The Latest From The Private Bradley Manning Support Network-Free Bradley Manning Now! President Obama Pardon Bradley Manning- Call for action at Obama 2012 offices nationwide Sept. 6th during DNC

Click on the headline to link to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network for the latest information on his case and activities on his behalf .
*********
We of the international anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq war timetable or, as of now, the Afghanistan one, but we can save the one hero of that war, American soldier Private Bradley Manning. The Manning legal case, and Private Manning as an exceptionally brave individual, can and should serve to rally all those looking for a concrete way to express their anti-war outrage at the continuing atrocious American imperial war policies. The message below can serve as a continuing rationale for my (and your) support to this honorable whistleblower.
*********
The following are remarks that I have been focusing on of late to build support for Private Manning’s cause at stand-outs, marches and rallies.

Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with, and in defense of, Private Bradley Manning.

I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. Those precious bits of information leaked to Wikileaks about American soldiers committing war atrocities in Iraq as chronicled in the tape known on YouTube as “Collateral Murder” and the Iraq and Afghan War Diaries. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a flim-flam house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting flim-flam house of cards, but cards nevertheless.

I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning has been held in solidarity at Quantico, other locales, and now at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas for over two years, and has been held without trial for longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.

Many of us have become somewhat inured to the constant cases of jackboot torturous behavior on the part of the American military in places like Guantanamo, Bagram and other national security hellhole black box locations against foreign nationals. We have also become inured, or at least no longer surprised, when American civilian citizens are subject to such actions, and more likely death. However, as recent allegations of pre-trial torturous conduct condoned by high military authority (see the allegations and motion to dismiss charged on the Bradley Manning Support Network website) by Private Manning’s civilian defense lawyer David Coombs make clear, those acts are not confined to foreign nationals and American civilian citizens. The torture of Private Manning, an American soldier, by the American government should give us all pause. And should have us shouting to the heavens for his release.

These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day this brave soldier is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Private Manning until that great day.

I urge everyone to sign the petition calling on the American military to free Private Bradley Manning either here or on the Bradley Manning Support Network website. And if we cannot get Private Manning freed that way I urge everyone to begin a campaign in your area to call on President Barack Obama, or whoever is president while Private Manning is incarcerated, to pardon this brave soldier. The American president has the constitutional authority to grant pardons to the guilty and innocent, the convicted and those facing charges. I call on President Obama to pardon Private Manning now.

Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of All U.S./Allied Troops And Mercenaries From Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Free Private Manning Now! President Obama Pardon Private Manning!

************
Call for action at Obama 2012 offices nationwide Sept. 6th during DNC

The Bradley Manning Support Network, Afghans For Peace and SF Bay Iraq Veterans Against the War Call for Nationwide Actions at local Obama Campaign Offices September 6th 2012 during the Democratic National Convention! Free Bradley Manning!

Since Army PFC Bradley Manning’s arrest in May 2010 for allegedly sharing the “Collateral Murder” video and other evidence of war crimes and government corruption with the whistle-blower website WikiLeaks, progressives and human rights activists have been asking, “Why isn’t President Obama stepping in to help Bradley?”

After all, it was President Obama who in May 2011 declared with regards to protests in the Middle East,

“In the 21st Century, information is power; the truth cannot be hidden; and the legitimacy of governments will ultimately depend on active and informed citizens.”

On Thursday, August 16, US military veterans in Portland OR, Oakland CA, and Los Angeles CA, occupied Obama 2012 campaign offices and faxed a letter of demands to the Obama campaign’s central office. Those letters began:

As those who have spent years serving our country, we have faith that as Commander-in-Chief, President Obama will do the right thing in answering our request.

The letter went on to list the following demands:

That President Obama retract and apologize for remarks made in April 2011, in which he said Bradley Manning “broke the law.” Because President Obama is commander-in-chief, this constitutes unlawful command influence, violating Article 37 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), and prevents Bradley from receiving a fair trial.

That President Obama pardon the accused whistle-blower, taking into consideration his 800 days of pretrial confinement. UN torture chief Juan Mendez called Manning’s treatment “cruel and inhuman,” as it included nine months of solitary confinement at Quantico despite Brig psychiatrists recommending relaxed conditions.

The Bradley Manning Support Network maintains hope that justice will prevail and that President Obama can be the vehicle of change on this issue, but first he needs to hear loud and clear from veterans and civilians across the country that the American people want amends for the unlawful torture of Bradley Manning, and believe he should be freed.

Organizers of the August 16 West Coast actions are now urging others to join them in a nationwide effort to hold actions at many more local Obama campaign offices on September 6th, the day of candidate’s nomination acceptance speech. We want to share messages of support for Bradley with Obama campaign offices from coast to coast.

Please contact emma@bradleymanning.org for more information about attending and/or organizing an event.

From #Un-Occupied Boston (#Un-Tomemonos Boston)-What Happens When We Do Not Learn The Lessons Of History- The Pre-1848 Socialist Movement-Auguste Blanqui 1848-For the Red Flag

Click on the headline to link to the Occupy Boston General Assembly Minutes website. Occupy Boston started at 6:00 PM, September 30, 2011.

Markin comment:

I will post any updates from that Occupy Boston site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History ’’series started in the fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!

********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
A Five-Point Program As Talking Points

*Jobs For All Now!-“30 For 40”- A historic demand of the labor movement. Thirty hours work for forty hours pay to spread the available work around. Organize the unorganized- Organize the South- Organize Wal-Mart- Defend the right for public and private workers to unionize.

* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).

*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. Hands Off The World!

*Fight for a social agenda for working people!. Quality Healthcare For All! Nationalize the colleges and universities under student-teacher-campus worker control! Forgive student debt! Stop housing foreclosures!

*We created the wealth, let’s take it back. Take the struggle for our daily bread off the historic agenda. Build a workers party that fights for a workers government to unite all the oppressed.

Emblazon on our red banner-Labor and the oppressed must rule!

*********
Auguste Blanqui 1848-For the Red Flag

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Source: Ecrits sur la révolution.Presenté et annoté par A. Munster. Ed. Galilee, Paris 1977;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitch Abidor;
CopyLeft: Creative Commons (Attribute & ShareAlike) marxists.org 2004.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We are no longer in ’93! We are in 1848!

The tricolor flag is no longer the flag of the Republic. It’s that of Louis-Philippe and of the monarchy.

