We stopped back in Winnemucca, Nevada, where we met with the mayor. He said when he first became mayor 18 years ago, most streets were gravel, the downtown was a hodge-podge of residential trailers and mercantile buildings and the city government was, oh, lacking in a bit of efficiency. Now he said the streets are paved, there is a solid, consistent downtown mecantile section and a much more well-oiled government. He said a key has been having a dedicated Planning Commission, improved camaraderia between the mayor’s office and city council and good, old-fashion volunteerism throughout town. Later I was invited to Winnemucca’s Senior Center where I was introduced by the director, then I went table to table shaking hands and passing out literature. I said part of how we viewed “social security” was not just about a fund, but also about reestablishing the elderly as esteemed members of the community, as it was in the “old days,” and as it is still in other cultures. I said that in the old days, young children used to gather around pot belly stoves in General Stores watching the seniors playing checkers and telling stories. Not anymore. However I said, wouldn’t it be great if Senior Centers started reviving this a bit with, say, weekly story telling nights the town youth could attend. At one table today I met a retired social worker who has two daughters living in Fairbanks, Alaska. I gave him some extra campaign fliers to send to them. “You mean you’re not going to campaign in Alaska?” He asked. I said Liz and I would like to, but I pointed to our three young children and said of the Alaskan Highway: “Three hundred miles between ‘potty stops!'”
We’ve started to head back east and stopped first in tiny Lovelock, Nevada where we passed out a few flyers. Here we learned that the Humbolt Trail came through here bringing 165,000 emigrants in the 1840s and ’50s as part of the Westward Expansion. The emigrants named this particular valley area the “Big Meadows” and stopped here for water and grass for their oxen, before heading across the “dreaded” 40 mile desert, the most difficult leg of the trip to California. Having just been through that desert ourselves on the way back east, we stopped for some yougurt at the Safeway Grocery. Then, instead of grass for the oxen, we got some petro for the “average Joe” mobiles at a gas station that had, perhaps, the oddest name for a gas station that we’d encountered in the country: “Two Stiffs Selling Gas” is the name. I inquired inside and was told in the early ’30s a father and son started the “filling station.” Thier last name: Stiff. Well, of course.
We took Liz’s parent to San Francisco International Airport, and after a tearful goodbye, we headed into the city where I interviewed a fascinating couple visiting from Denmark. They said the longest prison sentence in Denmark, no matter what you’ve done, is 17 years. And there is a quite comprehensive effort at rehabilitation (education, mental health counseling, and so on) while the person is incarcerated. I told the couple we, too, lean heavily toward this type of “restorative justice,” because people often don’t commit crimes in a vacuum. They either come out of disadvantaged situations, or are plagued with mental disorders, or addictive/compulsive conditions… and once these are addressed at their roots, the problems often clear up. What’s more, each life is imminently important to God, we believe, and each person should be treated with the utmost dignity — not merely left in “dead-end” warehousing in a prison. I mean, they’re all God’s kids. Right? …We then headed inot the heart of the city, taking in a bustling China Town, crossed through a “Little Italy” section and stopped for Mass at Notre Dame Church, only to find it was in French. Liz commented about how refreshingly rich in diversity San Francisco is. And after the diversity, perhaps the second most noticeable thing is: the homeless. While here, we spent a good deal of time talking to the homeless, listening to their stories. One man, John, appeared to be in his early 60s. He said he’d been homeless here the past 10 years, no family, he claimed, just an old suitcase he carried about. We had our ‘Jon’athan in a stroller and periodically I would ask Jonathon, 14 months, to “wave to Mr. John.” He didn’t. But each time I couldn’t help but think, really think, that this elderly, rather disheveled looking man, with yellowed uneven teeth, sunken eyes… was once a bright-eyed, young innocent baby — just like our Jonathan. As Jonathan and I walked the street before we met John, people stopped to wave to him, engage him in a smile… as people do. My guess is few try to engage this other John, in any way. Jonathan finally did, however. Engage “Mr. John,” that is. Jonathan, who can say “bye,” but no names, except “Mommy,” turned back as we started to walk off, waved, and said: “bye John.” God’s grace.
