In These My Ninety Plus Years

In these my 90+ years, I find that

The probability of living a satisfying and productive life is the greatest:

If I strive to attain my individual needs:

With faith - founded on knowledge,

With hope - tempered by understanding,

With love and respect - for the universe, the earth, other persons, and myself;

With dedication - to meet the demands of love,

With sharing - of my resources - material and intellectual;

With endurance - steeled by realism,

With deep appreciation - for esthetics and beauty,

With humility - derived from awareness that I have occurred as only one of a multitude of living Forms, shaped and reshaped (for better and worse) in the ever seething crucible of universal change.

Shortly after my retirement, I summarized the many ideas gathered over the years in the following lines of free verse:

The Woods of the Trees

The separate events
in the turbulent history of the universe and humans,
are the individual trees
that shape the great woods of knowledge. Once perceived,
the forms and patterns of those woods
can provide individuals and society
with improved foresight and wisdom,
with a dynamic source of direction,
for the present and the evolving future.
as I perceive it from my personal studies and experiences,

The history of the universe
is a continuing rearrangement
of the physical and the living,
involving tiny alterations of minute particles,
involving gigantic upheavals of huge mountains,
involving constant regroupings of immense cosmic bodies.

The history of living matter on earth
is one of continuing confrontation with the changing universe,
of successful adaptation or extinction.
The history of humans, as part of that living matter,
is a kaleidoscopic mix of adaptive attainment and calamity.
The calamities of humans can be overwhelming
when measured against expectations of perfection,
when observed closely in time,
when experienced first hand,
and evidence of progress can elude detection.
But when measured against human origins,
when observed on a scale of eons, our
human misadventures can be seen
as erratic deviations from a slow, fragile trend
toward adaptation, and evidence of progress is real.

The future of our universe and the Earth will continue
to be a result of rearrangements
among the planets and their suns,
among the other myriad objects of space,
among the structures of the Earth's shell and fiery interior,
among the forms of life in the vast oceans and on the land.

The future of humans will continue
to be an interaction of our own activities
with the physical, biological and cultural rearrangements around us.
Calamities and disasters may be expected,
because we humans with our growing but imperfect knowledge,
at times will err in anticipating the impact of change,
at times will err in actions that determine our future.

But the record of the past suggests
that the number and severity of hardships can be reduced,
that the chances of surviving disruptive change can be increased,
that adaptive progress can be attained,
when we humans make our choices with realistic consideration
of the physical, biological and cultural environment about us,
when we humans make our choices with recognition
of the dominating role of uncontrollable, unpredictable change
in determining the fortunes and misfortunes of ourselves and others,
when we humans make our choices with awareness
that we occurred as one of a multitude of living forms,
shaped and reshaped in the ever- seething crucible
of universal change.

The record of the past suggests
that individual humans can best reach their potential for adaptability
when they strive to attain their needs
with love and respect for the universe,
for the earth, for each other, for their own selves,
with dedication to meet the demands of love,
with sharing of their resources, material and intellectual,
with humility derived from a perspective of self insufficiency,
with endurance steeled by realism,
with faith founded on knowledge,
with hope tempered by understanding,
with deep appreciation for esthetics and beauty.

The record of the past suggests
that the probability of improving the future
of all humankind is the greatest
when we humans, as a society,
reward cooperation and service to others
as much as attainment for oneself,
When we humans, as a society,
provide for government by the governed,
ensure the human rights
of equal protection under the law,
of freedom of speech,
of peaceful assembly and religion;
When we humans as a society
prevent the excessive accumulation of personal power,
both political and economic;
When we humans, as a society,
eliminate the incentives for exploitation and aggression,
place priorities on the needs for all,
banish discrimination by race, creed, nationality,
sex, or sexual orientation,
create and maintain technologies and institutions
that can cope in an environment of imperfection and uncertainty.

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore I couldn’t resist writing a parody of his “Twas the Night before Christmas”:

Twas the Night after Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas,
And all through the house,
Ev'ry creature was stirring,
Including a louse.
I was dressed in my bathrobe,
assembling a toy,
for an impatient youngster,
my four year old boy.
When there came on the roof top
a clatter and bang
And I ran to the front door
just as the bell rang.

On the stoop I found Santa
all robed in jet black;
his white beard was effusing
like steam from a stack.
He looked drained and exhausted,
his shoulders were drooped,
And he was without question
just out and out pooped.

" My good Santa!" I queried,
"what brings you tonight?
Come on in, the night's frigid,
You gave me a fright!"

"I can't tarry," he answered,
"my steeds are real tough,
but unless I keep going
they'll starve sure enough.
'Tis an after Yule- job that
I've taken this year
to buy food and warm bedding
for all my reindeer."
Then he searched in his briefcase
among sev'ral tracts
and he passed me the forms for
my Fed-er-al tax.

Time Out for Humor

I retired from Federal Service in1981. Joyce and I joined a local camera club. In those years, one of the main activities of such clubs was a slide competition. As a photographer with only moderate talent, I had low expectations when I entered such contests. Furthermore, I often was amused by the intensity with which others competed and the ferocity with which they criticized judges when results were not in their favor. I wrote:

THE JUDGING WAS LOUSY

I showed a slide in club competition.
It showed a small boy
painting a face on a pumpkin.
It got an honorable mention.
"The judging was lousy," they said.

I showed a slide with layer upon layer
of early morning fog around a mountain.
I'll admit I worked on that one.
It got a second in interclub competition.
"The judging was lousy," they said.