It’s the tricolor flag that presided over the massacres of the rue Transnonain, of faubourg de Vaise, of Saint-Etienne. It has been twenty times bathed in the blood of the workers.

The people raised the red colors on the barricades of ’48, just as they raised them on those of June 1832, April 1834[1], and May 1839. They have received the double consecration of defeat and victory. From this day on, these colors are theirs.

Just yesterday they gloriously floated from the fronts of our buildings.

Today reaction ignominiously casts them in the mud and dares stain them with its calumnies.

It is said it is a flag of blood. It is only red with the blood of the martyrs who made it the standard of the republic.

Its fall is an insult to the people, a profanation of the dead. The flag of the National Guard will shade their graves.

Reaction has already been unleashed. It can be recognized by its violence. The men of the royalist faction roam the streets, insults and threats in their mouths, tearing the red colors from the boutonnieres of citizens.

Workers! It’s your flag that is falling. Heed well! The Republic will not delay in following it.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1. Reference to the bloody repression of the popular revolts of April 13 and 14 1834 against the regime of Louis-Philippe.

From Occupy Homes MA-Boston-Attention people facing foreclosure or in foreclosure: Don't let the Bank push you out!

Important information

If you are the former owner or a tenant in a foreclosed building, you can fight for your home after foreclosure. If you have received an eviction notice from the Bank, DO NOT MOVE! Do not accept "cash for keys" payments without consulting with Occupy Homes MA or an attorney.

To all residents: If you live in a building that has already been foreclosed or where a foreclosure seems likely, call us at Occupy Homes at 617-524-3541 or come to any meeting of the City Life every Tuesday night, 6:15 pm, at 284 Amory St. in JP (near Stonybrook Station on Orange Line). You can fight the eviction.

Don't panic. Don't move. Organize! Join Occupy Homes MA

Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Tufts Library - Canoe Room
46 Broad Street, Weymouth
6:00 PM

Mortgage companies have been unwilling to do meaningful loan modifications for homeowners in trouble. To owners: If you financed your home during the real estate bubble, chances are the value of your home is much less than the value of the mortgage. In that case, a "meaningful loan modification" is one that reduces principal owed.

To owners and tenants: After foreclosure, lenders evicted about 2400 households in Boston in 2008. About 77% of these households were tenants. AM these evictions were "no fault," because foreclosing lenders refuse to accept rent. They sit on vacant property after foreclosure and our neighborhoods decline.

Occupy Homes MA is dedicated to uniting tenants and former owners in foreclosed buildings in order to protect our homes and neighborhoods against giant mortgage companies and banks.

For more information, call Occupy Homes MA: 617-249-4359 - Email: SouthShoreOccupy@gmail.com

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin- Joshua Lawrence Breslin’s Father’s Day

Peter Paul Markin comment:

My old friend from the merry prankster yellow brick road 1960s day Josh Breslin, Olde Saco High School Class of 1967, having a few years ago transcribed some stories that his late father told him and his sister Lissette on April 16th 1983 while he recovering from a heart attack, had as a result some things, some Father’s Day things that he wanted to get off his chest. (See Prescott Breslin’s Stardust Memories War. Josh was, frankly having a hard time doing the task (as had I several years before) so he asked me to help him write this belated tribute to his late father, Prescott Lee Breslin. The words may have been jointly written and edited but, believe me, the sentiments and emotions expressed are strictly those of Joshua Lawrence Breslin. I do know that it took a lot of work, sweat and tears for him to transfer them into written form.
******
In honor of Prescott Lee Breslin, 1917-1985, Lance Corporal, United States Marine Corps, World War II, Pacific Theater , and perhaps, other Olde Saco fathers too.

Josh turned red, turned bluster, fluster, embarrassed, internal red, red with shame, red as he always did this time of the year, this Father’s Day time of the year, when he thought about his own father, the late Prescott Lee Breslin. And through those shades of red he thought, sometimes hard, sometimes just a flicker thought passing, too close, too red close to continue on, he thought about the things that he never said to his father, about what never could be said to him, and above all, because when it came right down to it because they might have been on different planets, what could not be comprehended said. But although death now separated them by over twenty years he still turned red, more internal red these days, when he thought about the slivers of talk that could have been said, usefully said. And he would go to his own grave having that hang over his own Father’s Day thoughts.

But just that minute, just that pre-Father’s Day minute, Joshua Lawrence Breslin, Joshua Lawrence, for those Olde Saco brethren who insisted on calling him Joshua Lawrence when he preferred plain old Josh in those old-time 1960s high school days, wanted to call a truce to his red-faced shame, internal or otherwise, and pay public tribute, pay belated public tribute to Prescott Breslin, and maybe it would rub off on others too. And just maybe cut the pain of the thought of having those unsaid things hang over him until the grave.

See, here’s the funny part, the funny part now, about speaking, publicly or privately, about his father, at least when Josh thought about the millions of children around who were, warm-heartedly, preparing to put some little gift together for the “greatest dad in the world.” And of other millions, who were preparing, or better, fortifying themselves in preparation for that same task for dear old dad, although with their teeth grinding. Josh could not remember, or refused to remember, a time for eons when he, warm-heartedly or grinding his teeth, prepared anything for his father’s Father’s Day, except occasional grief that might have coincided with that day’s celebration. No preparation was necessary for that. That was all in a Josh’s day’s work, his hellish corner boy day’s work or, rather, night’s work, the sneak thief in the night work, later turned into more serious criminal enterprises. But the really funny part, ironic maybe, is grief-giving, hellish corner boy sneak thief, or not, one Prescott Breslin , deserved honor, no, required honor that day because by some mysterious process, by some mysterious transference Josh, in the end, was deeply formed, formed for the better by that man.

And you see, and it will perhaps come as no surprise that Josh, hell everybody called him Joshua Lawrence in the old days so just so nobody will be confused we will use that name here, was estranged from his family for many years, many teenage to adult years and so that his father’s influence, the “better angel of his nature,” influence had to have come very early on. Joshua Lawrence , even now, maybe especially now, since he had climbed a few mountains of pain, of hard-wall time served, and addictions to get here, did not want to go into the details of that fact, just call them ugly, as this memorial was not about his trials and tribulations in the world, but Prescott’s.

