Public Sacrifices for the “War” in Iraq

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A story on NPR triggers some thoughts about U.S. activities in Iraq.

I was listening to NPR (National Pubilc Radio) today when they played a segment about whether people thought the general public should be sacrificing more during the war in Iraq. The topic, and the responses the reporter got from members of the public, really bugged me.

First of all, I thought the war in Iraq was over. Didn’t George W come on national television over a year ago and tell us that the war was over and we won? I’m still trying to figure out what our people are still doing over there (other than dying, getting their heads messed up, or embarrassing the rest of us by treating prisoners badly).

Second was the topic itself. The NPR reporter was apparently trying to draw some kind of comparison between our activities in Iraq and our participation in other wars, like World War II.

During WWII, the American public made many obvious sacrifices, such as the rationing of fuel and other commodities, required blackouts, and the participation of women in the workplace. This was required and, to my knowledge, accepted without much question. We were fighting for our freedom, striking back at an enemy that had struck us first (in the case of Japan), ensuring our own future. Many, many Americans died in that war, but they died to keep America free.

Our activities in Iraq are completely different. It is now commonly accepted that the excuse we used to attack Iraq was invalid — there were no weapons of mass destruction and our government probably knew it. Sure, we took a brutal tyrant down, and that has to be good for the people he oppressed. And yeah, terrorists probably took refuge in Iraq, where they planned attacks on us and our allies. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I believe our war in Iraq was a ploy by George W to get our minds off more serious problems at home: the economy, health care, and energy. It saddens me that 1,700 Americans (so far) had to lose their lives — and many others had to sustain serious injuries — just so the flag wavers could brag about how powerful we are.

The problem this past week was that opinion polls showed that George W is losing support for our activities in Iraq. More than half the U.S. population thinks we should get out of Iraq and some people who once thought it was a good idea to go there in the first place now think it was a mistake (duh). George W loaded up his fire extinguisher and tried to put out these fires with a speech at a military base. He wound up pissing off a lot of people with brains, people who took offense to his mention (seven times) of 9/11.

Hello? George? 9/11 has nothing to do with Iraq.

Which brings me back to the original topic of this entry: sacrifices. The NPR reporter’s take was that the average American doesn’t really think much about the war in Iraq because he/she isn’t making any sacrifices. So she went to the WWII Veterans and the Vietnam Veterans monuments in Washington D.C. and interviewed a few tourists. The comments were diverse and indicated to me how Americans are completely missing the point.

For example, one high school student said that there are kids at her school who cut class as an antiwar protest. But she says they really cut class because they don’t want to go to class. (I don’t know what this has to do with sacrifices. Maybe it’s just an indication on the inability of young people to answer a simple question.)

Another man, who’d fought in Korea (I think), said that Americans don’t need to make sacrifices for the war. The servicemen and women are doing their jobs so we don’t have to sacrifice anything.

A couple said that they sacrifice by spending a little more time in prayer, praying for our soldiers and the Iraqi people.

Another woman used up a bit of airtime by reminiscing about ration coupons during WWII.

None of these people, of course, actually knew anyone who was currently in Iraq.

Then came a bunch of women from Mississippi. They had sons or cousins or brothers or nephews overseas in Iraq. One mother, who was obviously at the verge of tears as she spoke, said we need to send letters to soldiers. Her son says that at mail call, the people who don’t get letters have really disappointed faces. Listening to her voice, always on the verge of breaking down, brought tears to my eyes. This woman could lose her son as so many other mothers already have. For what?

Of course, the thing that the NPR reporter and the people she interviewed are all missing is that the American people are making sacrifices. We’re making sacrifices every day.

What?

Do you know how much this war is costing us? I don’t know an exact number (not having access to the Internet to look it up), but I know it’s a very big number. Billions of dollars. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could pour some of that money into health care? Renewable energy research? Education? The arts?

