicapped; the sick and infirm. Transportation would be hampered by the snow conditions. Roads would be impassible. The scenario was starkly vivid and strikingly realistic, and not at all outlandish. An evacuation overlapped with a snowstorm was a reasonable probability in this part of Ohio. The physicist adds more and more data to the scenario until it is obvious that it would be impossible to predict, plan or control any evacuation. His message is that, in the end, it was impossible to make an evacuation program safe, so it is impossible to make the nuclear power plant safe, and the only responsible thing to do is to keep the plant closed. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">September 10<sup>th</sup> was a workday. Cassie joined the loaders and hefted gear. One of the folks at Peace Academy asked if I would sing at a community outreach event in the afternoon in Vermillion, Ohio. They had arranged for us to stay overnight, too. Of course, I said yes, and Cassie agreed, and Evan said he would come to make thee part harmonies. We took the Workers’ Shuttle to the next site and unloaded the trucks. Later in the evening, we gathered our overnight gear and rode with a local man named Dick, our host, in a little red car to the quaint town of Vermilion on Lake Erie, where we had coffee in an antique shop. Dick said our audience would be a Catholic teen group. Cassie, Evan and I had all gone to Catholic elementary schools so we were somewhat familiar with the scene. I had strong negative feelings about the Catholic Church, but I set them aside as our topic was not Catholic dogma but the comparatively neutral subject of nuclear disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When we first arrived, the kids were reluctant to speak with us. Based on my own experiences in the Catholic Church I assumed that they hadn’t had many opportunities to develop opinions or consider views other than what they had been taught. We broke the ice by introducing ourselves, telling a little bit about the peace march and singing “Lucille, “ which sounded beautiful in three parts. A few of the kids opened up and asked questions, but others remained quiet or held side conversations. Perhaps they disagreed with our cause but were too polite to say so. Maybe they had never thought about nuclear disarmament. Maybe they thought we were ridiculous. It was hard to tell. We did our best to involve everyone in the room. I wished I’d brought along the BB demonstration. In the end, I felt a good connection with the three students who had taken an interest. After the meeting adjourned, Dick took us to his home so we could take showers. According to my journal, Evan, Cassie and I stayed overnight at Vermilion Middle School.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">September 12<sup>th</sup> took us through an affluent neighborhood just outside Cleveland. By this time I had walked past thousands of homes in hundreds of neighborhoods in America. I had a fair sense that the majority of Americans were getting along fine economically; but regions of economic distress—the abandoned blue highways of Nebraska, the family farm auctions in Iowa, and the deteriorating factory towns of Illinois—taught me a sobering fact: Wealthy suburban neighborhoods like the one where I grew up were truly extraordinary. Late model cars stood in the driveways. Lush lawns and gardens formed finely landscaped privacy moats around houses each unique in architectural style. It was only few seconds walk across the lawn to the next house, but each house seemed designed for isolation, and it made me wonder if people still borrowed a cup of sugar or milk from a neighbor.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie and I reminisced as we walked into Edgewater Park, with its beautiful view of Cleveland across the lake. We really were lucky to have grown up in a friendly neighborhood. Mrs. Hanover would come by and chat with Mom over the Dutch kitchen door. The kids would all run across the back lawns to get to one another’s houses to play. There were no fences and nobody fussed about property lines. Just about every family had a dog. The Hanovers had hunting dogs they kept in a kennel in their back yard; the Campions covered their dog Max with green food coloring for St. Patrick’s Day, and the Fords dug a tunnel for their dachshund, Josh, whenever it snowed. Every house was in motion. By contrast, this Cleveland neighborhood was quiet. No one so much as peered out a window. It seemed as though everyone was out for the day. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As a general rule, the people I’d ever met from Cleveland were apologetic of their hometown roots. “Cleveland,” they would sigh when asked where they were from, as if to say, “but please don’t hold that against me.” Consequently, I expected the place to be slow and uninteresting. But Cleveland was a vibrant city whose residents took a keen interest in historical and political events. Eli was a good example, as were the dozen or so marchers who called the city home. As the Great Peace March approached Cleveland, we heard from visitors to camp that “everyone” knew we were coming. Finally! More than six months into the march, we had at last arrived in a city where a large number of local people had heard about our trek and were awaiting our arrival. Afterward, I heard that ten thousand Clevelanders welcomed the Great Peace March with an enthusiasm that no other city had. It was a highlight I would unfortunately have to miss. Cassie and I had another celebration to attend: we were heading to New Jersey to attend my cousin Terry’s wedding.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkO6418e9CQUt1CKqB5D_PKTNS67QkFi9SZnGozv1Igc2uRuq__UdoU9VSMu31T9BvHRWtw54btMG5L5FXWHIYDZPygJuZehv3nVYiQnR0MrCrZbpBPu8tMKuG5DD7Rjx4P7aixcEdmt1g/s1600/n687671471_1715782_3300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkO6418e9CQUt1CKqB5D_PKTNS67QkFi9SZnGozv1Igc2uRuq__UdoU9VSMu31T9BvHRWtw54btMG5L5FXWHIYDZPygJuZehv3nVYiQnR0MrCrZbpBPu8tMKuG5DD7Rjx4P7aixcEdmt1g/s400/n687671471_1715782_3300.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sisters</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By this time I had come to accept that a marcher did not have to stay in camp all the time to be “on the march.” It was an awareness that had come slowly. The phrase "Power Line Road" still held a sting. To go “away from the march” had at first seemed like abandonment, and I resisted it except when I was sick and needed time away to get well again. Our stay at Helen’s had been an exception to the rule. But eventually I came to realize that when people were “away from the march,” they brought our message of nuclear disarmament to people whose paths we would not otherwise have crossed. They brought news of the peace march to other parts of the country, and they returned with news—and sometimes donations—of support. All that coming and going seemed natural for a town that was always on the move. If everyone had left all at once, there would have been no march, of course, but we staggered our time away, and everything stayed intact. I came to see that when I was “away from the march,” I was no less a peace marcher. Even at the time, I could see that this way of thinking would stay with me for the rest of my life. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie and I gathered our belongings and rendezvoused with Iris, Evan and Bill to ride to the Cleveland airport. Bill’s beloved van was suffering from too many hard miles over lumpy fields and dirt roads, but it was no worse off than most of the other march vehicles, so we all climbed in. A faulty alternator was overcharging the battery, Bill explained, and in order to keep the engine running, everything that ran on the battery had to be switched on. I didn’t really understand the electronics of it, but our little circus act rolled down the road with the windshield wipers going, the heater fan blasting and the high beam headlights on. We arrived at the Cleveland airport where we took photos of one another, and Bill, Iris and Evan said goodbye to Cassie with big hugs and kind wishes. I had a fleeting sensation that the goodbyes at end of the march were going to feel something like this. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie and I had peppered our peace march days with the kind of inside jokes and childhood memories that only siblings share. No one but Cassie could really appreciate what hearing Tiny Tim singing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” had meant to me or how completely at home I felt on the march. With her gone, I would miss the fun of indulging in an incomparable experience. Had she stayed on the Great Peace March, Cassie would surely have taken up a leadership role. She was good at organizing people, especially those with a lot of creative energy. Maybe she’s also have inspired the March Potatoes to walk a few miles and chop some carrots and celery for their dinner. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-25583401107759699292010-11-28T09:02:00.045+01:002011-09-02T20:24:08.986+02:00Chapter Twenty-Three: "Cherry, Mary, Lobster"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> My younger sister, Cassie, had done everything a non-marcher could do to support our journey. She raised thousands of dollars in funds, dutifully relayed newsletters to sponsors, and best of all, gave me unconditional support. When she wrote to me to say that she was coming on the march, I was happy that she would experience the community she had worked so hard to create. It wasn't the peace march as originally planned—it was much better, and I was sure she’d fit right in.<br />
Cassie had been living at a Zen monastery in Rhode Island for the summer, working to maintain the monastery buildings and grounds, and practicing meditation. She found her way to Ohio on a Greyhound bus. Evan kindly offered to take our loading duty so I could catch a ride into downtown Toledo with a couple of marchers to meet her at the station. When we arrived, there was Cassie, sitting on the sidewalk next to her gear. After big hugs and introductions, Craig and Julie said they would return in a couple of hours to give us a ride back to camp. Cassie and I found a restaurant and sat down for a bite to eat and an update on family news. Craig and Julie picked us up as promised, and we drove to camp in Swanton, about twenty miles west of Toledo. I gave Cassie the special orientation tour for new-marchers-who-are-also-your-sister, pointing out insider details as we made our way through camp. I hoped to show her the total peace march experience.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning, Cassie and I awoke to the sound of rain pounding hard against our tent. My heart sank. It was not the weather I had hoped for on her first day, but I was determined to stay upbeat. I dressed and put on my rain jacket and galoshes and slumped over to the kitchen to find breakfast. A low ceiling of dark clouds passed overhead. Few marchers stirred. I got two slices of toast and two bowls of corn flakes, but I couldn’t find any milk. By the time I returned to the tent, the corn flakes were floating in rainwater. I’d eaten worse and tried to put a positive spin on the soggy offering, but Cassie was rightly miffed. She passed on breakfast. I felt a little deflated but turned instead to the question of what gear she had for walking in the rain. Unfortunately, she didn't have much. I scrounged a cheap, plastic rain cape for her in the Lost and Found, and she resigned herself to wet sneakers, not a comfortable option for a long day on the road, but she didn’t complain. We packed up our gear and headed out for the 16.7 mile walk.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">What with my musical interlude in Iowa, our rest day in Chicago, and my throat infection in Detroit, I hadn’t walked much in the past three weeks, and Cassie hadn’t ever walked sixteen miles in a single day. Fortunately, the weather cleared, and by mid-morning we had doffed our rain gear. Most of our route ran along back roads, which were pleasant enough but allowed for no interaction with local residents. We jokingly referred to these routes as having “maximum backwoods exposure.” By the time we arrived in camp at Lucas Fairgrounds near Maumee, just south of Toledo, I was exhausted, and so was Cassie. We sat on the grass for a while, and I introduced her to other marchers as they happened by. I must have looked tired, because Ty, the flute player from Collective Vision, came over and without saying a word, picked up my hand and gave me a hand massage and then gave me a foot massage. It was just what I needed.<br />
Cassie and I set up our tent, rolled out our sleeping bags, crawled in and fell sound asleep. By the time we woke up, it was evening, and we had missed dinner. We joined a few other marchers who were playing music and singing. Cassie and I sang together often and knew lots of songs I could play on the guitar and we could harmonize: "Foggy Mountain Top," "You've Got A Friend," "Big Yellow Taxi," and a song we'd written a couple of summers earlier called, "The Monkey Can't Meet His Maker Without A Ticket to the Promised Land."<br />
Night had fallen, and it was just about time to quiet down and go to sleep. At the edge of our music circle, a familiar face appeared, but one that seemed oddly out of place. Was it a marcher? No, it was my cousin, Terry. At first, Cassie and I were taken by surprise, but then it all made sense. Terry was a truck driver, and his route happened to take him right past the peace march, so he had parked his big rig out on the road and come looking for us. Cassie and the other marchers were calling it a day, and it was quiet time in camp, so Terry and I walked over to his truck and sat in the cab high above the road talking about the joys and woes of the peace march, the routes and towns, all of which he knew from his many road trips, and how plans had all worked out so far. I was happy just to know that someone on the "outside" was interested in our progress. We talked about our family—his father and my mother were brother and sister—and about his upcoming wedding. Cassie and I were looking forward to flying from the march to New Jersey for the celebration. Terry had to get back on the road, and I had to go get some sleep, so I thanked him for finding us, and we said goodbye until then.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">With my health restored and my sister in camp, I found a new sense of satisfaction on the march. Cassie and I were of different but complementary temperaments, and it didn’t take much effort for us to have a good time together. We had our tiffs and grumpy moments, but generally we got along fine. She was a practicing Buddhist: structured and organized. I was a groping lapsed Catholic: critical and undisciplined. She liked rigor; I liked incense. We shared the view that meditation was central to spiritual awakening and awareness.<br />
Socially, we were different. I was uncomfortable in social situations. I didn't know how to hold an easy conversation. Any number of times I’d been told not to be so bossy and not to ask so many questions. I felt embarrassed talking with other people about myself and my interests. I craved privacy. The major exception was whenever there was a job to be done—weeding a garden, painting a room, loading a truck, or ending the nuclear arms race—I loved working with other people toward a common goal. Cassie? She thrived in society. Her natural inclination was to meet a lot of people and pack in as much social interaction as possible. Human contact helped her to recharge and recalibrate. We knew our differences, and as long as we kept them in mind, we kept our sisterly equilibrium. On the peace march, all I had to do was introduce her to a few key marchers, explain logistics, and step out of her way. The best thing about Cassie’s visit was that it helped me realize how much I loved the peace march. Having her on the march somehow made everything whole.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdKgJDyDeWuYfET3vk2zoVWcais4pmUVrV1Cc8qq_bSnIDlC2H5LvnOzUccqhL7dy1u4pvuzT58r2b9J-RWpHmmqNeaMV0rWWb574xIbcSW5PwU8zAvaj3d_Ikq5oSBslwfRgp4GSDVTh/s1600/Susie+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdKgJDyDeWuYfET3vk2zoVWcais4pmUVrV1Cc8qq_bSnIDlC2H5LvnOzUccqhL7dy1u4pvuzT58r2b9J-RWpHmmqNeaMV0rWWb574xIbcSW5PwU8zAvaj3d_Ikq5oSBslwfRgp4GSDVTh/s400/Susie+and+Me.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Cassie and Me in Dharma T-Shirts</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">On September 5<sup>th</sup> we arrived in Maumee, Ohio. Cassie and I said “Maumee” over and over again. She said it like a baby; I said it like a southerner. We ate a sumptuous rest day brunch in camp, prepared by our kitchen staff and served up at long buffet tables. Cassie went off to find a quiet place to do her ritual bows. In the meantime, I signed us up for Marcher-in-the-Home. I thought Cassie would want to experience the kind of hospitality that had greeted us all the way across the country. It was a busy rest day. Jerry Rubin, the anti-war activist from the Vietnam era was in camp and on the microphone all morning. His comments about “The System” sounded hackneyed to me, but lots of marchers listened attentively. I was uncomfortable with the way people treated him like an idol, primarily because I was wary of the Great Peace March coming off as a throw-back to the 1960’s. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was more impressed with the local podiatrist who came to camp and shared hundreds of dollars worth of professional services and advice completely free of charge. A line of marchers formed, and the podiatrist examined feet and toes and shoes and gaits and stances. Cassie got in line. When she came back, she seemed much relieved that he had treated the painful blisters that had been bothering her ever since her first 16-miler in the rain. He gave her some tips on keeping her feet comfortable and healthy. As grateful as the marchers were in getting his help, the podiatrist wore a smile that made me think he’d finally discovered his life’s passion: putting nuclear disarmament activists on happy feet. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone announced that Tiny Tim was coming to the peace march. We couldn’t believe it. Tiny Tim was a television personality whom Cassie and I had watched when we were kids back in the 70’s. I remembered him from TV variety shows in a white suit and colorful, mod tie, playing his signature ukulele and singing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” in a high, vibrato voice. He made a splash in the entertainment world by marrying his beloved Miss Vicki on the Johnny Carson show. On the peace march, dressed more casually in jeans, a red shirt and dark jacket, he stood near the white "Moss" tent, which, as it turned out, provided the perfect backdrop for such special events, and performed for us. With his long, frizzy hair, now streaked with grey, his large, hooked nose and his pear-shaped profile, he looked and sounded much as we’d remembered him. It was hard to believe that Tiny Tim was still doing the same act after all these years, and it was even harder to believe that he was doing it on the Great Peace March.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny Tim Prepares to Sing for the Great Peace March</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie and I joined Iris and a marcher named Ernie for Marcher-in-the-Home. I didn’t know Ernie well. He was one of the “Peace Keepers” who kept our camp secure at night, a job that often involved engaging nocturnal locals in long conversation at the gate. A local couple, John and Barbara, welcomed us to their home for dinner and an overnight stay. With its living room lined with shelves of books, John and Barbara’s house felt like home. Their daughter was a potter, and her ceramic bowls, vases and plates decorated the house. We took turns showering, helping prepare dinner and setting the table, all the time talking about peace march logistics and the state of the world. Dinner ended and we moved into the library for coffee and tea. We discussed favorite poets and past lives—John said his son claimed to have been in the marines with him in World War II—and more about the march.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Do you ever sit around and just have bull sessions?” John asked.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We all laughed and assured him that the Great Peace March was essentially one long bull session. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Sometimes,” Ernie pointed out, “it’s more like the bull excrement.” And we all laughed in agreement.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> “And what about relationships on the march?” asked Barbara.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> We told her that there had been too many romances and break-ups to keep count. Because we all lived together, the peace march accelerated relationships both in their founding and in their demise. Some people said a day on the peace march was like a week in regular life. Iris mused aloud, “Wouldn’t you think that with all these men around, a woman could find a husband on the march?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“The perfect man could be sitting right next to you,” John suggested.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“No, it couldn’t be,” Ernie replied. “The perfect man is not a marcher.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For some reason that I didn’t fully comprehend at the time, Ernie’s comment resonated and stayed with me all the way to Washington. Why did his words ring true? The perfect man was not a marcher. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> From John and Barbara’s house, I phoned Mom and Dad, reversing the charges and giving them an update. I hadn’t sent out a newsletter because Cassie, my key relay person, was on the march, but at least Mom and Dad could pass the news along to a handful of supporters. My parents had two peace marchers in the family now and were happy to know we were both doing fine. The next morning we said our goodbyes to John and Barbara. Because I had admired her daughter’s ceramics, Barbara gave me a beautiful blue vase and a small oil lamp. I tried to beg them off, primarily because I had nowhere to keep them, but she insisted, so I thanked her and carefully stashed them in my backpack. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We rejoined the march headed for downtown Toledo. As we walked along, Cassie taught me a Zen chant, and we sang it over and over again, making walk into a meditation. At the second rest stop, we used the porta-potties, refilled our water bottles, and sat down on the grass to relax. Cassie, following her podiatrist’s advice, aired her feet. As we sat talking, I had the sensation that someone I always liked to see was approaching from behind. I thought maybe it was Joel. I felt two hands on my shoulders. I turned around. It was Bill, returning from time away at a meditation retreat. It was great to see him. I introduced Cassie, thinking, "Oh, great, Bill and Cassie will hit it off because of their Zen studies," but as they chatted, I realized that sharing a common interest in Zen was not like sharing an interest in baseball or fine wines or stamp collecting. The whole point of Zen meditation was to sit in silence with a quiet mind. In a relationship between two Zen practitioners, there isn’t much to say. Once Cassie and Bill had identified one another’s school of practice, the discussion returned to mundane matters. Cassie eventually went on her way, and Bill and I walked together into downtown Toledo. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we arrived at the lunchtime rally site, we spotted Cassie standing among the main marchers holding one of the peace banners. Bill commented on my sister’s inclination to dive right in. He noted the obvious contrast: whereas I lurked at the back of the line, content to be counted among the masses, Cassie put herself out there at the front of the march. Bill knew I was not a flag waver, but he seemed amused that two sisters brought such diverse dispositions to the same cause. I felt a twinge of sibling rivalry. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">During the rally, Eli, a marcher whom I hardly knew, invited me to speak in Warren, Ohio. He needed a musician for “community outreach,” and someone suggested he ask me. I didn’t mind being exploited for my musical ability, and I enjoyed going into the community to present a case for nuclear disarmament, so I accepted but asked if Cassie could go along, too. I explained that she and I sang together. Eli agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to see if there would be room in the car. When I asked Cassie if she wanted to come along, she said definitely.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cassie, Bill and I walked together after lunch. We wanted to leave ahead of the main march, so Bill asked one of the march leaders to write down the directions to the next campsite. The route out of downtown Toledo turned out to be considerably more complicated than expected. We managed the first mile or two but got a little confused and put our heads together to read the directions. In erratic script, the paper said, “Cherry, Mary, Lobster.” We had taken Cherry but couldn’t find Mary. We consulted a passerby who joined in our pained examination of the handwriting on the paper. He finally suggested it was probably not Mary, but could it be Main? We said we’d try it, and he sent us in that direction. We found Main and headed out of town but couldn’t for the life of us find Lobster. The three of us agreed that a street named “Lobster” in the landlocked state of Ohio sounded dubious. Again we called upon a passerby, but he was as stumped as we were. We wandered around looking at street signs for a while until Bill realized at last that it was not “Lobster” at all, but “L on Star.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the meantime, we passed fields of late summer wild flowers—goldenrod and Queen Anne’s Lace—growing by the side of the road. One woman had set out tree-ripe pears at a roadside fruit stand for us to take for free. We each picked out one and stayed to chat with her for a while. She said she was amazed by our trek, and we laughed and said that we were amazed, too, but that more than that, we were concerned about the welfare of our planet. We told her a little bit about our journey, and she listened with interest. We also warned her that hundreds of marchers were not far behind. She seemed please at the prospect. We thanked her for the pears and set off again. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we neared our camp, our route took us through leafy woods on a wide, paved bicycle trail that ran parallel to the road. The three of us were walking along side-by-side, chatting and laughing, when I heard someone playing a harmonica some distance behind us.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“D'you guys hear that harmonica?” I asked. They stopped talking to listen as we continued walking.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Haven’t you two heard of the Harmonica Murders?” Bill replied. Cassie and I giggled nervously and were all ears. We were up for a good scare and Bill was ready to roll.<br />
“As long as he’s playing, we’re safe,” Bill explained, “but as soon as he stops, it means he’s closing in on us from behind.” Now we picked up our pace as we listened more intently for the sound of the harmonica. It played on for another half minute or so, and when it stopped, we shouted, “Run for your lives!” and ran away down the path. When it started again, we feigned relief and walked until it stopped again and we ran wildly away. After a few minutes, we stumbled—alive and laughing—into camp.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—September 6, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our campsite is at the Sisters of the Poor convent, a spacious, lush, grassy site. Cassie and I don’t set up our tent as we are awaiting word from Eli on a speaking engagement in Warren, Ohio. She and I gather our overnight clothing from the gear truck and loll on the lawn while we wait. Jesse, a little boy about six years old, comes up to us and proudly displays a big grin, pointing to the gap in his front teeth. Then he holds out his hand and shows us a little white tooth. His front tooth has just come out at that very moment. Cassie and I break into excited questions, asking him to show us the gap in his teeth again, and taking a second look at the tooth. Jesse is ecstatic. His dad comes over to see what all the commotion is about, and when Jesse sees him, he jumps up into his arms and shows him first the tooth and then the gap in his teeth. It’s just so great to watch. Then his mom joins in and we celebrate one more time. I grab my camera and take a picture of Jesse in the arms of his mom and dad, showing off his toothless grin, and I think how cool it is that he’ll be able to say he lost his first tooth on the Great Peace March.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Tooth Out on the Great Peace March</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At last, Eli’s friend, Emily, arrived. There was room in the car for one more, so Eli, Cassie, an older marcher named Harry, and I loaded our things into the trunk and headed into Cleveland for the night. In the morning we would drive to Warren for the engagement. The car was small, so I had to lay my guitar case across the floor in the back, behind the front seats, and Cassie, Harry and I had to ride with our feet up on the guitar case. That got us talking about our relative heights. Harry, who was about equal to my 5’5”, told us about his experiences in a Naval ship rescue during World War II. His ship was torpedoed, he said, and his company was forced overboard where they awaited rescue in cold water for so long that their legs went numb and their feet swelled in their boots. Most of the men who survived suffered terrible damage to their feet. But, Harry explained, because he was a person of small stature, Uncle Sam had issued him boots that were too big, so his feet had had room to expand, and he didn’t suffer any injury at all. For once, he said smilingly, his small size had proven to be an advantage. <br />
The four of us listened, spellbound, as Harry calmly told his story. It was hard to believe that this man, who was about my mother’s age, and seemed just like a normal person, was walking around with a riveting personal story to tell. I wondered who else was harboring remarkable stories—and why our everyday lives seemed engineered to keep people from sharing them. After a terrible war experience like that, it was no wonder that Harry had taken up a path to peace. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When we arrived in Cleveland, Eli gave us a lively and detailed tour of the city—the architecture, important historical figures, and significant events. We were amazed at the depth and detail of his knowledge and asked how he knew so much. He admitted to having been a history buff in high school, and he said he had studied Cleveland as a research project in his senior year. He seemed to know the history of every street corner. He told us so much information, in fact, that it was hard to keep up with the string of facts. Cassie and I teased him, perhaps a bit too much, about knowing literally everything there was to know, and Eli felt a little hurt. We apologized and reassured him that we were just kidding around and really were interested, and we were, but we needed him to slow down so we could make sense of the information, and he did. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Emily made Cassie and me feel totally at home in her apartment. She explained that she loved collecting old and odd things, and her home reflected that touch of eccentricity. The three of us stayed up talking for a while and then retired to a comfortable sleep. We awoke the next morning, showered, ate breakfast and drove to the Unitarian Universalist fellowship in Warren. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I knew nothing about the UU Church. In all my years in Catholic school, the only other religious groups ever mentioned were the Jews and the Protestants, and they were discussed in cloaked and distant terms. In the eyes of God, the nuns implied, our religion was right while theirs were, well, misdirected at best. We wouldn't be meeting any of them in heaven, that was for sure. We knew nothing about their beliefs or history and were given the impression that it was best to handle them with a ten foot pole. The fact that Jesus was Jewish, for example, or that Martin Luther had been a Catholic monk, was never mentioned—so I had absolutely no idea where the Unitarian Universalist might fit in.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The UU congregation gave us a warm reception. They were keenly interested in the march. Eli, Ralph, Cassie and I took turns speaking, and Cassie and I sang. The first thing that struck me was that the minister completely ignored whatever ritual might have been required or planned and instead turned the whole service over to a discussion of the Great Peace March. Nothing of the kind had ever happened at any church service I had ever attended. The toss of hallowed formality was both strange and exciting. I wasn’t sure what to think. Members of the congregation spoke with authority equal to that of the minister, a dynamic completely alien to me as a former Catholic. The service was democratic and intelligent and independent of any dogma that I could perceive. There were no religious icons or relics; only a simple, lighted lamp, as a symbol of faith. The whole experience put me outside my comfort zone but appealed to me at the same time. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We stayed afterward for lunch with several church members and shared more details about the march. I was as interested in their spiritual journey as they were in my physical one, and I spoke at length with a Latina woman who kindly told me what she knew about the UU tenets. They were "unitarian" in the sense that they did not believe in a godly triumvirate of father, son and holy ghost. Rather, they held a common belief in one greater power or greater good or God. And they were "universalist" in the sense that they believed that everyone was endowed with grace—therefore the concepts of original sin or baptism did not apply, nor did the idea of a chosen people. They took their readings from numerous and varied worldwide religious texts as well as inspirational or thought-provoking ideas from philosophy and literature and science.<br />