Here is what needs to be told though because something in that mix, that Breslin gene mix, is where the earth’s salts mingled to spine Joshua Lawrence against his own follies when things turned ugly later in his life. Prescott Lee Breslin, that middle name almost declaring that here was a southern man, as Joshua Lawrence name was a declaration that he was a son of a southern man, came out of the foothills of Kentucky, Appalachian Kentucky. The hills and hollows of Hazard, Kentucky to be exact, in the next county over from famed, bloody coal wars, class struggle, which-side-are-you-on Harlan County, but all still hard-scrabble coal-mining country famous in story and song- the poorest of the poor of white Appalachia-the “hillbillies.”

And the poorest of the poor there, or very close to it, was Prescott Breslin’s family, his seven brothers and four sisters, his elderly father and his too young step-mother. Needless to say, but needing to be said anyway, Prescott went to the mines early, after a couple of break-out years as a singer, had little formal schooling and was slated, like generations of Breslins before him, to live a short, brutish, and nasty life, scrabbling hard, hard for the coal, hard for the table food, hard for the roof over his head, hard to keep the black lung away, and harder still to keep the company wolves away from his shack door. And then the Great Depression came full force and thing got harder still, harder than younger ears could understand today, or need to hear just now.

At the start of World War II Prescott jumped, jumped with both feet running once he landed, at the opportunity to join the Marines in the wake of Pearl Harbor, fought his fair share of battles in the Pacific Theater, including Guadalcanal, although he, like many men of his generation, was extremely reticent to talk about his war experiences. By the vagaries of fate in those up-ending times Prescott eventually was stationed at the huge Portsmouth Naval Depot before being discharged, a busy base about thirty miles from Olde Saco.

[Joshua Lawrence , interrupted his train of thought as chuckled to himself when he thought about his father’s military service, thought about one of the few times when he and Prescott had had a laugh together. Prescott often recounted that things were so tough in Hazard, in the mines of Hazard, in the slag heap existence of Hazard, that in a “choice” between continuing in the mines and daily facing death at Japanese hands he picked the latter, gladly, and never looked back. Part of that never looking back, of course, was the attraction of Delores LeBlanc (Olde Saco High School Class of 1937), Joshua Lawrence’s mother whom Prescott met while stationed at Portsmouth where she worked in the civilian section of the base of an insurance company based in Olde Saco. They married shortly thereafter, had three sons, his late oldest brother, Larry , killed many years ago while engaged in an attempted armed robbery, Danny who just kind of wandered off one day and had not been heard from since, and Joshua Lawrence, ex-sneak thief, ex-merry prankster, ex-dope-dealer, ex-addict, ex-, well, enough of ex’s, and a younger sister, Lissette, now in a private mental health facility after years of alcohol and drug abuse, and the rest is history. Well, not quite, whatever Prescott might have later thought about his decision to leave the hellhole of the Appalachian hills. He was also a man, as that just mentioned family resume hints at, who never drew a break, not at work, not through his sons and daughter (although it was the sons that counted, mainly), not in anything.]

Joshua Lawrence , not quite sure how to put it in words that were anything but spilled ashes since it would be put differently, much differently in 2011 than in, let’s say, 1971, or 1961 thought of it this way:

“My father was a good man, he was a hard- working man when he had work, and he was a devoted family man. But go back to that paragraph about where he was from. He was also an uneducated man with no skills for the changing Olde Saco labor market. There was no call for a coal miner's skills in Olde Saco after World War II so he was reduced to unskilled, last hired, first fired jobs. This was, and is, not a pretty fate for a man with hungry mouths to feed. And stuck in the damn Olde Saco Housing Authority apartments, come on now let’s call a thing by its real name, real recognizable name, “the projects,” the place for the poorest of the poor, Olde Saco version, to boot.

To get out from under a little and to share in the dream, the high heaven dream, working poor post-World War II dream, of a little house, no matter how little, of one’s own if only to keep the neighbor’s loud business from one’s door Delores, proud, stiffly French-Canadian 1930s Depression stable working class proud Delores, worked. Delores worked mother’s night shifts at one of the Jimmy Jack’s Homemade Diners filling up coffee cups and fixings for hungry travelers and tourists in order to scrap a few pennies together to buy an old, small, rundown house, on the wrong side of the tracks, on Maple Street for those from Olde Saco who remember that locale, literally right next to the old Bay Lines railroad tracks. So the circle turned and the Breslin family returned back to the Atlantic section of town of Maude’s youth.”

Joshua Lawrence grew pensive when he thought, or rather re-thought, about the toll that the inability to be the sole breadwinner (no big deal now with an almost mandatory two working-parents existence- but important for a man of his generation) took on the man's pride. A wife filling damn coffee cups, jesus.

He continued:

“And it never really got better for Prescott from there as his three boys grew to manhood (Lissette’s troubles began much later, much later), got into more trouble, got involved with more shady deals, acquired more addictions, and showered more shame on the Prescott Breslin name than needs to be detailed here. Let’s just say it had to have caused him more than his fair share of heartache. He never said much about it though, in the days when Joshua Lawrence and he were still in touch. Never much about why three boys who had more food, more shelter, more education, more prospects, more everything that a Hazard po’ boy couldn’t see straight if their lives depended on it, who led the corner boy life for all it was worth and in the end had nothing but ashes, and a father’s broken heart to show for it. No, he never said much, and Joshua Lawrence hadn’t heard from other sources that he ever said much (Delores was a different story, but this is Prescott’s story so enough of that). Why? Damn, they were his boys and although they broke his heart they were his boys. That is all that mattered to him and so that, in the end, is how Joshua Lawrence, whatever he would carry to his own grave, that Prescott must have forgiven him.”

Joshua Lawrence, getting internal red again, decided that it was time to close this tribute. To go on in this vein would be rather maudlin. The old man was a Marine, and he was closer to the old Marine Corps slogan than Joshua Lawrence could ever understand - Semper Fi- "always faithful." Yes, Joshua Lawrence thought, as if some historic justice had finally been done, that is a good way to end this. Except to say something that should have been shouted from the Olde Saco rooftops long ago- “Thanks Dad, you did the best you could.”

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Cinema Memories-Martin Scorsese’s “Hugo”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for martin Scorsese’s film, Hugo.