I showed an abstract,
a design made by cracks in the end of a log.
It got first place!
My very own first!
"The judging was lousy," they said.

I had a dream the other night.
I had died and Ansel Adams
met me at the Pearly Gates,
"This is it!" I thought,
as I floated on my Heavenly cloud.
"I've received the greatest award of all!"

On a cloud not far from mine,
a group of photographers
were wildly waving their tripods.
When I floated within earshot,
"The judging was lousy!" they said.

PESTICIDES

The USDA Pesticide Regulatory Agency, (PRA) was one of the units among my responsibilities as Director of Science and Education.

The regulation of pesticides began in 1910 with a law designed to protect buyers, mostly farmers, from possible misrepresentation of what the chemicals could do. The U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) was given the responsibility of protecting the farmers. The pesticide chemical industry geared up to protect themselves against any excessive regulatory action.

A frontal assault on these pesticide regulatory procedures occurred as a result of the publication in the fall of 1962 of Rachel Carson's” Silent Spring’. When the public outcry over Silent Spring reached the pesticide regulatory unit in USDA, the reaction was one of professional indignation and outrage. They were insulted by her attacks on bureaucratic obfuscation, instead of acknowledging that she too recognized the need to control pests at the same time she was issuing a warning about the potential consequences of present control methods. They were appalled by the strength of her adjectives and her casual treatment of technical details. Only late in the 1960's did the agency change its position to recognize that all pesticides, by their nature, would have to be considered poisons and would need regulation.

Although the final decision on regulation remained in the USDA, the difficulties were aggravated by the distribution of some responsibilities among agencies of the Federal government. Even in the best of circumstances, interdepartmental arrangements for making routine decisions are difficult to execute.

In 1968, upon being appointed Director of Science and Education, I found I was in charge of the USDA unit regulating pesticides. I constantly found myself reaching deep into the organization in order to make opinions and actions surface. The problem was not disarray in this agency, but the unwillingness to challenge the status quo. They disregarded some of the side effects of pesticides that were adversely affecting persons other than the users of the products.

In 1970, I banned the use of 2,4,5 T. It was a herbicide widely used to control broadleaf weeds on farms, roadsides, parks and lawns. It contained dioxin, a chemical known to adversely affect the health of pregnant women. The regulatory agency had required a warning on the herbicide’s packages, but the warning was not being observed by applicators of the products.

With the approval of Secretary of Agriculture, Clifford Hardin, I banned further use of the herbicide. The Secretary discussed the need for this action at the next meeting of President Nixon’s Cabinet.

The apparent inability of the USDA regulatory agency to consider these broader approaches to the impact of pesticides on non agricultural activities, led to a government- wide revaluation, which resulted in the formation of the Environmental Protection Agency, (EPA) with government- wide responsibility for pesticide issues. To the dismay of some of my USDA associates, I favored the formation of the new agency. Although imperfect, this new agency is superior in resolving clashing points of view regarding pesticide use.

During the formation of EPA, a humorous incident occurred that illustrates the way decisions are sometimes communicated in the upper levels of the Federal bureaucracy. I was nearby when Secretary of Agriculture Clifford Hardin and a prominent Senator were discussing the staffing of the new agency.

In a voice loud enough for me to hear, Secretary Hardin said, “I am not going to let Ned Bayley go over to EPA.”

At home, I spent the rest of the night and much of the next day writing:

APRIL 4, 1968

The volcano exploded
In a searing fury
That shattered our tranquility
With rebellion,
blasted our propriety.
with lawlessness,
and broke our complacency
with bitterness and resentment.
The caustic smoke of hate
and the charred debris of violence
smothered and sickened us all.

Men,
at the risk of their lives,
have saved others,
restrained the looting,
the arson,
and the debacle of destruction.

They have contained the holocaust
and stemmed the anarchy,
until the boiling madness abated
and a simmering quiet
could be restored.

Some fingers seeking cause
will point at the small but terrible bullet
that pierced the crust
and let the violence out.
These will seek the firer of the shot;
and, having found him,
they'll wreak their vengeance
in the name of Justice,
and call for a return of peace and order.

But the seething anger that erupted
will not be extinguished
by a single act of justice,
for the molten lava of insurrection
was heated to explosive incandescence
by a furnace fed with a multitude
of inflammatory oppressions.

These were not so much
the sinister vices of hate and sadism.
They were in greatest number
the ordinary transgressions
of self seeking and perfidy,
of disparagement and disfranchisement,
of encroachment and exploitation,
of cavil and insinuation,
of derision and ostracism,
of indifference and omission,
of inertia,
and of persistent vacillation and delay.

These,
in the enormity of their numbers,
in the relentless pinpoint application
of their flames,
in the ubiquitous profusion
of their incendiary pressures,
created the caldron
of contempt and indignation
that burst,
in a paroxysm of destruction,
the thin crust of law and customs and decency.

The cinders from the violence
fall on us all;
and mark us with our irresponsibility,
and smear us with the fullness of our guilt.

We, in Government,
with all the rest,
must share this condemnation,
or we have misused our trust
and our tremendous instruments of power,
For shackled them with inaction and equivocation,
when power and action
could have extinguished the flames.

If, from the ashes of this conflagration,
we are to build anew,
(and this we must)
let us replace the questioning when with now,
the doubting where with here,
the hesitant how with decision.
Let us meet the immensity of the need
with our prowess in political accomplishment,
with the machinery of the Executive,
with the power of courage,
and the strength of morality.