Can you imagine the kinds of things we’re missing out on because so many of our tax dollars are being used to pay for a war that isn’t doing us any good?

Why doesn’t the NPR reporter see this? Why didn’t any of the people she spoke to see this?

And what happens when the money runs out? Does the government simply go further into debt, thus ensuring that the next few generations of Americans will continue to pay for this war? Or will the government simply raise taxes, in the name of freedom and democracy, expecting us to tighten our belts and do without?

And what of the Americans who have died? Haven’t their families — wives, husbands, children, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters — made some sacrifices? Or the men and women who return with serious physical or psychological problems? Haven’t they made some sacrifices?

Am I the only one seeing this?

Smoke

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Arizona is burning (again), but not here.

The other day, one of my editors asked me, in an e-mail message, whether there was smoke where I was. She lives in Salt Lake City, UT and smoke from fires all the way down near St. George was coming up her way. At the time, I reported that Howard Mesa was smoke free.

But yesterday morning, when I opened the camper door to let Jack out, I smelled smoke — enough of it to throw my shoes on and walk over to the shed, which has a view out to the west. I scanned the horizon, looking for the fire I smelled. But there was nothing definitive in any direction. (I have a good nose for smoke. When we lived in Bayside, NY, I once woke up in the middle of the night, smelling smoke. It turned out that a church 13 blocks away had burned to the ground during the night.)

SmokeI didn’t see or smell smoke all day yesterday. But in the evening, as the sun was setting, I saw the smoke on the northwestern horizon. Probably the fire out in the St. George area about 120 miles away. This morning, the smoke from Arizona’s big fire — the second biggest in its history — had drifted north, past the San Francisco Peaks, shrouding the eastern horizon. I almost missed the sunrise. The sun fought to be seen through the thick smoke, appearing as an orange globe poking out through the top of the thickest of it. There was little light from the sun at first. Then, when it broke clear of the cloud layer, I could feel its bright warmth. The smoke cloud faded back to a blue-gray blanket on the horizon.

As I type this, the Cave Creek Complex fire has burned 140,000 acres of Arizona desert. I’m not sure exactly where it’s burning, but descriptions of its progress has me worried about one of our favorite fly-in destinations, the landing strip at Red Creek on the Verde River. The Sonoran desert out there is beautiful, almost pristine because of its remoteness. The landing strip, although rough for airplanes, is fine for helicopters. There’s a picnic table there and a bunch of donated equipment, including lawn chairs, water bottles, and emergency equipment. There’s also a trail down to the river, that runs past an old bunkhouse. At the river, tall trees offer cool shade. A secluded paradise, a secret on the Verde River.

When the fire is finally out and the temporary flight restrictions removed, I’ll fly down there and see what’s left of the area.

Getting to Work

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I spend my first day “working” at Howard Mesa.

Sunrise this morning was extra beautiful. There was a line of light clouds just above the eastern horizon and, as the sun made its way west, it illuminated the cloud bottoms. First brilliant orange, then gray, then lavender, and finally pink. Then the sun was up, casting a golden glow over my “camp” before disappearing briefly behind those clouds. Then it was daytime.

It was surprisingly warm this morning: 61°F at dawn. That’s warm enough to have my morning coffee outside, in the sunshine. Alex went right into his cage and Jack, after scouting around a bit, retreated to his favorite hangout, under the trailer. The horses even put in an appearance for a drink and the alfalfa I’d left for them.

The wind started picking up right after dawn. I’d been thinking about burning some of the cardboard boxes we’ve been accumulating, but I won’t start a fire if there’s anything more than a breeze. By the time I was ready to do it, it was already too windy. I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I started work on the partition wall framing in the shed. The wall is 80 inches long and about 70 inches tall, and divides off a 44 inch portion of the shed that will someday be a tiny bathroom. I’d bought a book about basic carpentry, so I knew what to do: nail in the header, use a plumb bob to position the footer, and nail in the footer. Then position the vertical studs 24 inches on center apart.