Hugo, starring Asa Butterfield, Ben Kingsley, Christopher Lee, Jude Law. Directed by Martin Scorsese, Paramount Pictures, 2011

A film about film-making, or about a slice of life of the history of film-making and filmmakers, must always be an appealing subject for any director, and especially for a quirky and historically-immersed director like Martin Scorsese. We are all children of the film age (including Hugo and the other children who pop up in this film) and thus it was interesting to see as the “plot” unfolded how film began to be used the movies as a modern metaphor for humankind’s imaginations, of its dreams and of the process of going from disbelief to the suspension of disbelief that is part of any film experience, including this film.

As for the film itself, based on an adaptation of novelistic treatment of the wonder of discovery, of invention, and of pure fantasy inherent in trying to make dreams come to life it works pretty well. And to place that challenge in the hands of a child just adds to the effect. One might argue, and should, that the length of the film including its little redundancies (the constant background shots of the railroad station and it inhabitants) could reasonably have been shorter by about fifteen minutes. And, perhaps with tongue in cheek, that it really does take film’s magical suspension of disbelief techniques to take a plot that is centered in Paris while the cast speaks the Queen’s English making one think that we could have been in the center of London just as easily. Other than those minor points this film was entertaining. And isn’t that what film should be all about. That is what its founders thought anyway.

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin- Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- Frankie Out In The Adventure Car Hop Night

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Dubs performing the classic Could This Be Magic? to set the mood for this piece.

Okay, you know the routine by now, or at least the drift of these 1950s days of classic rock and roll sketches, those king hell king corner boy-in chief Frankie Riley-induced sketches that I have been forced to do, forced by pressed memory to do if you are asking for a reason. Or maybe, as a reason anyway, just to unwind after raging against the awry-struck world we live in, or the coming big sleep night. And if you don’t know the routine here is a quick primer. Start out with a tip of the hat to the fact that each generation, each teenage generation that is, makes its own tribal customs, mores and language. Then move on to the part that is befuddled (my befuddled) by today’s teenage-hood and its tribal customs, mores, and language. And then I go, presto, scampering back to my own “safe” teenage-hood, the teenage coming of age of the generation of ‘68 that came of age in the early 1960s and start on some cultural “nugget” from that seemingly pre-historic period. Well this sketch is no different from the established pattern, except, today we decipher the 1950s golden age of the drive-in restaurant, although really it is the car hops (waitresses), the essential ingredient in that scene, that drive this one.

See, this sketch is driven , almost subconsciously driven, by the Edward Hopper Nighthawk-like illustrations on the The Rock ‘n’ Roll Era CDs that I have been checking out lately in search of that 1950s good night. In this case it is the drive-in restaurant of blessed teenage memory that caught my eye. For the younger set, or those oldsters who “forgot,” that was a restaurant idea driven by car culture, especially the car culture from the golden era of teenage car-dom, the 1950s. Put together cars, cars all flash-painted and fully-chromed, “boss” cars we called them in my working class neighborhood, young restless males, food, and a little off-hand sex, or rather the promise or mist of a promise of it, and you have the real backdrop to the drive-in restaurant. If one really thought about it why else would somebody, anybody who was assumed to be functioning, sit in their cars eating food, and at best ugly food at that, off a tray strapped to the door while seated in their cherry, “boss," 1959 Chevy.

Beside the food, of course, there was the off-hand girl watching (in the other cars with trays hanging off their doors), the car hop ogling (and propositioning, if you had the nerve, and if your intelligence was good and there was not some 250 pound fullback back-breaker waiting to take her home a few cars over), and above all there was the steady sound of music, rock music, natch, coming from those boomerang speakers in those, need I say it, “boss” automobiles. And that is where this entire sketch gets mixed together.

Of course, just like another time when I was discussing teenage soda fountain life, the mere mention, no, the mere thought of the term “car hop” made me think of a Frankie story. Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, Frankie from the old hell-fire shipbuilding sunk and gone and it-ain’t-coming-back-again seen better days working class neighborhood where we grew up, or tried to. Frankie who I have already told you I have a thousand stories about, or hope I do. Frankie the most treacherous little bastard that you could ever meet on one day, and the kindest man (better man/child), and not just cheap jack, dime store kindness either, alive the next day. Ya, that Frankie, my best middle school and high school friend Frankie.

Did I tell you about Joanne, Frankie’s “divine” (his term, without quotation marks) Joanne because she entered, she always in the end entered into these things? Yes, I see, looking back at my notes that I did back when I was telling you about her little Roy “The Boy” Orbison trick. The one where she kept playing Roy’s Running Scared endlessly to get Frankie’s dander up. But see while Frankie had really no serious other eyes for the dames except his “divine” Joanne (I insist on putting that divine in quotation marks when telling of Joanne, at least for the first few times I mention her name, even now. Needless to say I questioned, and questioned hard, that designation on more than one occasion to no avail) he was nothing but a high blood-pressured, high-strung shirt-chaser, first class. And the girls liked him, although not so much for his looks as they were just kind of Steve McQueen okay. What made them they go for him was his line of patter, first class. Patter, arcane, obscure patter that made me, most of the time, think of fingernails scratching on a blackboard (except when I was hot on his trail trying to imitate him) and his faux “beat” pose , midnight sunglasses, flannel shirt, black chinos, and funky work boots (ditto on the imitation here as well). And it was not just “beat’ girls that liked to be around him either as you will find out.

Well, the long and short of it was that Frankie, late 1963 Frankie, and the... (Oh, forget the divine, quotation marks or not) Joanne had had their 207th (that number, or close, since 8th grade lovebirds) break-up and Frankie was a "free” man. To celebrate this freedom Frankie, Frankie, who was almost as poor as I was but who has a father with a car that he was not too cheap or crazy about to not let Frankie use on occasion, had wheels. Okay, Studebaker wheels but wheels anyway. And he was going to treat me to a drive-in meal as we went cruising the night, the Saturday night, the Saturday be-bop night looking for some frails (read: girls, Frankie had about seven thousand names for them)

Tired (or bored) from cruising the Saturday be-bop night away (meaning girl-less) we hit the local drive-in hot spot, Arnie’s Adventure Car Hop for one last, desperate attempt at happiness (Yah, things were put, Frank and me put anyway, just that melodramatically for every little thing). What I didn’t know was that Frankie, king hell skirt-chaser, had his off-hand eye on one of the car hops, Sandy, and as it turned out she was one of those girls who was enamored of his patter (or so I heard later). So he pulled into her station and started to chat her up as we ordered the haute cuisine. And here was the funny thing, now that I saw her up close I could see that she was nothing but a fox (read: “hot” girl) and Frankie once again had hit pay dirt. The not so funny thing was that she was so enamored of Frankie’s patter that he was going to take her home after work. No problem you say. No way, big problem. I was to be left there to catch a ride home anyway I could while they set sail into that good night. Thanks, Frankie.