I gave a copy of the poem to Bill Seabron, the Civil Rights Coordinator in the Secretary's Office. A few days later he surprised me with a copy of the African American News in which the poem had been published.

On January 15, 1970, I was asked to read the poem at a USDA memorial service for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I prefaced my reading with the following statement:

We are here today to commemorate a life. In my personal opinion, Martin Luther King., Jr. will be remembered by generations to come as one of the truly great men of this century and possibly of all time. The social ideals which he pushed forward are among the highest and most advanced ever conceived by mankind. I am honored to have been invited to participate in a ceremony in his honor.

The poem, which I shall read, was written to fill a personal need of my own a need to salvage some constructive basis for action from the terrible tragedy and upheaval at the time of Martin Luther King Jr.'s death.

It is a poem of dedication. Even though we have made some progress in the area of Civil Rights since 1968, the enormity of the need allows no room for complacency. It points up the appropriateness of rededication to the great social effort for which Dr. King gave his life.

During my tenure as Director, I made far more progress in my personal commitment to Civil Rights than I did in correcting the situation in the extension services. The Department of Justice initiated suits against some southern state extension services. Because of the decision- making role of local leaders, and the education functions of the county agents, this often put the state extension directors in an impossible position to comply. Only during the last few months of my tenure as Director, did I realize that Civil Rights implementation in the extension services needed to be funded as a program. This would create leverage for extension agents to use when trying to convince local leaders to provide services to African Americans. Such a program would be an unusual way to obtain compliance with a law, but it would be one adapted to the circumstances of the extension services. Some would say that my idea would be like bribing a policeman to do his duty. Extension agents however are not policemen; they are educators. Providing funds to the counties for reaching out to minorities would be more effective, in my opinion, than penalizing the agents for not enforcing a law. My term as Director ended in 1973 before I was able to promote this idea.

Civil Rights

One of my first assignments as Deputy Director of Science and Education had involved investigating and resolving complaints that the Cooperative Extension Services in certain states were violating the Federal Civil Rights Act of 1964. That was a matter that would continue to demand attention during my tenure as Director.

The first introduction I had to the plight of African Americans occurred while I was working at Beltsville. Dr. Byron Shaw, then Administrator of the Agricultural Research Service, (ARS) established a fund for ARS units to use in support of research at Tuskegee Institute and the African American colleges established in 1890. Dr. Lane Moore and I visited Tuskegee in Alabama and Fort Valley State College in Georgia. Our mission: to determine the feasibility of supporting a research person in animal husbandry at either of those institutions.

Dean B. D. Mayberry of Tuskegee and a representative of Fort Valley State College not only provided us with a tour of their campuses but also introduced us to the plight of African Americans in the South. They opened my eyes to the lack of opportunity for African Americans to obtain an education and to hold professional positions as equals to white people.

Shortly after I became Deputy Director of Science and Education in 1967, I represented the Secretary's Office on a joint USDA-university study of the Cooperative Extension Services. The study focused on plans to reach out to the disadvantaged and bring them into the mainstream of American life. During the study I worked closely with Dr. C.A. Williams, an African-American with the USDA Extension Service. C. A. and I became friends and he taught me a lot about discrimination against minorities.

After the study was finished, I made speeches in several states encouraging the adoption of the plan. The states where such efforts were already in progress endorsed the plan; others paid only nominal attention to its proposals or none at all.

Thus, when I started work on the civil rights complaints against the cooperative extension services, I was able to approach the assignment as a matter of achieving fairness.

A few southern states had African American extension services with African American agents. However they received fewer funds than those with White agents and African Americans were not allowed to attend White functions or join White home economics and 4H clubs.

One of the purposes of the Civil Rights Act was to change that. The law provided that services funded by Federal monies had to be made available without regard to race or nationality. This provision put the Cooperative Extension Services in a quandary. Their function was educational. They had no experience in implementing a law and they resisted being required to do so. Although this resistance was general, as one would expect, it was strongest in southern states.

My job was to handle complaints sent to the Department of Agriculture that the extension services had discriminated against African American people. This responsibility required that I travel occasionally to the state in which the complaint originated. My trips to southern states made me realize that eliminating discrimination in the extension services would be a long and difficult undertaking.

In North Carolina, where the Extension Director was committed to providing services to African Americans, I learned that to place a White extension agent in a certain predominantly African American county would be equivalent to signing the person’s death warrant. At that time, there were no qualified African-American extension agents to place in that county

During a trip to Louisiana, I found that providing extension services to African-Americans was a source of crude jokes among extension personnel at both the local and state levels. Also, a home economics extension agent told me proudly that they were reaching out to African-American women by teaching them skills as domestic help. She said nothing about providing those women with the same services they provided white women.

On April 4, 1968, while returning from a southern trip. I was waiting at the Atlanta, Georgia airport for a flight to Washington, D.C, when the news filtered through the crowd that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been murdered. The people surrounding me were White. Some muttered reactions were, "Thank God," "It's about time," "Someone had to do it." Later we learned that our flight would be delayed because a special plane was being provided to take Mrs. King to her dead husband. The mutterings became even more ugly.

After midnight, while driving north from the Washington National Airport toward my home in Maryland, I stopped for gasoline at a filling station on 16th Street in Washington D. C.

"You're lucky you're not over on 14th Street, just two blocks from here," the station attendant said.

"Why’s that?" I asked.

"There's a full-scale riot going on over there," he replied.