Interior of ShedI didn’t have to cut any wood. I’d bought all the wood pre-cut to my specifications. There’s a hardware store in Wickenburg (Johnson Lumber) that is very nice about cutting wood for me and that’s where I bought it. I took measurements last time I was up here, so I had exact numbers. That was odd because the vertical studs each needed to be a different length. When I assembled all the pieces, they fit perfectly.

I used 2x6s for this partition wall. The reason: all the piping between the bathroom and kitchen will be in it and I wanted to make sure the wood was wide enough to drill through for the pipes.

Unfortunately, I’d neglected to buy the metal do-dads I needed to attach the studs to the header and footer. (There’s no way I’m going to be able to sink a nail on a 45° angle.) I debated making my trip to Flagstaff today — I even told Mike I would — but I decided to see how far I could get without them. Because the pieces of wood fit so snugly, I was able to wedge them into place. That made it possible to get accurate measurements for the horizontal pieces that need to go between them. I hope the folks at the Home Depot in Flag are as nice about cutting lumber as the Johnson Lumber folks.

Interior of ShedTo see whether I’d be able to get my ever-growing butt past the bathroom vanity once it was installed, I took it out of its box and set it in place. That’s when I realized why it had only cost me $78 assembled with a sink basin: it was a piece of junk. It was falling apart and I had to use some skinny nails I happened to have to bang it all back together. Then I placed the basin in (partially to help hold the thing together) and moved it into place, trying to imagine a wall behind it. Yes, I could walk past it. Next, I worked on the ladder we’d use to get up to the loft. The loft is about 6-1/2 feet high, and just tall enough to sit up comfortably on. We’ll be putting a bed up there. Well, a mattress. And some carpeting under it. I positioned one 8-foot 2×4 on an angle against the edge of the loft, then took the precut 18-inch long pieces and a level and marked off where they’d need to be nailed in. The ladder’s rungs need to be parallel to the ground. This is something I learned when I built my first loft, back in college. The first ladder’s steps had been perpendicular to the sides and the ladder had been placed vertically. This made it very difficult to negotiate. So I put the ladder on an angle and then had to reposition the steps so I wouldn’t hurt my bare feet climbing up and down.

While in the process of nailing in rungs, I managed to bash the top segment of my left index finger really hard. It’s purplish and swollen now and tender to the touch. It’s a good thing that for some reason, that’s one of only two fingers I don’t use when I type. It just hangs out there in space, along with my left thumb, while the other eight get the job done.

There’s one thing you can count on just about all the time at Howard Mesa: wind. The wind picked up as I worked and kept picking up all morning. By 11 AM, when I stopped for a break, it was howling. I tuned in my aviation radio to Weather Channel 2, which covers northern Arizona and heard that a wind advisory was in effect for my area, with winds of 25 to 35 mph, gusting to 45 mph. Soon I began worrying about the trailer’s awning, which was taking a real beating. And Alex, in his cage, having trouble moving around without getting blown around.

I took a shower and had lunch. I ate outside on the picnic table to keep Alex company. Bad idea. My wet hair dried in seconds in a style reminiscent of Einstein. I really need a haircut.

By 1 PM, the wind was very bad. I set up Alex’s small cage in the back half of the trailer, with the connecting door open so he could see me. Then I settled onto the sofa inside the trailer and worked on the index cards I’m using to organize my novel. I turned on my PowerBook and fired up iTunes. Although my 12-inch PowerBook doesn’t have great speakers, I’d rather have 2,205 songs to choose from than listen to whatever’s playing on NPR or the local classic rock station. I mostly played Native American flute music, since Alex likes it. He didn’t like being in the camper’s back room and the camper’s constant shaking and rattling was making him nervous.

Every once in a while, I’d have to go outside and reattach one of the do-dads that keep the awning from flopping around. That requires standing on a stepladder and using a pair of pliers to twist a wing nut tight. I even had to adjust the tie-downs on the helicopter’s blades. They were flopping around far too much.