“You mean the minister could read something from Confucius or Thomas Edison as part of the service?” I asked. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Absolutely,” she said. I scratched my head; an old paradigm was shattering inside. The UU church seemed more interested in facilitating discussions of spirituality rather than telling people what to think. I wanted to hear more, but someone called out that our ride was leaving, so I thanked the woman and said goodbye. I walked back to the car with a head full of new ideas. The UU fellowship in Warren gave me insight into a church that operated in harmony with my evolving spiritual beliefs. In fact, spiritual evolution seemed to be what the Unitarian Universalist church was all about. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Emily returned us to camp at Port Clinton, Ohio. We thanked her for her hospitality and said goodbye. As the marchers retired to their tents after dark, I asked Cassie if she wanted to sing a lullaby to everyone. She was game, so I retrieved my guitar from the gear truck and we walked around camp singing, “Good Night Irene.” Marchers unzipped their tent flaps, peeked out and listened while we serenaded them sweetly, then quietly zipped back inside as we drifted past. Some people called out their names from inside tents, and we personalized the chorus for them, “Pauline, good night,” et cetera. By the time I put my guitar back in its case and Cassie and I settled down to sleep, the whole camp seemed at peace. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-92106779889912493402010-11-28T08:09:00.025+01:002011-09-02T20:13:35.445+02:00Chapter Twenty-Two: "I Am a Patriot"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> An early morning nightmare awoke me with a start at our North Park Village encampment in Chicago—a dream of driving a car with Evan and Tim and coming upon a violent fight between marchers and locals. The details were lost to my waking mind, but the nightmare spoke to some of my actual fears about the march now that we had gone into permanent “city mode.” The more volatile urban areas and our vulnerability in them worried me. Dense population centers meant more interactions with people of all stripes, more intersecting events going on, more reasons to stay alert, and more challenges to remaining grounded in our community.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0A1tn8jLwLYMZn194Di5vFvpLaOsYzhLHkOUFr0d-aTC7RkKhTaPaeQ3AiNSEnNE7STWyLRlEqG3ofVN0_-uHldrk5_EEddpNLL3XJrjDSDjv5Vvla1KCIxBu5AErLmC6m4GVsKZ-mu99/s1600/n1508570350_30144767_8543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0A1tn8jLwLYMZn194Di5vFvpLaOsYzhLHkOUFr0d-aTC7RkKhTaPaeQ3AiNSEnNE7STWyLRlEqG3ofVN0_-uHldrk5_EEddpNLL3XJrjDSDjv5Vvla1KCIxBu5AErLmC6m4GVsKZ-mu99/s400/n1508570350_30144767_8543.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rally for Nuclear Disarmament in Chicago</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My friend Grace arrived for a visit. Grace was a fellow teacher. She was also an avid reader, a world traveler and an amateur photographer. She loved good food, Almodóvar films, and Motown music. What she and I had most in common was an interest in the life of the mind. As teachers, we had long conversations about multiple intelligences, cognitive development and curriculum design, but as friends we also explored the outer limits of the mind: meditation, hypnosis, and psychic ability. We didn’t take it too seriously, but we delved into unorthodox approaches to ordering knowledge such as astrology, numerology and dream interpretation. Grace and I had shared many a bottle of wine and spent many hours discussing what the human mind could really do if society weren’t so keen on holding it in check. On the peace march, I introduced Grace to my circle of friends who immediately welcomed her into the fold.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">August 17th was a rest day, so Grace drove Iris, Evan, Bill and me along the Lake Michigan shoreline and into downtown Chicago, the summer sun glinting off the skyscrapers. We parked downtown and went into the Chicago public library. An elegant marble stairway took us up to the main floor where we stepped through a towering archway and into a rotunda with a glorious stained glass dome. Soft green and pink glass scallops swept upward to a circle of heart-shaped leaves and zodiacal symbols. The ordered design; the feminine shapes; the diffused light: I wanted to remember them by heart. As I gazed upward, the thought crossed my mind that Chicago, too, was one of Jack Geiger's "typical" American cities. Grace called for me to come along. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The library was hosting an exhibit of artwork by a man named Martín Ramirez who was a talented artist but an enigma to those who knew him. He had arrived in the United States, apparently from Mexico, and lived for twenty-five years in California state mental hospitals. He could or would not speak, so no one was able to learn his story, but he spent his days in quiet solitude, drawing and painting. With few art supplies available to him, he incorporated whatever institutional materials he could lay his hands on: wrapping paper, pages from books, and brown paper bags. He even chewed up potatoes to make glue. Ramirez was apparently obsessed with trains and tunnels, but he drew animals and Madonnas, too, and incorporated repeated parallel lines, especially around the borders of his drawings. Doctors and therapists and art critics tried unsuccessfully to construct his history from the images. Was he really mentally ill? It was impossible to know. His work reflected resourcefulness and artistic skill, but it made me wonder what he might have done had he lived after the evolution of art therapy and had access to an artist’s studio full of sketch paper and canvasses and paints—and glue. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We reluctantly departed the library. Everybody was hungry, and Grace said she wanted to treat us to a meal. I suggested we find some deep-dish pizza. It seemed like the Chicago thing to do. The five of us descended into the kind of petty conversation that cities seem to bring out in visitors, especially hungry ones. Iris had specific dietary preferences, and they didn’t include meat or cheese. I was hungry and didn’t feel like wandering around in search of an organic vegetarian restaurant. None of us knew the city well enough to suggest an alternative. I should have given up the idea, but I persisted. So, after having been quietly transported into a fantastic world of visual splendor at the library, we descended into a garish, heavily mirrored pizza restaurant that was loud and obnoxious. It wasn’t so much the food as the ambience that dampened our spirit. We stayed just long enough to eat a meal that was, after all, none too satisfying. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Our departure day from Chicago was a workday for Evan, Bill and me. The march left, Grace left to run some errands, and Evan and I gathered the crew and loaded the trucks. When we were done, he and I watched as the Greenskeepers picked up trash. Normally it took them less than an hour, but this morning’s yield was a bumper crop of clothing, cardboard boxes, electronic equipment, even a garbage bag full of shoes. We joined them in picking through the items, using them as props and posing with a bathrobe and an old umbrella. After five months on the road, we knew one another’s belongings, and we didn’t recognize any of these things. We knew peace marchers didn’t own this much stuff. Certainly no peace marcher owned an umbrella. Finally, the Greenskeepers gave in. Their creed was to leave each campsite better than we’d found it, but it would have taken all day and a garbage truck to clean up all the trash at the Chicago site. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we prepared to leave, a gnomish little woman who looked as if she might have been a permanent denizen of the park came walking by. Amused by our antics she sidled up next to Bill. She stood no more than five feet tall, and Bill, at about 6’3”, towered above her. She looked up at him for several seconds in awe of his enormity. He looked down at her in benign anticipation. Finally she squeaked, “Holy Smokes!” and toddled off, shaking her head.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois…</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We piled into Bill’s van and headed for the next site. En route, we crossed into Indiana, our ninth state, and found ourselves riding behind a fellow marcher, Owen, a boilermaker by trade, driving a hay baler. Did anyone except me think it was wildly ridiculous that the Great Peace March now had a hay baler among its vehicles? A lunar landing module would have been more useful. But Owen was a smart guy. Maybe he needed the hay baler for parts, or maybe he was counting on getting a good price on resale as the hay-baling season approached. At the moment, however, wearing a baseball cap backward on his head and a pair of yellow ski goggles, Owen looked like a deranged farmer, fighting to shift gears against a faulty clutch. Bill pulled up behind and kept Owen covered in the slow lane. We stayed with him for a mile or so, but eventually Owen pulled onto the shoulder and waved us past. I never asked Owen what he did with that hay baler, but he definitely did not drive it all the way to Washington. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We found camp in Wolf Lake State Park, a little oasis just west of Gary, Indiana. With the highway rushing along one side and smoke stacks coughing out smoke in the distance, the little city park gave the impression that it was hunched over, covering its head against the onslaught of noise and air pollution. I scouted around for a few minutes and found the one spot where the weeping willows and tall cattails blocked out the industrial backdrop. I had the sinking feeling that the beautiful part of the Great Peace March was over. Grace found me, and we sat on the green grass talking, wondering what was taking the gear trucks so long to arrive. Maybe they had stopped to help Owen perambulate his hay baler.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVaiJ1yDU7ltqWQ2XyK-B44vBAYsz7xINnXacWfOma6RchElbaWeLB-VbMu5eAc-AXmPMXk0O3xSzyaCOzJNG8DOGhSZ40a3PFSuBRB0SGO6FMHGM6ZIpi8BIsEx2Tr6GuxGqSFylawuZ/s1600/n737721004_2313810_2439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVaiJ1yDU7ltqWQ2XyK-B44vBAYsz7xINnXacWfOma6RchElbaWeLB-VbMu5eAc-AXmPMXk0O3xSzyaCOzJNG8DOGhSZ40a3PFSuBRB0SGO6FMHGM6ZIpi8BIsEx2Tr6GuxGqSFylawuZ/s400/n737721004_2313810_2439.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeff-Free's Quotation Dome</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">With Grace’s visit, I was seeing the march through another person’s eyes. I had grown accustomed to our inimitable community long ago, but from a visitor’s perspective, the marchers represented an unusual wedge of the human pie. I introduced some of our assembly to her, in person or from afar: Jeff-Free had completely covered his tent with pithy, philosophical quotations; Morris, our most senior marcher, walked resolutely with a cane each day and sat comfortably on a folding camp stool in the evening; Jacob, a tall, lanky fourteen year-old, entertained us one evening by leaping high over everyone’s heads as we sat on the grass eating dinner. Peter, a peace walker from the Pacific Northwest, had recently found his spirit name, “Deer Dancer,” which I loved because “deer” could be spelled either way; Cap’n Jim, a tough, gnarly old guy, had marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. in Selma, Alabama; Jouji, a marcher from Japan, carried the Hiroshima peace flame in a small lantern; our "peace Clown," Kelly, painted on his clown face and donned his colorful costume and big, green hat; Don race-walked across the country with a little bell on his fanny pack so that when we heard his ting-a-ling, we moved aside and let him glide on by; Anita wasn’t letting her Multiple Sclerosis stop her from walking. Anthony dressed in black and taught a Tai Chi class in camp; Rachelle, a minister, always wore her collar, while Carl and Jen, the other ministers, never wore theirs, but all three were on hand for anyone in need; Yvonne never stopped talking but occasionally said the one perfect thing that no one else would ever have thought of; and Linda sang Steven Van Zandt’s “I Am a Patriot,” with a voice that was the sound of peace itself: fragile, powerful and free. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitRtBjTRRIQ4A9I54RsVWcZFHMlcrfQxOQIyOGuR6znzgIOLpxw1L11-gYQEmCG8K5zCmuCaeDbUJ4EC6VvSuSbaaNf6U5xGG4BqtStbKT3FkkunVa3wVuAC2VLJys9mYx-mWT6RDgj3ad/s1600/10230_1130021611857_1266729305_30321871_2924076_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitRtBjTRRIQ4A9I54RsVWcZFHMlcrfQxOQIyOGuR6znzgIOLpxw1L11-gYQEmCG8K5zCmuCaeDbUJ4EC6VvSuSbaaNf6U5xGG4BqtStbKT3FkkunVa3wVuAC2VLJys9mYx-mWT6RDgj3ad/s400/10230_1130021611857_1266729305_30321871_2924076_n.jpg" width="345" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Peace Clown</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">There were a lot of ordinary people on the march, too. Grace pointed out that even the ordinary marchers were extraordinary in their decision to take up the torch for nuclear disarmament. I understood what she meant, but I didn’t feel extraordinary. Fearless firefighters who bullied their way into burning buildings were extraordinary; teachers who taught special needs children to read were extraordinary; midwives who guided women through difficult childbirth were extraordinary. To me, being a peace marcher still seemed normal, as it had from the start.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Z2-4kAVbjk9OgcEopQ08RlvaRNizteuBATQwaUwTvnD-XT5HEJy4OcB1AHjH7H7h0Tgn9Vr_Inf0fB200fVZUKrYcxgU6X05vbk_n9OeAooId_bAsXrjRMn4kWzjPhls-apRfENNcUvd/s1600/n737721004_2179732_9257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Z2-4kAVbjk9OgcEopQ08RlvaRNizteuBATQwaUwTvnD-XT5HEJy4OcB1AHjH7H7h0Tgn9Vr_Inf0fB200fVZUKrYcxgU6X05vbk_n9OeAooId_bAsXrjRMn4kWzjPhls-apRfENNcUvd/s400/n737721004_2179732_9257.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Peace City News</i> for August 23<sup>rd</sup> reported that the wake-up call would come at 5:30 am, followed by an 18-miler onto the Notre Dame University campus in South Bend. The unofficial “rumor” of a weather report predicted a fifty percent chance of rain and recommended keeping “rain gear or a garbage bag” handy. The editor added that if we wanted more than a rumor of weather, we should chip in to buy new batteries for her radio. Among the newspaper's reported events: a guest marcher would lead a meditation in the yurt or in the blue town hall tent; the Cleveland advance team would have a meeting; and Rocky Horror Picture Show would be playing at Peace Academy at 8pm. Lost and Found notices included one found camera and a search for a bag that seemed to have “marched off the porta-potty truck.” A book entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Abolition</i> was reported missing from the Bookmobile. Candidates for Judicial Board were holding an “informal dinnertime forum.” Five months into the peace march, we had come to operate pretty much like any other small American town. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxSEN66YJd267GW57TWkqAPu-LiqkGwZWR0t2pQ0PUzBoIagW3UmBK0vs7x_9Ld7dJUkcyJ39-Cxi6MJO7Ac1znjgT2Yx17Q1NOOnI1-7z7McdsNJAcaGaUmheGGwp8yg8Dbv1jjiU9oL/s1600/7129_1162281991592_1664104734_397831_7377348_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxSEN66YJd267GW57TWkqAPu-LiqkGwZWR0t2pQ0PUzBoIagW3UmBK0vs7x_9Ld7dJUkcyJ39-Cxi6MJO7Ac1znjgT2Yx17Q1NOOnI1-7z7McdsNJAcaGaUmheGGwp8yg8Dbv1jjiU9oL/s400/7129_1162281991592_1664104734_397831_7377348_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every Gesture of Support Empowered Us</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When we arrived in South Bend, I spotted MC directing traffic into the new campsite. In contrast with her white blonde hair, cotton scarves and long, flowing hippie skirts, MC wore a neon orange glove when she directed traffic. Nobody could miss her, and if they did, she quickly and none too quietly let them know who was in charge. Today she seemed particularly adamant that we park vehicles and pitch our tents exactly where she wanted them. As it turned out, MC had a plan in mind. She had met a local pilot who offered to take her up in his private plane to take photographs. That afternoon, she took off with the pilot and clicked one of the great aerial photographs of the peace march—our campsite of in the shape of a gigantic peace sign.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPpI9oreNLde0TSLoskyyPBHMsHVdW_8oYqrgt_sY9Se1HCqeFl-H3C8rW-EJqq0VVuNS_mkBxAXo6fnGNb0-g2H66iNTHyJLOIrCNcevwllaYKo8pFZCX3Wd29sz_cmP-82maIua-t2T/s1600/000020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPpI9oreNLde0TSLoskyyPBHMsHVdW_8oYqrgt_sY9Se1HCqeFl-H3C8rW-EJqq0VVuNS_mkBxAXo6fnGNb0-g2H66iNTHyJLOIrCNcevwllaYKo8pFZCX3Wd29sz_cmP-82maIua-t2T/s400/000020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament at Notre Dame</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—August 24, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bill on the artist’s dilemma: “… because you’re creating out of nothingness and then you’re trying to find a place to put it…”</i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Rest day near Shipshewana, Indiana—Amish country. We camped on grounds adjacent to Shipshewana-Scott Elementary School. An old Amish grandpa, cane in hand, came to pick up his grandson and a little friend from school and then rode off with them in a horse-drawn buggy. As they pulled away, I noticed one of those bright, orange reflective triangles on the back of the cart. It seemed an odd juxtaposition of old and new. Many Amish were on the streets—bearded men in plain black suits and stiff straw hats, and simply dressed women in lace bonnets—going about their business. Across the street from our camp was the Amish market and auction. Iris, Grace and I wandered over and browsed through the bolts of cotton fabric, wooden kitchen utensils, hand-made aprons, homemade fruit preserves, beeswax candles, penny candy, hand-crafted wooden chairs, stools and brooms, and hundreds of other goods for a simple life. That persistent thought crossed my mind: If nuclear weapons are let loose, this unique subculture will be lost: a sub-culture who live according to their beliefs, in community, in harmony with nature and who, by the way, have nothing to do with our deadly nuclear inventions. Much as the Amish had succeeded in isolating themselves from modern society, their fate, too, lay under a deadly nuclear cloud. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I left Iris and Grace to their shopping and crossed over to the cattle auction, a big, modern agricultural building with sawdust on the floors and tiered seating surrounding a large central pen. I sat off to one side, wondering if it were possible to inadvertently bid on a farm animal by scratching my head or rubbing my nose at the wrong moment. I’d never been to a live auction. Someone led a steer into the center pen and the auctioneer started taking bidding in an unintelligible babble. It lasted for a minute or two until the shouting slowed and stopped and the steer was led out none the wiser whence he came. From where I was sitting, I could see a herd of cattle being led into a holding pen. Ten or fifteen head of cattle were pressed into the pen, too many to stand in the small space. Some had to climb up on the backs of the others. Their eyes flashed in fear; their black-tongued mouths moaned in distress. As I watched their terror, I became aware the distinct features of each cow’s face. Each cow looked as different from the others as an individual person would in a group of humans, and they looked terrified. I was reminded of something a college roommate had said years earlier. On our daily walk to classes, we passed along a street where there happened to be a funeral home right next to a butcher shop. “In one place they lay them out in pretty, satin-lined boxes,” she said, “and in the other, they hang them from hooks in the window.” I left the auction feeling helpless and sickened, and I vowed never to eat meat again. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One day’s walk past Shipshewana I woke up feeling under the weather. I got dressed and slumped over to breakfast. Afterward, I went back to pack up my tent but instead crawled in and put my head down. I could feel myself coming down fast. I had a pounding headache and a searing sore throat, and I couldn’t lift my head from my pillow. Bill and Craig came by and knelt outside my tent in a princely manner and played their guitars and sang a song for me. I tried to smile in appreciation, but I was feeling pretty low. Grace suggested we drive to her parents’ house in Detroit to see a doctor. That sounded like a good idea, so I dragged myself out of my tent and into the back seat of Grace’s car. Iris decided she’d better come, too. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At the Woodley’s home, we were warmly welcomed, though I was feeling too ill to reply with much courtesy or enthusiasm. Grace’s sister-in-law had called her family doctor who had recommended an ear, nose and throat specialist. We drove over to his office right away, even though it was a Sunday, and he immediately spotted the problem as a throat infection and prescribed a course of antibiotics. He also recommended a few of days rest before returning to life outdoors. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When a doctor recommends a couple of days rest, and you are at the Woodley’s house in Detroit, you can be the happiest sick person in the world. The house was filled with light, the rooms were beautiful and spacious, and nobody made me feel the least bit guilty for sleeping all day as I let the antibiotics take their course. Between naps, Mrs. Woodley’s garden was lovely for short walks, and there was a small swimming pool surrounded by a stone patio where I could rest in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chaise lounge</i> and smile at the gigantic, inflatable shoes that Mr. Woodley had ordered from a catalogue so he could honestly claim that his family all walked on water. Iris picked apples from the little orchard in the yard and baked two perfect apple pies. The Woodleys had never done so and were impressed with her ingenuity and skill. I was so appreciative of Grace and her family. I really couldn’t imagine what I’d have done if they hadn’t taken me in. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After a few days rest, I was feeling much improved and managed an honest grin when Mr. Woodley snapped a couple of photos of Grace, Iris and me on the upstairs balcony. On September 2<sup>nd,</sup> we prepared to leave the Woodley’s house and return to the march. I opened my journal to jot down a few words, and there was the photo of my nephew, Ray, in his garden of marigolds. Today was his fourth birthday. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I couldn’t thank the Woodleys enough for their generosity. I had the feeling you could have a roaring good time at their house if you weren’t battling a throat infection. Grace, Iris and I returned to the peace march on September 3rd. We found our camp forced into one corner of a large field where the owner had mown a small area for us. The effect was a small, claustrophobic campsite in a huge, open field. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Grace’s car had been acting up, and as she prepared to depart camp, she couldn’t get it to start. She had already missed the first faculty meeting at school in Washington and couldn’t afford to delay her departure any further. We approached Vigo, one of our maintenance guys, to ask if he could do anything with it. With his half-shaved head and multiple piercings, Vigo looked like the kind of guy you would encounter if you mistakenly stumbled into a pool hall on the wrong side of the tracks, but he was really a soft-spoken person and a skilled mechanic. The maintenance guys on the peace march worked so hard every day to keep our vehicles on the road that I hated to ask him to do one more job, but Vigo took it in stride and told Grace to turn the key. He listened to the engine cranking, and identified the problem. For the next hour or so, Vigo dismantled the alternator and reconstructed it before our eyes. As soon as he reassembled the parts, he gave Grace the high sign, and the car started like a dream. We were amazed and thanked him for his help. Grace was relieved. She and I said our goodbyes, and she set out on the road for D.C. No sooner had Grace left then I headed to Toledo to meet another visitor. My sister, Cassie, was coming to the march. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-16422239941785277052010-11-27T19:24:00.017+01:002011-09-02T20:10:51.075+02:00Chapter Twenty-One: "Fifth Root Race"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Helen’s house was a comfortable little cottage tucked away in the woods. It was only about fifteen miles west of Iowa City, but it stood in the middle of a thousand acres of rolling farmland. As we approached the house, we passed a wildlife sanctuary. I mentioned that I couldn’t imagine why animals would need refuge way out here in the country, but Helen pointed out that since some hunters in the area would "take aim at anything that moved," as she put it, some animals, especially birds of prey, had to be protected. </div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Helen led us into the house and invited us to make ourselves at home and have a look around while she put the groceries away in the kitchen. The truth was, we really didn’t know her very well at all, so we were curious for clues as to who this woman was who had taken us home. Much of the furniture—the dining room table and chairs, the sideboard and the occasional tables—was beautiful, handcrafted antiques. Strings of crystal beads hung in the doorways and glinted in the windows like magical spider webs in a fairy tale cottage. Here and there, crystal pendants hung on the wall. At the side of the house was a small porch that had been turned into a studio, and there, Helen kept a collection of thousands of crystals and colorful gemstone beads in dozens of neatly organized boxes. So, she was a bead person. She was an artist, too. We noticed two portraits, intricately detailed in pencil, hanging on the studio wall, one of a little girl and the other of a serious black man with one blind eye. They seemed almost alive. When we asked, Helen called from the kitchen that they were people she knew some time ago. Evan commented quietly that he hoped the man didn’t come looking for Helen while we were here. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Helen’s hound dog welcomed us, too. He was floppy-eared, lanky and bounding and excited to have visitors. His name was Comfort. He had free run of the place including anywhere he wished to sleep on the couch or chairs in the living room. Comfort was Helen’s constant companion. He kept her in touch with reality, she said. He told her when it was time to wake up, when it was time to eat and when it was time to go for a walk. We didn’t have to ask how he got his name. Helen talked to him all the time, and after a while, I did, too. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We stayed up late talking, playing guitars and sharing the musical ideas we’d each been working on. I went to sleep thinking that our hostess struck me as something of a white witch, living outside town surrounded by crystals and accompanied by her familiar. She was definitely not a mainstream Iowan. It wasn't my business how Helen spent her free time or exercised her religious beliefs, so I didn't think too hard about it. We had the good fortune of a friend who was offering us her hospitality, and I was happy to accept her invitation. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the morning, I showered, dressed and wandered downstairs to find Helen pulling weeds in the little front garden. She pointed out the stone fountain in one corner of the yard under a tangle of overgrown plants and a toppled-down tree. I offered to help, but she said that was her project while Bill, Evan and I created a musical garden of our own. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We played music for hours on end, calmly sitting in the living room listening to one another: Bill’s quirky guitar, Evan’s thumping bass, and my vocals, traveling from place to place wherever the spirit moved us. We contentedly stepped away from any sense of time. It reminded me of the hours I spent as a twelve or thirteen year-old playing my favorite records—Tom Glazer, Peter, Paul and Mary, Carol King, Joni Mitchell—over and over and over again until I had figured out the guitar or piano chords and memorized the lyrics. How my mother ever tolerated the endless repetition, I’ll never know. Once in a blue moon she’d call from the kitchen, “Time for a different song, honey,” and I’d snap out of it and play something else or call it quits for the day. Helen’s house, a remote island in the enormous space that the peace march had created, gave me the same feeling of creative license, and she was every bit as indulgent as my mother had been. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Helen offered the highest order of hospitality: an invitation to peruse her record collection and home library. Among her records I found an lp called “Dick Gregory at Kent State,” a recording of the speech he gave at Kent State University in Ohio one year after the killing of four students during the Vietnam anti-war demonstrations. These were the "Four Dead in Ohio" that Crosby, Stills and Nash had memorialized in song. I had been an impressionable fourteen year-old at the time of the Kent State killings, and I remembered staring at the photograph in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life </i>magazine of a horror-stricken girl kneeling beside a young man’s lifeless body. The same photo was on the back of the record album, and I stared at it again as I listened to Gregory speaking about that disastrous spring day. The speech made me wonder if it was simply human fate to stumble again and again into tragedy. Had we learned nothing since Oedipus? Dick Gregory pulled apart “the System” and held each flaw up to the light, but his message was ultimately a positive one. The crux of his talk was to draw a distinction between what man creates and what nature creates. He warned that revolution was controlled not by man but by nature. He also drew a distinction between property rights, contrived by man, and human rights, inherent in nature. I understood him to mean that wars were about property rights, whereas revolutions were about human rights. That got me thinking that the nuclear issue was not only a political and economic question of who controlled the nukes but an ethical question of how we were using them to control each other’s natural freedoms—and our own.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One day at Helen’s, Bill started telling a story. Whether he was telling it from memory or making it up as he went along, I couldn’t tell; he was seeing it in his mind’s eye. He described a community that sounded a lot like the Great Peace March except that the people were not nomadic, and they lived at a much earlier time. They lived close to nature and made decisions collectively. They lived in relative peace, he said, until they started having trouble with outsiders who wanted their land. The interlopers bullied them, giving them an ultimatum to leave or be forced off the land. The community split into two groups under different leaders, a larger group who wanted to fight the intruders and a smaller group who wanted to move. Bill’s voice was calm as he told how the smaller group secretly betrayed the majority, and a forced migration began. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if the move hadn’t been imposed upon them in the dead of winter. None of them had enough food or adequate clothing against the freezing cold weather. They were forced to walk hundreds of miles. They fell sick and had no medicine, so many of them died along the way. The people who survived were utterly helpless; they couldn’t even stop to bury the dead. The tears were rolling down my face. I knew what it was to walk many miles in a day; I knew what it was to be sick while on the road; I knew what it was to be at the mercy of the kindness of strangers. I could imagine every detail. All that deception and cruelty and sadness was too much to hold inside. When he was done, I asked if Bill had made up the story. No, he said, it was the story of the Cherokee “Trail of Tears.” I recognized it then, but Bill’s telling had been so detailed and so personal that he had made the story come alive. In the hours that followed, the Kent State tragedy and the Cherokee Trail of Tears squirmed in my psyche. Bill and Evan had started improvising on a musical theme in a minor mode. I contributed a few lines:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “Broken pieces cover the land; chalk one up to the vision of man...”</i> about visionaries who lose touch with the present and falter under the burden of their own vision. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On another day, Helen suggested I have a lesson with her voice teacher. I thought that was a great idea. I had taken voice lessons, first informally with my mother, who was also a singer, and later, in college from a man who would break out in song: “Laura is a face in the misty light…” whenever he saw me coming down the hall. It was a little embarrassing, but Mr. Plotsky was an intrepid instructor, full of energy and unconventional teaching ideas; unafraid to have me lie on the floor and breathe like a baby, for example, so I could learn to use my diaphragm correctly. He was an operatic singer with a huge voice; a big fish in the cultural puddle that was Colorado Springs, but he respected my folky voice and helped me develop my own style. There were other dimensions to Mr. Plotsky. He wore thick, square, metal-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses. He told me he was quickly losing his vision, so he was doing everything he could to keep from going completely blind or at least slow the process. He often practiced eye-strengthening exercises while I sang my warm up exercises. I didn’t mind. I was learning to sing. Unfortunately, as much as Mr. Plotsky knew that I was not an operatic singer, the music department at the college did not support much flexibility in its vocal studies program. For my sophomore recital, I wanted to sing the Gershwins’ “Summertime," but I was required to sing an Italian aria. No one seemed to notice or care that they were asking a mouse to roar. I remember looking into the audience and seeing the instructors from the music department looking into their laps. It was a dreadful performance and a humiliating experience. By the time I stumbled out of the program after two years, Mr. Plotsky remained the cherished highlight of my failed music major. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had taken voice lessons during my year in Los Angeles, too, with an instructor who tried his hardest to make me sing like Bette Midler or Barbra Streisand. He put a Broadway vibrato at the top of a long list of improvements I needed to make. Each time I left a lesson, I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> So, when Helen made an appointment for me, I had no idea what to expect, but I figured I'd seen it all, so I was game for anything. On the drive to his house, Helen said she needed to warn me about something. “It’s my voice teacher,” she began, “he’s… kind of… eccentric.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Helen,” I said ironically, “I think I can handle eccentricity.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">And we both laughed, because it was obvious that anyone on the peace march would have to be pretty tolerant of eccentricity; but I noticed that my laughter was lighter than hers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> We arrived at a normal looking ranch-style home and rang the bell. The first thing I noticed as he opened the door was that Helen’s voice teacher wore a black cape. He gave the impression of a Liberace, but his manner was not glittery or flamboyant. Count Dracula came to mind. Helen introduced us, and as she did, I quickly looked to see if my host had long, sharp incisors. He did not. The thought did occur to me that maybe he and Helen were both vampires, and I was to be their next victim. I reeled in my imagination and followed him down the hallway. He showed me into his studio where a baby grand piano stood at one end, and red and black dominated the color scheme. He graciously offered me a seat on a small sofa while he stood at the center of the room and started talking. I expected him to focus on the usual concerns of vocal production—breath support, posture, diaphragm control, et cetera. Instead, he launched into a lengthy overview of history, starting with Atlantis. After a long while, he stopped and looked directly at me. “It is important that you remember what I am telling you,” he said. “There is a time coming soon when there will no longer be rich or poor; humans will live for a long, long time and travel to other places in other dimensions.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As I started to reply, I realized that this was not a conversation; it was a lecture, or maybe an oracle. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“You are part of a generation known as the “Fifth Root Race,” he continued. “You will be instrumental in leading humanity to a new awareness of life beyond the current age. You will sow the seeds of the future race so that humanity can live in peace and harmony.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I felt a little overwhelmed, but not uncomfortable, so I interrupted. “You’ve told me so much already,” I said politely, “I don’t think I’ll be able to remember everything you’ve said.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Not to worry,” he said. “When you need to remember, it will come back to you. Now,” he added, “you are just planting the seeds."</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">So, I took a deep breath and set my mind on “absorb” as I listened to his monologue of information and philosophy and prophecy unfurl. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time we came to the end of my lesson, I hadn’t sung a note. He mentioned this and said not to worry, that I had a lovely voice. My head was reeling. I thanked him for his time and left with Helen, who had been waiting for me. As we headed back to her house, I tried to debrief, but it was hopeless. Her teacher had communicated a vision of humanity in a future that nobody could imagine, and yet I was supposed to be among those who would make ready for its arrival. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Eccentric?” I said to Helen as we drove home, “Yeah, I’d say that was an understatement!” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One evening several days later as the dinner hour approached, I went to Helen’s refrigerator and found there was nothing in it. We had come to the bottom of our store of groceries. I went back into the living room and told the others I thought we’d need to go into town to buy some food. Bill slipped past me into the kitchen and an hour or so later called us to the dining room table where he served us a delicious meal of brown rice and spiced beans. I was delighted and asked how he’d done it. He said he just found this and that—a cup of rice, an onion, a pepper, a can of beans, some spices—and put it all together. He was like that clever fairy tale traveler who made soup from a stone. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We ended our last day at Helen’s with an evening walk into the countryside. We wandered away from the cottage, down the dirt roads, past an old graveyard of black headstones engraved with the names of Slavic settlers who had passed away nearly a century earlier, and a small plot of land that Helen said was the last remaining acreage of untouched prairie in the state. We stood for a while, talking, looking at the natural grasses and wild flowers that had been growing there for who knows how long. Never in my life had I seen a sunset where the vista was equally magnificent at every turn. In one direction, where a bright, red sun set, the sky was filled with fine-edged, pastel-pink clouds; in another an enormous, fluffy cloud shone brilliantly white; in a third direction, layers of powdery wisps lingered on the brink of light; while the easternmost portion receded toward darkness like a smoky grey cat. It seemed impossible that there could be more to this idyllic scene, but we walked past a spotted fawn and its mother grazing in a field at the edge of the woods and, as the light faded, we could hear coyote pups yelping off in the woods. At bedtime, the pulsing chorus of crickets, toads, and tree frogs, was so loud that I found it hard to fall asleep. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning, Helen and I talked for a while as I packed up my belongings. We discussed our relationships with some of the men in our lives and I told her about some of the unusual coincidences that had occurred on the peace march. These were not, in my mind, supernatural or spooky, but the topic sent Helen off in an unexpected direction about a haunted house where she and some friends once worked. Her tone of voice made it all sound true. I got chills listening to the details of the “energy” they all saw moving around the house. I could see that the encounter had changed Helen’s beliefs about the spirit world and the afterlife. It gave me the creeps. I didn’t say so to Helen, but if I believed I had actually seen a ghost, I sure wouldn’t live all by myself in a little cottage in the woods in the middle of nowhere. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In welcoming us, Helen had given us a great gift, and I wanted to give her something in return. I had told her the whole amazing story of finding the “virtuous woman” heart that God had left for me on the road in Iowa, and as we said goodbye, I gave the heart to her. I wondered at the time if I would regret giving away the only evidence of my conversation with God, but it seemed to me that the larger point was that everything in the world around me was created from an ongoing conversation between me and God, so the little heart was really just a token, a calling card to be passed along to someone else who might also be seeking such an awakening. I thought Helen might be such a person. I left it propped against the vase in the middle of her dining room table. Helen said she might catch up with us later on the march, but for the time being, we said our goodbyes. A friend of hers gave us a lift all the way to Chicago. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan, Bill and I never wrote a single song at Helen’s house, but we hashed through hours of musical ideas, and, best of all, we learned to listen to one another. However, in the same way that the psyche sometimes pulls yesterday’s minor events into tonight’s full-blown dreams, a symbol from our Iowa retreat emerged in a new song a few weeks down the road. Who could have guessed that Helen’s spirited hound would inspire a lullaby? I called it “Comfort Song.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Night has gathered around, stars shine in the sky;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sleepers lay themselves down; into their dreams they will fly.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Comfort keep you, guide you on your way;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Into sleep you slide away.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Northern star at your head, Southern Cross at your feet;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sun sinks into the west; Moon rises up in the east.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Comfort keep you, guide you on your way;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Into sleep you slide away.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Listen, Nightingale’s song echoes into the night<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Faith will carry you back with arms of heavenly light.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Comfort keep you, guide you on your way;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Into sleep you slide away. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>(Click here to listen to "Comfort Song.")</i></div><br />