In 1968, Secretary of Agriculture Orville Freeman appointed me Deputy Director of Science and Education. A few months later, he named me Director.

Tobacco Health Warnings

Shortly after I became Director, Dr. Sam Hoover walked into my office and said, "Did you know that you are Chairman of the Department's Tobacco Committee?"

I gulped. That was news to me! Sam had been chairing the committee on an interim basis until the Director of Science and Education position was filled.

"Now," he told me, "it's time for you to take over. Furthermore," he said, "there's a meeting at the White House tomorrow at one o'clock to decide if the Federal Trade Commission should require health warnings on cigarette packages. The Department of Agriculture has always opposed such a warning."

I gulped again.

Sam handed me a report of the Surgeon General, saying, "Here, you may want to read this."

The Surgeon General's report was about an inch and one-half thick. It reviewed the research on the harmful effects of cigarette smoking. I spent most of the night reading it.

I didn't smoke. Except for a brief trial during my Army service in England, after which I threw my pipe over a hedge, I never had smoked. Throughout my childhood, I had read in books and listened to lectures about the evils of smoking. Thus I admit I was not hard to convince that cigarettes were a danger to one's health. However, the research evidence in the Surgeon General's report was in itself sufficient for me to make a decision.

When the Tobacco Committee met the next morning, I told them, "If we had a report with this much evidence on a new method for increasing the production of corn, the extension services throughout the country would be promoting the new method. I propose that at the White House meeting we should reverse our previous position and agree to put the health warning on cigarette packages."

There was more silence than comment and only a few muttered objections. I dismissed the meeting.

Before going to the White House, I considered it prudent to inform Secretary of Agriculture Hardin of my plans. He was in a luncheon, but I was able to talk briefly with Undersecretary Phil Campbell. He told me to "go ahead."

At the White House meeting, it became obvious that the Department of Agriculture was blocking the approval of the warning. When I announced the change of the Department's position, there was a surprised silence. Suddenly a man, sitting in a corner of the room, jumped to his feet. He represented the Department of Commerce, but was not a decision- making member of the group. "You can't do that!" He shouted.

I glanced at him and then returned my attention to the group around the table. It was apparent that the Department of Commerce, although appearing neutral, had been hiding its opposition behind the position of the Department of Agriculture.

Since the Department of Agriculture was no longer in opposition, the White House group approved the proposal to put health warnings on cigarette packages.

When I returned to my office, Mrs. Harris, my secretary, said, “The Undersecretary wants to see you."

"Oh - oh!" I thought, "I'm in trouble now!"

Somebody must have gotten to the Undersecretary and objected to my action. He was from Georgia and undoubtedly had friends in Congress who wanted to protect the tobacco industry. Expecting the worst, I entered his office.

The Undersecretary leaned back in his chair and said, "Ned, do you suppose that instead of saying we favor the warning, we could just say we do not oppose it?”

I walked “on air” back to my office. What a beautiful compromise! The Undersecretary could respond to his friends in Congress in a positive way and the decision approving the health warning on cigarette packages would not be changed.

     I obtained an honorable discharge from the Army on February 7, 1946. I haven’t the faintest idea if I made a contribution to the war effort, but at least I was a part of it! I returned home. I was married. Now I needed to put all my energies into constructive and productive activities. It was time to take advantage of my academic ability and re-enter graduate school under the GI Bill.

     I still had a strong interest in dairy farming. Wisconsin was considered to be the major dairy state in the Midwest, if not the whole country. Therefore, I applied for graduate work in the Dairy Husbandry Department of the University of Wisconsin. After they received my records from Michigan State College, they offered me a graduate assistantship. Thus I was not only admitted to graduate school, but thanks to the GI Bill, I would be a paid assistant.

     Joyce and I moved to Madison, Wisconsin. She worked in the Oscar Meyer Company in their product development department. Later, she taught tailoring in local classes for adults. I went back to school. In 1950, I obtained a Ph.D. degree in Dairy Husbandry, became an Instructor and then an Assistant Professor. In 1952, I accepted a position as Associate Professor at the University of Minnesota.

     This was a period when there were more jobs available than qualified persons to fill them. In 1955, I received and accepted an offer to fill the position of Research Leader in Dairy Cattle Breeding and Management at the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) Research Station located at Beltsville, Maryland. With Joyce and three children, I moved from The Midwest to the East where I remained for the rest of my professional career.

September 12, 1945

     During the morning of September 12, 1945, Bill Payne, an agent in our unit, and I stood on the ship's deck as we entered New York Harbor. While we were passing the Statue of Liberty, the ship's loudspeakers blared "God Bless America." 

"That's quite a tear jerker, isn't it?" Bill said.

I turned to look at him. His face, like mine, was wet with tears.

     Two important events occurred while I was stationed in Paris. President Franklin D. Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945. I was surprised and touched by the number of French people who stopped me on the street and offered to me, a simple GI, their tearful condolences.

     I was working in my office on May 9, 1945, when the surrender of the Germans became known. Needless to say, the excitement was tremendous. I went down to the street and found it crammed with Parisians shouting, crying, and hugging one another. Never before nor after have I experienced such an outpouring of joy.

     Following the German surrender, our detachment was relieved of its duties in Paris. After a brief encampment outside of Paris we started south toward the port of Marseilles, where we were to board a ship headed for the Pacific Theater of Operations. On our way down to the port, the atomic bomb was dropped on Japan. When we boarded the ship, the formal surrender of Japan was imminent. Therefore, instead of taking us to the Pacific Theater, the ship sailed for the United States. The food provisions on board were adequate for the longer trip. Needless to say, we were well fed.