I made some baked beans on the stove. When I went to add the tomato paste, however, I discovered that the can I’d picked up included garlic, basil, and oregano. Not exactly what I had in mind for baked beans. Why is it that you can’t buy plain canned food? Why do they feel as if they need to add all the seasonings for you?

By 4 PM, the wind was calming down. I brought Alex back outside and came out with a book I’d bought long ago, Cause of Death. This Writer’s Digest Publishing book provides a lot of information about death and bodies for people writing about it. I learned enough to accurately describe the dead body my protagonists discover and get some additional information I may use in the future.

I went on my afternoon walk at 5:40 PM. I know the exact time because I called Mike and left a message for him on his cell phone just before I left. He called back when I reached the gate. Because I didn’t have much confidence in the cell signal, I remained rooted in position for the entire five-minute conversation. Then Jack the Dog and I walked down to “Four Corners” and back, a distance of about a mile. I walked briskly both ways. Jack ran. He chased rabbits, smelled things, and left urine samples here and there.

Back at the camper, I settled down with my PowerBook to write this blog. And that’s where I am now.

Tomorrow, I’m going to Flagstaff. I have a very long list of things to buy before the weekend and expect to spend most of the day there. I’ll stop in Williams on my way to publish my latest blog entries, collect my e-mail, and gather the incoming messages I’m expecting.

About Horses

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A little insight on how herd animals think.

Horses at Howard MesaHorses are herd animals. That means they like to be together. When the lead horse moves, the rest of the herd follows. My horses follow that rule. I only have two of them: Jake, a sorrel Quarter Horse, and Cherokee, a Paint Quarter Horse. Jake is generally the boss, but they’re good buddies and they’re always within sight of each other, if not right next to each other.

They’re with me now at Howard Mesa. The 40 acres is completely fenced in and they’ve been wandering throughout the entire place, looking for the best grazing spot. They come up to their round pen to drink or for dinner — I toss them some alfalfa to supplement their grass diet — but otherwise, they can be anywhere inside the fence. Sometimes I’ll see them far down in the west corner. Sometimes they’re on the east side. But they’re always together. So imagine my surprise when Cherokee returned to the round pen without Jake. Jake wasn’t far away — only 50 yards or so — but Cherokee trotted up as if he’d been spooked by something and decided to hang out in the round pen for a while. He nibbled on what was left of the alfalfa, then went for a drink. Then he seemed to doze off, standing by the water trough.

Meanwhile, Jake wandered off.

I watched from my seat at the picnic table, where I was writing another blog entry. It was very interesting to me. I couldn’t see Jake anymore but I assumed Cherokee could. I thought I heard a car on the road, and got up to take a look. (Nah.) When I came back, Cherokee was awake, looking at me. And I think he realized that Jake wasn’t around. He decided to go find him. I watched him leave the round pen and walk purposefully toward where we’d last seen Jake. His head turned one way and then the other. He was looking. He had no idea where Jake was. And then he whinnied — loudly.

I could see him starting to panic as he trotted around, whinnying his distress call. But it was windy and with the sound of the wind in the trees and grass, I didn’t think his voice would carry very far. He came back to the round pen, looking very upset, then trotted out again, looking. I decided I’d better find Jake.

Horses at Howard MesaIt took some doing, but I finally found Jake about a third of the way down the hill, at least a quarter mile away. I called him, but even if he heard me (which I doubt), I knew he wouldn’t come. (Jake is not like a dog. He’s more like a cat.) So I called Cherokee. At least he indicated that he heard me. But he was too panicky to even think of why I might be calling him. Long story not as long: I went back to the round pen, put the lead rope on Cherokee, and led him down toward Jake. When I had a good view of him, I pointed him out. But horses don’t understand pointing fingers. He looked everywhere except where I was pointing. Then Jake saw us. He let out a loud whinny that seemed to say, “What the hell are you doing up there?” Cherokee whinnied back. I took off the lead rope and he trotted down to his buddy.