Well, I was pretty burned up about it for a while but as always with “charma” Frankie we hooked up again a few days later. And here is where I got a little sweet revenge (although don’t tell him that).

Frankie sat me down at the old town pizza parlor and told me the whole story and even now, as I recount it, I can’t believe it. Sandy was a fox, no question, but a married fox, a very married fox, who said when Frankie first met her that she was about twenty-two and had a kid. Her husband was in the service and she was “lonely” and succumbed to Frankie’s charms. Fair enough, it is a lonely world at times. But wait a minute, I bet you thought that Frankie’s getting mixed up with a married honey with a probably killer husband was the big deal. No way, no way at all. You know, or you can figure out, old Frankie spent the night with Sandy. Again, it's a lonely world sometimes.

The real problem, the real Frankie problem, was once they started to compare biographies and who they knew around town, and didn’t know, it turned out that Sandy, old fox, old married fox with brute husband, old Arnie’s car hop Sandy was some kind of cousin to Joanne, a second cousin maybe. And she was no cradle-robber twenty-two (as if you could rob the cradle with Frankie) but nineteen, almost twenty and had lied about her age because she had been embarrassed about having a baby in high school and having to go to her "aunt's" to have the child. (More “aunts” than you would have suspected got unexpected visits from errant nieces than you could shake a stick at in those days when bastardry had a greater social stigma.)

Moreover, somewhere along the line Sandy and her cousin Joanne had had a parting of the ways, a nasty parting of the ways. So sweet as a honey bun Arnie's car hop Sandy, sweet teen-age mother Sandy, had been looking for a way to take revenge on Joanne and Frankie, old king of the night Frankie, was the meat. She had him sized up pretty well, as he admitted to me. An ironic slight smile, a little response to some off-hand patter, and maybe a little sway and he fell, fell easy. So for a long time Frankie was sweating this one out like crazy, and swearing everyone within a hundred miles who might have seen him with Sandy to secrecy.

Here is the best part though. One night I was walking into Skip’s Record Shop looking for some new record as Sandy was walking out. She stopped me to inquire about whether Frankie and Joanne were back together. I answered yes with a shrug. Then she told me her version of that Saturday night saga I have just related. It matched up pretty well with what Frankie had told me so I asked her whether she was going to do anything to break up our lovebirds. She laughed and told me (in confidence) that she had no intention in the world of doing anything about that. She had, after all that brute of a husband, who might take out Frankie, and her. Besides and here is where women, married or single, are something else. All she really wanted out of Frankie was the knowledge that she could take him away from Joanne any time she wanted to. And, added in, to make Frankie sweat about Joanne finding out. I’m telling you this one in strictest confidence even now. Don’t tell Joanne or Frankie. Ever.

From "OCCUPY HOMES MASSACHUSETTS"- No Homeowner Need Stand Alone!-Organize Now!

Click on the headline to link to the Occupy Quincy website for more information about Occupy Homes MA.


Stand Together-Occupy Homes Ma-Stop 'the banksters' Foreclosures and Evictions

OCCUPY HOMES MA

Next Meeting Scheduled For Tufts Library, Broad Street, Weymouth, August 21 2012-6:00 PM- Check out directions and details on our Facebook page-Occupy Homes MA.

WANT ASSISTANCE OR MORE INFORMATION?

OccupyHomesMA@gmail.com

617-249-4359

*********
Are you facing FORECLOSURE?- YOU ARE NOT ALONE!

Stand up with other homeowners who are fighting with us.

Want more information?

Contact us by email at OccupyHomesMA@gmail.com

or call us at 617-249-4359

The homeowner's meeting is intended to be a support group
specifically for those in the foreclosure process.

ATTEND A HOMEOWNERS MEETING TO

Develop Solidarity and Support:

We urge people to leave their shame at the door. We work to end the stigma and isolation of individual foreclosure and eviction cases by uniting homeowners.

Learn Your Rights:

You don't have to move just because the bank says so. We empower people to know their rights and advocate for themselves.

Organize with Occupy Homes MA:

Community members and activists are ready to stand with you. Let’s build mass resistance to defend your home and break the stranglehold the big banks have on our neighborhoods.
************
Want to get involved?

Participate!

Fight back! A movement working for the 99% must be shaped and formed by all those who participate. All decisions on the direction and scope of the struggle are democratic.

Organize!

Build powerful communities! Identify issues affecting our neighborhoods, and work together on solutions.

Mobilize!

The best tool of the 99% is our numbers, and our ability to work together. Plan public actions, protests, and home defense.

Educate!

Become educated and teach others about the nature of the foreclosure crisis, and ways empowered communities can begin to solve it.
************
Excerpt from...

Keeping House: Local Organizations Collaborate to Help Boston Residents Stay in Their Home Post-Foreclosure

Noelle Swan Spare Change News

When Jeril Richardson checked out of the hospital after he was hit by a car in 2009, he returned home to find that his landlord had not been keeping up with mortgage payments and the bank was foreclosing on his Hyde Park home.

Canvassers knocking on his door told him about City Life Vida Urbana, a community organization that would help him to fight to stay in his home. Nearly three years later, Richardson still lives in the house, pays rent to the bank, and is saving to purchase the property.

Every weekend, students and community volunteers from Project No One Leaves hit the streets in an effort to reach tenants and homeowners facing foreclosure to inform them of their rights during and after the foreclosure.

"We try to get there before eviction agents come knocking and telling them to leave immediately," said Chris Larson, senior at Tufts University who helped to coordinate a chapter of No One Leaves at Tufts.

In recent years, keeping up with new foreclosures has become a daunting task, said Chas Hamilton, a third-year law student and current president of the board for Project No One Leaves at Harvard Law School. "In a given week, there might be 30 new foreclosures listed in Boston proper."

"Then there are properties that they did not get to in weeks past because canvassers ran out of time, people weren't home, or their just weren't enough cars to get to all of the neighborhoods." Volunteers for No One Leaves chart foreclosure postings listed in local newspapers and real estate publications.

Listings are grouped into geographic zones of the city and mapped out. Each week, a dozen or so volunteers gather at the Harvard Legal Aid Bureau in Cambridge, split up into groups of two to five depending on the number of cars available, and try to get out to as many properties as they can in three hours.