     We were housed on the top floors of a department store. I was assigned the job of company clerk However, I occasionally patrolled the streets with a partner. It was dull work. The chaos when Paris was first liberated had quieted. I suppose our presence on the streets helped maintain some order, but one of our main activities was ignoring ladies who offered their favors – at a fee of course. I reflected on their activity in a note I sent to my wife, Joyce.

     I had purchased a book that contained photographs of the major tourist attractions in Paris. Before sending it to Joyce, I wrote on the inside cover:

Paris 1944

It was not with my heart that I walked the avenues,
through the great triumphal arch,
down the long rows of night dark green,
Fresh with spring leafiness.

It was not my heart that winced
as I watched the mooning couples
going toward the shadows of the park.
Nor was it my heart that viewed with disdain those who
would commercialize my stressful longing for you,

No, it was never my heart;
it was yours.

and I would not have reversed our life- long trade;
for that bit of you,
that part of you,
was all I had here
to caress with tenderness,
and to care for.
With it, on my long night walks,
I could dream,
Despite the wretching loneliness,
of faithful joyousness,
of lover's playfulness,
of treasured closeness,
of the utter happiness of us.

     With the help of a friend, I obtained of transfer to the 41st Criminal Investigation Detachment. The unit, organized in December, 1944, was stationed in Paris. Headed by a 1st Lieutenant, the unit contained 11 to 13 agents who were enlisted men. All had non-commissioned officer ranks from Master Sergeant to Corporal. Many of them had been lawyers, policemen or otherwise employed in police- related activities. As a group and as individuals, they carried out their work with independent initiative and a spirit of adventure. From the latter part of December, 1944, to the first week of June, 1945, the detachment handled 201 cases. Of these, there were 6 murder, 14 robbery, 15 black-market, 52 larceny, and 24 assault cases. Six of the agents received commendations for outstanding work.

     I took no part in any of the investigations. My duties were solely those of a detachment clerk. In addition to maintaining individual service records, I also was responsible for obtaining necessary supplies and maintaining records on the detachment property, including vehicles. Our office was in a building on Ave de Wagram and we lived in a small hotel nearby. Several detachments were housed at this hotel and we had our own dining room.

     Like the other members of the detachment, I was assigned a jeep for my own use. With Harry Bullard, a friend in my former military police company, I visited most of the tourist sights of Paris. Our visit to the Pantheon resulted in a bit of wry humor that has stayed in my memory over the years.

     The Pantheon was built in the 18th century as a church in honor of Saint Genevieve. It went through several periods of desecularization and finally became a burial place of some famous Frenchmen.

     Harry and I entered the nave - the circular area beneath the huge dome. We craned our necks at the impressive murals covering the walls.
A priest, apparently noting our GI uniforms, approached us.

     "May I explain the paintings to you?" he said. Then he smiled and added, "I want to practice my English."

We readily agreed.

     Some of the murals portrayed the life of St. Genevieve. In the 5th century, she saved Paris from attack by the Huns who had overrun France. Additional scenes showed other times that a hero had saved the city from destruction..

     When we neared the exit, the priest said, "Now you can see why, when Paris is threatened, we French do not worry. We know that the Lord will send someone to save us."

     We thanked the priest for his kindness and quickly left the building. While climbing into the jeep, I said to Harry, "Now we know why we're here. The Lord sent us."

"Yeah," Harry growled, "and I always blamed the draft board."

     In August of 1944, my days in England ceased. A large group of us received notice that we were being shipped to France. When we landed, we climbed into boxcars and traveled east, destination unknown. I remember stopping on the crest of a high hill for a “pit stop.” We unloaded to relieve ourselves beside the tracks.

The Village

Looking down into the valley,
I saw below me a huge crater.
Nothing more remained of a village
that had been blasted by artillery and bombers
from Allied and German forces.
The village had been occupied by troops from both sides.

Looking down into that village,
I realized for the first time
how shells and bombs destroyed life.
It mattered not at all
what the future might have been
for those ripped apart.
It mattered not at all
who they were
nor what kinds of lives they had been living.
They were merely in the way
when the explosive forces struck.

There was no such thing as
"that shell had my name on it,"
or "I was spared by God."

     We climbed back into the boxcars and rumbled along until we reached Le Mans. We unloaded and were trucked off to a camp where we learned we were to be trained for duty as military police in Paris. We spent a week there, learned very little, and were trucked into Paris just in time for a huge Thanksgiving dinner.

A Letter to Joyce, My Wife

Sent after we landed in England:

     Life aboard a transport is a quiet vacation compared to most GI days. We read, eat, and sleep. We count the other boats in the convoy, make fun of the officers on the deck above us, hoot at the nurses with them, play cards, shoot dice, see motion pictures, and USO shows.

     The Atlantic Ocean was, at first, a shallow yellow, then later Pacific blue, and is now a cold, deep blue-gray. We at first spent much time watching it go endlessly by for it seems that the ocean moves, not our ship. We wondered that water could last so long, extend so far. Then we gradually forgot it and went on living our closely congregated existence.

     The helpless feeling sensation of that first night aboard has never returned. As I have learned more of the ship's management and structure and participated in the drills, I have gained no small respect for the Navy's precautionary measures, for the shipmaster's plans for protecting us. These men who make the sea their life appear to really know their business.