<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzI1MjQ7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjUyNC1jZDMiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjQ2OTY7fQ==&autoplay=" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed height="28" width="335" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzI1MjQ7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjUyNC1jZDMiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjQ2OTY7fQ==&autoplay="></embed></object>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-87508005091246512032010-11-27T19:23:00.029+01:002012-02-09T17:46:20.664+01:00Chapter Twenty: "Love Day"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Iowans welcomed the Great Peace March in myriad ways. Whatever their abilities or talents or resources, local communities kindly re-directed them to us. One sweltering day when we were camped in a meadow miles from even the smallest of small towns, a brigade of firefighters arrived, parked their fire truck on the grass and set their fire hoses on “gentle shower for washing off peace marchers.” Some marchers ran through the mist in their shorts and t-shirts, others changed into bathing suits; still others brought soap and shampoo and lathered up for an impromptu shower. The firefighters stood back in their coveralls and big boots looking satisfied. A few days down the road, I was pleasantly surprised to hear “When the Saints Come Marching In” as the main march spilled into camp. A community band played a concert of marches and popular tunes as we relaxed on the lawn and enjoyed the show. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"When the Saints Come Marching In"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXVqMfC7eTmTxe-FR5FT3UNFKvLk_bBv9Ni6-Gb9jd9ivz0Csx9QkgXRSCg8vU2uNGr1gdKAeSXCaoMjBYfMEL7sAGFGiwa_Px7c5WlniXhstk0gudR2jQGiOjwTxOjPwsGGF3GKBo9Md/s1600/000019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXVqMfC7eTmTxe-FR5FT3UNFKvLk_bBv9Ni6-Gb9jd9ivz0Csx9QkgXRSCg8vU2uNGr1gdKAeSXCaoMjBYfMEL7sAGFGiwa_Px7c5WlniXhstk0gudR2jQGiOjwTxOjPwsGGF3GKBo9Md/s400/000019.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Gentle Shower Courtesy of the Local Fire Department</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At the rally in Coralville, a suburb just west of Iowa City, scores of local residents came out to greet us, and Senator Tom Harkin spoke to the crowd. Like Pat Schroeder in Colorado, Harkin encouraged us to bring our message straight to Capitol Hill. To me, Senator Harkin’s support was exciting and hopeful. With him in the Senate and Schroeder and Markey in the House, we had three strong voices in government. A nuclear test ban treaty and its partner, a nuclear non-proliferation treaty would have to pass the U.S. Senate, and Harkin could help to lead the charge. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By this time our financial situation had stabilized. We depended upon a steady flow of donations coming through the Great Peace March office in Washington, D.C. and direct donations coming from visitors to camp. The vast majority of individual donations were modest—under $20—but there were thousands of them, and together they covered all our expenses—vehicles and gas; registration and permits; and three hearty meals a day for five hundred people. One day a man handed me a small donation. “I completely disagree with your message,” he said, “but I admire your determination.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I wondered why someone would grease the wheels of a wagon that was headed in a direction he did not want it to go. To me, it was a disturbing rationale. I preferred the approach some of my own family members had taken in letters they wrote before the march: We love and support you, but we cannot support your cause. I wondered how many people greased Hitler’s wheels just because they admired his determination. I took the man’s donation and didn’t give him an argument, but I probably should have. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Just outside Iowa City, someone among the marchers proposed “Love Day,” and the word went out that everyone should wear pink or red on that day. Love Day happened to fall on a rest day, so lots of local families were visiting our camp. I greeted a family of four—mom, dad, and their teenage son and daughter—and gave them a tour. They were friendly and talkative, the kids chiming in with questions and comments. They were clearly a family who enjoyed being together. We laughed and shared opinions and observations freely. Like me, they were each wearing something pink—skirt, shirt, shorts, and socks. We walked and talked, me telling the story of the march and showing off the various support vehicles and they asking questions about how all the pieces fit together. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward the end of the visit, I asked the family how they had gotten the word that today was Love Day. They replied with puzzled looks. I mentioned that since they were all wearing pink, I had assumed they’d heard from a marcher that it was Love Day. They laughed. Dad shook his head and said it was just a coincidence. Then they looked at one other and laughed again. Now I was the odd man out. Mom explained that when they had come to the breakfast table that morning, each of them just happened to be wearing something pink. We all had a good laugh about that. “People around here call that “march magic,” I said. They loved that “somehow” they had known it was Love Day. As we waved goodbye, I hoped that some day I might have a family whose love vibration magically put us all in pink. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">That night, I was sound asleep when I thought I heard Fergus whispering outside my tent: “Jackson Browne is in camp; he’ll be singing over by the kitchen in a few minutes.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I thought maybe I was dreaming, but there it was again. I knew Fergus and some other marchers had gone to hear Jackson Browne in Iowa City earlier in the evening, because he had invited me to go along, but I hadn’t had money to buy a ticket. Somehow, they had met Jackson and invited him to stop by our camp after the concert. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Jackson Browne was one of my favorite songwriters. His lyrics, full of longing and nostalgia, especially on his earlier songs like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">These Days</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Opening Farewell</i>, so perfectly matched the plaintive quality of his voice. I must have listened to his albums a hundred times. At Constitution Hall in Washington years earlier I heard Jackson sing <i>Song for Adam</i> with such emotion that the audience was moved to tears. I was sitting close enough to see a tear drop from his eye, too.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I dragged myself out of my tent, slipped my feet into loosely laced sneakers, crossed my arms against the night, and padded over toward the kitchen. Sure enough, there was his tour bus parked along the side of the road, and there was Jackson with his guitar, sitting on a table in the open space in front of the kitchen. I joined the casual semi-circle, all of us still half asleep, and listened as he started to sing. It was so nice to hear him from just a few feet away, with a small amplifier, no microphone, just his voice and his guitar. Time slowed and the music flowed, every song a lullaby. Too soon, Jackson had to be on his way. It was the wee hours of the morning when I drifted back to my tent, slipped into my sleeping bag and crossed over into sleep. The next day when I saw Fergus I told him of the strange and wonderful “dream” I’d had, and he smiled and said he had been worried about waking people up in the middle of the night, but I assured him that I, for one, would never forget hearing Jackson Browne singing at midnight on the Great Peace March. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LU5u_X6QXHhZAL5mW48G7HS2a0XTmeLI6GDEe1IqhkIvsm0gwJx-QdJgTAxp5Lal-zO6fvai0Ab8DVut2CM3ASROwFw4e1PTbUK7wLXdU1eMW03lNOW5qXzgRLlTShAJssAoBzX7bt_L/s1600/n722761470_1752126_9797.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LU5u_X6QXHhZAL5mW48G7HS2a0XTmeLI6GDEe1IqhkIvsm0gwJx-QdJgTAxp5Lal-zO6fvai0Ab8DVut2CM3ASROwFw4e1PTbUK7wLXdU1eMW03lNOW5qXzgRLlTShAJssAoBzX7bt_L/s400/n722761470_1752126_9797.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackson after Midnight on the March</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On July 31st, we reached Davenport, Iowa. We camped in a city park above the western bank of the mighty Mississippi River, her muddy waters flowing past our doors. It had taken us nearly five months to travel this far. Tomorrow we would cross into Illinois and the Midwest, leaving the Great Plains behind. Issues that had percolated over the past few weeks gushed to the surface as if the great river would not allow us passage until they had been put to rest. The earlier crisis of identity had evolved into a crisis of trust. A small group of marchers expressed doubt that everyone among us could speak effectively for our cause. They were afraid that people in the densely populated cities ahead wouldn’t take our message seriously. I had a hard time figuring out where they were drawing the line. Was I one of the marchers about whom they had doubts? If not me, then who?</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">By this time it was becoming obvious to me that a few people in camp simply couldn’t live without a crisis. Whenever we settled into a peaceful mode for a couple of weeks, they’d fire up a problem and cajole everyone into a big debate. Surprisingly, these were some of the most intelligent people in camp. Or maybe it wasn’t so surprising that some of the smart people had to invent ways to keep their intellectual swords sharpened. In any case, I was losing interest in the sideshow. Their complaint smacked of elitism, and I didn’t like it. Still, I dutifully stood and listened as marchers formed a trust circle and passed the “talking stick,” giving everyone a chance to express misgivings and frustrations. Fortunately, we didn’t have time to deliberate long. The next day we would cross into Illinois, but before the river crossing, we had an important appointment to keep.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErQ_SsUJ1OmtO-7acvQE3E2RGBezAwHd6GjqwY92hzIqJlnPD9BBX9Kgcjw9-Qd5e1GdhvXaBUMGxC3EiSz4CqNdL1CBSGYgCQmzXc1z3O_btsQ1SMGzcrBLbGZ-6FmtrI3-2CBvLTxaC/s1600/7129_1167707807234_1664104734_411364_7164995_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErQ_SsUJ1OmtO-7acvQE3E2RGBezAwHd6GjqwY92hzIqJlnPD9BBX9Kgcjw9-Qd5e1GdhvXaBUMGxC3EiSz4CqNdL1CBSGYgCQmzXc1z3O_btsQ1SMGzcrBLbGZ-6FmtrI3-2CBvLTxaC/s400/7129_1167707807234_1664104734_411364_7164995_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davenport, Iowa: Last Encampment West of the Mississippi</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the dock in Davenport we gathered to meet a Mississippi steamboat, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delta Queen</i>, carrying a delegation of peace activists from the Soviet Union. By what appeared to be complete coincidence, our path and theirs were crossing at this precise time and place. As the boat approached from downstream, we waved and held up flags and welcome signs. In a moment I would have my first personal encounter with citizens of the U.S.S.R. Of all things, our common ground was our wish to end the nuclear arms race. Outwardly, I was excited and nervous. Inwardly, I was suspicious that the Soviet government might have sent operatives to give the false impression that the Soviet Union was moving toward peace. The whole nuclear issue aside, I carried a negative impression of the Soviet Union from the days when they had rolled their tanks into Prague to quash the Czechoslovakian surge toward democracy in 1968. I was eleven years old at the time, and I sat in the big chair in our den and stared at the photos in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life</i> magazine of Soviet soldiers putting down the demonstrations. Czechoslovakia was the homeland of my ancestors, and my mother decried the turn of events and the fact that the United States could do nothing to stop it. She explained that U.S. intervention might lead to an all out nuclear war. In my mind, the U.S.S.R. had made an unforgivable decision to punish the Czechoslovakian people for wanting freedom. It would take more than a Soviet peace delegation to dispel my skepticism. I didn’t trust them and I didn’t want to talk with them. On the other hand, I knew that to accomplish global nuclear disarmament we had to forge a new relationship with the Soviet people. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The delegation disembarked, and people mingled on the dock. There were many more of us than there were of them, so not everyone had a chance to meet, but people chatted on the dock in pairs or small groups. The Soviets set up an outdoor gallery of photographs from a peace rally in their country as well as artwork by Soviet children calling for an end to nuclear weapons. That the Soviet citizens were allowed to have peace rallies and express their opinions publically was news to me, but my trust level remained low. I studied every photo and every drawing, looking for clues to their authenticity. Mayor Justine bestowed the key to Peace City upon the travelers, and a Russian woman sang folk songs while her husband played the accordion. Some marchers exchanged names and addresses with the Russian delegates so they could keep in touch. I didn’t strike up any conversations. I didn’t know how to suppress my distaste for Russian domination of people in the Iron Curtain countries, and I didn’t know how to express to the Russian peace delegation that peace without freedom was not peace at all. Maybe I should have searched for the cynical Russian lurking at the edges of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> delegation, observing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us </i>with a skeptical eye. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrival of the <i>Delta Queen</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children's Art and Photos from Soviet Peace Rally</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr4OfuyzkD4GnjLdjYaT4Hb36PszXmlaXas41hdbnKnXzEAuG83xfW9C1NsLQzolhZWrb9V-b4Eqi3fjra2lxMV6LHo0fkDVexfQlvyvZ6gpb-d6tz32CMNzvXd_gkIOl_ZKz5H4zM1pGE/s1600/000019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr4OfuyzkD4GnjLdjYaT4Hb36PszXmlaXas41hdbnKnXzEAuG83xfW9C1NsLQzolhZWrb9V-b4Eqi3fjra2lxMV6LHo0fkDVexfQlvyvZ6gpb-d6tz32CMNzvXd_gkIOl_ZKz5H4zM1pGE/s400/000019.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bestowing a Peace Tree - In Russian</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Soon the Soviets boarded the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delta Queen</i> and we all waved and shouted good bye, good luck and “mir,” the Russian word for “peace,” as they pulled away from shore, and we continued on our eastward trek.<br />
Our Mississippi crossing was a joyful celebration. Everyone walked in close formation across the long truss bridge. For the first time, I felt sentimental about leaving a state. With her rolling hills and whispering corn, spectacular sunsets and friendly, open-minded people, Iowa had been an unexpected pleasure. My prejudices about America’s farmland and the people living there had been so ignorant and so wrong; for me, it was a hard lesson not to make assumptions about people I had not met and places I had never seen for myself. As we crossed the Mississippi, I wondered whether I would ever visit Iowa again.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSsGGcYHxJKEL2xbSEt61bxToqdWKcpSkOw0XxtHktGFB98DLsa2aZM6WMxaUEro2kvDTTcVQDwcfa7znGLhp3_SYGuwg36CzT2VYMLd8OR-lfrQHhELQTZRxxGWx_5_DlLso7RxXCyqm/s1600/000005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSsGGcYHxJKEL2xbSEt61bxToqdWKcpSkOw0XxtHktGFB98DLsa2aZM6WMxaUEro2kvDTTcVQDwcfa7znGLhp3_SYGuwg36CzT2VYMLd8OR-lfrQHhELQTZRxxGWx_5_DlLso7RxXCyqm/s400/000005.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Crossing the Great Mississippi River</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I walked with Evan into Rock Island, Illinois. That great old blues tune, “Rock Island Line,” came to mind. It turned out that Evan knew it, too. I remembered it from an old 78 rpm record of my father’s that we played every now and then when I was growing up, and Evan knew it as a cover that “The Knitters” had recently recorded. Between the two of us, we pieced together enough of the lyrics to do justice to the great old Ledbelly song: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Oh, the Rock Island Line is a mighty good road,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">oh, the Rock Island Line is the road to ride,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">oh the Rock Island Line is a mighty good road,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">if you wants to ride it, got to ride it like you find it,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">get your ticket at the station on the Rock Island Line.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was feeling burdened by the speed at which the whole march was moving. I questioned myself mercilessly. Had I accomplished enough? No. Had I contributed my utmost? No. Was I applying my talents and skills? No. Was I fully committed to the march? No. Would anyone really care about this trek when it was all over? Probably not. I felt foolish believing that our ragtag band of pilgrims could change anything at all. Ram Dass’s “Be-here-now” lesson had fallen from my grasp. I thought about a day in the future when my grandchildren might ask me why I walked across America. The whole thing just seemed ridiculous. It never occurred to me that my grandchildren might someday exist <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> I had walked on the Great Peace March. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Some marchers started talking about the “ripple effect” of positive change we were having on communities as we passed through. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in the possibility of a ripple effect, but I was having a hard time getting excited about something I couldn’t see manifested in some form or expression. That made me a pragmatist among idealists, I suppose, though I noticed that Evan, Libby and a handful of other marchers also seemed to reserve judgment about the ripples of peace, so at least I was in good company. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we crossed into western Illinois, little things bothered me, like the Illinois town names of Barstow and Sterling, where I’d been weeks or months before, and Dayton and Cleveland, which I didn’t want to see until I was in Ohio. What bothered me most was that after the gentle, verdant hills of Iowa, western Illinois, with its lackluster little towns and flat terrain, reminded me again of—Nebraska. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Adding to my woes, I hadn’t had a letter at the mail truck for over a week. My family and friends were usually great about keeping in touch. My parents and siblings wrote letters full of cheer and humor and inquiry that lifted my spirits. Deanna sent photos of my nephews who were nearly two and four years old. On doubtful days, I looked at their faces, Ray smiling in front of the marigolds he’d grown from a seed packet I’d sent him months before, and Gabe lying on a lounge chair with his hand reaching out to the camera, and remembered that they were the reasons for my journey.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicE7lSDCKdM-qSNRObYLmNDwoLyEwgdNACfuIqKPGK2B9_3JwkO7L2_xvuYIZ83mT0Iz4Y1kSRJXiOxhPzWAvWIR9LeCaOOxCcBd1Ag0mdjewJXyHo7xZjCqslF9C0n5Wh7cDfDNYozc2c/s1600/IMG_0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicE7lSDCKdM-qSNRObYLmNDwoLyEwgdNACfuIqKPGK2B9_3JwkO7L2_xvuYIZ83mT0Iz4Y1kSRJXiOxhPzWAvWIR9LeCaOOxCcBd1Ag0mdjewJXyHo7xZjCqslF9C0n5Wh7cDfDNYozc2c/s400/IMG_0151.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Inspiration...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgribAMYLCdNfK_MAAY86u9GCanzP5po2r5ITq0NpB5t93aP6yfczOO6AMvFnmqFBG5U_PPlvdY_giYkNsDg_qowEGdOZgjhsyRH3zhiD9QeeQNyw7UKNro3sc0YvlqDirYKbsVqQ1D3FPh/s1600/IMG_0162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgribAMYLCdNfK_MAAY86u9GCanzP5po2r5ITq0NpB5t93aP6yfczOO6AMvFnmqFBG5U_PPlvdY_giYkNsDg_qowEGdOZgjhsyRH3zhiD9QeeQNyw7UKNro3sc0YvlqDirYKbsVqQ1D3FPh/s400/IMG_0162.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...That Kept Me Going</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">My friend Grace, a fellow teacher whom I’d met at the Maret School in Washington, D.C., had supported the peace march with a generous donation to my sponsorship back in the PRO-Peace days. She helped the students at the school raise money to purchase a tent. In her classroom, she kept a map of the United States where the students charted our progress across the country. During the march, Grace sent letters, occasionally tucking a twenty-dollar bill inside that resulted in jubilation among my friends as it meant we could all go out for breakfast or an afternoon ice cream or an evening beer at the local pub. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The only letters I couldn’t read were the ones that came from Andy, who had given me the idea of going on the peace march in the first place. His letters were so cynical about the government and the chances of actually changing anything that I couldn’t bear to read them. I just skimmed them, folded them, and put them away. With the challenges I faced on the road, I couldn’t have pessimism weighing me down. For the moment, though, word from the outside world, the normal world, the grounded world, was not forthcoming, and it added to my feeling of isolation. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had a good talk with Iris. She knew my doubtful days, and I knew hers. We sat at a peeling yellow picnic table, and she fired up a pep talk. She started small, listing our hardships: sleeping on the ground, walking in wind and rain, going without showers; then she moved on to the dangers: exposing our skin to UV sun rays and our brains to the electro-magnetic fields under miles of power lines (Iris worried a lot about dangerous rays); a peace march diet that included meat and cheese, all unhealthful to her way of thinking, not to mention throwing of our skeletons out of alignment from all this walking. With a dramatically rising cadence, she continued to the importance of our mission, ending with: “so our children and grandchildren and great grandchildren can live in a more peaceful world!” Her diatribe put enough wind in my sails to raised a smile and then a chuckle and then a nod that everything was going to be alright. The truth was that I didn’t mind those hardships; they were Iris’s hardships. I had my own. I just wasn’t convinced that suffering them was doing anything to bring down the nukes. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Though we were from different backgrounds, Iris and I got along well. She could take one look at the morning sky and forecast the day’s weather. “Better bring your rain jacket today,” she’d say matter-of-factly, and sure enough, by afternoon, a perfectly cloudless sky would have deteriorated into a squall. She knew flowers and trees and herbal remedies, and, having lived on a farm, she knew the wonders and the power of Mother Nature. Once, I tried on her rose-colored glasses and was surprised to find that the world really did look better through them. It sometimes baffled me that she was so completely convinced that human beings could actually set aside their bellicose ways and live in peace, but Iris was a true believer.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes we were like old biddies, bickering at one another, vying for the upper hand. One day while we were setting up her tent I noticed that she had several little cuts on her hands, and I asked her about them. She said they were just little nicks, but they didn’t seem to be getting better. I asked how long she had had them and she said more than a couple of weeks. They seemed to be getting slightly infected, so I suggested that she dab some Neosporin on them. She was reluctant to use my little tube of “poison,” but I insisted, and she finally did, and the cuts cleared up in a couple of days. I nodded, tongue in cheek, and said she could use my poison any time she liked. Likewise, at one point I was coming down with a cold, and Iris convinced me to take a course of goldenseal and Echinacea, floral extracts which I was convinced would do nothing whatsoever for my health. Sure enough, within a day or two I was feeling well again. This time it was Iris who nodded ironically and advised taking herbs to strengthen my immune system. We were working out of different medicine cabinets, but ultimately, Iris and I took care of one another. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Bill, Evan, MC and I walked into Moline in the evening. We settled in with our beers at a table at Harley’s Tavern and talked about our waning enthusiasm. I was well aware that although walking across the country was difficult, it was a luxury to unhitch from the normal responsibilities of holding down a job, putting a roof over my head, and keeping my belly full, in order to spend nine months living on the Great Peace March. Nevertheless, we had gotten ourselves into something of a rut and decided we needed some projects to look forward to. Evan and Bill and I talked about taking a couple of days away from the march to play music together, and MC and I agreed to collaborate on a show of her photographs and my music at the end of the march.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Great Peace March lifestyle was a medium for creativity, but that didn’t explain completely the outpouring of artistic expression that became synonymous with the march. Whatever differences we had, and there were many, the marchers were hard-core believers in our power to create something from nothing. On a global level, we sought to create a world free of nuclear weapons. Day-to-day, we created and recreated our community as we moved along the road. Individually, too, we tapped into our own creativity, blossoming into poets, actors, artists, singers and dancers. Most expressions were spontaneous, but every now and then someone would hang an art show on the side of a gear truck or gather a drum circle after dinner, or read poetry in a town hall tent. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0snFMlQS8pcKodpYEe4yHttfMrfZaEXrBWR3g2yhglEy-SVOWyGokivA0dbZx2GlX1MmD3s_EbeQpddH2qY61T11MMtiAWH-0IOb8fLEvKAHvFnkJ-XFiVazzwxXnpTaV05mjAo2bsfxp/s1600/6334_1165912941679_1043560068_30525328_1378575_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0snFMlQS8pcKodpYEe4yHttfMrfZaEXrBWR3g2yhglEy-SVOWyGokivA0dbZx2GlX1MmD3s_EbeQpddH2qY61T11MMtiAWH-0IOb8fLEvKAHvFnkJ-XFiVazzwxXnpTaV05mjAo2bsfxp/s400/6334_1165912941679_1043560068_30525328_1378575_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art Show on the Side of a Gear Truck</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For me, it was music that emerged. I could play as much as I pleased, and I could play whatever I pleased, including trying my hand at composing. I loved writing new songs. They came from a mysterious place, and I never really knew how they arrived. I sat with my guitar and ideas tumbled out. They happened to be musical ideas. Only two things held me back. The first was that my songs were not about the peace or nuclear disarmament. I wasn’t entirely sure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i> they were<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>about. They didn’t seem to have much to do with the peace march, and so I was reluctant to perform them. The second was that although I was excited to experiment with new musical ideas, I needed privacy. I didn’t want to subject everyone within earshot to the endless repetition and correction it took to finish a song.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, surrounded by a constant flow of inspiration, I slowly became aware of my imagination—in music they call it style or voice—and convinced of its value and meaning. Bill and Evan were enablers. They never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> want to play music. Bill’s songs were always bizarre, so I felt safe with him. Evan just wanted to play and sing. Bill suggested that he and Evan and I drive to Shabona State Park to see if we could camp there for a few days and see what music would emerge. That sounded like a great idea to me, and Evan was game, so we made a plan to scout out the park. My mood took an immediate upward swing. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Near Prophetstown, the peace march camped at a neatly tended state park on the banks above the Rock River where it snaked around a big bend. When I crept out of my tent in the morning, a thick fog lay over the camp. I could barely see the line of trees across the river. I paused, staring, giving my mind a few minutes to wake up. Somewhere in the water below, a duck quacked, but the water was shrouded in mist, so I followed his sound like a game of Marco Polo as he paddled around. An occasional splash told me he was diving for breakfast. It was Wednesday. The fog lingered and turned to drizzle. Extra marchers answered the call to load the trucks, and everyone worked faster than usual, so fast, in fact, that I couldn’t keep up with the stacking and had to ask everyone to slow down so I could secure the gear. “You’re working like Huns!” I shouted as I scrambled to slide the tents into place.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I heard Sabine, originally from Germany reply, “It’s ‘Hunnen!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“What?” I shouted. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“’Hunnen!’” she repeated, calling into the back of the truck. “It’s ‘Hunnen!’”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Ok! You’re working like ‘HUNNEN!’” I shouted in none-too-good German accent, and everybody laughed. By this time I had cleared the logjam and we resumed the flow of gear down the aisle to the doors. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">During the morning lull between breaking down the old camp and setting up the new one, Bill, Evan and I hopped into the van and drove back into Moline. There we found a beautiful Carnegie library, its stately columns rising above the long front steps, and, inside, rooms shelved, trimmed and paneled in dark wood. Fireplaces, dormant on a warm August morning, dominated the reading rooms; opaque glass tile ceilings allowed the natural light shine from the upper storey to the one below. Best of all, admission was free. I hadn’t known that among his philanthropic works, Andrew Carnegie financed public libraries all across America. I couldn’t imagine a more worthwhile legacy. I browsed at will and read whatever popped off the shelves and into my hands—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Disco Dancing</i>; a one-act play called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Distinguished Service</i> by Florence Knox; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lives of Hollywood Children</i>, and a book on walking. The subjects mattered little; after days on end of holistic, experiential thinking, a linear narrative was an intellectual balm. It was a relief to let my mind climb on a train of thought and take a ride, confident that we would travel to the end of a logically constructed paragraph. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">While I was at it, I dug around a little more in a history of the Crusades and confirmed the facts I had gathered so far, from Pope Urban at Clermont to the disappearance of young Stephen and his entourage off the coast of France. I followed up on the “Pied Piper” connection and located Robert Browning’s poem, “The Pied Piper of Hamlin,” hoping it might contain information about the Children’s Crusade. I also looked up the meaning of the term “pied” and found that the term described anything made up of a patchwork of colors—like the magpie, a bird that looks like a crow with black and white feathers. As for the Pied Piper, in Browning’s poem, “his queer, long coat from heel to head was half of yellow and half of red.” Browning used a clever storytelling device in which all of the rats were drowned except for one who survives to describe the wonders that they had heard in the Piper’s tune; then, when the Piper, having been cheated out of his rightful payment, leads the children out of town and into the “wondrous portal” in the mountain, one lame child is left behind who tells that the children heard promise of a land “where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, and flowers put forth a fairer hue,” all in the Piper’s piping. The story of the Pied Piper only loosely resembled the story of the Children’s Crusade. Browning’s poem included an exact date of the Hamlin event, July 22, 1376, which put it more than a century after the Children’s Crusade. He ends his tale with a reference to the legend of a lost tribe in Transylvania who dress in outlandish clothing and who are said to have come from the town of Hamlin in a far-away land, though no one knows how they came to be there. This reference—to a people, inexplicably light skinned, fair-haired and blue-eyed, scattered across North Africa, who were said to have descended from the child Crusaders—only vaguely coincided with the scant historical record. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I would have stayed in the library all day, but we needed to get back to camp to do our jobs and then find a place to play music. At Shabona State Park we had no luck. There were no electrical outlets to plug in Evan and Bill’s small amplifiers, and the resulting tension left everybody feeling dissatisfied and out of sorts. We returned to camp, our happy plan dashed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—August 6, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Local boys (teens) ride through camp on their bikes. One comments to the other: “Looks like a rainbow fuckin’ blew up around here!”</i></div><i><br />
</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">August 6: Hiroshima Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The town of Sterling, Illinois, revealed a poignant chapter in American economic history. Sterling was a town of beautiful early 20<sup>th</sup> Century buildings with strong architectural features and lovely details. Three-storey brick buildings with arched windows and crenellated brickwork stood above broad storefronts along the main street. I could imagine the town alive with horses and carriages and early model automobiles. But Sterling’s economic heyday was long over. The town’s purpose and vibrancy had faded, maybe with the passing of an industry, or perhaps transported to a bustling strip mall outside town. When the peace march walked through town, every store, every office, every restaurant was no more than a dark, empty shell except for the taxi service where one light was on in the window. The nearby Rock River was, in one marcher’s word, “spent.” I wondered how local people were getting by, but there was no one around to talk with. I wondered what would become of this beautiful, sad, empty place. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the morning I was putting my gear onto the pile by the gear trucks when I spotted a woman from Oxford, Iowa, whom I had met briefly back in Coralville. Helen was a red-haired singer with a beautiful voice and a great ear for harmonizing. We greeted each other with hugs and laughter. I was so surprised to see her. She had her car with her, she said, so she would drive to the next site and meet me there. Walking that day, I was still in a lingering funk, mostly because I yearned for some private time for music, but also because I missed Iowa and the American West. At one point along the road, Helen slowed as she drove by and shouted out that Evan had exciting news for me—a plan, she said. A short while later I turned around to see Evan and Tom striding up behind me. I stopped and waited for them to catch up. Evan told me that Helen had invited us to drive back to her house in Iowa for a few days. The passing clouds over my mood dispersed: I was returning to the rolling hills and the magic of Iowa to play music with my friends. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As soon as we got into camp, we headed over to the food storage truck where Clayton, a member of the kitchen crew, was lounging in the doorway. Some of the marchers had started helping themselves to food whenever they felt like it, so Clayton had taken to hanging out in a strategic spot. We told him we were leaving the march for a few days and asked if he could afford to give us anything from the larder. He directed us to a shelf of food items that he said they would never use on the march, either because there weren’t enough of them to make a meal, or because they already had way too much. We took some pasta, brown rice and canned vegetables and ignored the boxes of macaroni and cheese and the packets of artificially flavored, powdered drinks. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Next stop was to let Adam, our work coordinator, know that Evan and I would be missing two days of loading. Adam always smiled whenever I talked with him, his brown eyes squinting through thick eyeglasses that sat high on his nose. He was pleasantly surprised that we had bothered to tell him our plan at all. It seemed most people just came and went without arranging a substitute for their workdays. No wonder the job of work coordinator was so exhausting. Adam expressed his appreciation and said he’d cover for us while we were away. We packed up our gear and our guitars and set out for Helen’s that evening. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-83329901970014233352010-11-27T19:02:00.011+01:002011-08-29T19:20:28.851+02:00Chapter Nineteen: "Farms, Not Arms"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the morning of July 14th, Bastille Day, we awoke to the most obnoxious wake-up call ever. Someone walked around camp screaming at the top of his lungs. “This is only a test! This is only a test! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My first thoughts of the shattered morning were, “Who the hell is that? Does he think this is funny?” I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t be sure, and by the time I stirred, he had already disappeared, hopefully into his hidey-hole for the remainder of the march. I got up in a decidedly un-peaceful mood and proceeded to a disappointing breakfast of white French toast and gloppy, cold oatmeal. I quit halfway through breakfast and stomped an irritated beeline back to my tent. I noticed that Evan had already returned to his, apparently with the same thought in mind: Go back to sleep and start over again later.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The following day, we arrived at the Friends Meetinghouse west of Des Moines. The meetinghouse was surrounded by acres of woodland and stretches of shady lawn perfect for camping. Evan and I unloaded the gear trucks with the crew and then cheered the marchers when they arrived. Everyone seemed to relax among the Friends, whom we knew to be avid supporters of disarmament. I had learned that it was derogatory to use the term “Quakers” to describe the Religious Society of Friends, so I was carefully incorporating “Friends” into my vocabulary at every opportunity. We gathered in the basement of the meetinghouse where the women in the community served trays and trays of homemade baked goods and ceramic mugs of apple cider. We quickly dispensed with the small talk. In no time, the room was filled with the sound of marchers and Friends talking shop. The question was not whether but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> to bring about nuclear disarmament.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Religious Society of Friends had a long tradition of peace activism and conscientious objection to war. In the 19<sup>th</sup> century, they fought to abolish slavery in the United States. In Iowa, they urged us to view our mission as a “new abolitionist movement”—a movement to abolish nuclear weapons. If society had abolished an entrenched, centuries old practice of slavery, they reasoned, surely we could abolish nuclear weapons. No one mentioned the fact that the abolition of slavery came after a bloody civil war, but they made their point with the marchers. Like other supporters we had met, the Friends encouraged us to engage in dialogue with Americans across the country and take a powerful, popular message to Washington. Theirs was a kind of tough love: Do not accept any outcome short of global nuclear disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The peace march had a rest day at Living History Farms just west of Des Moines. The farm operated as if it were the 19<sup>th</sup> century. People dressed in period costume gave demonstrations of life and labor long ago. Iris’s friend, Michael, a big, burley guy with sparkling blue eyes and a full beard, was the blacksmith. Michael was an affable spirit who would have fit right in on the peace march. I detected a spark between them, but I knew from Iris that they hadn’t forged a permanent relationship. Still, they seemed very happy to be near one another. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Our walk into Des Moines was a lively march down wide streets through shady residential neighborhoods. The day was warm and sunny and everyone seemed energized. I brought my guitar along, slung over my shoulder. Now that I had a strap, I could carry it anywhere. At one point I passed a yard sale where someone was selling various articles of clothing, among them a sleeveless, white t-shirt with big, black block letters that said, “NO WAR.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“How much?” I asked, assuming it would be out of my price range.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Five bucks,” came the reply.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’ll take it,” I said, digging in my pocket for a fiver.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I stood right there, pulled the new shirt on and deftly wriggled out of the old one, a lifelong skill every girl learns in junior high school. In my new shirt, I felt like Superman—ready to knock some heads together; not very peaceful, but righteous. I pulled my guitar into position and walked along playing every song I knew that had anything to do with peace or justice or walking. I had recently adapted Ruthie Gorton’s union solidarity song, “Step by Step” to a reggae beat. The lyrics, taken from the preamble of the constitution of the United Mine Workers of America, suited our purpose, too: “Step by step, the longest march can be won; many stones form an arch, singly none; and by union, what we will can be accomplished still; drops of water turn a mill, singly none.” An entourage of harmonizing singers, dancers, and Bruce with his hand drum, gathered around and we boogied our way through downtown Des Moines. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As the peace march arrived in her hometown, Iris took charge. She arranged for Evan, Bill, Tom and me to stay with Jack and Mandy, her friends who owned a whole foods market called “Greens and Grains.” The lifestyle Iris experienced on her family’s farm came from an era before vegetarianism and organic methods had taken hold. She grew up seeking a healthier way of life, one that would separate her from the meat-and-potatoes diet of her childhood. As an adult, she had found likeminded seekers, and "Greens and Grains" stood at the center of their community. Here she had found others who believed as she did that an evolution to a meatless, dairy-free diet was fundamental to achieving world peace. She had worked at "Greens and Grains" before the march; in fact it was there that she first learned about the march, and she gave me the grand tour: colorful, organic fruits and vegetables, all-natural cosmetics and lotions, bags of blue corn chips, and salad dressing with our benefactor, Paul Newman, on the label. In the bulk foods department she cooed over adorable black turtle beans, speckled pinto beans, flat fava beans and reliable black-eyed peas. Iris was serious about the importance of a healthy diet, but on our tour past the tubs of beans and grains, the whimsical “Beaner” came through. She imagined whole recipes aloud and inhaled deeply at the thought of the spices—cayenne, cumin, and coriander—that would enhance each one.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At their house that evening, Jack and Mandy invited us to make ourselves at home. Jack was a quietly attentive man, Mandy, his talkative, take-charge counterpart. We met their children, Allison and Trevor. Iris said they had been brought up as vegetarians since birth. I wondered about their health and development and observed them with an analytical eye, but they appeared perfectly happy, vibrant and quick-witted. I nested on a futon on the floor and settled in for the night. In the morning I awoke to the room filled with sunlight, the shadows of trees swimming across the floor and walls. We ate Jack’s fresh blueberry pancakes and shared a few stories from our trek, though as business owners, Jack and Mandy spent a good chunk of time talking with each other about the needs of their shop. Their easy-going lifestyle belied the enormous effort it took to keep their small business afloat.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcher-in-the-Home, Des Moines Style</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Iris wanted to show us one of her favorite spots, so she, Bill, Tom and I headed out to Peterson’s Pond. We made ourselves at home among a dozen or so local folks, relaxing, talking, laughing and swimming. So, this was Iris’s members-only swim club. The overhanging trees provided shade from the sun. The pond, an oasis of cool water on a peaceful summer day. We had toweled off and were relaxing on the grass when Iris spotted an elderly man coming over the hill, an empty pail in hand. “There’s Mr. Peterson,” she said.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">It hadn’t occurred to me that Peterson’s Pond was actually the property of a living person. My first thought was that maybe we were going to be ejected for trespassing, so I let Iris, who seemed to be acquainted, handle the conversation. Much to my surprise, Mr. Peterson greeted and welcomed us. He was a man of few words, but when he said, “You’re my personal guests,” we fell into friendly conversation. We talked for a while about what a beautiful place he had and how good he was to share it with us. He nodded, then stepped down to the water’s edge, gathered some water in his bucket, poured it around the base of his newly planted saplings, and continued on his way. The afternoon waned, and the families gathered up their children and towels and toys, but we stayed a while longer until we were the last ones left at Peterson’s Pond. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the evening, Tom, Bill, Evan and I met up with Iris’s Des Moines friends and headed out to a popular Thai restaurant. It was a long walk, relatively speaking, and my three-quarter rhythm sent me into meditation mode. I dropped back for a few minutes of solitude. Everyone understood and no one seemed to mind that I walked in silence in the wake of their friendly chatter. The restaurant owner showed our big group to a long table on the patio. Iris knew him personally, so although the place was busy, every free moment he had, he came over to ask a little more about the march and make sure we had everything we needed. From there we went out to a local club to hear “Collective Vision,” who by this time had become the “official” peace march band. Their music was sounding better with every performance. They brought great dance rhythms and meaningful lyrics together in a way that not only entertained us marchers but also communicated our message to the locals who came to celebrate with us. Working for nuclear disarmament didn’t always have to be serious; it could also be festive. Opening for Collective Vision was a local spandex funk band. The club was a crossroads of cultures—peace marchers, funk fans, and Iowa farm boys and gals—all talking, dancing, and having fun. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—July 18, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bill was at his typewriter all day.<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The march departed Des Moines on the morning of July 21<sup>st</sup> en route to Grinnell. Evan and I had lingered at Jack and Mandy’s house too long and missed getting to camp to load the trucks. We needed to get to the next site in time to unload. A friend of Iris’s offered us a ride but said that on the way he needed to stop in the small town of Newton. As I had typed up another newsletter in Des Moines, when I spotted a small print shop in Newton, I went in to make copies. I chatted with the owner, a soft-spoken but talkative man, while he made the copies. I noticed an old linotype machine in the shop, and when I mentioned it the owner invited me to see it work. He flipped the switch and the Industrial Age came alive. The well-oiled, machine moved the metal letters and gracefully dropped a sheet of paper, like a lady's handkerchief, into place. The roller passed back and forth and it was done. The owner, Mr. Grant, then showed me an old machine called an addressograph, which made a template for a business address. Both of these machines were built around 1900, he said, but they still worked perfectly some eighty years later. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mr. Grant had grown up in New York, in what is now Spanish Harlem and had moved to Iowa in the 1950’s to work as a printer on the G.I. Bill. After World War II, he said, the government offered work to young men coming back from the war, but, depending on one’s skills and interest, it sometimes meant moving to another part of the country. Mr. Grant said he had moved to Iowa to learn the printing trade and never moved back east. I asked him how he came to own the old machines. He said he developed an interest in the history of printing early on, and as Xerox machines came in and the old style printers went out of use, he bought up the old machines as they became available. I told him that I was on my way to Washington, D.C. on the Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament. He took and interest and asked a few questions about our trek. Just then, the phone rang, and as he turned to answer it, I waved and he waved and I left the shop. He had very kindly given me the Xerox copies gratis. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As I stepped outside, I bumped into Evan and told him he really had to see these old machines, so we went back into the shop. By this time Mr. Grant was off the phone, and I introduced him to Evan and asked if I could show him the machines. When he saw that we were really interested, Mr. Grant took us to a back room where he had a huge, old wooden camera, two printers, a little serial number clicker (the FBI checked if you ordered one with more than five numbers), an old paper cutter, and a stapler, properly called a lacer, for doing big stapling jobs. Mr. Grant said the only item he didn’t like was the machine for making rubber stamps; he made them only as favors to friends. We examined the machines and talked for a while about the Industrial Revolution and the world of our great grandparents, but the peace march was calling, so we thanked Mr. Grant for showing us around and went outside to find our ride to camp. From the single Xerox copier in the front window, we noticed, a casual passerby would have no idea that Mr. Grant’s print shop was a portal to the past. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan and I loaded and unloaded the gear trucks with such regularity that Adam, the work coordinator, asked us if we were interested in a promotion to “loading supervisors” on Wednesdays. In fact, we had been supervising the loading for many weeks, dutifully calling up the loaders in the morning and serving as the stackers on each truck, but the promotion made me feel proud that I had found my place at last. We took the title tongue-in-cheek—Adam, too—since we knew that titles earned on the peace march were hardly resume-builders, but I promised Adam that he could rely on us. He was thankful because it meant he could walk on Wednesdays instead of waiting around in camp until the trucks were loaded. I didn’t see any point in mentioning the truck doors swinging open on the highway back in Colorado or disclosing the fact that we had skipped our morning loading job just two days earlier. We just shook hands on the promotion. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Wednesday loading crew was totally reliable and made the task go like clockwork. There were usually ten or twelve of us, with a core crew of about eight. Sabine, a feisty, petit, blonde woman from Germany, wore bright colors and had the strength of a bull. Alec, a teenager, wore headphones, showed up on time, worked quietly, and never complained even in the heat or pouring rain. He had come on the peace march with his mom, who was also a loader. I was too intimidated to talk with a guy named Mike who looked a little bit like Mel Gibson. He never smiled. I imagined he had a dark past, but it could have been that he just didn’t like loading trucks. Sometimes everyone sang or talked, but it was hard work to hoist the gear, so aside from the occasional grunt or a shout to slow down or speed up, we usually worked fairly quietly.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">To my knowledge, only two labor disputes arose during the whole peace march. In the first instance, the number of people appearing for kitchen duty had dwindled until one afternoon only four cooks showed up to prepare the evening meal for five hundred marchers. Normally, three or four times that number were required to prepare and serve dinner. Sudama’s solution was immediate and fair: Simplify the menu. That evening we endured a tasteless meal featuring wedges of boiled cabbage. Sudama waited until we had gathered for dinner and explained the situation and then stood at the end of the serving line, clipboard in hand, taking names of new recruits for kitchen duty. By the end of dinner, his roster was full and the issue was resolved. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Another afternoon I heard there had been a strike by the port-a-potty crew. I knew nothing of the nature of the dispute, but it was resolved quickly, the threat of overflowing porta-potties being a powerful force in labor negotiations. On the peace march every job was important, but there was no doubt that the porta-potty cleaners had the most important job of all. One of my favorite images from the march was the help-wanted ad for porta-potty cleaners that someone had sketched and then taped to the port-a-potty door: a cartoon of Gandhi standing next to a toilet, a toilet brush in hand. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The maintenance crew protested conditions from time to time or begged people to return borrowed tools, but, to my knowledge, they never struck. Anyway, their work was so demanding and so critical to our mission that we would have given them anything they wanted if we could. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In Ladora, Iowa, we stayed in a strangely claustrophobic campground on a high ridge with beautiful fields spreading out in the distance on either side but little room along the ridge for actually setting up our tents. Since leaving Denver, we had had the luxury of spacious tent neighborhoods with plenty of elbowroom and privacy, but Ladora put us back at each other’s doorsteps. Tom pointed out that an occasional site like Ladora might not be such a bad thing as it prepared us for the urban campsites of Chicago and beyond. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan and I headed out for an eleven-miler through a chain of towns known as the Amanas. It was July 24<sup>th</sup>, an average day on the Great Peace March. No sooner had we hit the road than a man and his two little sons in a pick-up truck stopped and asked if we wanted a tour of an Iowa farm. We thought that was a great idea, so we accepted and were joined by Iris and Sheila, and, a few minutes later, by Caleb from Boulder with whom the farmer, George Carter, had spoken earlier in the morning. The five of us climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and rode down the highway toward the Carter farm. At one point Mr. Carter pulled over and stepped out to talk with us about the differences between growing seed corn and commercial feed corn. These were specialized fields, he said, requiring careful monitoring and a thorough understanding of plant and fertilizer chemistry. He also mentioned that agricultural studies had concluded that planting seed at a particular phase of the moon promoted plant growth. I was amazed that Mr. Carter was aware of the folklore associated with agriculture; moreover, that he would incorporate ancient techniques on his modern farm. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We drove onto the farm and walked up to the hog barns where, in pen after pen, huge sows lolled on their sides, nursing hungry piglets. I politely ignored the odor of the place, though to have described it as pungent would have been putting it mildly. Iris was feeling right at home. I was excited to experience a working farm, though in the back of my mind I was not thrilled to think that these porkers were headed for someone’s dinner plate. I was pretty sure Iris was thinking the same thing. Nevertheless, hog farming was big business and a major source of income for this family. Mr. Carter let several of the hogs out into the yard. They were bigger and more intimidating than I’d imagined, and he warned that the sows could be aggressive around their babies. We warily picked up some of the piglets as they squealed and wriggled at first and then settled into our arms. They were adorable. We patted their firmly packed little bellies and smiled at them because their mouths turned up at the edges as though they were smiling at us. Mr. Carter ignored our frivolity but stood talking with Caleb while we took pictures of each other with our little darlings. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three Little Pigs</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We returned the piglets to their mommas and continued to Mr. Carter’s machine shop, a building the size of a small airplane hangar, to inspect the farm machinery, including an enormous combine the likes of which I had seen only across the fields from a distance. Caleb conversed knowledgeably about the equipment in the machine shop. I had never met Caleb before, but his big ten-gallon hat and easy exchange with Mr. Carter about farm prices, government loans, good economic times and the current tough economic times, made it clear that he came from a farming background. This was foreign territory to me, but I gathered that Mr. Carter’s farm was, like most “family farms” in America, in serious economic crisis. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We walked up to the house and met Mrs. Carter, who kindly served us iced tea and joined in the conversation. She shared photo albums showing a year’s typical cycle of farming, extraordinarily good crop years as well as severe winters and devastating floods. I noticed shelves of neatly archived agricultural magazines and U.S. Department of Agriculture newsletters. Mr. Carter talked authoritatively about the grave difficulties facing farmers. He said that he and many others like him had followed the advice of the federal government for years. They carefully planned what they produced and how much they produced and how they produced it, but their farms were still failing. Farmers across the Great Plains were defaulting on loans and being forced to sell out to the agricultural conglomerates that were buying up thousands of acres of farmland for pennies on the dollar and making it impossible for the independent farmers to compete. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As he spoke, I reflected on the many farms we had passed where combines and tractors and farm machinery were lined up along the roadside with big “For Sale” signs hung on them, but in speaking with Mr. Carter, I realized that it wasn’t just farm equipment that was up for sale; it was a whole way of life. Large corporations were bullying an aspect of American culture right out of existence. It was heartbreaking to hear Mr. Carter, a strong, intelligent, able farmer, talk about an uncertain future that threatened his livelihood and the farm that had been in his family for generations. Our visit to the Carter farm helped me understand something that my upper middle class upbringing had not exposed me to: that the tenacity of family farmers like Mr. Carter, the thoughtfulness of small businessmen like Mr. Grant, and the dedication of shopkeepers like Jack and Mandy in Des Moines, represented a powerful expression of self-determination. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our</i> independent spirit as a nation was built, in large part, upon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i>independent spirit as citizens.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_FraEi7fZNaW5nTG8AKZ6Brw-upVpcxnil7EHYMCwPX4BGtZQVkupjQ61UO1lxSBsHCIV5OS3RCnIKCDRU0L1iYd1fwSN2uDDwKZWYNTgC82mX_MBVeZi0B6Mu8qENSzutlROQgbpwTz/s1600/000007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_FraEi7fZNaW5nTG8AKZ6Brw-upVpcxnil7EHYMCwPX4BGtZQVkupjQ61UO1lxSBsHCIV5OS3RCnIKCDRU0L1iYd1fwSN2uDDwKZWYNTgC82mX_MBVeZi0B6Mu8qENSzutlROQgbpwTz/s400/000007.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farms, Not Arms</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Mr. Carter and two of his children, Maura and Kevin, took us back to camp. Now it was our turn to give them the grand tour. We didn’t have piglets to offer, but we let the kids check out the inside of a tent, the school buses and the Bookmobile. They saw the porta-potties, the mobile kitchen, and the town hall tents. They saw the finance bus, the media bus, the info/com trailer, the mobile dentist office—everything. Mr. Carter was impressed by how all the systems worked. It had only been a few hours but it had been a day of sharing and learning, and when the Carters were getting ready to leave, I didn’t want to say goodbye. Their hospitality had brought new meaning to the "Farms, Not Arms" banner I had seen every day in camp, and had given me yet another reason to make it to Washington. We shook hands and wished one another well. Later that afternoon, I went into town to do my laundry. In the Laundromat, among the issues of “People” and “Good Housekeeping,” I noticed several monthly farm magazines. Before my visit to the Carter farm, I’d have ignored them, maybe even made fun of them, but Mr. Carter and his family had given me a lot to think about, and I read through them with genuine interest and appreciation. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-87139719057092255612010-11-27T17:07:00.008+01:002011-08-29T19:18:21.603+02:00Chapter Eighteen: "Okay, God, Send Me a Sign"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I was walking along a beautiful stretch of road in Iowa. A breeze softened the edge of summer. Gallant oaks and poplars stood between the bully sun and me. A nearby farmhouse closed its shades against the heat but let the sound of pots and pans escape. It would have been the perfect day to find a swimming hole. As I took in the moment, I thought about talking to God. I had grown up in a Catholic household, so the idea of talking to God was not foreign to me, but I had cast off the oppressive mantle of the church and the Catholic concept of God long ago. If God or a life force or a power of love did exist in the universe, I was interested in forging a new relationship. For one thing, I was no longer afraid of God. That was a relief. I no longer thought of God as the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. If I had to think of God as a person, which seemed beside the point entirely, I preferred to think of God the Baby, an innocent little being that required nurturing and love in order to thrive. For me, God was the sum of our human capacity to love. I was looking for a God I could relate to, a God I could talk to, a God I could kid around with and confide in. A friendly God. Why not?</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On this particular day, I was walking along, talking with God. “Ok, God,” I said aloud, “send me a sign. Send me a sign that you’re there and I’m here; something to let me know that this is true. It could be anything. I’ll recognize it when I see it.” It occurred to me that maybe I was tempting the old concept God to direct a bolt of lightning my way, but I shook off that fear, assured that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> God had a sense of humor and whimsy. Then I continued, singing and chanting along the peaceful Iowa road and forgot all about it. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A short time later, I was passing a little farmhouse. The shade trees in the yard cast their dappled shadow on the road. My attention was more or less on the path in front of me when an unusual shape came into view. There, on the road was a perfect, white heart cut out of cardboard. It was about the size of the palm of my hand. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I laughed out loud and said, “Oh…my…God.” What more perfect sign of God could there be than a white heart? I stooped down and picked it up. It was real. It was a heart from God. Then, I realized there was something on the other side. I turned it over. Glued to the heart was a small, red bauble, and above it, these words: “A virtuous woman is worth her weight in rubles.” What was this? An old Russian proverb? Could there really be such a power in the universe to manifest this message to a young woman walking across the country to make peace with a nation that used <i>rubles</i>? But it was more complicated than that… The quotation was handwritten, and a minute later I realized the word “rubles” was actually “rubies.” "A virtuous woman is worth her weight in <i>rubies</i>." I stood there in awe and laughter. Rubles or rubies, the message was the same. I didn’t want to move from that spot, but as I took the first few steps with the precious heart in my hand, I looked up to the Iowa sky and said, “Thanks, God, I got it.” </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-710023734943917332010-11-27T17:02:00.016+01:002011-08-29T18:47:24.319+02:00Chapter Seventeen: "Be Here Now"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;">California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska…</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The peace march crossed the Missouri River into Iowa at Council Bluffs. The afternoon was sweltering. We converged in a city park for an Independence Day celebration. I was hot and tired and sticky and not the least bit interested in the festivities. I got my guitar from the gear truck and found a place to sit in the park on a hill—a hill?! A hill! I loved Iowa already. Other marchers had the same idea, and lots of local Iowans had come picnicking, too, peppering the park and hillside. Evan and I sang “Lucille” for Eliot, a marcher from California. Eliot had just finished a last swig of orange juice, and I asked if he would give me the empty plastic container for a water bottle as mine was completely worn out. The possibility of wearing out a water bottle had never occurred to me, but the cap had gotten warped and loose and leaky. With every step I took, the bottle hanging from my belt slapped against my leg and a little water dribbled out so that the right leg of my shorts was constantly wet. Over twenty miles, it was annoying and uncomfortable. Eliot said sure, so I rinsed out the new container, filled it with cool water, slipped a shoelace through the handle and tied it to my belt. It was like a hobo Christmas: a simple gift and many thanks.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing into Iowa</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After setting up our tents in camp, Evan, Tom and I returned across the river to Nebraska, a short walk away. We wandered the sidewalks in search of air conditioning and a cold beer and happened upon a neighborhood spot called “Poopsie’s.” Tom loved the name of the place so much he must have said it five times before we reached the door. “Poopsie’s! Poopsie’s!” We crossed the street. “Poopsie’s! Poopsie’s!” We reached the sidewalk. Poopsie’s!” We opened the door to step inside. The other peace marchers hadn’t found the place yet, so we settled in for a chat with the locals. Our visits to the neighborhood pubs were useful to our mission. It wasn’t every day you walked into your neighborhood bar and found your drinking pals getting acquainted with a group of strangers who were walking across the country for global nuclear disarmament. Aside from the fact that we rarely paid for our own drinks, the return on “Marcher-in-the-Bar” was the pleasure of exchanging ideas and opinions and stories and laughs with thousands of people across the country, and that was what the peace march was all about. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At Poopsie’s, we met a local woman who invited us on a guided tour of Omaha. Her name was Jane, but she said that everyone called her “Plain Jane,” so we should, too. Tom needed to get back to camp, and after he departed “Plain Jane” loaded Evan and me into the front seat of her car. It was a LeSabre or an Impala or a Delta 88—one of those big boats that sat three across the front bench. I couldn’t help but notice that what looked like an entire wardrobe’s worth of clothing filled the back seat. I wondered if maybe Plain Jane was living out of her car. She gave us a first rate tour of downtown Omaha. We rode through the old warehouse district with its beautiful red brick buildings, we passed the stately, old train station and we stopped briefly in front of the classic show house that Plain Jane said was once the Vaudeville theatre. The city had recently created a registry of historic buildings to protect them from demolition. Plain Jane told us stories about the early days of the meat packing industry and a huge tornado that had devastated the city early in the century. I was transformed. I had foolishly pegged Omaha for a dull town of cowboys and meat packers. Instead, here were lively theatres and beautiful architecture and, if Plain Jane was a fair example, outgoing, intelligent, articulate residents. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Along the way, we also dropped in on a couple of Plain Jane’s favorite pubs where Evan and I drank lightly but joined in meeting some of her friends. Plane Jane was informed, animated and witty, but she was down on herself, saying that she was “burned out” at age forty-four. Naturally, Evan and I protested. I wanted so much to boost her self-image, not out of pity but because she really was something special. I asked her what her dream was, and she said she had two: to ride a bicycle from the northernmost part of Scotland to the southern coast of England, and to become a history teacher. Evan and I both insisted that her “dreams” were well within reach, especially at such a young age. We pointed out that people thought nuclear disarmament was a pipe dream, a hopeless cause, but that we were determined to make it a reality. It broke my heart to think that Plain Jane had already given up on two perfectly attainable goals. It also made me wonder if her tendency toward heavy drinking was the chicken or the egg. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Plain Jane wanted us to join her at her favorite Italian restaurant for dinner. She wanted us to be her guests. I tried hard to beg off the invitation because I wasn’t sure of her financial situation, but she insisted, so in the end we accepted her offer. What a night. The restaurant was actually a huge dining club that specialized in every variety and cut of Omaha beef—and liquor. Other than licensed dining clubs like this one, Plain Jane explained, Omaha was dry territory for spirits. Every table was full. The dining room was alive with the merry sounds of clinking glasses and cordial conversation. I hadn’t eaten beef in at least four months, and on the Great Peace March I had moved into a vegetarian state of mind, so I felt hypocritical commenting on the deliciousness of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">filet mignon</i> while actually making a meal of the side dishes, but otherwise we had a great time sitting around the table talking freely with our hostess and her friends and enjoying the jovial ambience. In parting, we made a deal with Plain Jane that if we succeeded on our cross-country trek, she would somehow find a way to get to Scotland for that bicycle trip. Our meeting with Plain Jane sank in deep with me. Whether she had been able to take a dram of encouragement from Evan and me, I didn’t know, but she had taught me a poignant lesson about abandoning dreams, and she had given me one more reason to make it to Washington. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Nebraska, Iowa Seemed Downright Hilly</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We had two rest days in Council Bluffs, a luxurious vacation after three weeks and four hundred miles across Nebraska. Iris and Joel and the other cooks prepared a sumptuous brunch and served it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al fresco</i> on long buffet tables. It would have been impressive enough if the Great Peace March kitchen had prepared three meals a day for five hundred people, but they also provided every meal in three categories: meat, non-meat, and non-dairy. At mealtime, we joined one of three lines according to our dietary wishes. I usually went in for the non-meat menu. The food was amazing. Like most families in America, we enjoyed casseroles, spaghetti, soups, burritos, lasagna, burgers, stir-fried vegetables, fresh salads and desserts. I grew accustomed to new foods, too: bulgur wheat salad, tempeh, and, especially, tofu. Other than a few cubes floating in miso soup, I had never really eaten tofu until our cooks proved its delicious potential. My favorite tofu dish was a sauté of onion, garlic, vegetables and soy sauce served over brown rice, but I also enjoyed it mixed into pasta sauce and scrambled with vegetables and herbs. At the time, tofu was not widely known or appreciated outside Asian and “alternative lifestyle” circles, and many of us became converts thanks to the skill of our kitchen crew.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMi4A13VnET9cPIkCLMMwgeGmYnhMEe26al5KNAq4HQUjnxSgrctkkdAiDtEVyI2JFycPnDwH3C9jOhEXT5Xe8GJl4p9K9lmhApAvuA1ixQwFgNoA6nwy2MJpYa8ICAExBa-mBnxiI1vM/s1600/n1508570350_30144765_7876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHMi4A13VnET9cPIkCLMMwgeGmYnhMEe26al5KNAq4HQUjnxSgrctkkdAiDtEVyI2JFycPnDwH3C9jOhEXT5Xe8GJl4p9K9lmhApAvuA1ixQwFgNoA6nwy2MJpYa8ICAExBa-mBnxiI1vM/s400/n1508570350_30144765_7876.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inviting Local Folks to Dinner</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The peace march cooks weren’t entirely invincible. Twice, when someone left the pasta unattended and it burned in the bottom of the huge pot, they had to chuck the whole lot. There were foods we grew tired of—jicama, blood oranges, cabbage, peanut butter—but that wasn’t the fault of the cooks. Their only really disastrous offering was the trail mix that they occasionally gave us “for the road.” It included raw oatmeal which, unfortunately, produced such universal flatulence that we ended up walking as far from one another as possible. On trail mix days we probably had the longest, thinnest peace march in America. On the whole, though, the quality was five star. For me, every meal on the Great Peace March was a celebration, and not only because I didn’t have to prepare it. Most marchers seemed to agree. I rarely heard anyone complain about the food. In fact, every now and then someone would stand up and shout, “Three cheers for the cooks!” and we’d all “hooray” so they could hear us all the way back in the kitchen. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had been feeling a bit blue for a couple of days. Emotional funks got me down from time to time, and I never knew why or when they would come or go. I’d trudge through thinking it was “just one of those days.” My brother, Louis, who also endured bouts of melancholia, had assured me once that it was “only passing clouds.” The fact that I had recently completed three of the most physically demanding weeks of my life and might simply be feeling stunned from walking halfway across the continent never occurred to me. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day was heavily overcast. Strong winds blew steadily from the west. We were all going about our business as usual until a strong gust suddenly carried one of the dome tents spinning into the air. Everyone stopped and watched helplessly as it soared up into the sky. It looked just like Dorothy Gale’s house sucked up by the twister in <i>The Wizard of Oz.</i> Someone standing near me wondered aloud if there might have been anyone inside, and for a second I thought he was serious, but he was just kidding. It landed a few hundred yards away.<br />