A few minutes later, they returned together to the round pen. The two of them stood over the water trough — Jake’s favorite place to stand — and took a nap.

Writer’s Block: An Update

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More book reviews and a possible solution to my problem.

Back in February, I reported again on a case of writer’s block I’ve been suffering with and what I’d been doing about it. (Refer to “Writer’s Block Still Sucks” in the “Writing for Pleasure” category.) That entry reads more like a series of book reviews than anything else. Here’s an update to that entry.

I finished Noah Lukeman’s The First Five Pages and The Plot Thickens. I enjoyed both of them; they provided some valuable insight to fiction writing and publication process. Not everything in the books was new to me, but enough was new or expressed in a new way to make them good reads. And keepers. (These days, when I read a book I don’t really care for, I donate it to my local library.)

Another recent read that I didn’t even bother to finish before dropping it off at the library was Norman Mailer’s book about writing. I can’t remember its name. It started off interestingly enough, but then got weird. The play by play review of Last Tango in Paris was probably what put me off the most.

I never returned Pen on Fire. I can’t find it. It has been con-Celiaed. (That’s a double pun. Celia is our Mexican cleaning woman who likes to put things away for us. Trouble is, she doesn’t know where things go. So she puts them where she thinks they go, thus concealing (or con-Celiaing) them. It’s a double pun because con means with in Spanish. I can’t take credit for this pun — Mike’s mother came up with it. I’m not sure if she realized it was double, though.) When I find the book, I’ll take it to the library.

I started, but did not finish, Writing Down the Bones. Natalie Goldberg is a poet. I am not. I don’t care much for poetry and don’t want to write like a poet. I want to tell a story, one that makes readers keep turning pages. Not one that makes readers sigh about my perfect choice of words, remarkable rhythm, or incredible imagery. Besides, one big piece of advice Ms. Goldberg offers is to keep a journal and force yourself to write in it every single day, even when you don’t have anything to write. Stream of consciousness stuff and all that. I believe that kind of exercise belongs in a high school writing class. I think I’m a bit beyond that. The book hasn’t made it to the library yet, but I’m sure it will.

On the flip side is Robert’s Rules of Writing: 101 Unconventional Lessons Every Writer Needs to Know by Robert Masello. The book delivers 101 numbered rules, each explained in 2-3 pages. Rule #1 is probably what sold me on the book: Burn Your Journal. Rule #2, Get a Pen Pal, offered some relief for writers who need to jot their thoughts down somewhere after their journal has been turned to ashes. I realized when I read it that these blog entries are a kind of cross between a journal and letters to a pen pal. (You, dear reader, are the recipient of these letters.) I’m not saying the book is perfect — anyone who reads my critiques should know that I’ve seldom found perfection anywhere — but it’s got some useful information in it. I’m about 1/3 finished right now and read a few rules before bed each night.

One piece of advice I’ve read several places (including Mailer’s book and Robert’s Rules of Writing) is to stop reading fiction when you’re ready to write it. So I’m going cold turkey. That’s okay, at least for now. I just finished reading a ton of mystery novels and can use a break.

What have I been reading? Hillerman, for one. My local library numbers an author’s books in the order in which they were published. I started with 1 and got to 16. I can whip through a Hillerman in 2-3 days. Light reading, interesting locations, and the Navajo culture, which is quickly fading away, is/was fascinating. The main thing that bugs me about Hillerman’s work is the way he handles the love interests in his main characters’ lives. One character is completely wrapped up in a string of women who are wrong for him. The other character can’t get past the memory of his dead wife. I feel like slapping each of them on the side of the head.