"The real message that we try to deliver is that foreclosure is not the end. It's the beginning of this very long battle," Larson said.

http://sparechangenews.net/news/keeping-house-
local-organizations-collaborate-help-boston-residents-
stay-their-home-post-forecl
********
WHY Occupy Homes MA?

OCCUPY OUR HOMES

Far too many homeowners are facing foreclosure. The need is greater than the capacity to help. City Life along with a team from Harvard Law is mentoring Occupy Homes MA as we create this new chapter to help homeowners on the South Shore. We are here to:

STOP FORECLOSURES

This is a people's movement that is building across Massachusetts. Homeowners did not create the crisis we are in, and homeowners are no longer going to face the shame of foreclosure and eviction alone. We are here to:

STOP EVICTIONS

The police should serve and protect the 99%, not assist the big banks with eviction. We will organize the community and resist eviction. Knowledge is power; they cannot easily put you out on the street - we want to help you, we won't let them!

HOUSING IS A HUMAN

There are 18 million empty homes in the U.S.

Help us, to help you by saying: "NOT MY HOME!"

Silencing Dissent in America-by Stephen Lendman

Silencing Dissent in America-by Stephen Lendman

18 Aug 2012

Freedom in America is endangered. Bipartisan complicity plans destroying it altogether.

America is on a fast track toward tyranny and ruin. Police state laws threaten everyone.

Increasingly dissent is marginalized. It's not tolerated. Resistance is called dangerous to national security.

Federal authorities target activists. So do militarized local police. No holds barred tactics are employed.

In October 2010, the Center for Constitutional Rights said:

"The growing threat to the right to dissent has been demonstrated in the U.S. government's efforts to silence speech, and criminalize and target peaceful movements."

"These efforts are becoming more aggressive, emboldened further by the Supreme Court's increasingly conservative decisions, for instance regarding material support in the form of humanitarian aid to so-called terrorist organizations."
Howard Zinn called dissent "the highest form of patriotism." Michael Ratner and Margaret Ratner Kunstler's book "Hell No: Your Right to Dissent in Twenty First Century America" discusses what everyone needs to know.

It explores how activism and dissent are targeted. Demonstrations are attacked and disrupted. Protesters are called terrorists. They're arrested and jailed for expressing constitutionally guaranteed First Amendment and other rights.

Authorities claim they give "material support" to perceived enemies. "Hell No" provides advice on dealing with a menu of police state practices.

American's First Amendment guarantees free expression, a free press, the right to peacefully assemble, free exercise of religion, and right to petition government for redress of grievances.

Without these rights, all others are at risk. They've been fast eroding in America for years en route to eliminating them altogether. Forgotten are numerous Supreme Court decisions upholding free expression and assembly rights.

In Edwards v. South Carolina (1963), the Court ruled against state authorities for prohibiting protesters from marching for civil rights.

In Cox v. Louisiana (1965), the Court held that state government cannot employ "breach of the peace" statutes against protesters engaging in peaceful demonstrations by claiming they may incite violence.

In Brandenburg v. Ohio (1969), the Court ruled government can't punish inflammatory speech unless it's "directed" to incite lawless action.

In Texas v. Johnson (1989), Justice William Brennan wrote the majority opinion, saying:

"(I)f there is a bedrock principle underlying the First Amendment, it is that government may not prohibit the expression of an idea simply because society finds the idea offensive or disagreeable."

In Wooley v. Maynard (1977), the Court upheld "the right of individuals to hold a point of view different from the majority" with respect to "idea(s) they find morally objectionable."

Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights states:

"Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers."

Article 20(1) states:

"Everyone has the right to freedom of peaceful assembly and association."

Article 29(2) states:

"In the exercise of his rights and freedoms, everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society."

Post-9/11, dissent has been increasingly marginalized.

In October 2008, so-called (Attorney General Michael) Mukasey/(FBI Director Robert) Mueller Guidelines gave federal authorities "flexibility (to) protect the Nation from terrorist threats."

Consolidated new rules include criminal and national security issues. Surveillance restrictions were eased. Domestic spying became institutionalized. Constitutional rights are ignored.

"War on terror" authority escalated FBI abuses. Intrusive surveillance tools used against alleged spies now target ordinary Americans. Mukasey/Mueller Guidelines underwent four separate changes. Each one increased FBI surveillance powers.

Tactics include intrusive spying, commercial database data retrieval, paid informants infiltrating groups or targeting individuals on false pretenses, and letting covert unidentified agents conduct "pretext" interviews for information.

Mukasey/Mueller Guidelines left ordinary Americans increasingly vulnerable to abuse. Anyone may be investigated for any reason or none at all.

Authorization permits surveillance and infiltration of anti-war and other social justice groups. Occupy Wall Street (OWS) activists are targeted. Any organization or individual is vulnerable. Anything goes is now policy. Obama is more repressive than Bush.

Data mining collects vast amounts of information on ordinary Americans. How it's used, who knows. Against targeted individuals and groups, it's used abusively.

Everything is fair game. Personal records of all kinds are obtained. Activities are closely monitored. So-called "suspicious activity reports" allege possible criminal activity.

The USA Patriot Act authorized so-called National Security Letters (NSLs). They expanded the FBI's authority to obtain personal customer records from ISPs, financial institutions, credit companies, and other sources without prior court approval.

Innocent people are targeted. Virtually anything in public or private records can be gotten. "Gag" orders prevent targeted individuals or groups from revealing the information demanded. NSL use continues increasing exponentially.

Lawful rights are violated in numerous ways. Classic police state tactics are used. No one's safe when authorities act this way. Freedom is perilously close to vanishing. Mueller has virtual carte blanche authority.

Occupy Wall Street (OWS) protesters have been targeted and criminalized. Constitutional rights are violated. Beatings and other forms of excessive force are used. Nonviolent protests are called terrorism.

Patriot Act provisions criminalized dissent. Innocent people are arrested, indicted and imprisoned. "Terrorist profiles" let FBI and local police investigate anyone for any reason. Obama and congressional allies sold out constituents for Wall Street and other monied interests.

Obama escalated repressive Bush practices. The Oregorian newspaper reported that heavily armed FBI units raided homes of OWS protesters in Seattle and Olympia, WA and Portland, OR over the last month.