A few minutes later the dark clouds took on a strange, bruised green hue. I knew that a green sky could only mean one thing. Sure enough, a minute later someone announced through a bullhorn that we were under a tornado alert. My heart raced as I looked around for cover, but the campsite was unyieldingly flat, leaving us completely exposed. The best we could do was huddle like sitting ducks along a low berm and hope that Mother Nature would let the danger pass, and she did, finally, without incident. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We left Council Bluffs on July 7<sup>th</sup>, a workday for me. I loaded trucks and then took the Workers’ Shuttle to the next campsite. Our site was a gently rolling field of waist-high grass up a country road off the main highway. I was feeling restless, so I took a jog up the road and then returned to help Campscape—today it was Bill, Tom and Shamak—put up the big town hall tent. By that time, the trucks had pulled in, so I joined Evan and the crew to unloaded the gear. When the marchers arrived, they had to wade out into the sea of tall grass to put up their tents.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq6YrIuS8pIA7DvipQz1aix7jyQwTrF8z8nC_DazbZgKcRU7Saz3V_J-hr0VYsEkz0jFt9LZXAu6NL__n3v9-Y5t-tEOaHYj9ICx2X_PiaNzAldWCAMlqXzRuTXw60a1KGLGB3hqdt9za/s1600/F1000046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq6YrIuS8pIA7DvipQz1aix7jyQwTrF8z8nC_DazbZgKcRU7Saz3V_J-hr0VYsEkz0jFt9LZXAu6NL__n3v9-Y5t-tEOaHYj9ICx2X_PiaNzAldWCAMlqXzRuTXw60a1KGLGB3hqdt9za/s400/F1000046.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Campscape Crew: Brawn and Brains</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For dinner we had steaming, fresh corn-on-the-cob—perfectly ripe, sweet, and delicious—donated by local farmers. I innocently asked a local woman if the corn we were eating was the same corn we had seen growing in the fields. “Heavens no!” she scolded, “Our eating corn comes from Texas. Iowa corn is feed corn!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Her husband, the lighter side of the partnership, asked, with a twinkle in his eye, “Have you tried eating the corn around here?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I laughed uncertainly. “No,” I replied. Clearly, I was out of my depths with these heartland folks.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“You ought to try it,” he said. “But I’ll warn you, it doesn’t taste very good!” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought it best to end on a positive note, so I thanked them for feeding us and sought a place to sit with my dinner. I didn’t think it would be polite to mention that it seemed a little wasteful to be surrounded by thousands of acres of corn but eating corn that had been trucked all the way from Texas. I did notice that the marchers held back on a second ear until everyone had had firsts. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ram Dass came to camp to talk with us in the evening. Ram Dass was a psychologist who became known for his experimentation with LSD back in the 1960’s and early 70’s. Since then, he had turned to a spiritual path. Through his books and talks he promoted a lifestyle enriched by reflection and meditation. I was familiar with Ram Dass and had heard him speak before. A self-deprecating sense of humor pervaded his teaching. His coined probably the most famous mantra in the Western world: “Be here now.” In camp, he sat cross-legged in front of the porta-potties on a small dias. Lynnie, our youngest marcher, played with a kitten on the ground in front of him, and for a while the microphone kept whacking him in the mouth as people arrived and tripped over the cord. Finally everyone settled down to listen. The sun going down behind him cast a gorgeous light through the summer air busy with insects and made everything look like a colorful pointillist painting. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ram Dass told stories about his adventures in meditation, some serious, some humorous. He also spoke directly about our trek. What surprised me was that he talked about the importance of our march not so much for the changes it would bring but for its own sake and ours. This was a new idea for me, and at first I didn’t like it. Was Ram Dass saying that the march had its own purpose apart from striving to bring about nuclear disarmament? Was he saying that the march had its own purpose in the present? Yes. That was it. To me, it seemed selfish that we should focus on the march for the sake of the marchers, but in his view, there was really nothing more practical or true or “real” than that. As much as we dreamed of reversing the nuclear arms race, we actually had no idea what our impact might or might not be. On the other hand, Ram Dass was suggesting, we did know who we were in the present moment. We were marchers on the Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament, right here, right now. There was no more—and no less—to it than that.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ram Dass</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The entire peace camp sat together in quiet meditation, free from walking, working, or worry; free from the future and the past; free from criticism, praise or doubt. I felt calmed by Ram Dass’s words, by our contemplative state, and by Iowa’s soft, swirled hills at twilight. When Ram Dass finished, marchers mingled for a while and then slowly dispersed. We went to hunt for our tents in the high grass and lost sight of each other as we ducked inside for the night. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day was an easy fourteen miler to Oakland. Evan, Tom, MC and I ate breakfast in camp and hit the road. Everyone seemed emotionally fortified after our evening with Ram Dass. His words of wisdom had raised my mood and persuaded me to stop fretting—at least until the next waxing moon pulled my psyche out of orbit again—about what more I should be doing, what our impact had been and was going to be, what other people thought of me, and whether it was all worth the effort. Actually, I didn’t mind the effort. With Nebraska behind me, and Iowa’s peacefully undulating hills ahead, I had rediscovered the joy of walking for its own sake.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shady Lunch Break Somewhere in Iowa</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In Iowa, they say, you can hear the corn grow. I asked Iris, and she said it was true. One day she led Evan. Tom and me off the road and into a cornfield. We followed her about thirty yards into the field, ducking the tall corn plants that towered over our heads and splashed their broad leaves against us on either side. She found a good spot, and we lay on our backs between the cornrows in the warm, green light. Tom could barely contain himself. For him, just lying down in a cornfield was a thrill. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom: “Isn’t this exciting?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: “Shhh.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom, wriggling: “I’ve never been in a corn field before!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Iris: “Ok, we’ll have to be quiet now.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom, whispering loudly: “I wonder what it sounds like!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">All of us, in a loud chorus: “Shhhh!” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom: “Hey, you guys, stop makin’ so much noise! I’m tryin’ to hear the corn grow!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We quieted down and everyone gazed silently up at the slivers of blue sky visible beyond the still, green stalks. No clouds, no wind. I could hear myself breathing. After another minute, I started to notice a sound I couldn’t identify: a soft, swishing sound, like when you rub your palms together or hold a conch shell up to your ear. Then, in another moment, it came to me—it was the broad, flat leaves of a thousand corn plants sliding against each other as they grew. We all giggled in amazement then listened again. Yes, in Iowa you really can hear the corn grow. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 47.6pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On our way out of the field, I asked Iris if she thought it would be okay to take an ear of corn to taste. She replied as though she owned every corn farm in the state, “You can eat some if you want, but you might not like it.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 47.6pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“I know, but I want to try it,” I said.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 47.6pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;">She broke off an ear of corn and pulled back the husk. I took it from her and bit off a few kernels. It tasted disgusting—warm, mealy and bland. I grimaced and spat it out. Iris just shook her head and laughed. “The hogs love it,” she said. And I took that as a compliment.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My sister Cassie sent me an awesome care package—a summer fun box containing lots of great stuff to play with and two new cassettes: Talking Heads and REM. I sat on a picnic table under a shade tree in camp and examined each item. Included was a bottle of bubbles, so I opened it and took out the wand and started blowing them. In no more than a minute, a swarm of little marchers appeared and started chasing the bubbles as they floated on the air. The bubbles transported the children to another world. They danced with the bubbles, then sparred with them, peered through them, blew them afloat above their heads and tried capturing them whole on their hands or noses. The kids took turns with the little wand and blew bubbles until the liquid was all gone, then they wandered off, a band of tiny gypsies in search of other diversions. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning, July 9<sup>th</sup>, I decided to begin a one-day fast after breakfast. For most of my life, whenever I wasn’t completely engaged in some activity, I thought about food. I rarely skipped a meal and frequently added one in-between. I had a sweet tooth the size of Gibraltar. A box of cookies, a bar of chocolate, a pint of ice cream -- I couldn't rest until it was all gone. Fortunately, my mother had taught me to stay busy—or outdoors; and, fortunately, I loved sports and physical activity, so could eat like a carp and still remain fairly fit. I had only fasted once before, and I had fantasized about food the whole time. I thought another shot at it would be good for me. I decided that a Wednesday workday would be easier than trying to fast on a day of walking. Breakfast being my favorite meal, I figured I’d have a better chance at success if I started my fast after breakfast. I could more easily avoid lunch and dinner, and I could sleep through the last seven or eight hours, which would be the most difficult. After twenty-four hours I would actually “break” my “fast,” a little word play that added a literary twist to my endeavor. I hadn’t even begun to fast and I was already looking for ways to make it easier. I ate a bowl of granola with milk and fresh blueberries under a picnic shelter at Oakland Park. That was easy. Each spoonful tasted even better than usual as it would be my last food for a whole day.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After breakfast, I loaded the trucks, eschewing the candy that someone had brought for the loaders, and boarded the Workers’ Shuttle. As I walked up the aisle of the bus, I noticed a marcher I had recently met. I had talked with him once before, and he was friendly and funny, so I approached him to ask if I could take the empty seat next to his. He was Korean-American. As I sat down next to him, I stupidly called him by the name of a Japanese marcher whom I had also recently met. He looked at me with a puzzled expression, and it took a minute for me to figure out that something was wrong. When he told me my mistake, I shrank with embarrassment. His disappointed expression and flat tone told me it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that kind of mistake. “Oh, don’t worry about it.” he said sarcastically. “We all look alike.” I didn’t know how to react. I apologized, of course, but beyond that, I felt like such an idiot that I really didn’t know how to continue. In fact, I had met him and the Japanese man within a day or two of one another, and I hadn’t mixed them up, I had only mixed up their names, but there was no convincing him of that; I could only apologize for my mistake. An awkward conversation ensued on the way to camp. Mostly we were silent. I had no idea how to earn forgiveness for a racial transgression. He hardened to me the next time I saw him on the shuttle. I didn’t sense a second chance coming on, so I smiled feebly as I passed down the aisle and sat in another seat, acquiescing in his right to push me away. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cold Springs State Park near Lewis was a cool, shady site that reminded me of the wooded eastern piedmont in Maryland where I had camped as a young Girl Scout. The tenting area was up a narrow drive to a shady hilltop. After weeks on the griddle in Nebraska, the novel act of walking up a hill in the shade was inspiration enough for me. But there was more. Everything smelled of loam and ferny fiddleheads and grass freshly mown right to the edge of the woods. Felled or fallen trees were left as benches, nature’s invitation to sit and do nothing, and the screened-in meeting hall was worn to a rustic practicality that made me feel right at home. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">All of my friends were away or busy. Iris had left for Des Moines to prepare her hometown for our arrival. Sheila was off to Boulder to visit friends. Evan and Tom were nowhere to be seen. I was failing to forget about food. You could have stuffed yourself on the smorgasbord in my mind. To pass the time, I went into the meeting hall where the women’s choir, “Wild Wimmin for Peace,” were busy rehearsing. I stepped inside and listened for a few minutes. They were having trouble with one song and asked if I would direct them. I was surprised and wondered why they assumed I had any experience with musical conducting. I stepped up, hoping that years of choir rehearsals had impressed me with a few conductor moves, and gave it my best shot. The women sang beautiful harmonies, precisely tuned and evenly balanced, they just needed someone to bring them in at the right times, and I could do that, so I did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVG6nklxqVuxvxWtcQNLlH6XQ_IzKQE5PQBZYENL9K1CuU7b1KUMsqe5KylMN6sC8Vs0Bgb0k0vwkzccoq5GuKZFqEAIVoKkWR99s_AL2-TB8sn_9eCAfCXLOsGcSNHfOWZO1uZay_EgO/s1600/n687671471_1702285_4901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVG6nklxqVuxvxWtcQNLlH6XQ_IzKQE5PQBZYENL9K1CuU7b1KUMsqe5KylMN6sC8Vs0Bgb0k0vwkzccoq5GuKZFqEAIVoKkWR99s_AL2-TB8sn_9eCAfCXLOsGcSNHfOWZO1uZay_EgO/s400/n687671471_1702285_4901.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild Wimmin for Peace</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> At dinnertime I avoided the food line by retreating into my tent for an hour of meditation. I had discovered some months earlier that when I chanted “Om,” I could sing the vocal tone plus a faint octave overtone, like those Tibetan monks who drone in meditation, so I chanted for a while, bathed in vibration. I had also learned about aligning the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chakras</i>, the energy centers of the body, beginning with red at the base of the torso, then orange at the navel, yellow at the solar plexus, green at the heart, sky blue at the throat, indigo blue at the third eye in the center of the forehead, and violet at the top of the head. It was like a rainbow going right up your spine. I took a few deep breaths, focusing on each chakra. The meditation was relaxing and, according to eastern and alternative western medicine, beneficial. Usually I struggled with a mind full of scattered thoughts when I sat down to meditate, but the fasting focused my mind. Only hunger competed for my attention. For the hour I kept it at bay, I was in bliss.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">With dinner over and the kitchen safely off limits, I joined a small group gathered at the Peace Academy bus. They had hooked a TV and VCR player up to a camp generator so we could watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dr. Strangelove,</i> Stanley Kubrick’s classic film about the nuclear arms race. Evan and Tom came by and we all settled in to watch. Tom left after a few minutes, but Evan and I stayed for the whole show: George C. Scott as General Buck Turgidson; Peter Sellers’ brilliant portrayal of three different characters; Slim Pickins piloting the nuclear bomber. Kubrick’s genius made the brink of nuclear annihilation poignantly funny and the idea of a nuclear arms race utterly ridiculous. If you didn’t know that the nuclear bomb really existed, you’d have thought he’d made the whole thing up. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, a large gathering of marchers and Iowans met down the hill on the grassy lawn to exchange information about the events and support we could expect on our walk across the state. I could hear laughter wafting up the hill. It seemed “Iowans for Peace” were as enthusiastic as we were to be in Iowa. After the film I retired to my tent and let the crickets and my growling stomach sing me to sleep. I dreamed of food all night long, but my fast had been a success. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">July 10<sup>th</sup> was a twenty-four mile walk from Cold Springs State Park to Lake Anita. Twenty-four miles was a stretch on any day, and we were doing close to that almost every day. Even though I had grown accustomed to the long distances, I could tell when we added a few more miles to the usual eighteen or twenty. At Lake Anita, everyone knew we had pulled an extra long day. Marchers in camp clapped and cheered their woop-dee-doo when we arrived. One group of marchers came striding into camp and walked straight down the boat ramp and into the water, clothing, shoes, hats, sunglasses and all. We set up our tents on the rolling, green hills that surrounded the lake. After dinner, I put on my bathing suit and swam under the pastel pink clouds just after sunset. The water was warm from the long summer day but refreshing nonetheless. I went into the bathhouse, dried off, put on baggy cotton pajama pants and a top and walked back to my tent, tired but content. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The sky was starry at bedtime, so I merely draped the rain fly across the top of the tent. I secured the sides but didn’t bother to stake down the front. By the time the thunder woke me, the wind had already picked up and big drops of rain were spattering against the tent. The storm approached fast as I scrambled to attach the fly. Tom came to my rescue. I held down the fly from the inside and counted silently to myself between the lightning flashes and echoing thunder as he quickly put in the two stakes and the support pole. The wind made the tent sway and shudder as the rain smacked hard against the nylon, threatening to soak through. For a few eternal minutes, lightning flashed madly all around. I laughed nervously, telling myself over and over that everything was fine, but I wasn’t sure what the next moment would bring. I worried about our hundreds of tents pitched all over the hills around the lake. When the storm finally passed, I listened for a moment to hear if anyone was in trouble. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Impossible as it seemed, we were unharmed. Maybe there really was something to Alfred’s mantle of grace. The next morning we sat at a picnic table under a pavilion near the lake and compared notes on the storm. Evan admitted to having narrated every moment just to keep calm. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The park was spacious, it was a rest day, and Tom and I went for a run for a mile or so in the afternoon. I was still working to keep our relationship at bay. The pastoral settings and the idealistic community were not making the task any easier. Life on the peace march otherwise seemed so perfect that it was hard not to see everything through rose-colored glasses. I felt myself constantly pushing back in order to preserve the space I needed to fully experience what was happening around me. As we jogged along the ridge, I realized that walking twenty miles a day had not conditioned my lungs for running, and I was exhausted. It didn’t occur to me that maybe I was just plain bushed. Tom ran much faster than I did, and I got annoyed when he kept pulling ahead and then slowing down to wait for me or turning around and running backwards or looping back to join me again. I wanted to run alone, even at my own pathetic pace. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In preparation for our evening performance, Wild Wimmin met to practice in the bathhouse by the lake. There was no roof, and the sun streamed in and warmed the spacious, enclosed changing area. Everyone was clean and rested and refreshed. Several of the Wild Wimmin lounged in the buff on the benches as we rehearsed the songs and worked out final harmonies. I had never conducted a choir of naked women, but by this time there wasn’t much that could faze me. I opted to wear clothes and, at their invitation, joined in the singing. My favorite was “Lifeline,” a powerful gospel song about Harriet Tubman, who guided runaway slaves along the Underground Railroad. The melody matched the lyrics, “Come on up, I’ve got a lifeline; come on up to this train of mine,” the blue note harmonies crossing over and intertwining like a weaver twisting soft, green reeds into a simple basket of sound, except that when the singers are done weaving their song, it disappears forever. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At show time, the audience of marchers gathered casually on the grassy hillside. First up were a group of thespian marchers who many weeks earlier had discovered their mutual love of Shakespeare. Out on the road, they sometimes they read passages aloud as they walked along together. At Lake Anita, they performed a Shakespearean spoof on our sad sack days at Stoddard Wells. Wild Wimmin sang, and Pete Seeger, who had somehow found us along the road again, performed, his powerful life force reverberating boldly in his music. It was exciting to sing along on “If I Had A Hammer,” one of the first folk songs I had ever learned, with the man who wrote it. The whole camp sang, “I’d sing out danger, I’d sing out a warnin’, I’d sing out love between my brothers and my sisters all over this land.” Pete Seeger’s performance also reinforced the Great Peace March as part of a long, rich tradition of peace activism. A beautiful sunset on Lake Anita drew the curtain down on our performance and the evening to a close.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEEE_ltl3o3V182IXrcrSBh2kkqNCkg_zuZrLoB4nZJHO2qpOGMNP-UWuN8uydrThbwFF7DwjWi8w7wKG3W6Ou4yS657Q1MFGQo2rHDvgL-53239l0wQHuc6jf75xn4XOhpdeueOqrpyO/s1600/7129_1167708207244_1664104734_411374_3882067_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEEE_ltl3o3V182IXrcrSBh2kkqNCkg_zuZrLoB4nZJHO2qpOGMNP-UWuN8uydrThbwFF7DwjWi8w7wKG3W6Ou4yS657Q1MFGQo2rHDvgL-53239l0wQHuc6jf75xn4XOhpdeueOqrpyO/s400/7129_1167708207244_1664104734_411374_3882067_n.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pete Seeger at Lake Anita</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry – July 11, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After the show, Evan and I walk to the top of the ridge and are awed by the brilliant night sky. Every star in the universe must be visible tonight. We are alive on this small planet. Can it be so hard to survive? Evan says, “If we have Star Wars, satellites will fly in formation across the sky at night.” We are so young yet feel so old in the face of our extinction. This wonderful day reminds me of what we are living for, what we are marching for. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Last night I had a “Come Spinning Down” dream. In it my sister, Cassie, told me that she was leaving a little girl in my care. Somehow the transfer of responsibility had to do with Cassie, the youngest in our family, and, perhaps, the “baby” in my mind, and Mom and Dad as caretakers—the roll I would now play. The child, dark-haired and smiling and just a little chubby, loved some particular song with the word “moo” or “rose” in the title. She also had some kind of soaking bath that I had to prepare for her—the womb? I was also aware that she was, on some level, entirely capable of caring for herself. The problem was that I kept losing track of her. The message was clear. There were too many distractions in my life—the march, my wanderlust, my inclination toward solitude—that made it impossible to care for a child.</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-50360852280160522262010-11-27T09:55:00.041+01:002011-08-29T18:41:02.201+02:00Chapter Sixteen: "Come Spinning Down"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b> </b>On June 23rd, we passed the halfway point across America: not the halfway point of our trek, but the geographical halfway point from coast to coast. Some marchers celebrated, but I just let the humble roadside marker pass. I figured our cross-country walk would be anything but symmetrical, so the “halfway” sign was no more revealing than a bottle labeled “Drink me.” I had no idea how events would continue to unfold; all I could say for sure was that I was growing accustomed to the constant cycle of adaptation and change. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the next few days we continued along Route 30 through Wood River, Alda, Grand Island, Chapman, Central City, Clarks, Silver Creek, and Duncan. I couldn’t help but imagine that Nebraska’s tiny towns existed in the middle of absolutely nowhere simply because a hundred and fifty years ago some pioneer woman jumped down from the wagon and shouted, “That’s it, Shelton! (or Alda or Clark or Duncan) I’m not takin’ one more step! We’re stayin’ right here.” </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In Columbus, Nebraska, I attended my first tree planting ceremony. Evan had been learning to play bass guitar in a new band called “Jonah, Moan and the Blisters,” and they were playing at the ceremony, so Evan invited me to go along and sing backup. I wasn’t enthusiastic—for one thing, it was ninety degrees in the shade—but it was something to do, so I went. Phil Holmes, a fellow marcher, spoke first and welcomed us to Columbus—his hometown. He was a gentle man whose red hair and a red beard made him one of those noticeable people in camp. I had met him back in Denver a month earlier and forty degrees cooler when Iris had pulled us together for a “best-sweaters-on-the-march” photo, me in my penguins and he in his rainbow-striped pullover. As he spoke, I tried and failed to imagine childhood in a tiny Nebraska town. No woods, no creek, no hills to wander. Instead, wide, treeless streets lined with two-storey buildings, an occasional town park, and, at the edge of town, a train depot overshadowed by mighty corn silos, all surrounded by acres and acres of flat-as-a-pan farmland. It pained me just to think about it.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Gathered around the peace tree were Mayor Justine and several members of “Nebraskans for Peace,” which was, someone said, the oldest continuous peace group in the United States. “Nebraskans for Peace” and our Advance Team were working together to coordinate rallies, food procurement, and campsite locations all the way across the state. We listened to an exchange of words of friendship and then made a wish for peace as the root ball was lowered into the earth. The song we sang was a well-crafted reggae tune that Jonah had written called “Ponderous.” A guy named Natty played guitar, and Willa played her conga. I found an easy harmony part, and the song sounded nice. Except for the fact that the sapling in question was not yet tall enough to provide us any shade, the tree planting ceremony was a pleasure. It felt good to plant something lasting in our transient peace march lives. When the peace march was over, if all went well with our bid to rid the world of nuclear weapons, that tree would still be there in Columbus, reaching for the sky.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—June 27. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s so hot and humid today I think I’m going to die. I am sweaty and uncomfortable and ornery and mean. It’s all I can do to remember to drink and pee, drink and pee. I left my visor in Jonah’s van and have only sunglasses to protect my eyes and nothing to cover my head. My hair is dark, and it retains heat like an asphalt roof. The walk is twenty-two and a half miles—Half miles? Who’s counting half miles? The roadway is flat and straight and utterly treeless with rows and rows and rows of corn stretching to the horizon in every direction. It’s enough to drive a person mad. The water in my water bottle turns from cool to warm to hot in a matter of ten or fifteen minutes. After that, each swig just makes me more irritable. Every fifteen minutes or so, I blandly remind whoever I’m walking with to “drink water,” and they do the same for me, but I am not, as Libby would say, a happy camper.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> As we crossed Nebraska, “Peace City” sprang up farther and farther from the simple pleasures of a Laundromat, a flush toilet, a shower, a ceiling fan, a jukebox, or a cold bottle of beer. One day I heard that we were headed for a campsite in a sheep pasture. I anticipated mounds of sheep scat, swarms of black flies, and all-night bleating. When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was the tall stand of trees that surrounded the big, square pasture like a row of sentinels guarding a citadel. The second thing I noticed was an absence of sheep. It seemed that the herder had moved his animals so our own flock could inhabit the field. I picked up my tent and sleeping bag and stepped gingerly across the field, looking out for dung balls, when I realized—there was no scat… nor, I noticed, were there any flies. Would wonders never cease? We flattened down the rough grass and made a home in the pasture. Someone parked our communal wash-up wagon at the center of the site and placed wooden loading pallets on the ground to make a deck around it. Marchers took turns having a proper shave or a shampoo in the gravitational flow. Lynnie, the littlest marcher, took a bath in a plastic cooler. As day turned to evening, a familiar calm fell over the camp, illuminated by the sunlight flirting through the closely spaced trees on the western side, like cathedral light filtered through stained glass windows. It appeared that our “mantle of grace” was effective even against flies and sheep poop. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washing Up in the Sheep Pasture</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning, I was talking with Tom over by the kitchen. The main march had left for the day, and the workers had begun the morning routine of washing up the breakfast dishes and breaking down the campsite. I was about to gather my crew to load the gear trucks when an argument broke out between two marchers. They were fighting over a set of car keys. Suddenly, both men were on the ground, wrestling, grabbing for the elusive keys. My heart leapt into my throat, but the scene was so bizarre in the context of our peace community that what came to mind was a fight scene from an old Popeye cartoon with arms flailing and dirt flying. To my surprise, in the time it took me to blink, Tom had stepped in, separated the two guys, gotten them back on their feet, and arbitrated a negotiation about the keys and the car. A minute later, they walked off in peace, and Tom returned to our conversation as though nothing had happened.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Neighborhood in the Sheep Pasture</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In addition to being gallant peacemaker, Tom was a pleasure to be around. He was funny and honest and open, and his energy was contagious. We were nearly the same age, and we both came from big families and had similar attitudes about people and kids and pets and all those family kinds of things. We shared an appreciation for old television shows, old movies, music, sports, and a general enthusiasm for life. Tom liked folk music, and he introduced me to musicians I’d never heard before. We had a lot in common; still, I was reluctant to get into a relationship on the peace march because I knew if it went sour, it could ruin an otherwise spectacular experience. Even if it went well, I didn’t want my experience of the peace march to be limited to working out the details of a relationship with one person. I told Tom how I felt, and he said he understood, though he wished it were otherwise. In many ways, I did, too.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Out on the road, I practiced walking meditation, chanting and using my prayer beads to send out positive energy to my friends and family and to the world in general. Many other marchers were exploring the internal landscape, too. Some walked in prayer, some in silence; others fasted. Silent walkers often wore a little ribbon or sign to let others know not to speak with them. Most smiled and signaled with an index finger to the lips that they wished to remain in silence; I usually smiled back and, hands in prayer position, bowed to indicate a blessing. One woman was walking in silence every time I saw her. She frowned sternly when I so much as smiled at her. Perhaps she was silent for the entire march. It was hard to find out. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Many people engaged in fasting, so many, in fact, that someone finally suggested we move all fasting to Thursdays so that the kitchen staff could better estimate our food needs throughout the week. No one seemed to object, so Thursdays became the day of community fasting, a time to contemplate our abundance. The Thursday fast was optional, of course, but when I stood in the food line on Thursdays filling my plate, I felt pressure to conform. In fact, I was the perfect candidate for fasting. Eating was something of an obsession with me. Morning and noon I would eat as any normal person would. But between teatime and supper, I could easily consume the equivalent of two full meals, including desserts. In my old life before the march, I snacked my way through the afternoon, picking through the shelves of the refrigerator and the cupboards. I'd eat a cup of yogurt here, half a box of fig newtons there, a slice of toast with peanut butter, a couple of carrot or celery sticks, three quarters of a can of soup, and so on. For some reason, the idea of preparing a balanced meal and sitting down to eat it depressed me. Over a period of four or five hours, I consumed a fairly balanced diet, but my eating habits were horrible. When I finally decided to give fasting a try, my motives were largely honorable, but part of me just wanted to earn the right to eat on Thursdays for the remainder of the march. It was the twisted logic of a person who couldn’t tolerate the thought of losing access to food. I was a long, long way from spiritual awakening through fasting. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A group of a dozen or so marchers formed an entourage around the small band of Japanese Buddhist monks who had joined us somewhere back in Utah. The monks wore long, orange robes and floppy, white hats. The Japanese monks and their followers comprised one of several Great Peace March sub-cultures dedicated to inner peace. They kept tempo on a hand drum as they walked along, droning, “Nam-Yo-ho-Ren-ge-Kyo, Nam Yo-ho Ren-ge Kyo, Nam Yo-ho Ren-ge Kyo.” I had heard the phrase used by an American religious group in Los Angeles to call blessings, mostly of a material nature, into their lives. I didn’t know the meaning of the phrase, and I wasn’t familiar with the monks’ religious beliefs or practices other than that they walked and chanted every day. In fact, I found that I preferred to stay out of earshot whenever I was walking not because I was struggling inwardly to separate myself once and for all from rigid expressions of religious dogmatism, but simply because the drumming interfered with my waltz.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Political, Spiritual, Patriotic</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, back in the physical world, we progressed down the Lincoln Highway. What the automobile driver across America sees as a peripheral blur, the slow walker views in fine detail. A couple of observations came clear to me at my four mile-an-hour rate of speed. First, America’s blue highways were absolutely strewn with road kill. When I saw the multitude of animals sidelined by human progress, it seemed a miracle that there were any living creatures left at all. We saw dozens of dead animals every day, mostly small ones, but also cats, raccoons, opossums, a couple of deer, and once, a whole cow. One day I was walking along the road in Nebraska and noticed that someone had picked wildflowers and placed one on every dead animal along the way—mice, voles, frogs, birds, even the butterflies. Every few paces, there was a flower over some dead animal’s body. That’s when I realized the high number of casualties. The gesture struck me as sweet and respectful, and sad, and funny, too. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">American drivers threw a lot of clothing from the car as they sped down the highway. Most of it was men’s clothing. There was so much of it that I started to wonder if these guys driving by in their pickup trucks were wearing anything at all. It was not a pleasant thought. It also disturbed me to see the occasional child’s item because I couldn’t block the nightmarish thought that maybe over the next few hundred feet we would come across the other sandal, the child-size sunglasses, the sippy-cup, and then the child himself, bruised and crying in the ditch by the side of the road, having somehow escaped from his car seat and scrambled out the window; or else I would imagine the parent, one hand still gripping the steering wheel, bawling him out for dropping the sandal out the window in the first place, or searching desperately for the pacifier that had fumbled from the child’s little paw miles back.<br />
It reminded me of an unpleasant experience I’d had as a little girl when I inadvertently let go of a favorite bracelet I was dangling out the window in the wind as my family sped down the highway somewhere in Connecticut. One flinching little finger and it was gone. I begged my mother to drive back and look for it, but she said it would be impossible to find it again. We couldn’t go back. I remember thinking defiantly, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> could find it,” but I wept in silence and stared out the window at the treacherous countryside that had gobbled up my bracelet. Who knows, maybe that was what I was really looking for on the Great Peace March. Occasionally, we saw a woolen hat, a baseball cap, an old tee-shirt, a lone sock, a sneaker or boot. Whenever we found a glove, we amused ourselves by picking it up, fixing the fingers into a peace sign, and posting it on the nearest fence post.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We passed through small towns as innocently as a swarm of locusts. The Great Peace March overwhelmed local restaurants and coffee shops with hundreds of hungry customers. On several occasions I walked into restaurants overrun with diners and did a double take as I recognized familiar faces among the wait and kitchen staff—marchers who had tied on an apron or picked up a spatula to help manage the rush. Most of the day’s “specials” would have been crossed off hours earlier, and we would order pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches or chili or tuna salad or whatever the server recommended, which was to say whatever was left in the larder. Aside from the mad rush, though, one had to admit that the Great Peace March was a boon for local business. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Dairy Queen was one of Nebraska’s most ubiquitous features. They often posted “Welcome Peace Marchers” on the signboard out front. (Churches posted messages on their signboards, too. “Blessed Are the Peacemakers,” and “Swords into Plowshares” were two I saw more than a few times.) Some marchers shunned Dairy Queen as representative of the food industry’s mistreatment of dairy animals. Others resisted going in for unhealthy fast food. For many marchers, though, Dairy Queen was an extra rest stop, a place for a refreshing drink or a soft ice cream or a quick meal. Personally, I avoided stopping in for a Blizzard every time I saw a Dairy Queen, but I did enjoy the occasional lemonade and almost always took advantage of a few minutes’ break from the sweltering heat. Besides, Dairy Queen was as good a place as any to interact with the local residents. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In camp, we took turns doing “wake-up” call in the morning. Like every job on the march, “wake-up” left plenty of room for individual expression. Some used the gentle, echoing meditation gong to raise us from sleep. Others walked between the tents merrily calling out, “Rise and shine!” or “Time to wake up!” Toby and his do-op singers harmonized it; Jerry from Hawaii gave a “surf report.” The wake-up typically went something like, “Good morning, peace marchers! It’s six-thirty. The march will be leaving in one hour. Breakfast is scrambled tofu, whole grain pancakes, yogurt and fresh fruit. Today’s walk will be nineteen miles. The current temperature is sixty-six degrees.” Jerry from Hawaii added low and high tides.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward the end of June, Evan and I prepared to take a turn at the morning wake-up call. It was June 28<sup>th</sup>. With a little help from Iris, I had written a simple song with a bright Calypso beat. Evan and I had practiced harmonizing it, and we were excited to sing it to camp, even though our audience would all be inside their tents sleeping when they heard it. In the pre-dawn hours, one of the kitchen workers woke me up, then I woke Evan up, then I tuned up my guitar and we walked through camp gently singing our Calypso “Wake-Up.” We announced the breakfast menu and the day’s mileage and the weather forecast and sang until the whole camp was awake and stirring. We bowed to the domed tents and then got breakfast and loaded up two extra plates for Tom and Beth in their sleeping bags. It was the perfect dawn of a brand new day. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, everybody gotta wake up.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, it’s the dawn of a brand new day.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, everybody gotta wake up.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, it’s time to be on our way.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s a blue sky morning, gonna be a blue sky day, </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The sun is shining and everything’s okay. Hey!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, everybody gotta wake up,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake up, wake up, it’s time to be on our way…</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I rode into Lincoln, Nebraska with Evan, Jonah, Sunny, Natty and Chuck in Jonah’s vehicle known as the “Rad Van.” Downtown Lincoln was hot and humid. The city was flat and glaring and possessed no architectural highlights that I could see. Evan and I wandered in and out of pawnshops. He spotted a bass guitar and an amplifier he liked, but he didn’t have the money to buy them; I went into a music store and had the man insert a peg on the end of my classical guitar so I could attach a strap. The morning’s wake-up call had been fun, but it was awkward to walk around playing a guitar without a strap. To test out the new peg, I stood on the street and played the songs I’d written—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, Wake Up, </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Blind Mice</i>—to passing Nebraskans, none of whom showed the slightest interest in my original creations. In the face of humiliation I told myself it was a good character building experience to sing in public. Besides, I was so desperate for something interesting to do that singing on the street corner, which would normally terrify me, merely felt like an okay way to spend the afternoon.