Vote for Joe

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.

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 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 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 stopped in Oregon, Illinois (pop. 3,945) where, just a few days earlier, “higher than accepted” radium levels were found in a city well. The Byron Nuclear Power Plant is just north of here. And while an explanation from an Environmental Management Corp. is the radium is probably “naturally occuring” — is it? What’s more, I told the Oregon Republic Reporter newspaper that we should be stridently questioning the nuclear power industry in general, in tandem with tremendously increased efforts to shift to much more non-polluting wind and solar energy sources.