Actions have been ongoing since early July. Authorities claim violent crimes are being investigated. Eyewitnesses report dozens of FBI agents in body armor and military fatigues armed with assault rifles involved.

One witness said:

"I just heard lots of pounding at 6 o'clock, and I got up and I saw the whole thing. I saw them screaming to get in. They were using the battering ram, and then finally the door just opened."

FBI spokeswoman Beth Anne Steele told the Oregonian"

"The warrants are sealed, and I anticipate they will remain sealed."

Authorities alleged searches were for "anti-government or anarchist literature or materials," as well as "documentation and communications related to the offenses, including but not limited to notes, diagrams, letters, diary and journal entries, address books, and other documentation in written or electronic form."

In fact, nonviolent activists were targeted, terrorized, and criminalized. At issue is engaging in constitutionally protected protests. Militarized FBI agents used stun grenades and battering rams. Victims were pulled out of bed at gunpoint.

Personal possessions were seized. They included computers, suspect literature and other materials in written or electronic form, cell phones, thumb drives, and clothing with political slogans.

False charges remain sealed. Fundamental rights are criminalized. Post-9/11, similar raids were conducted. At issue is political dissent as well as America's ongoing war on Islam.

Disproportionate force is used. Victims were handcuffed while homes were searched. Arrests weren't made, but about six protesters were subpoenaed to appear before grand juries.

On August 1, Dennison Williams and Leah Plante read a statement outside a Portland, OR courthouse, saying:

"This grand jury is a tool of political repression. It is attempting to turn individuals against each other by coercing those subpoenaed to testify against their communities."

"The secret nature of grand jury proceedings creates mistrust and can undermine solidarity. And imprisoning us takes us from our loved ones and our responsibilities."

Williams and Plante said they'll invoke the Fifth Amendment rights and refuse to answer grand jury questions.

America's Grand Jury System

They're convened to determine possible probable cause to return indictments. Critics say they rubber stamp aggressive prosecutions.

Federally, they have extraordinary investigative powers. Prosecutors abuse them to manipulate proceedings for outcomes they wish. Victims are vulnerable to bogus indictments. The Fifth Amendment requires grand jury indictments for federal criminal charges.

Prosecutors have extraordinary discretion. They choose witnesses, grant selective immunity, and do nearly all questioning.

Proceedings are conducted in secret. No one may disclose what goes on unless ordered to do so judicially. Anyone may be subpoenaed. Answering questions is mandated unless special privilege is granted. For example: lawyer/client confidentiality or self-incrimination.

Lawyers can't intervene to help clients while testifying. Double jeopardy doesn't apply to grand juries, but without indictments, prosecutors need Criminal Division Attorney General permission to try again. Victims have no protections against false witness testimonies perhaps gotten for leniency on existing or threatened charges.

Prosecutors routinely want grand jury indictments. The system is rigged to get them. Targeted victims are defenseless. Many innocent people languish wrongfully in prison. Justice is routinely denied.

Numerous past incidents occurred. In September 2010, administration ordered raids targeted Chicago and Minneapolis anti-war/pro-Palestinian activists. Arrests weren't made, but homes were ransacked. Computers, cell phones, books, photos, correspondence, papers, and other possessions were seized.

Twenty-three victims were subpoenaed to testify before grand juries. Activists were again targeted during NATO's May invasion. False terror plots were claimed. Activist homes were raided. Five victims faced terrorism-related charges.

Numerous other arrests were made. Everyone charged is innocent. Police brutality was reported. Most injuries were from baton head and body blows. Over two dozen were hospitalized for broken bones, concussions, knocked out teeth, and open wounds requiring stitches.

NATO arrives nowhere peacefully. Obama officials and local police wage war on dissent. Legal restraints don't apply for anyone charged with alleged terrorism or conspiracy to commit it. Abolition of constitutional rights shows what everyone faces.

It's the wrong time to be activist in America. Doing so means possible indictment, prosecution, and imprisonment for doing the right thing.

Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago and can be reached at lendmanstephen (at) sbcglobal.net.

His new book is titled "How Wall Street Fleeces America: Privatized Banking, Government Collusion and Class War"

http://www.claritypress.com/Lendman.html

Visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com and listen to cutting-edge discussions with distinguished guests on the Progressive Radio News Hour on the Progressive Radio Network Thursdays at 10AM US Central time and Saturdays and Sundays at noon. All programs are archived for easy listening.

http://www.progressiveradionetwork.com/the-progressive-news-hour



See also:
http://sjlendman.blogspot.com

Julian Assange: Political Refugee -by Stephen Lendman

Julian Assange: Political Refugee -by Stephen Lendman

19 Aug 2012

International law protects refugees and asylum seekers.

Article I of the 1951 UN Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees calls them:

"A person who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of their nationality, and is unable to or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail him/herself of the protection of that country."

Post-WW II, the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) was established to help them.

To gain legal protection, they must:

• be outside their country of origin;

• fear persecution;

• be harmed or fear harm by their government or others;

• fear persecution for at least one of the above cited reasons; and

• pose no danger to others.

Immihelp.com calls asylum and refugee status "closely related." They differ "only in the place where a person asks for asylum status."

Refugee status is asked for outside countries of origin. "However, all people who are granted asylum status must meet the definition of a refugee."

Assange is entitled to political refugee rights. Britain won't grant them.

Ecuador granted him political asylum. His fears are well-founded. If Britain extradites him to Sweden, he'll be sent to America. He'll be unjustly prosecuted for whistleblowing. He'll face many years in prison or capital punishment.

An earlier New York Times report said a secret grand jury convened. At issue is charging Assange with espionage under the 1917 Espionage Act.

Doing so contradicts the law's intent. It doesn't deter Justice Department officials from using it. It passed shortly after America's entry into WW I. Over time it's been amended numerous times.

Originally it prohibited interfering with US military operations, supporting the nation's enemies, promoting insubordination in the ranks, or obstructing military recruitment.

In 1921, its most controversial provisions were repealed. In 2010, Bradley Manning was charged under the Act. Technically its under Article 134 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). It includes parts of the US Code.

Allegedly a sealed Assange indictment is ready to be made public whenever Washington wishes to do so. Espionage Act violations will be charged.

America twists legal meanings to serve its interests. Bogus charges facilitate hanging innocent victims out to dry. Headlines portray Assange as public enemy number one. He won't get a moment's peace.