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVzWnF9jObr1sxQ9ViLtIugC6PRErKzSGNLNzR2Obtpc8Rrd2quXQOyPvjnMtJVQz9mbP7WvTDZkDaEAGkxzciwW-_ckBHKLUExDt2aXtMdUcmEhZ3hfb62eGKZBOnNy99K7XI2RvxLgG/s1600/6334_1165904701473_1043560068_30525294_3884_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVzWnF9jObr1sxQ9ViLtIugC6PRErKzSGNLNzR2Obtpc8Rrd2quXQOyPvjnMtJVQz9mbP7WvTDZkDaEAGkxzciwW-_ckBHKLUExDt2aXtMdUcmEhZ3hfb62eGKZBOnNy99K7XI2RvxLgG/s400/6334_1165904701473_1043560068_30525294_3884_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Main March Arriving in Lincoln</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjfvyRcepQF1dol7879kyvFK0QwGHaZ4PybhcN0Uq_o2rUQ_wd_kTVYX3pULNopli0bOdrshD2Ubd9MSbZUdJunPQcRUXh_9MAUOCPbhA3pAcPfWdYv_pgcbvsGuowIPYZi4oeANQuZ4b/s1600/n687671471_1777586_1928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjfvyRcepQF1dol7879kyvFK0QwGHaZ4PybhcN0Uq_o2rUQ_wd_kTVYX3pULNopli0bOdrshD2Ubd9MSbZUdJunPQcRUXh_9MAUOCPbhA3pAcPfWdYv_pgcbvsGuowIPYZi4oeANQuZ4b/s400/n687671471_1777586_1928.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px;">Main March Leader: Walkie Talkie at the Ready</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day Jonah, Moan and the Blisters performed at the peace rally at the State Capitol in Lincoln. Evan and I were now in a band. The number of attendees was modest, but everyone seemed to enjoy meeting each other despite the heat, and the music sounded great. I liked the songs that Jonah wrote, and I liked his musical style, but he and the other the guys in the band went in for a kind of cool pose, all dressed up with colorful scarves and crazy hats and all, and I didn’t quite fit in.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkdQtuMlg4j1ht8okaD_c9zLisP4Xrj56-ktTf1q5NWhrAjznwHcFvuG4XORW0p-ed-VTEd_NsSJ7A04vqC5_W2GlL6XWwPozjy0Nf8MurPoZ1TNDoybhjJ95abygJRCYy-vVpWRjgdqK/s1600/n1508570350_30144786_5669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkdQtuMlg4j1ht8okaD_c9zLisP4Xrj56-ktTf1q5NWhrAjznwHcFvuG4XORW0p-ed-VTEd_NsSJ7A04vqC5_W2GlL6XWwPozjy0Nf8MurPoZ1TNDoybhjJ95abygJRCYy-vVpWRjgdqK/s400/n1508570350_30144786_5669.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Peace March Rally in Lincoln</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Iris Bean Blossom returned at last. At the rally she introduced her brother, Chet, who lived in Lincoln. He kindly offered several of us Marcher-in-the-Home at his apartment, and we accepted his invitation. He promised us no home cooked meals, no laundry facilities, and no comfortable sleeping arrangements. We said that sounded perfect and liked him right away for his disarming charm and humor.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At night we played again, this time at “The Boardwalk,” a gay club outside Lincoln, and I happily sang backup as a Blister. The club was crowded and sprawling, with low, acoustic tile ceilings, linoleum floors and a disco ball. Jonah’s songs called for social justice; the style was mostly reggae beat. The club goers listened to our message of nuclear disarmament and danced and seemed to like the music. Evan sounded great on bass guitar. With an indoor sound system, the band sounded good despite competition from a raging thunderstorm outside. The quandary came when Jonah introduced the band. When he came to me, he said, “That’s Laura. She has a great voice.” I was pleased and replied with a kind of aw-shucks expression. Then, he added, “She’s probably the kind of girl who got straight-A’s in school.”</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonah, Moan and the Blisters</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> I wasn’t sure what that little dig was all about. It wasn’t the first time I had given the impression of being something of a goody-goody, but the reality was that in high school I had spent most of my time with my friends, my guitar, my boyfriend, and my band, and not as much time with my books as I might have, so Jonah was wrong about that, but it bothered me anyway. He could have just introduced me as the un-cool member of the band. That would have been more accurate. We played another song or two, but I didn't feel so happy anymore. After the performance, Tom and I got lost on the way back to Chet’s house. We wandered around in the aftermath of the storm reading street signs in the dark until two marchers happened by in a car and gave us a ride. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The last day of June was a rest day in Lincoln. Iris and I had a lot of catching up to do, so we went downtown for breakfast. We ran into two marchers, a mother and daughter, who had been in camp the previous night. They said the thunderstorm was the worst of the whole march: lightning struck near camp and high winds threatened to pull their tent up from its stakes. This morning, they said, camp was completely awash in water. They were shaken even in re-telling the events. The Victorville sandstorm, the thunderstorm at Red Rocks, and the hailstorm near Sterling, Colorado all came to mind. If it was worse than those, it must have been pretty bad. Iris and I had had no idea. We were lucky to have been safe inside “The Boardwalk.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After breakfast, Iris and I returned to Chet’s where I played my guitar and wrote letters. I had a vague sense of wasting time, so I headed out to a shopping center to do my laundry. I poured in the soap, tossed my clothes into the washer, closed the lid, slid in the quarters, and went outside to pass the time with several other marchers who were hanging out on the sidewalk in front. A summer storm had just passed. Against its receding, silver-grey wake, the afternoon sunlight splashed a complete double rainbow. The bands of color -- red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet -- shimmered and glowed, but brightly. I thought of where troubles melt like lemon drops and the sweet silver song of the lark and leprechauns and pots of gold. Then I considered that maybe we were at the end of the rainbow, and that life was our pot of gold. Had I read that in a book of Irish fairy tales? It surprised me that Nebraskans didn’t stop pushing their shopping carts or loading their groceries into their cars to watch. Maybe double rainbows were commonplace in Lincoln. It seemed that thunderstorms certainly were. I savored the fleeting moment -- hoping that the marchers in camp were seeing the double rainbow too, for what consolation it might offer after a night of dangerous weather -- until the colors faded from the sky. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the Storm</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning we bade a fond farewell to Chet and thanked him for his minimalist hospitality. He had given us shelter from the storm. We joined our compatriots and headed back out on the road for our last few days in Nebraska.</div> -------------------------------------------------------------</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had heard of writers and poets being possessed by the muse and plunged into a timeless tide of creativity, but I never imagined it might happen to me. It was July 3<sup>rd</sup>. I was walking along at my usual, steady pace in three-quarter time, when I started singing an original line of lyrics, “Come spinning down to the emerald; come spinning down to the green; come spinning down through the waters to the land where the spirit’s seen.” One line led to the next, and the next, and the next. It was as though the sky were a sieve of musical ideas. The song was a plaintive chant, like an “Amazing Grace” but not hymnal, and as it got longer, I felt a flutter of panic that I might forget the words. It was a strange feeling. I had never been a quick learner, particularly when it came to memorization, and I was afraid this sudden gush of music might flow right past me. I had no choice but to ride it like a wave. If I could suspend judgment and trust what was happening, I thought, perhaps the substance would stay with me after the force that carried it had passed. I felt suspended in time, as though nothing was happening in the world except what was happening to me. After I felt I had the whole song, I sang it again and again for some ten or twenty minutes -- it could have been longer -- until I reached camp. There, I went straight to the gear trucks, took a pen and my journal from my crate and quickly wrote down the words. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> When I had scrawled the last stanza on the page, I realized that I had no idea what I had written. I had memorized it in the way that a very young child memorizes the “Pledge of Allegiance.” If someone had asked me at that moment what the song was about, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I read it through two or three times and slowly grasped the meaning. It was a kind of prayer, to be sung by a woman who has been unable to conceive a child, a song inviting the child’s spirit to “come spinning down” to earth to be conceived and born. I was bemused, in the precise meaning of the word. I could never have dreamed up such a theme—nor would I have set out to use a prayer as a device for writing a song. It seemed that the song had come from an inner—or outer—creative source, and I had served as a conduit for its conception. It was a weird feeling. The layered significance of conceiving the song and the theme of conception within the lyrics was not lost on me. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For a long time, I tried to convince myself that the song about bringing a child into being was for another woman to sing, but deep down I knew it was my own song and my own prayer. It was the real and beautiful and natural sound of what others crassly refer to as the “ticking biological clock,” an insensitive term for one of life’s most powerful longings. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journal Entry: Come Spinning Down</td></tr>
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</i><br />
<i>(Click here to listen to "Come Spinning Down.")</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzI1Mzg7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjUzOC1kOTUiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjQ5Mjg7fQ==&autoplay=" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed height="28" width="335" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtpOjQ7czo2OiJmaWxlSWQiO2k6MTM2MzI1Mzg7czo0OiJjb2RlIjtzOjEyOiIxMzYzMjUzOC1kOTUiO3M6NjoidXNlcklkIjtpOjIxNzg1NTg7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEyOTM1NjQ5Mjg7fQ==&autoplay="></embed></object><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">My encounter with the creative force was Nebraska’s departing gift. It was time to step across the border into Iowa.</div><br />
</div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-72149682606354403712010-11-24T22:32:00.034+01:002011-08-28T18:43:16.122+02:00Chapter Fifteen: "MAD"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado…</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We crossed the Nebraska border on June 11th near Julesburg at the end of another long day of walking. We were doing twenty-milers now to make up for the time we’d lost back in Barstow, and summer was coming on strong. The main march left early in the morning to catch the coolest part of the day. With three rest stops and a lunch stop, we usually arrived in camp by around four o’clock in the afternoon.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning I woke up late because I didn’t hear the wake-up call, and that, as Frost put it, made all the difference. I rushed to pack up, left my daypack with Peter and Johanna in their van, and headed out with only my Walkman, camera, rain jacket and water bottle, all hanging from my belt. I was far behind the main march with no one in sight ahead of me and no one behind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Walking across the flatlands was proving to be difficult and uncomfortable in ways I had not anticipated. I had thought that the greatest physical challenge would be the passage over the Rocky Mountains, but the flat, featureless terrain of Nebraska was quickly becoming my nemesis. Before the peace march, my whole worldview had been crafted from shadows and light, dimension and shape. My sense of reality, beauty, action and security were all dependent on my mind’s busy perception of objects—a high rise apartment building, a dense forest of deciduous trees, a long road overlooking the river, a crowded traffic circle, the distant hills of a golf course. Except when I was vacationing at the beach or driving through the countryside, there had hardly been a long view of more than a few hundred yards in my suburban east coast life. Now I was in Nebraska. In the past, I had heard people complain about the monotony of driving across the Great Plains. Some years earlier, I had driven across Kansas, Nebraska’s neighbor to the south: seventy miles per hour in an air-conditioned station wagon, munching a bag of pretzels, singing along to popular tunes on the tape deck. On the morning in question, I had at least two hours of solitary walking ahead of me before the lunch stop. Unlike Robert Frost’s dilemma, there was just one road, but I knew there was a choice to be made—inside me. For the first time, I started to enjoy the quiet solitude of walking across the plains, just me and the road and the vast expanse of Nebraska. By the time I arrived in the tiny town of Brule, my mind had traveled an entire morning without struggling against Nebraska’s open space. I had ceased yearning, at least for a couple of hours, for what was not there—a church steeple, a mountainside, a stand of trees, a city skyline—and had instead begun to accept what was around me—miles and miles of empty space. It was only one morning’s peace of mind, but at least I knew it could be done.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The town of Brule, about six blocks wide and six blocks long, had a banner up on State Street that read, "1886 - Brule Centennial - 1986." The tiny town was a hundred years old. It was hard to imagine what had changed here over the century. How much smaller could the town have been back then? On every street, American flags hung from holders on the telephone poles. As I walked into town, I encountered a woman, obviously a local resident.<br />
“Hello,” I offered.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hello," she replied reluctantly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The town looks nice with all the flags hung out for the centennial.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> She knitted her brow and said flatly, “The flags aren't for the centennial. I keep the flags at my house for the Fourth of July celebration, and when we heard you were coming, my husband and my son and I took them out and put them up around town.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tiny Town of Brule Hung American Flags for Us</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">From her unsmiling demeanor I guessed that the gesture was one less of welcome and more of challenge to our political views.<br />
“Well, thank you for welcoming us,” I replied anyway.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">She nodded, though her guard was still up.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“And please thank your husband and son, too,” I added.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">There was no, "You're welcome," but when I asked, she directed me to the town park where the marchers were having lunch. On the surface, I brushed her off as just a grouchy old woman, but a little deeper inside, my brief encounter with the flag woman in Brule stayed with me. Maybe if I had introduced myself and told her I was a teacher, she and I could have talked about our views, however different they may have been. As it was, we left each other with untested, probably inaccurate perceptions. It bothered me that I had not done more to engage her. I was walking on the Great Peace March, but I hadn’t yet learned what it meant to be a peace marcher.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent the afternoon walking with the main march, talking and listening to music. Evan and I listened to Penguin Café Orchestra and Andreas Vollenweider on my Walkman. We were both interested in Vollenweider's new definition of harp music. He was playing the instrument in a completely new way, moving beyond the folk and classical traditions and yet incorporating both into a new sound. It must have been a similar phenomenon when people first heard Scott Joplin play ragtime on the piano, his left hand deftly playing both the bass line and the rhythm chords and the right hand surprising the listener with a syncopated melody. These were musicians who, above all, had actually learned to play their instruments. Penguin Cafe Orchestra, on the other hand, was light entertainment. These were folks who played decently well as individuals but together proved a sum greater than its parts. They used non-musical instruments like telephone and rubber band in their compositions - an instant hit with us. Generally speaking, I leaned toward folk and Evan steered toward hard-driving punk, but we were open to what the other thought was good and never tired talking about music. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In camp, I escaped to the Bookmobile to get out of the sun. It wasn’t any cooler on the bus, but the books distracted me from the heat. I finally read Dr. Seuss’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Butter Battle Book</i>. People had been recommending it to me for years, so I had high expectations. The book introduced the topic of an arms race and ended with two groups of little Dr. Seuss creatures on the brink of blowing one another “to smithereens.” It was not a funny story; it contained no comic relief, and it offered a bleak ending with no hope of resolution. As far as I could see, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Butter Battle Book</i> was a Dr. Seuss un-kids book, and it worried me that adults were reading it to little children. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I browsed some more and found a book on walking meditation. The idea had never occurred to me. I thought meditation required a person to sit still in a quiet place. What liberation. Meditation and movement could go together? Well, then, why not meditate while washing dishes or mowing the lawn or picking through green beans at the grocery store? Why not while putting up one’s tent or standing in line at the porta-potties? It gave me great comfort to realize that even a person in the worst of situations—in bed during an illness or even captive in a prison camp—could find solace in meditation. As I stood there on the Bookmobile, it dawned on me that meditation could happen anywhere, and I knew it would became a part of my life. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Over the next few days, I started meditating on the march. I was still walking in three-quarter, waltz time. I chanted a simple “Om” as I walked along. At first it was difficult, but after a while I could chant and walk and breathe. I started to experience the vibration as well as the physicality of my body. I felt the possibility of adjusting, like an astronaut adapting to outer space or a scuba diver acclimating to the sea, to a whole new environmental medium—a silent land with a distant horizon that hung like an empty clothesline across the big Nebraska sky. With an eternity of time and no interruptions—I could see a grain silo literally miles away—walking meditation became my refuge.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Our community was scheduled to elect a new board of directors. We had a candidates’ forum on June 13th with a brief speech from each of about twenty candidates, of whom we would elect seven. Some expressed noble ideals but little practical experience when it came to overseeing the peace march. Some appeared not to comprehend the role of a board of directors and offered detailed plans on how they would manage the day-to-day march. Fortunately, several marchers proposed plans that were balanced, practical and to the point. I listened and hoped we could elect a new group that would get the job done in peace so we could get on with our work and walking.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We followed Route 30 through Ogalalla, Roscoe, Paxton, Sutherland, and Hershey. Each town was an oasis where we could buy a carton of lemonade or iced tea and rest for a few minutes in the shade. Between towns, there wasn’t much to see. Cars passed, and their drivers and passengers reacted in predictable ways. Some smiled and waved; others laughed or sneered and gave us the finger. Some looked straight ahead as if they hadn’t noticed hundreds of peace-signing pilgrims trudging toward them along the highway. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nap in Scant Shade</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Trains came by frequently on tracks running parallel to our route, a mile or two off to the south and closer as we came through towns. Sometimes the engineer blew the train whistle to say hello. I imagined the engineers contacting one another to keep track of the Great Peace March, just as the truckers must have done. They were probably amused to see us walking their route. Most trains were comprised of several engines pulling a long load of coal or brand new cars. I watched to see if the train had a caboose, then if it did, I called out like Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson to anyone walking with me, or to the universal sky, “Theeere’s the caboose!” and kept on walking. Other times, I sang “Little Red Caboose,” a nursery song I’d learned as a child, but only if the caboose was red, which, alas, was rare.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On Father’s Day, June 15<sup>th</sup>, wake-up came at about 5:30 in the morning. We had to be on the road in time for a rally in the city park in North Platte. I was late, so I walked well behind the main march with my prayer beads to keep my mind occupied. I spotted Evan up ahead at a good distance. He was walking, headphones on, at a brisk, steady pace, stretching his arms in the air above his head with every few steps. With his six-foot-plus frame, Evan looked as though he might breast stroke right up into the sky. It took a while, but when I finally caught up, he greeted me, as he often did, in honor of the song we loved to sing together. “Well, hello, Lucille!” he said cheerily.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I had invented a name for him, too. “Hello, Leonard Foxy Guy!” I returned. We both laughed and walked the rest of the way into North Platte. Along the way, Evan very kindly gave me one of the nicest compliments I’d ever had. “Lucille,” he said, “you never make me wonder.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At the rally, a group of veterans took the outdoor stage and made brief speeches about the peace march and what it meant to them. Dev, a rough-hewn man with a hefty frame and a serious demeanor, was among them. He stepped up to the microphone wearing his army jacket, as always. He spoke clearly and deliberately. He had worn the jacket every day since his return from Vietnam more than a decade ago. This was Father’s Day, he said, and on this day he was going to take his army jacket off, and he was never going to wear it again. We all clapped and cheered, and some shouted out, “We’re with you, Dev!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Others added, “Dev, we love you!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Dev continued. He wanted us to tell us what he was planning to do with his old army jacket. I thought maybe he was going to burn it, but Dev had a better idea. He said that after the march, he would put the jacket in his attic, and he imagined that someday years from now, his son would find it and bring it to him and ask, “Hey Dad, what’s this?” and Dev said he would answer, “Well, son, a long, long time ago, before you were born, we had this thing called war…” and we cheered and applauded again at the idea that war could some day become extinct; and some cried because Dev had expressed so perfectly what it meant to be a soldier and a peacemaker and a father and a man. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The days were blazingly hot and sunny. Only an occasional breeze saved us from spontaneously combusting. I mentioned the unbearable heat to a visitor in camp. “What do you think is the hottest time of day?” he asked.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I could tell from the squint in his eye that I wasn’t going to get this right, but thinking back to my teenage tanning days, I replied, “Well, I guess it must be around one or two in the afternoon.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “It’s hottest at four o’clock in the afternoon.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I was surprised, but he was a farmer, so I figured he was something of an authority on the weather. He explained that the earth’s surface absorbed heat until between four and five pm, and then slowly started to cool down. “So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>explains why I’m so miserable all afternoon!” I replied. “I keep trying to find relief in the hottest part of the day.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The farmer nodded knowingly and said, “You’d be wise to take a rest before dinner.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I did my best to follow his advice. It wasn’t hard to surrender to a nap in the four o’clock heat after a twenty-miler in the sun, but I hated waking up an hour later in a puddle of perspiration. My tent offered light shade but denied the afternoon breeze. And my sleeping bag provided a comfortable layer against the hard ground but the polyester fabric stuck to my sweaty skin. On those Nebraska afternoons I woke up cranky, walked to the wash-up trailer, filled my water bottle with cool water, leaned forward, poured it over my head and came up shaking like a dog after a bath. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adaptation</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">We yearned for shade, but it was hard to come by. One day I arrived at camp at the end of a long walk. The weary were sprawled out at the treeless fairground, napping. One lay in the shade of a bus; several had pitched tents <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">under</i> the grandstand platform; and one napped in the sun with his head inside an empty gear crate on which he had placed his hat to make a kind of shade box. Earlier in the day, Libby and I had lingered after lunch on a precious island of shade just big enough for two under a newly planted sapling. In Nebraska, I could have made my fortune selling shade.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Invention</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">New marchers joined us from time to time, some as permanent additions; others for a few days as we passed through their hometowns. Evan’s friend, Beth, joined us for a couple of weeks. She was totally excited to be on the march and gradually overcame the culture shock that came with plunging into our tight-knit, loosely organized mobile community. Beth was bright and well read. She was on the quiet side, but she must have had a million questions and didn’t want to seem like a bother, so she mostly observed and listened. As far as I was concerned, any friend of Evan’s was a welcome addition to our group. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan, Beth and I went out to find ice cream one afternoon and ended up in a Pizza Hut drinking a pitcher of beer with a marcher named Tom from New Jersey. Tom was one of the most animated people I’d ever met. He had sun-bleached hair, a start-up ZZ-Top beard and shorts tied up with a piece of rope like Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies. The way he continuously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, I was convinced he could wear out a pair of shoes just standing still. He just as energetically jumped into every conversation. His enthusiasm and humor were infectious, and he quickly became our friend.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARU3iUX12JIzlGAbrHKUdumlI_xx_iItOcmmjUCV89TS6zbHHrFw7JdCQeZBZ5W4RC2IWUryH4APKqDRKRf8viQh_LulSunHV_xzBug-IBARvLrLoRvRuQ94txP4F5vYHNo0pY8u2086a/s1600/F1000043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARU3iUX12JIzlGAbrHKUdumlI_xx_iItOcmmjUCV89TS6zbHHrFw7JdCQeZBZ5W4RC2IWUryH4APKqDRKRf8viQh_LulSunHV_xzBug-IBARvLrLoRvRuQ94txP4F5vYHNo0pY8u2086a/s400/F1000043.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom and Evan Greeting a Local Supporter</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I felt as though I had some extra time on my hands, so I started thinking about other ways I could contribute to the march. Under Carrie’s leadership, the Great Peace March school was finally settling into place. The younger children had already adjusted to their elementary school-on-wheels, and Carrie had recently added another school bus as a home base for the middle school kids to meet to hang out or do their schoolwork. Carrie was moving forward with the final phase of her plan—bringing the high school kids into the program. Free of the constraints that a normal school and home life would have imposed, the peace march teenagers, like the adults, pushed the boundaries of their existence. They appeared to experiment with every avenue available to them, though our no drinking/no drugs policy restricted everyone, including the teens, at least within camp. Along with colorful, choppy, spiky, shaven hairstyles, fanciful wardrobes and multiple piercings and tattoos, the young people eventually acquired adult responsibilities. They didn’t seem to pine for the familiar structure they’d left behind, and many of them became articulate, outspoken advocates for nuclear disarmament. As time went on, I thought about re-joining the peace march school but never acted on the idea. It seemed to be rolling along just fine without me. I had mixed feelings, of course. I was impressed that Carrie was able to give the children what they needed and glad to see them happily engaged in their program, but I felt ashamed that I had been unable to provide adequate leadership for them. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Instead, I made my way back over to Peace Academy. In addition to outfitting the Peace Academy bus as a resource center for nuclear issues, Ned and Nora centralized the “Community Outreach” program, through which we sent marchers to speak at schools, churches, town halls, rallies and private homes. I had been speaking about the Great Peace March since the PRO-Peace days back in Los Angeles. I liked speaking with people because it kept nuclear disarmament central in my mind and allowed me to articulate my views. It also forced me to consider opposing views. When I asked to be put on the speakers’ list, Ned said they hadn’t had many requests in the sparsely populated Great Plains, but they expected to need people as we reached Chicago and beyond. They would let me know. In the meantime, I decided to learn as much as I could about the nuclear issue. On our rest day in North Platte, I read three more articles in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dialogue</i>: one on the development of the nuclear bomb, one on the history of the arms race, and one on the ideological differences between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On Peace Academy, I learned how to demonstrate the size of the world’s nuclear arsenal. I was convinced that my ability to communicate this enormous concept was fundamental to gaining support for nuclear disarmament. The key was to contrast the firepower used in all of World War II, a concept with which most people were familiar, with the enormous firepower in the world’s current nuclear arsenal, about which most people had no idea. Peace Academy gave me access to three effective models for teaching this concept. The first was a simple illustration on a piece of graph paper. In the middle of the page, the central square contained a single dot about the size of a period. This dot represented all the firepower of WWII, including both the European and Pacific theaters of war and the two atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The rest of the squares surrounding the central square were filled with thousands of dots—2,667 to be precise—representing the current firepower of the world’s nuclear arsenal. I was shocked when I saw this illustration, as were most people with whom I shared it. No reasonable person, even one who believed in maintaining the greatest military power in history, could think we needed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>many nukes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZthLoxm_geM-p-AtglOZzZT21J_gcmZ2htXkqzokjQc6fmG-e056nbTMaCwHIBH7nDwt9HTckNwf8ObPf8HxA0H7vqx1hyphenhyphenH8eoeHklibvbxStLl7NZZ4fLygAyPPwnoa-qRvWGVfcH08/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZthLoxm_geM-p-AtglOZzZT21J_gcmZ2htXkqzokjQc6fmG-e056nbTMaCwHIBH7nDwt9HTckNwf8ObPf8HxA0H7vqx1hyphenhyphenH8eoeHklibvbxStLl7NZZ4fLygAyPPwnoa-qRvWGVfcH08/s320/images.jpeg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Nuclear Arsenal Dot Chart</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">An equally effective exercise involved pouring BB’s into a metal coffee can, first just one BB to represent the firepower of World War II. It bounced off the bottom of the can a few times and settled into place. Then came the two thousand six hundred sixty-seven BB’s to represent the current nuclear arsenal. It took a long time to pour all those BB’s into the coffee can, and they were obnoxiously loud. When I first heard them, it sounded as though they were being poured into a coffee can inside my head. I kept waiting for the noise to stop, but in went on for twenty or thirty seconds. The BB demonstration was powerful. People who had had no idea of the extent of our nuclear arsenal were moved to think seriously about disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The last teaching aid took a humorous approach. The policy of Mutual Assured Destruction, commonly called “MAD,” referred to the fact that both the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. hoped to survive an initial nuclear attack so that they could retaliate with the full strength of their nuclear arsenal. To send a single nuclear warhead against the enemy, on purpose or by accident, was to release the full force of all nukes on earth. Within minutes—twelve to be precise—all nuclear missiles would be deployed and 50,000 nuclear bombs would explode across the planet, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">each</i> resulting in the scenario described by Jack Geiger in his testimony to Congress. “MAD” was an apt acronym for the policy. In an interview, physicist Carl Sagan had likened Mutual Assured Destruction to two men standing in a room up to their waists in gasoline, each holding up a box of matches, each threatening to light his match first. This image brought a highly abstract concept into the grasp of most people and allowed them a chuckle at our otherwise seriously disturbing state of affairs. I set out to incorporate the firepower graph, the BB demonstration, Sagan's “MAD” image and as much information as I could master, into an effective presentation. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When we arrived in North Platte, a good-sized railroad town about a quarter of the way across the state, nobody could have been more excited than I was to find the public outdoor swimming pool. For a few dollars I had a shower to rinse off the road, a swim to recalibrate my equilibrium, and then another shower to rinse off the chlorine. All that water felt marvelous. Afterward, dressed and refreshed, I sat for a few minutes of solitary bliss updating my journal under the shade trees as I waited for the shuttle back to camp.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> In a North Platte health food store, I found a product that made the misery of drinking warm water on a hot day a little more tolerable: dehydrated tea cubes. They worked like bullion cubes but they contained dried herbal tea and sugar. They came ten in a box, and I bought one box each of chamomile, mint, and fruit flavor. I crumbled one into my water bottle at the beginning of the day, added cool water and gave it a shake. Over the course of the morning, as the water heated up, as it inevitably did, I could at least look forward to each swig tasting like warm, sweet herb tea rather than plain hot water. This small improvement encouraged me to stay hydrated.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhij-vQUKJTAGJQSMUYE1xQeIXqNkYKKdLsMUNjYglCdjT-jenXvicAk1JRlRpqn99OJ03P8SJvAnZrs5vDToK-kOfX-GPGMdgcFTbi4bIayRNRvpaqc1p2qyFCnyn1dSVxRK9oLqjWDmhg/s1600/n687671471_1734869_4903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhij-vQUKJTAGJQSMUYE1xQeIXqNkYKKdLsMUNjYglCdjT-jenXvicAk1JRlRpqn99OJ03P8SJvAnZrs5vDToK-kOfX-GPGMdgcFTbi4bIayRNRvpaqc1p2qyFCnyn1dSVxRK9oLqjWDmhg/s400/n687671471_1734869_4903.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—June 21, 1986</i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Summer Solstice… Today is the longest day of the year. Cornfields grow taller overnight. Supporters greet us along the street in the tiny town of Odessa, Nebraska. Her sister city in Russia was the scene of the uprising on the battleship Potemkin before the October Revolution. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sudama, the man in charge of the peace march kitchen, comes over to our tents to talk with Evan and me in the morning. He tells us all about a Hare Krishna program that saves cattle from slaughter. I had learned on the march that the Hare Krishnas, whom I had previously encountered only at major airports dancing and asking for money, are dedicated to preserving life on earth and feeding the hungry. The animal adoption program allows the Hare Krishnas to buy animals at cattle auctions and pay for their upkeep on an animal-friendly farm. Sudama says it cost $3,000 to save a cow from slaughter, and the program includes a photo of the animal, a history and monthly newsletter, and even a parents’ visiting weekend. I have never heard of such an idea. I can appreciate saving the animals from slaughter, but the idea of a parents’ day seems a little out there. Why not return the cows to rolling green pastures where they wouldn’t need to interact with humans at all? I’m not sure why Sudama tells us about this program—he has never spoken with us before—but I am honest about my mixed reaction, and he seems to take it in stride.</i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Summer Solstice lunch stop in a lush, green park. Marchers are doing lunchtime dances, music and drama to celebrate the solstice. A group is performing scenes from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” though it is not midsummer, just the beginning of summer. Tom and I join those who are walking around a lake: waddling ducks, wild turkeys, horses grazing on a distant hill, and wildflowers. Is there more than this? </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, a moonwalk tonight. It’s rare to have a full moon on the night of the Summer Solstice. A hundred marchers want to go, but just as we are about to depart, a late thunderstorm sends us all scurrying under the trucks and ducking into tents. Tom and I listen to “The Point” on my Walkman while the storm passes and don’t hear the march leaving. We hurry to catch up and get stopped by a policewoman who gives us the third degree. She even asks our mothers’ maiden names and places of birth. It turns out she doesn’t even know that the peace march is in town. Five hundred people passed through town an hour ago, and she has no idea. If she doesn’t know, who does? So, we tell her all about it, and she lets us go. Maybe she thought our story was just too fantastic to be an alibi. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At last Tom and I catch up with the rest of the group. Rainclouds obscure the full moonlight all night long. Weird, alternating cold and warm winds buffet us unexpectedly. Intermittent rain. Heat lightning explodes low in the southern sky like distant mortar fire. A long train blows by in the dark. Against a backdrop of flashing lightening, a silhouette of war vehicles, mostly jeeps and Army trucks and tanks, on the back of the train. They rattle my insides. They are going to war. Hunched over in the rain, we move like an anonymous line of refugees toward the east. The whole scene is frightfully possible. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Walkman saves me from midnight delirium. I groove along. I act out the songs. I sing out loud. I keep everyone around me awake, and, for once, they appreciate it. Stevie Wonder, Bill Withers—my friends. At the third rest stop, marchers collapse in Gore-Tex heaps in a deserted old gas station. Sleepers are strewn like litter on the concrete. I dance in the drive-through garage. It’s a dance marathon—you just have to stay awake. Second wind. I’m up. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eventually, the sky lightens, and then the sun appears in front of us. My eyes sting, my sweat glands activate. Another sweltering Nebraska morning. We approach our campsite. Can it be? Long tables set up on the roadside entrance and friendly locals serving fresh fruit salad from huge bowls. It’s juicy and delicious and colorful and sweet. I gush my thanks, because the fruit tastes so good, but also because I am utterly exhausted. Up the driveway, it’s a school that has opened its doors to us. An amber-colored, air-conditioned gym. Running hot water. I brush my teeth and collapse in my sleeping bag on the cool, smooth gym floor. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Summer Solstice—the longest day of the year. </i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I slept all day until four o’clock in the cool, amber gym at the Platte Valley Academy. Images from the previous night returned again and again: rainclouds obscuring the full moonlight, weird, warm winds, the exploding southern sky, war vehicles on the train. Tom and I talked while we shot hoops in the school gym. I liked the sound of a basketball bouncing on a polished wood floor, echoing up into the rafters, and the satisfaction of an angled shot that hit the backboard just right or a long arc that dropped—swish—through the net. Basketball was my favorite sport. Tom was unduly impressed that I could make a shot; to me it was just a way to pass the time. It was too bad that Iris was still away; she would have liked relaxing in the big gym. She sent us a post card of a huge momma sow nursing her little piglets. I hoped she’d get back soon.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1OPR-YYrb9p9y9R8GFwXYeJw5wvSJQgbOSjz-ds4qXMQ8YxdQ0dtvAb4tErX0OZ-C2C5mJp8y6knBLwgfcxZzve1LjRQ3LBY_c-0UQMRUYCCR4OxeETDLinM1Hjtz6j1mZVnofXZFyNt/s1600/F1000014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1OPR-YYrb9p9y9R8GFwXYeJw5wvSJQgbOSjz-ds4qXMQ8YxdQ0dtvAb4tErX0OZ-C2C5mJp8y6knBLwgfcxZzve1LjRQ3LBY_c-0UQMRUYCCR4OxeETDLinM1Hjtz6j1mZVnofXZFyNt/s400/F1000014.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Amber Gym</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After dinner, Evan and I walked down a dirt road between the cornfields as a gorgeous full moon rose behind the grain elevators. Four moons and a thousand miles since White Oak. As usual, we shared every thought that came to mind. I said this would be the perfect place for a UFO to land, right here in the middle of nowhere. I wondered aloud whether there really were UFO’s and, if there were, whether I would really want to see one. Then, just as we turned back to camp, a car came toward us with its bright beams on. We melodramatically shielded our eyes and laughed at this alien encounter, but this time the UFO came in the form of an open Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible packed with three middle-aged men and their three middle-aged female companions. They pulled up alongside us and stopped. They were absolutely smashed and asked us who we were, where we were from, what we did, if we wanted to buy any “smoke,” and if we wanted a couple of their beers. We readily answered their questions and politely declined their proffers. They told us they were high school friends from the tiny town of Shelton. What a bunch of characters. They wanted to know if we were married or tented together, then they refused to believe that we were not married, that we slept in separate tents, and that we were just friends. They threw back their heads and laughed, their arms slung around each other, and said, “Don’t tell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us</i> about friends!” And off they sped. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-90468755629630189772010-11-24T15:19:00.028+01:002011-08-28T18:29:38.243+02:00Chapter Fourteen: "Armageddon Outta Here"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b> </b>The varied topography of the far western states had provided plenty of visual interest, making each day of walking different from all the rest. Even at four miles an hour, coming around a bend or over a hill or through a small town had been an exciting prospect. A ranch, a river, a herd of cattle, a field of wild flowers, an old gas station—each took several minutes to pass and enlivened the conversation. Eastern Colorado, on the other hand, gave us no landmarks, natural or manmade, no topographical variation, and, except for the occasional “sip-sip” of birds, the intermittent swoosh of cars, and the distant rumble of freight trains, no movement or sound to take one’s mind off the steady padding down the road. Only the weather changed, and it had just two settings: “Glaring Sun with Sweltering Heat and Humidity” or “Blasting Wind with Pelting Hail and Pouring Rain.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiKNXvSZYViyh64fybDChlG-O5tE_mSCsUldnnwr0IN-QZONS2XBM4td-y_L70FI4G-tJyrIPxwXQZAqUmxBDmKKKc8Uc7X7oJlC3vFO1oE02moHK0x5NjpAYnqu-izXBGVa8DGqtmQ1v/s1600/n520295325_1416545_4385.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiKNXvSZYViyh64fybDChlG-O5tE_mSCsUldnnwr0IN-QZONS2XBM4td-y_L70FI4G-tJyrIPxwXQZAqUmxBDmKKKc8Uc7X7oJlC3vFO1oE02moHK0x5NjpAYnqu-izXBGVa8DGqtmQ1v/s400/n520295325_1416545_4385.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainy Rest Stop</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">June 4th. This afternoon’s walk ended in a spectacular hailstorm. The sky grew dark, the front rolled in, and in a matter of minutes, the temperature dropped by fifteen or twenty degrees. Most marchers took refuge on the buses and rode the remaining few miles to camp. A small group of us decided to push through the storm. I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but I had my North Face rain jacket—the kind that cleverly zipped into its own pocket to form a handy little pouch—hanging from a loop on my belt. I unfolded it as I walked along and put it on just as the storm hit. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I found myself walking with Lukas from Germany. He was pushing two backpacks in a rainbow cart. Lukas was very tall and took long strides, which was good for me because I had to walk as fast as I could just to keep up with him, and that helped me stay warm. My jacket and hood kept me dry from the hips up, but the cold, pelting hail stung my legs. I looked down at them and saw that, hairy as they were—I hadn’t shaven them since February—my legs were covered in goose bumps. My natural fur was working hard in my favor. I walked even faster and kept my arms swinging. Turned against the blasting wind, Lukas and I shouted above the storm. He was a university student, taking time off from his studies. He said his hometown was Munich. I had heard of Munich only from Oktoberfest, which I mentioned, and the Beer Hall Putsch, which I didn’t think it would be polite to mention. I would have been hard pressed to place Munich on a map of Germany, so I didn’t mention that either. I asked Lukas a few questions about his family and his impressions of America, but by then the rain had begun, and the gusting squall made it hard to finish a sentence. Besides, Lukas was so much taller than I was that I couldn’t shout up to him and protect my face from the storm at the same time. In the end, we just pressed onward together against the wind and rain. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The skies cleared just as we reached camp, an open, fallow field, much of which was now ankle-deep in water. In places, it looked just like a rice paddy. We were camping here? No way. Everyone would be soaked by morning. People tiptoed along the dry ridge at the edge of the field or along the raised roadway, or took off their shoes and walked barefoot through the water. I said goodbye to Lukas and found Iris. We agreed to share a tent and pitched it on slightly higher ground—in a mere half inch of water. After dinner, as we lay in our sleeping bags talking, listening to the rain and getting ready to fall asleep, I had a thought. I asked Iris, “Okay, let’s assume we have a limited number of prayers that will actually get answered on the Great Peace March. You think we should we use one now?” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yes!” she said. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">So, I quieted my mind and prayed respectfully to the Great Spirit to let us stay dry through the night. Iris added a string of other requests to the end of the prayer, like riders on the end of an otherwise perfectly good piece of legislation. I told her I hoped it wouldn’t cheapen the sincerity of our original plea in the eyes of the Great Spirit. She said if we were going to get a prayer answered, we might as well make it a good one. We chuckled and then, settling in hopefully, said sweet dreams, goodnight. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The rain continued hard through the night. Every couple of hours I’d surface from sleep and hear it pouring against the rain fly. In the morning we awoke and, lying still in our sleeping bags, asked one another, “Are you dry?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yes, I think so, are you?”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yes!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I sat up, slowly opened the tent zipper and drew back the flap. At least three inches of water surrounded our tent, but inside, miraculously, Iris and I had stayed dry all night. We exchanged looks of happy surprise and thanked the Great Spirit. Careful not to kneel too hard on the tent floor, we ever so gingerly changed our clothes, stuffed our sleeping bags into their stuff sacks and stepped out to transfer everything safely to the gear truck. The soaked tent we just rolled up and slid dripping wet into the tent bag. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the Tractors to Pull Our Vehicles Out of the Mud</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCccn2Umko03_D1iju_sxVFhAxzyJj05NFvBsQay7oZ1wqW4LjqwwPChHkbZzvqWfsK1kpFhFqimHxGJ4HdWJc_KWQjxQ9JLPG0RK0SIKO-hauINt_fz07DHFZryIyF_jAVEaaT24PNwOA/s1600/F1000016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCccn2Umko03_D1iju_sxVFhAxzyJj05NFvBsQay7oZ1wqW4LjqwwPChHkbZzvqWfsK1kpFhFqimHxGJ4HdWJc_KWQjxQ9JLPG0RK0SIKO-hauINt_fz07DHFZryIyF_jAVEaaT24PNwOA/s400/F1000016.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Crate" Peace March</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Camp was a mess. Several of our vehicles were sunk in a foot of mud. Only the vehicles that were parked up on the roadway had remained dry. I saw Rick, our Info-Com master, who always had a lot to do in the morning, traveling by crate across the field. He set down two crates and used them as stepping stones, stepping on one, then stooping down to pick up the one in back, place it in front, stand up, take another step and repeat the process. It took a while, but he finally crated his way across the field without getting wet. Meanwhile, other marchers surrendered to the forces of nature and waded through the water. A number of local farmers drove their tractors and trucks to camp and spent the morning hauling our buses out of the muck. Once we got everything and everybody back up on the roadway, we were high and dry. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">June 7<sup>th</sup>. The twenty miles to Sterling in northeastern Colorado was a nearly treeless stretch of two-lane blacktop. Twenty miles. Now the weather had turned to the other setting, and the day was sweltering. Evan and I left the lunch stop early and walked ahead of the main march. There would be no avoiding the afternoon heat, so we figured we might as well head right out into it. We walked and talked and walked and talked and reminded one another to “drink water.” Every fifteen minutes or so I mechanically took my water bottle, unscrewed the top, took a swig, and recapped the bottle without missing a step. As the water got warmer, I finish the ritual with a sarcastic, “Mmmm, refreshing.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Talking with Evan made the miles pass more quickly. We slipped into accents: British, particularly when we were discussing where our imaginary butler, Charles, and his charades with the local girls; southern, at which I could not hope to compete with Mister Loo-zianna; New Jersey, at which I excelled, having learned first hand from my mother, who grew up in Bayonne; African-American, through which we both failed, miserably, to approach street cool or adequately express the Blues brought on by our trek. We'd sing snippets of songs brought out by the conversation. We laughed at everything. Funny thing was, we rarely talked about nuclear disarmament. In fact, other than the obvious, I hardly knew what Evan thought of politics or our military weapons program. He tended to laugh at this no-laughing matter. Whenever he had to go do something, for instance, he’d walk away, saying, “Armageddon outta here!” I'd groan and roll my eyes, shake my head -- and smile. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">There had been a lot of discussion about “march potatoes” in camp and Evan and I both wished everyone would put it to rest. It was clear that some people worked non-stop, even to the point of sacrificing the walking, to make the peace march happen (though it never occurred to me at the time that maybe some of those busy people preferred working in a car to walking twenty miles under the solar broiler). Others did almost no work at all and walked whenever they felt like it. Evan and I agreed that we were somewhere in the middle—we loaded trucks and stepped up anytime something, as he put it, “needed doin’.” We worked on workdays, rested on rest days and walked on the days in between. We pronounced ourselves “middle class marchers.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As we approached Sterling, Evan and I stopped at a small market where I bought a Mandarin orange Popsicle. Even at the end of a twenty-mile walk in the scorching sun, I actually stopped to consider whether I had “earned it.” I decided yes, I had, and was it ever sweet and delicious and refreshing. At the edge of town we noticed a quiet, shaded graveyard, so we stopped to rest and wait for the main march to catch up. For the very first time since leaving Los Angeles, my legs were sore and my feet were dog tired. I fell fast asleep in the shade. When I woke up a little while later, I was surprised at having dozed off. I apologized to Evan for having dissolved into sleep when he was in mid-sentence. He forgave me, adding that it was hard to find a moment when he wasn’t in mid-sentence. Many marchers napped during rest stops and lunch breaks, but other than the occasional nap in my tent in the afternoon, I had never fallen asleep on the march during the daytime, and I perceived it as a moment of weakness. It never occurred to me that after a twenty-mile walk in Hades, hell, I might just need a nap. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When the main march caught up, Evan and I joined them, and we all walked through Sterling along the central median strip. A tiny sprinkling of local residents turned out, leaving me to wonder what impact, if any, we were having in this remote part of the country. What was the point of our message if there was no one around to receive it? </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No One Around to Receive Our Message</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We set up our little neighborhood at the fairgrounds in Sterling. Evan and I almost always tented next to each other, though he disappeared from time to time to camp with Gregory and his other friends over in the punk neighborhood. Even after three months on the march, Evan approached with his sleeping bag tucked under one arm and his tent bag in the other hand and asked courteously if he might set up his tent near mine. I was always charmed and replied with as much hospitality as a Yankee could muster. Sometimes the tables were turned and Evan would have scouted a spot first, and I would ask, “May I join you?” Either way, with Evan next door, I always felt at home. As time went on, Iris Bean Blossom often joined our neighborhood, too. She and I sometimes shared a tent if one of us was too lazy to set up our own, but usually the three of us preferred the privacy of our own little domes at night.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uBHSNskzFG_wvrXhyOO75Xnrrw284mZHbbkaYdk9a5C4ZWXwmmUsulys6H74vq61q3wcH4wSGnQtsdqSkgL9MeGLYSu7u-qzr36q68MT2C9UEwLqv68HpAbyF9EjggxHhNEjCs9988xM/s1600/n520295325_1416548_5595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uBHSNskzFG_wvrXhyOO75Xnrrw284mZHbbkaYdk9a5C4ZWXwmmUsulys6H74vq61q3wcH4wSGnQtsdqSkgL9MeGLYSu7u-qzr36q68MT2C9UEwLqv68HpAbyF9EjggxHhNEjCs9988xM/s400/n520295325_1416548_5595.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait: Peace Marcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After we set up our tents, I was grumpy and had a slight headache. Sheila and Evan both suggested I should drink more water, so I did, but didn’t help much, and when Evan suggested we head out to a pizza restaurant at a nearby shopping center, I groggily agreed. The cool restaurant air and the tall, red tumblers of ice water brought me around. I hadn’t realized how dehydrated I had become even though I had drunk probably a gallon—and that was not an exaggeration—of water throughout the day. Evan was used to hiking in the dry mountain air in Utah and must have recognized the symptoms. I would have to learn to monitor my water intake more carefully. We still had the whole summer and two thousand miles to go. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">It was already dark—and pouring buckets—when Evan and I came out of the restaurant. The meteorological dial had switched back to torrential rain. We waited for a while to see if the storm would pass, and then lucked into a ride back to camp from a fellow marcher whom neither of us had ever met. It was only a mile or so to camp, but our driver crept along in the pouring rain, both of his headlights broken. He dominated the conversation with a rambling, half-jointed story about getting beaten up in a town somewhere along the peace march route. The pieces of his story didn’t quite fit together, but he was very disturbed about it. I asked if he had reported the assault to the police, and he said no, so I silently wondered if maybe he was not so much the innocent victim as he was leading us to believe. I wasn’t sure what Evan was thinking, but I started to get the feeling that this was the kind of guy with whom you had to choose your words very carefully or he might fly off the handle. I wondered if that was how he had gotten into trouble in the first place. Of course, I kept my thoughts to myself and only said I was sorry it had happened. We drove back to camp listening to his dark, violent tale, the windshield wipers slapping in the rain. I was relieved to get out of the car. Even “Peace City” had its occasional brooding weirdo.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—June 9, 1986. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s evening and I’m sitting here in a huge grain storage building about twenty-five miles east of Sterling, Colorado. It’s pouring rain and hailing outside, and it’s impossible to set up our tents. I think the whole peace march is camped inside this huge hangar. There’s a strong smell in here, and it’s not the marchers. I think it’s fertilizer. After a delicious “Wheat Not Meat” dinner, I’ve scoped my little sleeping spot for tonight, and I’m listening to Andy’s “There’s Gonna Be a Nuclear Bomb” on my Walkman. The lightening is flashing outside, and the marchers in here are singing “Back in the U.S.S.R.” Next to the train depot in Denver, this is the weirdest place I’ve ever slept. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One evening, several of us were sitting around after dinner. In the hours between dinner and sunset, dusk settled over the camp, and despite our weariness from the day’s walk, there seemed to be a rise in energy as friends and neighbors gathered to socialize in the cool of the day. On this particular evening, Iris was telling us about her childhood days on the farm in Iowa. For me, a product of suburban America, her descriptions of rural life were novel and charming. It was as though the city mouse and the country mouse had the benefit of nine months to get acquainted instead of just one visit. I loved hearing her detailed descriptions of the chores she and her brothers and sisters loathed doing, the animal births she delighted in assisting and the family gatherings she enjoyed attending—especially when her older cousin, Lucille, was there. As a little girl, Iris was in awe of cousin Lucille because she was so glamorous. She explained that unlike the other plain-dressed women in the family, Lucille had her hair done regularly—at the hairdresser—and wore high heels and rhinestone earrings and pearls. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">For some reason, Iris’s description of her cousin stayed with me, and over the next few days I easily wrote a slow, simple country waltz, inspired by Lucille. As I finished the lyrics, I realized that the song was from a man’s perspective. It had never occurred to me that as a songwriter, I could assume a role, like an actor does, and write from another point of view. This new awareness felt a little strange since I wasn’t sure where these songs were coming from anyway, but it freed me to think about all the people I could be as a songwriter who I couldn’t be as a person. I realized that two of my favorite songwriters, John Prine and Randy Newman, composed many of their songs from assumed perspectives, too. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan absolutely loved the song. He added a sweet harmony part and we sang “Lucille” for Iris for the first of many times. She was thrilled. From that day on, Evan always called me “Lucille.”</div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Lucille, high heel, under my bed;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, hiding inside my head;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, I wonder, where did you go?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, I love you, I want you to know;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, I love you, I want you to know.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I remember rhinestones, I remember pearls;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I remember Lucille as one of the girls;<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I thought I’d take her, make her my own,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But Lucille you loved me and left me alone,</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucille, you loved me and left me alone.”</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Click here to watch a video and listen to "Lucille.") </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .1in;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"> I took Iris’s work shift while she flew to New Jersey to celebrate her nephew’s birthday. Ned and Nora were in the process of transforming an old bus into the “Peace Academy,” a mobile resource center where marchers and visitors could learn about the nuclear issue. I knew who Ned and Nora were, but I had never met them. They were one of the peace march “couples,” many of whom, for some reason, had alliterative names. I introduced myself as Iris’s substitute. Ned explained that they were preparing to stock Peace Academy with educational materials, but first he and Stanley had to build shelves in the back of the bus. We needed to move boxes of materials off the bus to make room for the shelves to go up. We all set to work, simultaneously engaging in a long conversation about the “major camp rules”—no drinking and no drugs—and the process in place for dealing with anyone who broke them. Ned, Nora and Stanley were quiet folk, serious, smart and sensible, and not without strong opinions. We all knew that some marchers broke the camp rules, but for the most part, five hundred people behaved responsibly and respectfully for the sake of the march. People who wanted to drink alcohol did so mostly in bars, where the compounded benefit of community outreach justified a visit to the local watering hole. Some peace marchers were by nature pretty trippy, so it was hard to tell, but it seemed to me that most people were discreet about their drug use, too. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Once the boxes were out of the way, there wasn’t much more I could do, so I picked up a book called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dialogue</i> and started reading. The book was published by Physicians for Social Responsibility and contained chapters on peer mediation and conflict resolution, geo-political ideologies, political activism and social change. Global education and conflict resolution were by no means typical offerings in U.S. schools, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dialogue </i>made me wonder if it might be possible to design a course of study—or an entire school system—based on peace studies and nonviolence. I started thinking about nonviolence as an educational methodology, replacing the learning-through-intimidation that most children encountered in our schools. I imagined a system of assessment based not on the degrading system where, by definition, 80% of students are thrust into the lower castes, but on tracking student progress along an individualized continuum. I considered the possibility of introducing young people to peer mediation and an ideal of family and community nonviolence. By revolutionizing the paradigm maybe we really could, as the bumper sticker said, “Teach Peace.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Stanley and Ned finished putting up the shelves, so we loaded the boxes on the bus and drove back to Sterling for a bite to eat. They asked if I wanted to join them, but I didn’t have enough money for lunch, and I didn’t know them well enough to ask if they would buy me a meal, so I declined and took a walk around town instead. By this time, Mother Nature had reset the dial to “swelter.” I was the only person out in the pulsing midday heat. Sterling was a small town of maybe eight or ten thousand people, and the main street was lined with one- and two-storey buildings typical of tornado alley. Decorative touches—an awning, a row of potted plants, a wooden bench—were notably absent where twisters could turn them into deadly projectiles in a matter of seconds. The noonday sun glared mercilessly off the windshield of every parked car and against the storefront windows. Here and there a lone tree threw down a miserly oasis of shade, but not enough to keep my mind off an excuse to find some air conditioning. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the main street, I happened upon a military recruiting center. Hanging in the front window I noticed a popular poster from WWII of a spirited young woman in a Navy uniform, saying, “If I were a man, I’d join the Navy.” My grandmother always maintained that she was the model for that picture. She said an artist had sketched her sitting in a park in Manhattan and then used the sketch for the poster. There was no proof either way, but my family and I agreed that with her wavy black hair, her broad, Slavic cheekbones, and her smiling eyes, the model did look very much like my grandmother in her younger days. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I stepped into the recruitment center and approached two guys sitting in metal folding chairs behind a wood-paneled divider. They looked as though they had nothing better to do but listen to my story about their poster and my grandmother, so I told them all about it. I asked if they knew where I could get one, and much to my surprise, they said they had an extra one they could give to me. I asked if they were sure they wouldn’t need it for some event or something, and they shot me an expression that said, “You may have noticed, ma’am, this isn’t exactly Grand Central Station.” Maybe they thought it was amusing that a peace marcher wanted a Navy recruitment poster. More likely they were just angling to send me packing so they could resume their conversation. In any case, I was pleased to get it, and I thanked them as one young man rolled it up and placed a rubber band around it. I knew the poster would never survive the peace march, so I asked them to direct me to the post office. There, I bought a mailing tube and sent the poster to myself at my parents’ home. As I handed it over the counter at the post office, I thought for a moment how strange it was going to be to have possessions again at the end of the march. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Peace Academy bus broke down on the road to camp, which turned out to be the wrong road anyway, just as another wicked storm broke. I sat on the bus listening to sheets of rain slap hard against the windows while poor Ned and Sheldon huddled over the engine trying to diagnose the problem. Fortunately, a local man saw us on the side of the road and offered to help. He was a Christian missionary, but, more to the point, he was good with cars. The three of them managed to start the engine, and we set out on our way to camp. Once we found the right road, everyone relaxed a little and talked at length about another cross-country walk, a solo endeavor by Peter Jenkins, recorded in his book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walk Across America.</i> I couldn’t imagine walking across the United States completely alone. As friendly and welcoming as Americans had been to the peace marchers, the long stretches of highway would have made a single woman entirely too vulnerable to the whims of weather and perversions of mankind, and for me the solitude would have been unbearable. I hadn’t read Jenkins’ book but made a mental note to put it on my reading list.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—June 10, 1986<o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Had a vivid dream last night. I am in a small, sparsely furnished apartment that may or may not be mine. The walls are white and not very warm or homey. It is evening and I am standing in the kitchen near a counter that divides the kitchen from the dining area. I am getting ready to go out to some formal event, and I am dressed in black pants and a black top. I am just buttoning the top of my pants as my friends enter to pick me up. Among the three or four people who come in I recognize Sheila from Boulder who is dressed entirely in white. She introduces me to someone I don’t recognize named Michael Anthony. We walk right by each other as if oblivious to the introduction. I’m not sure if this is a joke or some kind of message in my dream. Then, as if to roll the cameras back, or perhaps at a later time, I walk past him and say very casually and noncommittally, “How’s it going?” Should I say something more involving? Finally there is a brief scene where I am sitting at a desk, also white or brightly lit, working at something—typing. Michael Anthony stands behind me and rubs my shoulders for a moment and then asks, “How’s the march going?” to which I swivel in my chair and answer, “Actually, it’s going really well.” I don’t have a clear sense for the meaning or significance of the dream or the introduction of this man, but when I woke up, I thought I should write it down. <o:p></o:p></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A comment by a visitor to Peace City stuck in my craw. He finished his tour, looked around camp and said, “The march is a hell of a statement, but it doesn’t accomplish anything.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-2904233734053648842010-11-24T14:39:00.027+01:002011-08-28T18:26:02.157+02:00Chapter Thirteen: "God Save Us From a Single Vision"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> We came through the portal of Denver and one day later stepped onto the Great Plains. After the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, the plains provided their own unique character, but it took an adjustment of the five senses to appreciate it. No longer the whiff of wild sage and mountain pine; no longer the rush of the river; no longer a cold morning dusted in overnight flurries. In their place, the glint of a bright green train ducking under a distant overpass, and flocks of black birds, their wings flashed with yellow and red, alighting on tall reeds near a pond, taking flight, dipping, swooping, and turning, and then alighting again in perfect unison. Whereas the Rockies had been all about light and shadow, the Great Plains were a study in space.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTUhk6PJ7p28uL94H6qy_WV9NmOrTNNY_0ek7Mez_5ZD25OxDmcj-vMJZIWFi1bWq-QjcpMzAH4geb_znDvqLujv-rKNfZYIxYDAXIFS30pX__8Ewqvwavd46wXKvCMImF2bdSb2WuzEu/s1600/n687671471_1722906_8629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTUhk6PJ7p28uL94H6qy_WV9NmOrTNNY_0ek7Mez_5ZD25OxDmcj-vMJZIWFi1bWq-QjcpMzAH4geb_znDvqLujv-rKNfZYIxYDAXIFS30pX__8Ewqvwavd46wXKvCMImF2bdSb2WuzEu/s400/n687671471_1722906_8629.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dining</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Eastern Colorado seemed to give the marchers a sense that we were now on solid ground. Our worst organizational nightmares were behind us, we had traversed the Rocky Mountains, and spring promised to turn into summer. Now we could let our hair down, and as we did, we discovered that we were not all of one mind on a number of core issues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Broadly speaking, some marchers were adamantly anti-war and wanted the peace march to speak out as a single voice to end all military engagement everywhere on Earth. They wanted U.S. military bases closed. They wanted our men and women out of uniform. They wanted the United States government to shut down the Pentagon and open a Department of Peace. They kept the spirit of Gandhi and Martin Luther King alive as examples of non-violent resistance, but they also broadened our message well beyond the call for global nuclear disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The most radical wing of marchers was eager to engage in civil disobedience to draw attention to our cause. They had had enough of letter-writing campaigns and weekend demonstrations. They led seminars on non-violent protest and arrest. In places like the Nevada test site they filled the local jails to voice their disapproval of nuclear testing. But the urge for civil disobedience did not always sit well with those in camp who advocated a more temperate approach to social change.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">There didn’t seem to be much objection to incorporating many other causes—hand gun control, domestic non-violence, a ban on whale hunting, gay and lesbian rights, environmental awareness, women’s rights, animal rights, equal pay, Native American land rights—under the “No Peace, No Justice; No Justice, No Peace” banner. These issues were integral to people’s lives, but even as we created a community of mutual support, some of us, myself included, were wary of drawing the spotlight away from global nuclear disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The only people who really troubled me were those who believed that if we all just thought the same way, we could achieve nuclear disarmament and world peace. The idea of a “collective vision” arose and was popular with many marchers. I viewed the concept as anti-intellectual and potentially dangerous, though I realized its proponents saw their vision of peace as a higher order view. I kept remembering something I’d read by William Blake. I couldn’t remember the quotation precisely, but it was something like, “God save us from a single vision…” There was more to it, something about the sleep of reason, as I recalled, but the snippet kept circling back into my mind. I figured Blake probably knew a thing or two about collective vision, and I took his words as a warning that it was better to suffer the messy perspectives of free thinkers, even if some of them were misguided voices of violence, than to attempt to channel human thinking into a single view, even if it was a seemingly peaceful one. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Our decision-making process centered on our elected council. We had frequent “town hall meetings,” also known as “all-camp meetings,” to discuss issues and concerns openly and often <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ad nauseam</i>. Some meetings had to do with logistics, as when we had to travel by bus rather than by foot in Utah, or learned how to collect donations so that our non-profit status and our donors would be protected. Other meetings provided an opportunity for us to meet local organizers and learn of local issues that might dovetail with our cause. My favorite town hall meetings were the ones where someone would stand up and complain about the way something was being done and suggest that “somebody” ought to do it in another way. Then, everyone would clap and nominate the person standing there to lead the improvement effort, and suddenly the complainer would realize he or she had complained him or herself right into a peace march job.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q4NO_Qpa6L9w18NCWcE6IJdAVmnQ8gZ3FjN9ibfq825GrguweQlLWO0ozsGT7osXjw5CqowVwUGs8Z6VoFXgpEE6I5tMO44SdfxDbNrBOEJWY69HrnYSukS0bwOasRlgwDYde4AHTZ1B/s1600/n551938719_1474874_7550728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q4NO_Qpa6L9w18NCWcE6IJdAVmnQ8gZ3FjN9ibfq825GrguweQlLWO0ozsGT7osXjw5CqowVwUGs8Z6VoFXgpEE6I5tMO44SdfxDbNrBOEJWY69HrnYSukS0bwOasRlgwDYde4AHTZ1B/s400/n551938719_1474874_7550728.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town Council Meeting</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">In most instances, our City Council listened respectfully to our views and managed those issues that fell within their purview. From the moment of truth back on Stoddard Wells Road, I never questioned their capability or their motives. I thought they did a good job. Unfortunately, the members of the City Council often became a lightning rod for disappointment and anger when they had to make unpopular decisions or whenever a marcher got ticked off and felt like taking it out on someone. Our City Council were, after all, just fellow marchers who had accepted a level of responsibility beyond what the rest of us had, but, for better or worse, we usually knew what they were thinking and understood, even if we did not always agree with, their decisions.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Board of Directors, on the other hand, worked largely behind the scenes. I was not familiar with our charter or our terms of incorporation, but I assumed that a board of directors was a legal requirement of our incorporation, and I assumed they had taken fiduciary responsibility for the newly reformed Great Peace March. There had been one unfortunate incident that distanced many marchers from the Board of Directors and led some to question their motives. One of the members of the Board of Directors evidently had business cards printed naming himself “president” of the Great Peace March. This decision would have been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pro forma</i> in the corporate world, but it irked many peace marchers to no end. Someone even went so far as to make multiple copies of the business card and wallpaper the inside of the porta-potties with them. In a group largely predisposed to distrust the corporate mentality -- or any authoritarian hierarchy, for that matter -- the late night, town hall discussions about the true intentions of the Board of Directors didn’t lend much clarity. Frustration grew until one director declared his resignation, and, finally, we decided to elect a whole new board. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We headed northeast out of Denver toward Sterling, Colorado. The farther east we went, out of the leeward rain shadow of the Rockies, the more lush the earth became. Maybe “lush” was too generous a term, but we had left the cacti and the creosote and the ponderosa pines behind and were literally walking in amber waves of grain. One morning in early June, when the mornings were still cool, I woke up, changed into clean clothes, unzipped my tent and looked out into a misty sea of tall grasses and diffused sunlight. I sat for a few minutes gazing out at the day, thinking that something, something was different. Then it dawned on me: It was summer. It was summer, and I was on the camping trip of a lifetime. I picked up my shoes and gave them the usual clap, clap, clap, a habit I’d taken up on camping trips long before and to which I’d rededicated myself after I heard that someone had found a scorpion in his shoe back in Barstow. I tied my shoelaces and walked across the field, insects hopping and popping away as I waded through the tall grass. There was a summertime smell in the air and a pressure that told me the temperature would be up before mid-morning. I used the porta-potties, washed my hands and face with soap and water, using my bandana as a washcloth, brushed my teeth, rolled up yesterday’s clothes (soiled clothes were rolled; laundered clothes were folded) and deposited them in my crates on the gear truck, and headed over to the kitchen for a bowl of granola and milk. I returned to stuff my sleeping bag into its stuff sack and take down my tent, now dry from twenty minutes in the early morning sun. I filled my water bottle and took inventory: Sun glasses? Check. Walkman? Check. Visor? Check. Sun block? Check. The fog burned off quickly, and the day was already warming up as I joined the marchers on the road, headed eastward, always eastward toward the rising summer sun.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC2pysWZIf_bjgbf7DJXfzX_x77KMpw56DUt6HjZCkbrAtgXPysBYc2orADpn9hy4EiBmfIrDrjVJdUP4J1kzd0j5Vpq8JR19yvnp1UpSQENGBwiG4mmZblpBn4d8afM6lyHBRGRvHlBz/s1600/000003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC2pysWZIf_bjgbf7DJXfzX_x77KMpw56DUt6HjZCkbrAtgXPysBYc2orADpn9hy4EiBmfIrDrjVJdUP4J1kzd0j5Vpq8JR19yvnp1UpSQENGBwiG4mmZblpBn4d8afM6lyHBRGRvHlBz/s400/000003.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Misty Morning View from My Front Porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">As we eased onto the plains, a seed of resentment took root among a handful of marchers who took umbrage with people who dressed in outlandish clothing and neither worked nor walked. The freeloaders, or “march potatoes,” as some called them, became a source of serious consternation for a small but vocal group. The dilemma came to a head after a contingent of newcomers joined the march from the “Rainbow Gathering.” The Rainbow Gathering, as I understood it, was an outdoor assembly of earthy, organic, free-spirited folks who spent a few days together each year dancing in circles, eating whole foods, sleeping under the stars, and loving the earth and one another. By my estimation, the Rainbow People who joined us were completely harmless and merely representative of a colorful if unwashed fringe of the peace spectrum. However, they were not particularly linked in with our political message, and, in their flowing, cotton, tie-dyed robes and long, unkempt hair and beards, the Rainbow People were a sight to see. The more tucked-in crowd didn’t like their look, their spacey attitude, or the fact that the Rainbow People, too, might come to represent the march. For several weeks, the small group of marchers took control of the agenda at all-camp meetings, insisting that we adopt a Great Peace March dress code. Everyone should be “clean” and have “nice hair,” and the men on the march should not wear “robes” or “dresses.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Even in a community dedicated to hearing people out on just about any issue, it was hard to take the "dress coders" seriously. For most of us, the desire for cleanliness far outweighed our ability to achieve it. We had abandoned any hope of having “nice hair,” the mullet and the Che Guevara beard being the two most egregious de-evolutions in style, and any plan for staying "clean" rested entirely on the availability of showers in the towns through which we traveled. Our wardrobes were dictated by two factors: current weather conditions and the cubic space of two milk crates. People did their best to look nice—a scarf here, a pair of cheery socks there, but function dominated form. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After several days of intense debate, wouldn’t you know, a number of men in camp borrowed dresses and skirts and donned them as a protest against the “dress” code. I smiled and silently blessed them for their common sense and humor. The fuss persisted over the summer months, and the men continued to wear skirts from time to time through the Plains states to keep the dress coders in check, but also because they discovered that on hot summer days, skirts were breezy and cool. One man, I noticed, wore a dress every day, but he seemed to be making another point entirely.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The dress code issue was a big deal, proving that people can elevate any cause if they pump steady time and energy into it. It seemed to me that the dress code was a stab at creating an identity for the march. Like a teenager standing before a mirror trying on clothing and hairstyles and attitudes, the peace march struggled to find an enduring outward expression of our identity as a community. As a middle school educator I was probably inclined to allow for experimentation, but from a practical standpoint, too, our disarmament message had to sway as many Americans as possible, so a broad range of diversity within our community gave us more points of contact with the people we met along the way. Hippies, preppies, punks, straights, gays, nuns, anarchists, actors, truckers, soldiers, physicists, straight laced ladies, you name ‘em, we had ‘em, all connecting with people in communities on our way to Washington. We needed our diversity to show so that, like that guy in the chili restaurant back in Barstow, everyone we met could look at some peace marcher among us and say, “You’re just like me!”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">While I sided with the skirted men on the dress code issue, I felt strongly that the march shouldn’t support anyone who was unwilling to walk and work. There were a few exceptions to the walking rule. Babies, obviously, and people who sincerely wished to walk but found they couldn’t. Through their ingenuity and determination, many contributed to life on the march. Frank and Flossie’s Tent Repair service was a good example. Our trusty porta-potty drivers were another. So were the seniors who kept finances or washed dishes or drove the kids on field trips. There was never a doubt that they were marching right along with us. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnomnitlsibr0WsOtmAlvRTEVFJiBTg9MTMjYJ5c9-LZ7qFN-nML-vloCAqgWs6-gq_vEnkvE63pUEBJn99qoCeAGKAm06_MnbT826Miw7PflgSIK1rwiEZk2HIScPVUiXQJJlx1eY0K1/s1600/6334_1165946022506_1043560068_30525622_6042365_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: -95px; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnomnitlsibr0WsOtmAlvRTEVFJiBTg9MTMjYJ5c9-LZ7qFN-nML-vloCAqgWs6-gq_vEnkvE63pUEBJn99qoCeAGKAm06_MnbT826Miw7PflgSIK1rwiEZk2HIScPVUiXQJJlx1eY0K1/s400/6334_1165946022506_1043560068_30525622_6042365_n.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Maintenance Crew Toiled Over Vehicles</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Some peace march jobs ruled out walking. The Advance Team, for instance, drove ahead to meet with local leaders and beg up campsites, showers, food supplies, rally sites, and more. Our Media Outreach team similarly scouted opportunities for TV, radio, and newspaper coverage. Back in camp, our Maintenance Crew toiled over our vehicles, many of which were in dicey condition to begin with, to keep them up and running. They often sacrificed walking. Other than these sanctioned exceptions to the work-and-walk rule, everyone had to walk to give the march meaning, and work to keep it moving. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvwf8FwqlAXyLaxAg5KzoDVzjBCwIdMfdrJrPyYcdNf8JCSJ99mV3pZ77SomhLxyTHfi_rUcpSgoZNk2bldtZFbGbfla3SOoU2JK1PJiHtYXbGPt1VXLUXPoCbMWLkLQXiJU39U0E9WVU/s1600/n737721004_2313814_3471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvwf8FwqlAXyLaxAg5KzoDVzjBCwIdMfdrJrPyYcdNf8JCSJ99mV3pZ77SomhLxyTHfi_rUcpSgoZNk2bldtZFbGbfla3SOoU2JK1PJiHtYXbGPt1VXLUXPoCbMWLkLQXiJU39U0E9WVU/s400/n737721004_2313814_3471.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Media Crew Excelled at Getting Attention</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">One Rainbow Person was a tall, lanky fellow, about eighteen years old, with thick blonde dreadlocks. Perhaps because he stood out as particularly unkempt, Harold drew a lot of flack for all of the Rainbow People. Like the other Rainbow People, he usually slept under the trucks rather than setting up a tent, so one morning, as he was nearby, I asked him to help us with the loading. He willingly joined the crew, and I overheard him and another marcher start a conversation. She asked him how the peace march was going for him so far. He told her he couldn’t figure out why everyone seemed to hate him and why people wanted him to leave the march. I felt a twinge of compassion and wondered what she would say next. She stepped with him away from the loading line for a moment and explained to him what he apparently had not figured out on his own. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Harold,” she said, “there are only two things you have to do to stay on the march. First, you have to work two days a week.” She pointed out the work being done around camp at that moment. “These people loading the truck are working, the people making lunches in the trailer over there are working, the people washing up after breakfast are working, and the people cleaning up the camp are working. Everyone has a job, and you need to find one, too, or people won’t respect you here. The other thing you have to do is walk on the march every day.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Harold seemed to take it all in, and then he finished helping us load the truck. I didn’t think much more about it until a few days later when I saw him walking on the march. While the rest of us tromped along the shoulder, Harold stepped gingerly through the rough grass off the side of the road. That’s when I realized that Harold had no shoes. It occurred to me that the old adage about walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes would have explained a lot about Harold’s “march potato” tendencies. Eventually, he must have gotten a cast-off pair from the lost and found, because the next time I saw him, he was wearing some old, worn sandals. It looked to me like he was making a good effort to become a peace marcher. Some time later I overheard some people complaining about Harold and was compelled to defend him saying that now that he was working and walking, Harold was part of the peace march, too. I was pleased that most of the marchers eventually accepted him, and that a few of the Rainbow People found a place on the march. At night, alas, a good number of them still slept under the trucks. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_GtuX6BMvAnQLQVTEEy4J66dwpgK9PEzSq11_L0SU7Yqpx7rzuDM3GJC1IbELJ26uvsyts6ilvnsAmCoXikRxHukLcKYeEB2ShNJ382GuEMrTGFNR8iwGrUhUsZu0vGxfJRcKS1aZx_l/s1600/F1000040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_GtuX6BMvAnQLQVTEEy4J66dwpgK9PEzSq11_L0SU7Yqpx7rzuDM3GJC1IbELJ26uvsyts6ilvnsAmCoXikRxHukLcKYeEB2ShNJ382GuEMrTGFNR8iwGrUhUsZu0vGxfJRcKS1aZx_l/s400/F1000040.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remmy's Rainbow Cart Transporting Girls and Dinners</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">While some marchers were making mountains out of molehills, others were inventing solutions to everyday problems. When it became clear that the younger marchers couldn’t walk the full distance of the march each day, one man named Remmy took it upon himself to build a couple of two-wheeled carts that could be pushed like wheelbarrows or pulled like rickshaws. They were made of sturdy wood but meticulously balanced and remarkably lightweight. Remmy covered the sides with festive, rainbow fabric, so the carts looked as great as they rode. Remmy’s "rainbow carts" were among dozens of individual initiatives that improved our quality of life. Early on, two marchers acquired a small, flatbed trailer. They installed a large plastic tank on top and connected it with hoses that brought the water down to half a dozen spigots. They attached a length of guttering along both sides of the trailer to drain the water off to one end and onto the ground. They created a communal wash-up wagon in a camp that otherwise had no running water. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Although the original PRO-Peace medical team had left long ago, we had the good fortune to have with us a dentist and an oral hygienist. Somehow, they had the means to obtain a mobile dentist office for the duration of the march. The couple put out the word that anyone who was due for a cleaning or needed minor dental work done could make an appointment. Their RV was equipped with a dentist chair, examination lighting, and all the usual tools needed for a check-up. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A small group took the initiative to paint several of our vehicles. Over a period of weeks, they transformed our drab caravan into a colorful convoy that clearly identified us as “The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament” wherever we went. Anyone in camp could easily locate “Kiddie Haul,” “Info-Com,” “Peace Academy,” or “The Media Bus.” I loved the paint job on the truck used to extract the contents of the porta-potties. The Reagan administration had attempted to neutralize the nation’s nuclear weapons systems with nifty names like the “Space Defense Initiative” or Orwellian war-is-peace names like “Peacekeepers.” In green and white, the neat calligraphy on the side of the truck read, “If Nuclear Weapons are Peacekeepers… This is a Truckload of Roses.”</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xqGVTVmCsO7nrxEBJVdEFU6sH3nU_6xpYheUv8WPWxFTSR7KlCvmEUxK2gHL6QbmFxo5BjBiRumj2b2w7y4SigzDEfi5A-NifkR5pcWTr_Zf-hwBRvo88dChv9xMz8gCaQsStyjEjmsM/s1600/F1000034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xqGVTVmCsO7nrxEBJVdEFU6sH3nU_6xpYheUv8WPWxFTSR7KlCvmEUxK2gHL6QbmFxo5BjBiRumj2b2w7y4SigzDEfi5A-NifkR5pcWTr_Zf-hwBRvo88dChv9xMz8gCaQsStyjEjmsM/s400/F1000034.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If Nuclear Weapons are Peacekeepers...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone announced that “Peace City” needed a mayor. By osmosis, we unanimously chose Justine, an outgoing, down-to-earth woman who had up to that point been the head of the Greens Keepers, the group that made sure we left each campsite better than we’d found it. Justine rose to the office with aplomb. I felt proud whenever she stood to represent us. A two-prong program defined her mayoral office: “Keys and Trees.” She enlisted Will, a woodworker, to craft keys to “Peace City.” He carved “The Great Peace March,” along with the date and the key number, into each wooden key. Justine contacted the town hall of every town and city along our route and asked to meet with the mayor in a goodwill ceremony. She presented the local mayor with a key to “Peace City,” and the mayor reciprocated. By the end of the march Mayor Justine had collected keys and gavels and welcome plaques from nearly every town and city we passed along the way.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Mayor Justine also invited a local nursery to donate a “peace tree” and arranged for the planting to take place during the goodwill ceremony. Residents and peace marchers gathered in a local park for a blessing, a brief speech about the communities gathered in friendship, and a song or two. Peace marchers usually supplied the music. Some marchers became tree-planting groupies. By the time we got to eastern Colorado, Justine was lightheartedly boasting that she was planting “the longest, thinnest forest in America.”</div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6991742738943557520.post-39476979158143162662010-11-24T10:31:00.046+01:002011-09-07T17:55:58.942+02:00Chapter Twelve: "A Mantle of Grace"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The jaunt from Camp Chief Hosa to Red Rocks Park just west of Denver was an easy eight-miler, but I wouldn’t be walking. It was my first day on the job—my new job, loading trucks. Evan and I decided to put our brute strength to the test by signing on as truck loaders two days a week.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The peace march had two trucks for transporting all our personal gear. Each had a long central aisle running the full length of the trailer. Sturdy wooden shelves along the sides of the aisle held our green crates, two per marcher. Every morning, the marchers rolled up their tents, sleeping bags, duffle bags and whatnot and left them in big piles near the trucks. The loading crew, of which Evan and I were now members, formed a bucket brigade and passed the gear into the trucks. One loader was designated to do the stacking, fitting everything into place from floor to ceiling until the whole aisle was completely packed right up to the two big doors. I should have known I would love heaving tents and sleeping bags. Even as a little child, I liked proving myself by doing jobs that required physical strength. When I was five or six years old, my grandfather, who was always looking for an extra hand in the garden, nicknamed me "Hercules" because I had demonstrated that I could carry the big watering can or drag heavy bags of mulch wherever they were needed. On our first day on the job as loaders, since no one else seemed game, Evan and I volunteered to be stackers.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Stacking gear was like a huge game of Tetras. I had to simultaneously fill a space and look for my next option without knowing exactly what shape or size would present itself next. The bucket brigade passed the pieces into the truck without pause. I wasn't by nature a speedy worker, but I was good at establishing a rhythm, so I set the pace like a metronome ticking in my head. Receive, twist forward, stack, twist back, receive, twist forward, stack, twist back. As the stack got higher, I had to step up onto the shelves on either side of the aisle to add to the top of the pile. Evan was presumably doing the same dance over in his truck. The task was challenging and fun. They weren't the most beautifully loaded trucks in history, but for a first time, we hadn't done badly, and, most important, the gear all fit. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan went off to find a cup of coffee and I went into the little “Kiddie Haul” school bus that was used as a meeting point for the littlest peace marchers. I found a broom and swept out the dirt, then arranged the children’s books neatly on the shelves. The childcare workers tried to keep "Kiddie Haul" orderly and clean, but whereas global nuclear disarmament presented a reasonably attainable goal, cleanliness on the peace march was a truly hopeless cause. My motives weren’t entirely altruistic. Tidying up the childcare bus was a random act of kindness that helped me bid a final farewell as I moved away from working with the kids and into the business of loading trucks. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I found Evan at the Chief Hosa Lodge. We relaxed for a few minutes, he with his tall, Styrofoam cup of coffee and me with my tea, on the Adirondack chairs on the patio. We were feeling pretty smug after our truck-loading experience. Bill arrived. It was a workday for him, too. Bill was on the “Campscape” crew, whose job was to put up and break down the big town hall tents. The steep terrain at Camp Chief Hosa had made it impossible to put up the big tents, so Bill was enjoying an easy morning of it. As we sat talking, an elderly man walked up and asked if someone could help him remove his wading boots. He was not a peace marcher, just a camper or a hunter passing through. I was closest, so I stood up and pulled off his boots, first one, then the other, as he rested his hand on my shoulder for support. After the man toddled off, boots in hand, Bill said with a wry smile, “You know, it’s really an advantage to be ready for anything that comes along.” </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Evan started to chuckle. I had no idea what they were talking about, but then I realized how odd the old man’s request had been, and the three of us had a good laugh. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Journal with Found Desert Flowers and Butterfly Wings</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Evan had borrowed a car, so after Bill departed, he and I walked back to the parking lot. As we crossed the bridge that passed over the highway to Red Rocks, we glanced down at the road below. There, entering the highway from the entrance ramp was one of our gear trucks—with the big back doors swinging wide open. Our truck loader bravado suddenly vanished as we imagined hundreds of sleeping bags and tents strewn across the highway. We looked at each other in horror. At that very moment, Frank and Flo drove by in their tent repair van, so we flagged them down, babbling a desperate explanation. Frank responded immediately, heading off at top speed to see if he could intercept the truck and save our gear. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In the meantime, Evan and I headed for the parking lot and got the car. Evan drove. After a mile or two, we concluded, much to our relief, that the highway appeared free of camping gear. We relaxed a little, and I gazed out the window as we said goodbye to the last of the mountain valleys, rolling, sun-kissed and unexpectedly green. The lush, low hills reminded me of the west coast of Ireland, where I had spent a few weeks traveling in my college days. Intermittent clouds sent a checkered design of light and shadow over the land, and shades of green competed with one another for the spotlight. Evan was keeping his eyes on the road, so I described the last valley to him and told him about the time I’d fallen fast asleep in the afternoon sun on a loamy cliff high above the sea in Ireland. The thick, green moss was as comfortable as any bed. Evan was intensely proud of his heritage and yearned to travel to Ireland, Scotland and England, the homes of his ancestors. We agreed that it was strange—in a good way—to see Ireland in Colorado. We also agreed that the Great Peace March was not a good place to get the W<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anderlust</i> out of your system. Within minutes, the landscape changed completely. Where the valley eased off, a scattering of enormous, red mesas and broad, red rocks had fallen, millions of years ago, off the edge of the mountain. This was Red Rocks. Evan pulled into the parking lot. There were the gear trucks, their back doors securely latched shut. Frank and Flossie had saved the day. "Guess we packed 'em pretty tight," Evan suggested, the bravado returning to his voice. I laughed and breathed a sigh, "Yea, I guess we did." </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Upon arrival, I felt a bit queasy. We had to wait for the Workers’ Shuttle to arrive anyway, so I walked a short distance into the park and lay down on a big, flat, red rock, hoping that my headache and upset stomach had more to do with gazing out the window at images of Ireland whizzing by than whatever I’d eaten for breakfast. Given that we purchased food from local greengrocers and farm cooperatives, and that it was prepared by a rotation of ten or fifteen marchers in the great outdoors with limited access to running water, it was something of a miracle that no one had come down with food poisoning. Then again, we kept all of our food storage, prep and cooking facilities remarkably clean, and most of us were fastidious about washing our hands before meals. Alfred, a master carpenter from Massachusetts with snowy white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, said he believed the peace march had “a mantle of grace” keeping us safe and sound all along the road. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I awoke a little while later like a lizard blinking in the sun. Where was I? Oh, yes, Red Rocks… the peace march. I took a deep breath. My head had cleared. Another breath. My stomach felt better. I reflected on the fact that among my new skills, I had developed the ability to fall asleep almost anywhere. A flat stone in the sun had served me fine. I joined Evan and the crew and unloaded the trucks, carefully stacking gear into piles according to the “neighborhood” code written on the outside of the bags. When we were done, I set up my tent on a site overlooking the parking lot. From my vantage point, Denver was visible as a pool of brown smog about ten miles off in the distance. </div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Campsite at Red Rocks, Colorado</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">In addition to the geological park, Red Rocks was home to an outdoor amphitheatre that was a popular venue for folk and rock bands. I walked to the front entrance to see if I could find out who was currently on the bill, but the gates were closed, so I strolled back and found Bill and Craig playing their guitars in the afternoon sun. I sat with them and for the first time heard Bill perform his original songs. His capricious guitar style and demented lyrics made his songs seem like a Diane Arbus photograph set to music. Unlike me, Bill apparently didn’t care what other people thought of his music, and that seemed to set him free. Craig, it turned out, was new to the guitar, though you would never have known from the way he was strumming and attempting to play complex chords and progressions that took him well beyond jazz. They had a book of Credence Clearwater Revival songs, so we leafed through and played some: “Looking Out My Back Door,” “Bad Moon Rising.” When “Proud Mary” came up, I had to admit to Bill and Craig that I’d sung in a top-40 band when I was in high school, and this was one of our songs. They found the notion of me in an evening gown behind the microphone on stage in a cocktail lounge with a band of guys wearing white tuxedos entertaining indeed. I figured they might as well know the truth. Our little hootenanny was interrupted by a park ranger who drove by in a truck announcing—through a bullhorn—that walking or climbing on the rocks was dangerous and strictly forbidden; he added that we could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">die</i> from climbing on the rocks. The park authorities had directed us to camp near the rocks, so we were annoyed by the mixed message. Still, we tried to be good guests and follow the rules, so our musical trio moved to a less deadly spot. We were done singing anyway, and we joked that, like other big acts in the business, we could now say we had played Red Rocks.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Pete Seeger, renowned folk singer, arrived at camp that evening, as did a dangerous thunderstorm. Ignoring the first rule of storm safety, I had pitched my tent on a high spot above the parking lot because the yellow cacti were in bloom and I wanted to be near them. The sky turned absolutely black; I could hear distant thunder and see flashes of lightning approaching at the front of the storm. I retreated into my little nylon dome, thin assurance against the gusting wind, and lay down on my sleeping bag. Fortunately, my stakes were well planted and my rain fly was securely attached. I was pretty sure the whole tent wouldn’t blow away as long as I was in it to weigh it down, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure. The rain came in squalling buckets as the wind pressed hard against the tent, bending the arced tent poles inward. As the lightning flashed closer and closer, all I could do was lie spread eagle on my back, holding the shivering tent poles steady with my hands and feet, and praying to God that this spot had been hit by lightning before. Given its exposed location, I thought there was a good chance it had. I counted aloud the seconds between flashes of lightning—“one sweet potato, two sweet potato, three sweet potato…” and the interrupting echo of thunder. Soon the pause between sweet potatoes closed completely as the storm raged directly overhead. I laughed every time the thunder cracked, but it was the uneasy laughter of a person hoping the cup will pass—and quickly. I imagined my legacy among friends and family of having been struck by lightning on the Great Peace March, and I didn’t like the sound of it. At last the storm eased and my heart stopped pounding. Soon, it was just the rain, and then that passed, too. My little ship had survived the storm. One point for Alfred's mantle of grace. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I lay still and listened to the marchers unzip their tents all around camp. Everyone was heading to the evening program at the big town hall tent. It would be standing room only, with a large overflow crowd, so I decided to stay in my trusty dome home and listen from above. Pete Seeger strummed his banjo and sang, and the tent full of marchers joined in. When the last song was over, a spirited conversation flowed through camp as marchers returned to their tents and settled in for the night, our last night in the Rockies.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Early the next morning, Congresswoman Pat Schroeder spoke to the peace marchers. In a slightly shaky but enthusiastic voice, she welcomed us. For the moment, she said, we were living in her congressional district and were therefore her constituents. Gerrymandering was never more finely applied. Her message on disarmament was unwavering. She insisted that we were not alone in our wish to end the nuclear arms race. She said we had supporters on Capitol Hill and urged us to awaken America to the cause so that our supporters in government could legislate the changes we sought. Schroeder’s speech galvanized the crowd and gave me hope that we were on the right track. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Journal Entry—June 2, 1986</i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arrive in Denver at our camp near the Sunrise Café and quickly set up my tent so I can catch a ride to the Zephyrs’ baseball game. The Zephyrs, the local farm team, have donated one hundred free tickets to the march and instantly become our home team. The Kiddie Haul bus fills and we hit the road for Mile-High Stadium. We form a large cheering section of Zephyr fans and remain loyal even as they fall behind the Buffalo Bisons by five runs. We enjoy hot dogs and peanuts, though beer at $2.25 a glass keeps us all sober. None of us has that kind of money. Our name goes up on the scoreboard and we all cheer; a local fan leads us and we all cheer; one of our marchers, Matty spells out Z-E-P-H-Y-R-S using semaphores and we all cheer. Finally, in the last inning, the peace marchers get an “om,” going, and sure enough, it works – an “om run” for the Zephyrs! A moment of march magic. On the bus back to camp—everyone singing TV theme songs. Great night. </i></div><i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iris, Me and Evan Stepping Out of the Rockies and Into Denver</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">After the exhilaration of the Rockies, Denver seemed soupy and polluted and crowded. I had worried about safety in the mountains because of the narrow, winding roads, unpredictable weather and precarious campsites. None of my worries had come to pass. However, we set up camp in the Denver railroad yard a few hundred feet from the train tracks and, like hoboes of the Depression Era, slept in the shadow of the empty freight cars. Everything around us was rust and metal and grease and chipping paint. The trains clanked and creaked against one another as they shifted on the tracks all night long. America’s freight trains had become our constant travelling companions through the mountains, but I hoped we wouldn’t make a habit of sleeping with them. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My old shoes had gone flat, but I hadn’t realized just how worn down they were until I slipped my feet into a new pair at a downtown mall in Denver. Nike Airs were true to their name. I took a few steps and laughed aloud, directing a grin to the two salespeople who had never, I was sure – they were both about seventeen years old—shod a more appreciative customer. “Feels like I’m on a trampoline!” I said. "I can’t wait to test them out on the road." I told the clerks I was walking across America for nuclear disarmament. They seemed cautiously interested, so I continued the conversation. When I mentioned that my old shoes had walked me all the way from California, something clicked. Still, they seemed reluctant to get too friendly with an overenthusiastic customer. “Unfortunately," I lamented, looking over the old, worn pair, "my storage space is limited, so I can’t keep the old ones. Do you think I should send them to the Smithsonian?” They both chuckled. So, I thought, they know the Smithsonian. These kids had promise. “I guess they wouldn’t be interested,” I sighed. The young man respectfully held out the trash can. They were both part of a ritual now and didn’t think it odd, or didn’t let on if they did, when I paused before placing the shoes inside. “Bye, old shoes,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me this far.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On my way out of the shoe store, I imagined what these two kids might talk about after I left. Maybe they’d just roll their eyes and shake their heads and go back to talking about Beverly Hills Cop or the Cosby Show. On the other hand, maybe—even if it were hours or days later— they’d remember that woman who was walking across the country for—what was it? Oh, yea—global nuclear disarmament. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I stopped for a few minutes to listen to a band playing Andean folk music in the atrium of the mall. Their instruments - pipes and guitars and hand drums - and driving rhythms appealed to me. They must have traveled thousands of miles to play in this shopping mall in America. I imagined them in their home villages. I reflected on a world without them. On the peace march, this was the sad scrim against which the world’s wonders were projected. I added Andean folk music to my growing list of reasons to end the nuclear arms race. As I left the shopping mall, I noticed that my feet felt much better. I made a mental note that when my knees and hips and feet started to feel fatigued, it was probably time for a new pair of shoes. I anticipated an investment in three more pairs before it was all over. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">We held a peace rally on the steps of the Colorado state capitol. It was a lightly attended affair of about 1,500 people including us, the <i>Denver Post</i> reported, but those who gathered were enthusiastic and generous in their support. The mayor read an inspired declaration saying, "The Great Peace March is one of the most ambitious and monumental civilian undertakings in history." A group of Native American elders spoke about our shared responsibility for caring for the earth. Georgia and I sang “Long Walk to D.C.,” and Fergus and his group performed, but the highlight came when someone took the microphone and announced that a doctor from Denver had written a personal check to the Great Peace March for twenty-five thousand dollars. “If Paul Newman can give $25,000,” the doctor announced, “I can too.”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">A roar of cheers and a collective sigh of relief swept through the crowd. We chattered and did little happy feet dances; we whooped and cheered some more. I couldn’t imagine having the resources to make such an enormous gift, and to entrust a small fortune to a caravan of peace pilgrims was really quite remarkable. I wasn’t privy to the details of our financial situation, but it was clear that we were living on a shoestring (not inappropriately so, Bill would have added), and the doctor’s gift would allow our finance department to secure our solvency. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheering a Generous Donor at the State Capitol in Denver</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As a general rule, any time anyone gave me so much as a smile or a wave or a handshake, I took it as a direct order to make nuclear disarmament happen. I imagined the single path we were taking across the United States and multiplied the number of supporters by an area that covered the entire country. I was weak at math and geometry, but I knew the number had to be in the hundreds of thousands. I often wondered if there were places in the country where we would have been completely scorned, but given that we had already passed unscathed through some relatively conservative areas, I concluded that we would have found many more supporters than detractors along any imaginable route. The beauty of it was that five hundred of my fellow marchers were getting the same encouragement. The “woop-de-doo” was coming not just from our fellow marchers in camp at the end of the day but from hundreds of local people, too, and every gesture of support made it that much easier for us to accomplish our goal. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsDZD2YYJS-AqPFhaWmQev_3QVenMaMbEpeoq03vXkxwXU7GPhLRAd7O_2z0Zerq7gqEu6KYmSkbTk2EKOpIYm27nh-ek-E90N5CgKR2oZCUw3Vdf5ASFfnwEb5vhyphenhyphenj0TdB_q8D9itIQl/s1600/7129_1162281591582_1664104734_397821_2195601_n_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsDZD2YYJS-AqPFhaWmQev_3QVenMaMbEpeoq03vXkxwXU7GPhLRAd7O_2z0Zerq7gqEu6KYmSkbTk2EKOpIYm27nh-ek-E90N5CgKR2oZCUw3Vdf5ASFfnwEb5vhyphenhyphenj0TdB_q8D9itIQl/s400/7129_1162281591582_1664104734_397821_2195601_n_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The GPM is One of the Most Ambitious and Monumental Civilian Undertakings in History..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On the other hand, if we needed proof that not everyone agreed with us, the local press provided a steady supply. The <i>Denver Post</i> covered our story as we approached the city. The news stories laid out the facts, with photographs (including an appealing portrait of Lynnie, our youngest marcher, holding a globe pillow above her head), but the letters to the editor on the op-ed page revealed a heated local debate. One reader wrote that she respected our efforts but then faintly praised our cause as “idealistic” and “probably hopeless.” Another letter said we were walking across the country “on a lark.” Many readers in the <i>Post</i>—and other newspapers—seemed unaware of our goal to end the nuclear arms race. These readers often cited the sacrifices of World War II veterans in preserving the liberties of Europeans and Americans, and suggested that the peace marchers were not only disrespectful of those sacrifices but naïve to think that the world could live in peace. It was clear to me that this misconception was a consequence of marchers talking too generally about peace and not specifically about global nuclear disarmament. I was sure that if we could emphasize the "for Global Nuclear Disarmament" half of our name, we could convince those veterans—and others who had taken the time to write letters to the editors—that having 50,000 nuclear weapons was going overboard to defend our liberties. </div></div>Laura Monaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12658473718618729064noreply@blogger.com