     Sometimes at night we gather voluntarily on the open decks, watching the swells grow and ebb in the moonlight. When stimulated by an enterprising quartet, I joined in the singing over and over again of old, but still appreciated, sentimental songs such as: My Wild Irish Rose, It's a Long Long Road to Tipperary, Home on the Range, and I Want a Gal just Like the Gal That Married Dear Old Dad.

     And now, darling, goodnight. The ship is taking us farther and farther apart, and yet it can never destroy the wonderful closeness that our strong love has welded. And as I watched the moon from the deck, as I did in Minnesota and California and in Texas and on the East Coast, I send you, on its rays, all my love.

Yours lovingly,
Me

U. S. ARMY

     In December, 1942, I received notice to report for limited service duty. After basic training, I was assigned to a medical detachment of a coast artillery brigade in San Diego, California.
     Shortly thereafter, I was promoted to Corporal and became the clerk for the Brigade Surgeon. Joyce came out and we were married. We enjoyed nearly a year together.
     However, our marital bliss was interrupted when I received orders to report for duty overseas.
     Following a few short stays in Texas and Pennsylvania, I arrived at a port of debarkation in New Jersey.

It was a Sunday night

We were grouped about our bunks, waiting for the order to leave;
A stringy, yet soft, tenor voice was singing
the Indian Love Song
A Russian basso hummed in company with the tenor.

One group of GIs was at poker.
Another group played an unusually quiet game of dice.
A drunk snored loudly into his uncovered mattress.
Most of us merely sat on our packs,
Listening, talking quietly or smoking.

Then after a short period of quiet,
two Puerto Ricans, joined by the Russian,
broke into light, unprintable, yet tonally beautiful, Spanish love lyrics.

They were interrupted by a bellowed,
“Fall in!"

In the still dark heat of the night,
we struggled with our loads to the train,
moved to the docks,
and stumbled dazedly into the bright pier lights.

There we were welcomed with chocolate bars and doughnuts and lemonade
by tireless Red Cross women.

An authoritative voice barked our last names.
We replied with our first names and middle initials
and filed up the gangplank.

Blindly we played “follow the leader”
around corners, down stairs, around ventilator flues,
down stairs, down more stairs,
and into cramped aisles ,
along the sides of which were small bunks,
our homes for a while.

I crawled into mine with my packs still on my back
and pulled my duffel bag in on top of me.
I slowly removed my harness and its burdens.
I found a niche here, a corner there,
an unexplored region someplace else
to store my various items.

After I had pulled my sweat- soaked clothes off,
I stretched out the full length of my quarters
and prepared to melt into sleep,
But my tired mind would not release me without thinking
About the helplessness of being in a
water level compartment of a ship
that soon was to be traveling in torpedo seas.
I had visions of a mad scramble
through those narrow aisles
to the winding man-packed stairways.

I nearly drowned in my weary mind that night,
but shortly prayed to God and slept.

The next morning, speculation was rampant about how much we had moved
and which direction we were going.

I was among the first on deck that day
and so I also was among the first
to look out across the two feet of water
that separated us from the docks.
to which the ship was still moored.

TO YOU WHO SAY

To you
Who say that after earthy dying
There is no more than rotting flesh,
And wormy bones,
And an empty skull;

To you
Who in the name of Reason laugh aside
The Indian's Happy Hunting Grounds,

The Christian's Heaven.
The Shangri-La’s, of which
Those who think of dying dream;

To you
Who say that man has come
From electrolytic dust,
And to that dust returns
And only that;

To you, I say -.
Pursue to unprecedented depths
Your learned thoughts,
And write most fluently
Your weighted, academic words,
And give full vent to your convincements,
But, even though in reason
You spend your entire life
And those of others;
Even though with writing
You occupy your generation
And some to come;

Yes, even though with argumentative voices
You fill your century and more;
There shall remain,
As unconvinced, as unpursuaded,
As resolutely sure as e'er before
Of everlasting life,
That one who of a lover's pair
Was left behind by death.

Like all married people who love each other, my parents had their differences of opinion about domestic affairs. Because I was living with them, I reacted to their exchanges with a poem:

POOR MA - POOR PA

Poor Ma ,
She takes a beating most the time.
She asks for cash, she gets a dime.
She asks for help, she gets excuses.
She hints going out, and Pa refuses.
She wants a hair-do, she gets a wash.
She lauds her club, Pa calls it bosh!

Poor Ma ,
She seldom seems to get her way.
She says, "A ride?" "Some other day!"
She laughs, is gay. "Now don't be sill!"
She wants to talk. "Can't you be still?"
She'd buy a hat. "Am I all money?"
She'd buy a dress. "Now don't be funny!"

But Ma ,
She takes it well. She works along.
She smiles at all, e'en makes a song.
She laughs at jokes she's heard before.
She e'en forgives the day Pa swore.
For soon as spring is on the way,
Ma's time will come; she'll rule the day.

For then,
With fury as told of the wolf and the fold,
She reigns o'er the house and with arrogance bold,
Tells those to "Go hang!" who would e'en dare to scold,
For Ma is a cleaner, she scrubs the whole house;
It's all hands on deck! That means even her spouse!

And Pa,
He comes from work at half past five,
Is tired and worn, feels half alive.
He thinks of home as news to read,
As restful peace, no cares to heed.
Little he knows what is in store.
He dreams of home as 'twas before.

Poor Pa,
"Now roll that rug and beat it well.
“Don't scrape the wall! You nearly fell!!”
“When that is done, there is plenty more.
I'll let you clean the kitchen floor,
then hose the screens and put them on.
Now hurry! And don't gab with John!"