In Winnemucca, Nevada (pop. 8,004), a place we were pretty sure the Bush and Kerry campaigns hadn’t targetted, we did a whistle stop in the shadows of the “biggest piece of driftwood” ever found in North America. It is actually part of the trunk of a Redwood. (Why it’s in Winnemucca, Nevada? Well, you got me.) Now while I wasn’t sure about the driftwood, I told the Humboldt Sun newspaper that I was sure: “I don’t want my children growing up in a world laced with pollution, global warming and ozone holes, often from the burning of fossil fuels [commensurate with our selfish desire in this country to drive as far as we want, to stay as warm, or cool, as we want, to manufacture as much as we want…]”
We stopped at the “Historic Wendover (Utah) Airfield” where I met with Airfield Manager Jim Peterson. He has formed a foundation and is trying to restore what’s left of the now closed Army Air Base. This once “secret location” spans 3 and a half million acres of desert and was used as a training base for bomber crews during World War II. Among these was the crew for the Enola Gay, who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. (“Hanger 5,” where the Enola Gay was kept, still stands here.) Peterson explained to me he wanted to restore the field to honor the sacrifices made by service people here. I told the Wendover Times newspaper that I applauded Petersnon’s efforts and said the country should, indeed, remember the sacrifices — and also remember the agony of war in general. And with that in mind, I also told the newspaper about our proposal for a U.S. Department of Peace. As part of this, we would suggest providing much more incentive for people to join the Peace Corp. I said we also believe if we mobilize much more social justice help for people in the Third World and other disadvantaged countries, more worldwide tension would be diffused. As an example, I said kids growing up in dead-end inner city situations in this country sometimes join gangs. Kids growing up in dead-end situations in the Third World sometimes join terrorist cells. “If we want to fight terrorism at it’s roots, we need to address poverty in the Third World,” I added.
We stopped in Cheyenne, Wyoming, not to campaign, but to go to the Wrangler Store. (“The place all the cowboys and cowgirls go,” said a billboard.) Liz’s parents are here from New Zealand for the first time and are part of the “campaign caravan.” They have been particularly captivated by American television westerns over the years, and at the Wrangler Store Liz’s mom bought a “Buffalo Bill” shirt (she apparently hadn’t heard what I had said at the last stop, plus the Wrangler Store didn’t have any “St. Patrick” shirts), and her dad got a big, brown Stetson hat. That evening on Rte. 80, Stuart drove through the wide-open expanses of Wyoming into an absolutely breathtaking sunset — with his Stetson on, windows down and country music blasting. What a scene!
We headed further south to North Platte, Nebraska, where I told North Platte Telegraph reporter Jenice Johnson that on a previous visit to the area I had noticed that the parking lot at the Buffalo Bill Museum here was full, while the lot at St. Patrick’s church here, which features the story of St. Patrick in stained glass and some literature, was empty. “In the scheme of life, St. Patrick and his life might have a lot more important things to say to children than Buffalo Bill,” I said. “In a saner, more wholesome America for children, perhaps some of the tourism draw to the North Platte area should be touritst coming to learn the story of St. Patrick with their children.” –While that might have cost us a few votes in North Platte, I nevertheless felt it important to say.
We headed south on Rte 83 through “The Badlands” to the Rosebud Reservation in southern South Dakota. There I talked with pastor Ed Bausell of the Tiospaye Bible Baptist Church. He has worked among the Lakota Sioux here for the past 25 years. Pastor Bausell said he believes that just as God worked with the Isrealites over generations in preparation for the coming of Christ, He too had worked with the Native Americans in the same way. Pastor Bausell said many of the Native American rituals and lifestyle all revolved around spirituality and, uncannily, a type of Christian spirituality. He points, as an example, to the age old “Sundances.” In this ceremony, Lakota men are pierced and hung on a tree. Before this, the man goes through a long “hanbleca,” or vision quest. According to tradition, he is preparing himself to be peirced and put on the tree as a sacrifice “that his people might live.” Pastore Bausell said he believes, strongly, that the revelation of Jesus as Savior was merely the next phase of the Native American history and God was, indeed (again, like He had been with the Isrealites) carefully shaping their spirituality. [Paradoxically, what the Native Americans experienced from many of the early settlers, who proclaimed to already be “Christians,” was anything but Christian.]
We headed farther west this afternoon, stopping in De Smet, South Dakota, a “Little House on the Prairie” site. Because of what we believe, in many cases, has become an increasingly damaging influence, our family doesn’t do television. So, for instance, we read to the children at night. In the past couple years, Liz has read our children the whole “Little House on the Prairie” series (nine books) about the early pioneers. Besides looking at the Ingall’s home here and a one-room school house that has been preserved, a couple days earlier we had stopped in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, another “Little House” site. A rather memorable scene in one of the books is of Laura Ingalls, the main character (and author), as a child of about our Sarah’s age (8), wading in Plum Creek here. We took Sarah and Joseph down to the same creek to wade that afternoon. And the look of wonder and sheer delight on their faces, with the books coming even that much more to life for them, was worth the whole trip, campaign, or no campaign.
We did a whistle-stop event in downtown Brookings, South Dakota today. The Brookings Register reporter John Kubal asked me about my proposal for making tangible amends to the Native Americans for past wrongs. I said, for one, I would propose establishing creative Land Trusts to give them some of the land back. I mean we stole it from them, plain and simple, I told Kubal. And if something has been stolen, you give it back — no matter how many generations have passed. And it is our childrens’ innocence that is being stolen in the sea of violence, drugs and sex that is now permeating our culture, I told ABC reporter Rob Wilson after the event today.