I subscribed to a magazine called Bookmarks and go through each bimonthly issue for new authors. Not necessarily new authors, you understand. Authors who are new to me. That’s how I discovered John Dunning. The only unfortunate part about his mystery novels featuring bookman/detective Cliff Janeway is that he only wrote four of them. (Maybe five; I’m still looking.) And he’s old, so I can’t expect many more. The first and second were definitely better than the third. The fourth is still out on loan at my local library; it appears that someone else in Wickenburg is worse than me when it comes to returning books on time. I’ll pick it up in the fall.

(I don’t get fines for late books anymore. I’ve donated so many books to the library that I think they’re preparing a separate wing for me. I try to give them money when I’m late and they just won’t take it. I wish they would. It would make me feel better about bringing them back late.)

Megg Morin, my editor from Osborne, has recommended Nevada Barr. I picked book number 1 up at the library but never got a chance to read it, so I brought it back before it would be late. I’ll try again in the fall.

I got wrapped up in Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Now normally, I’m a very fast reader. I can get through most novels in less than 12 hours — which is why I don’t usually buy them. (Hard to spend $8 on a paperback I’ll get through so quickly and probably never read again.) But HBHG is a completely different animal. The book is excruciatingly detailed, with more history than the average person can swallow in casual reading. I’d been interested in the book since I read Dan Brown’s bestseller, The DaVinci Code. I didn’t think the book was well written, but it had a very good story, based on the second half of HBHG. The premise of HBHG is that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalen and fathered at least one child who escaped with Mary to France. The bloodline is the Holy Grail that the Templars and Priory of Sion were in charge of protecting. All this was in The DaVinci Code, but HBHG goes way further, producing evidence that Jesus may not have died on the cross and lots of other stuff that would really tweak religious folks. The book has dense type, no dialog (of course) and few headings. As a result, it was a slow read. I just finished it yesterday. Very interesting, but I wouldn’t want to debate it with a “born again” Christian.

Which reminds me of State of Fear, which I comments on in February. The book was blasted by a reviewer in Technology Today magazine (which I also recently subscribed to). And he wasn’t picking on Crichton’s poorly developed characters or loose ends. He basically said that the premise on which the book was built — primarily that global warming is a sham pushed on the public by environmentalists — is an outright lie. He produces several instances of Crichton distorting facts and misquoting sources. Now I wonder. Did he mean to do that? Or was he trying, like Dan Brown, to promote a radical theory through the use of popular fiction?

Now for the solution.

If you recall, when I wrote in February, I’d pretty much realized that my writer’s block problem was centered around plot. I hadn’t thought it out all the way and had no firm direction to go when I finally got rolling. I was also losing focus — a fact I realized when reading The First Five Pages. Finally, I had far too many distractions at home for me to get any work done.

The solution was threefold.

First, I went through what I’d written and ruthlessly cut out scenes and parts of scenes. I chopped 1/3 of the work’s length — 10,000 words — right out of the book. If it didn’t move the plot forward, it went bye-bye. (Bye-bye is an Edits file I use to store stuff I chop out that might be used another time.) I gave what was left a read-through and decided on a few more scenes that needed revision rather than cutting. I highlighted those in yellow so I wouldn’t forget them.

Second, I forced myself to sit down and write a list of scenes. It’s like an outline, but not very detailed. It laid the plot out in a way that made it clear how I needed to get from point A to point Z, by listing all the points in between, in order. Along the way, I cut my timeline down so things would happen quicker. Then, knowing that my outline would be an ever-changing thing that I’d add notes to all the time, I created a card file with large index cards, in an organized box. I have scene/plot cards, character cards, clue cards, and note cards. With this system in place, the computer-created outline is now dead and I’ll rely on the cards for all my notes and organization.

Third, I cleared my plate, made a hole in my computer book writing schedule, and left town. I’m writing this on the picnic table of our place at Howard Mesa, with the cool wind in my hair and nothing but my animals to distract me. I’m here for 6 to 8 weeks, working by day on a shed we’re converting into a temporary cabin and by afternoon/evening on this mystery novel.

If I discipline myself enough, I should be able to get both jobs done.