Poor Pa,
the sink is full, the stove is cold,
the news and chair, one can't behold.
No word of eats, no chance to rest,
‘til all is done, the sun long west.
There’s a hurried soup and cheese and bread.
Then, “Empty the line! Help make the bed”!

Poor Ma,
Poor Pa,
Year in, year out, they give, they take.
They laugh with joy.
They know heartache.
They raise their kids.
They see them go.
And when they tiff and spat and blast,
they level moods and make love last.

     I found work as groundskeeper for a wealthy widow who lived within walking distance. She was known for her autocratic treatment of working people. I learned that when a seamstress made a mistake in the tailoring of a dress for her, she called the shop where the seamstress worked and had the woman fired. One night, at home, I reacted to her attitude by writing:

IN A PLACE MIS-SEWED

In a mansion on Sheridan Road,
A lady once received a dress
In a place mis-sewed.
Outraged, she made a call.
A superintendent fumed and raved.
A subordinate issued an order.
A seamstress walked the streets for work.

In an upper room, along River Court,
her small child died
for want of a doctor.

     Despite her reputation, she treated me well. She was confined to a hospital for a week. On the morning she was scheduled to come home, I dusted her living room and put a bouquet of flowers on the grand piano. Upon seeing what I had done, she cried. She insisted on giving me money equal to a week's wages. I didn't want to take the money but she insisted.

     When I told my mother about my reluctance to accept the money, my mother said, "That's the only way she knows to say thank you."

I returned home, jobless and broke and lived with my parents in their rented apartment in Battle Creek, Michigan. One night I was alone in the apartment and I wrote:

WHY MUST I ?

Why must I grow old beyond my years ?
while others laugh and play and drink,
and fight their wars, and build their towns,
and live so readily their lives?
Why must I of wars a reason ask,
of towns, a goal demand,
of life, a purpose ponder?

Why, while others forward charge,
with confidence and little doubt,
and reach their goals and laugh aloud,
and call the merry crowd around,
must I walk alone and think and wonder
how and what and if and when?
Oh God! Why must I?

     I left this plea on the small table where I had written it. My father read it, and in the most intimate bit of advice he had given me up to that point in my life, he wrote at the bottom, "You inherited it. Don't worry, it will pass."

     Obviously, during my early months in Minnesota, I occupied my young mind with thoughts other than those contained in my studies.
     I went home to Michigan for Christmas, not sure if I was cut out to be a graduate student. For my Christmas cards, I wrote:

Dear Folks,

When the old world's beatin' itself
into a phobic frenzy
an' us an' all about us is
wonderin' how an' why an' when,
an' the things that is an' is to come
make the outlook apprehensive.
It's wonderful to know that livin'
has a Christmas now an' then.

Christmas is always a heartenin',
happy, cheerin', givin' time
Fur those sailin' first class an' fur
those shippin' in the hold below.

An' one of the nicest givin's
Christmas has, fur one as I'm,
Is the chance to write to folks I like.

     Shortly after I returned to the university, I told my major professor that the lab work was hurting my already poor eyesight and I thought I should quit. He didn't argue with me. I told him of my interest in writing and that was thinking of making it a career. He obligingly arranged an appointment with an English professor who read some of my material. The professor told me that before I earned enough money from my writing, I might starve to death. That was enough discouragement for me! I was a child of the Great Depression and my first priority was to earn a living!

      I took a job in southern Minnesota for which I had neither the training nor experience required. I think a primary reason for my being hired was my status of 4F in the draft. After eight months, I quit before they fired me.

     On December 7, 1941, while I was still working, I was hungrily gulping down a sandwich in a bar a few miles south of Minneapolis. The music on the radio stopped. In an excited voice, the announcer said that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Trying to take advantage of our country's preoccupation with Europe, they had set out to drive us from the Pacific. Our United States had been attacked!

The Minnesota winter set in cold and lonely. The one I loved was 600 miles away. One night after coming home from the laboratory, I wrote:

A Message for You

The street lights are a shadowy glimmer,
Growing bold and then retreating.
The cold, bright snow sparkles with lighted patterns,
Of dancing multitudes of tiny crystallins.
The roadway spreads an endless belt,
extending to all that is beyond.

The gray, dark trees stand gaunt and overhanging,
shutting out the heavens with their ever stretching boughs.
But lo! A break comes in their inter locking pattern!
The heavens in all their expansive glory do appear!
And I, drinking deeply of the fullness of the skies,
pour out my heart to you
and send my love
on the brilliant, piercing rays of the moon.

One night, still immersed in the mood of the stage play, "Tobacco Road," I wrote:

While Waiting for the Trolley

I can still see him standing there, dressed all in smudgy black.

I'd been leaning against the street post waiting for the trolley.
It was cold that night, so cold I could feel the chill iron of the post through my topcoat, so biting cold that my jaws had to set themselves to keep from jittering.

I‘d been thinking about the stage show I'd just come out of, about my girl back in Michigan, about my being so sleepy. and about its being so cold.

He’d made me jump a little when he spoke.

"I'm just off the road," he said, in a gruff, husky voice, "and I ain't got no money and I wish you'd give me a nickel or something so's I could get a cup of coffee.

I ain't askin' for much, just a cup of coffee to take the chill out of me."

I looked him over. He was even shorter than I had first thought. His wrinkled, felt hat was cocked jauntily on one side of his head, his dark suit coat blending into the bags of his trousers, and his trousers looked much the same as his shoes for wear.

"Where are you going to get it?" I asked suspiciously, and then answered for him,

"Over there?" I nodded towards the Eat Shop across the street.

"Yeah," he said.

"Well, I'll see what I've got." I fumbled slowly in the change pocket of my billfold for something less than a quarter and handed him a nickel.

'Thanks," he said.

Leaning once more against the post, I watched him walk over to the Eat Shop with his nickel. Then I looked away for a moment to see if my trolley was at the bend yet, and when I turned back to him, he was looking in the front window of the store, saw me watching him, and dutifully walked inside to his cup of coffee.

Poor cuss. Sometimes I think I'm too small and hypocritical to be worth even the right to live on this old earth. A bum, sure, but nevertheless a guy down on his luck and I, fumbling to keep from giving him a quarter, gave him a nickel.

Minnesota

     In the fall of 1940, I received a graduate assistantship in the Animal Husbandry Department of the University of Minnesota in St. Paul., Minnesota. My assistantship paid for my tuition and also provided enough money for my room and board and other living expenses. All I had to do was plunge into my studies and I was on my way to a professional career!

     Oh, I took classes in statistical methods, biochemistry and other subjects - but I didn't plunge.

     From my rooming house, I had to walk through the Minnesota State Fairgrounds in order to reach the trolley to Minneapolis theaters. Late one night I met a night watchman. I recorded the encounter:

Time and Some People
You know, the other day
I was cuttin' across the fairgrounds
on my way home from a movie,
an' I come across a fellow doin' night watch
on a WPA construction job.

"Hello," I says.
"Hi," he says, kinda surprised like.
Then after I'd got nearly by him,
"Say, you ain't got the time on you, has you?"
No," I says, "but I'd make a guess
if you'd want me to."

"Well, by golly!" he says "I lost my watch,
an I find myself makin' the rounds
every ten or twenty minutes, when I'm
only supposed to make them once an hour.
I git to sittin' in the shack
thinkin' about it, an' time jist seems
to go awful slow.
It bothers me like the very devil, it does."

Time's that way lots of times.
You forget about it
an' it takes care of itself.
git to frettin' about it
an' it bothers a fellow somethin' awful.

Kinda like a few people I know.
leave 'em alone an' they is mighty civil
an' nice actin’
Start thinkin' and carin' about 'em
an' they'll cause you all kinds of trouble.
Time an' some people
was just meant to be left alone,

War

Into our lovemaking, War intruded.

Hitler’s war:
Holland,
Belgium,
France,
Britain,
The Maginot Line.
I, caught in the sudden seriousness of it all,
rebelled against the violence:

My Plea
A child cries. Like a pitiful loon,
it wails and sobs and moans and grieves,
as only one whose mother has gone
too soon can grieve.

That mother lies in stale leaves,
a broken, soul fled thing,
whose right to life was strewn on the walk,
a torn foot here, a ragged hem
covering the gaping, bleeding form
of shapely thighs, ripped off like branches
torn by lightning from the stem of some lovely tree .

War, they call it there.
War and Strife.
Newspapers bellow headlines of marching troops,
and knowing men quote numbers.
They count life as if it were computed in accountants' coops,
and never think of the pain and writhing and dying that occurs.

Their numbers of the living quietly drop
until they get so low
that someone charges “Lying!”

The fighting goes on,
and you wonder, " Will it ever stop?"
Will it ever stop?
this bloody trial and error,
this murderous way of settling men's affairs?

Not even one small voice sounds
o’er the terror and struggle for man made wares.

However, the fires of my rebellion burned low. Love dominated the passions of my life. During the summer of 1940, while lying close on the grass outside my parent’s home, Joyce and I promised to marry.

In my senior year, I fell in love. I don’t pretend to know why two people fall in love.  I know only that I did - passionately.

Love

She came to a meeting
at which I presided.

All I saw of her that night
were her rosy cheeks
and a fringe of blond hair
that protruded above the bulk
of a heavy winter coat,
but I knew I wanted to see her again.

The sheet, which all attendees filled out
gave me the information I needed to arrange a date:
her name (Joyce), address and phone number.

We went to a movie
with a friend of mine and his date.
After the movie,
On the way to Joyce’s lodging,
in the back seat of the car,
Joyce and I necked and kissed with abandon.

I dated her again and again .
We couldn’t see enough of each other,
couldn’t kiss enough,
couldn’t hold each other close enough.
We hugged and kissed beside the yellow floor lamp
in the living room of her boarding house.
We lay close in the dark under the huge elms of the campus,
on the grass of the formal gardens,
in the bottom of a canoe.
We never fully satisfied our passion,
but pressing as closely as we dared,
we sensed the shape and softness of our bodies.

All my personal problems were crowded into the background.
My grades were not affected,
but my studies became incidental.
I was in love.

            To help cover my college expenses, I worked nights washing walls, dusting professors' chambers and emptying their wastebaskets.  One night, while in a cluttered office, I noticed a small picture in a cheap, plastic frame:

The Patriarch

An aged patriarch, with a long, hoary beard,
Stood under a canvas canopy.
He was surrounded by family members.

His bony, outstretched hand
Lay on the shoulder of an awe-struck, fair-haired boy.
the old man was saying:
“Above all things, young man,
don't take yourself too god damn seriously!”

I have never forgotten that cryptic command.
It told me to forget my human frailties and get on with my life.