Asylum isn't freedom. UK Foreign Secretary William Hague said London won't grant safe passage. Britain's Foreign Office said:

"We are determined to carry out our legal obligation to see Julian Assange extradited to Sweden."

"We will not allow Mr. Assange safe passage out of the UK, nor is there any legal basis for us to do so. The UK does not accept the principle of diplomatic asylum."

"It is far from a universally accepted concept: the United Kingdom is not a party to any legal instruments, which require us to recognize the grant of diplomatic asylum by a foreign embassy in this country."

Hague added in part:

"We are disappointed by the statement by Ecuador’s Foreign Minister today that Ecuador has offered political asylum to Julian Assange."

"Under our law, with Mr. Assange having exhausted all options of appeal, the British authorities are under a binding obligation to extradite him to Sweden."

"We must carry out that obligation and of course we fully intend to do so. The Ecuadorian Government's decision this afternoon does not change that in any way."

"Nor does it change the current circumstances in any way. We remain committed to a diplomatic solution that allows us to carry out our obligations as a nation under the Extradition Act."

"The UK does not accept the principle of diplomatic asylum."

Hague omitted saying Britain spurns international law principles repeatedly. Like America, other NATO nations, and Israel, it operates extrajudicially.

On August 19, the Union of South American Nations (UNASUR) will hold an extraordinary meeting in Ecuador. Assange's situation will be discussed.

Britain and Ecuador are at impasse. Resolution may not come soon. Assange remains holed up in Ecuador's London embassy. WikiLeaks posted his statement on its Twitter page, saying:

"It was not Britain or my home country, Australia, that stood up to protect me from prosecution, but a courageous, independent Latin American nation."

At issue is how to get there safely. More on that below.

Peru holds UNASUR's rotating presidency. A statement released on its foreign ministry website says:

"The Foreign Ministry of Peru lets public opinion know that, in concordance with the statutory responsibilities of the temporary presidency of UNASUR, at the behest of the Republic of Ecuador and after consulting member states, an extraordinary meeting of the Counsel of Foreign Ministers of the Union has been convened on Sunday August 19 in the city of Guayaquil, Ecuador."

"The meeting has been requested with the intention of considering the situation raised at the embassy of Ecuador in the United Kingdom."

On August 24, Organization of American States (OAS) voted to meet in Washington. At issue is discussing Ecuador's granting Assange asylum. Twenty-three members voted in favor of the meeting. America, Canada, and Trinidad and Tobago opposed the resolution. Five nations abstained. Another three were absent.

OAS secretary general Jose Miguel Insulza said convening isn't about Assange per se. It's to discuss "the problem posed by the threat or warning made to Ecuador by the possibility of an intervention into its embassy in London."

"The issue that concerns us is the inviolability of diplomatic missions of all members of this organization, something that is of interest to all of us."

What OAS will accomplish is doubtful. It largely defers to US interests. Its history is long and shameful. Chartered to "promote democratic institutions," it defiled them for decades.

Previous leaders include a rogue's gallery of regional despots. They include father and son Duvalier in Haiti, fascist Rios Montt in Guatemala, Pinochet in Chile, an array of Mexican despots, Fujimori and others like him in Peru, Somoza in Nicaragua, Batista in Cuba, and other death squad rulers in Brazil, Argentina, Ecuador, Bolivia, Paraguay, Uruguay, Honduras, El Salvador and elsewhere in the region.

Instead of combatting terrorism, they practiced it. In countries like Haiti, Honduras and Colombia little changed. Whether or not they'll support Ecuador remains unclear. Perhaps so if they're worried about their own security.

Assange saw his native Australia spurn him when he's most in need. Instead of condemning UK bullying and refusal to grant safe passage, Prime Minister Julia Gillard cynically claimed she can't help.

It's none of Australia's business, she suggested. All nations are obligated to protect their citizens. International law requires it. Core tenets include the right to life and humane treatment. It holds abroad as well at home. Consular support is responsible when domestic help isn't available.

In 2010, Gillard called releasing diplomatic cables "grossly irresponsible" and "illegal." No matter that state secrets weren't revealed. Information at most was embarrassing, not harmful. Australia supports Washington's imperium. It's complicit with Obama officials intent to prosecute and imprison Assange.

On August 17, the UK Telegraph headlined "WikiLeaks: Julian Assange will take Britain to the 'World Court,' " saying:

In 1998, Baltasar Garzon indicted Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet. He now represents Assange. He's a political refugee, he said. Ecuador granted him asylum status. Britain is obligated to honor it.

"They have to comply with diplomatic and legal obligations under the 1951 UN Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, and respect the sovereignty of a country that has granted asylum."

"If Britain doesn't comply with its obligations, we will go before International Court of Justice to demand that Britain complies with its obligations because there is a person who runs the risk of being persecuted politically."

Michael Ratner is president of the Center for Constitutional Rights. He provides Assange legal advice. He denounced Britain, saying:

"They overstepped, looked like bullies, and made (things) into a big-power versus small power conflict."

Britain should "back off." So should America. Both countries should obey international law and respect Assange's status. "He has a legal right to asylum under the refugee convention."

"Under the UN declarations, there cannot be any adverse consequences for countries granting asylum. It’s considered a humanitarian act."

British officials act like "bullies" for Washington.

On August 16, British MP George Galloway slammed his government for supporting Washington's intent to crucify Assange. He called Sweden's bogus sex charges cover to ship him to America. He hit hard explaining:

"Is there anyone out there that thinks that Britain is doing this, would do that because of charges of sexual misconduct in Sweden? Is there anybody out there really thinks that?"

"Or is it more likely that Britain has done this and will perhaps do the rest in the service of the United States of America, which is salivating at the possibility of getting their hands on the man who with WikiLeaks embarrassed American and British imperialism in front of the whole world?"

On June 20, a Washington Post editorial headlined "Asylum for Julian Assange?" saying:

Ecuadorian President Rafael Correa is "a small-time South American autocrat." Chavez "has been his political mentor." He boosted his political influence by granting Assange an interview. He hosted a popular Russia Today program.

A litany of canards followed. The Post made spurious anti-Correa accusations. It dismissively ignored likely US extradition, espionage charges and imprisonment. Guilt or innocence doesn't matter.

It acted like Obama's spokesman. It said US-Ecuadorian trade relations may suffer. "If Mr. Correa seeks to appoint himself America's chief Latin American enemy and Julian Assange's protector….it's not hard to imagine the outcome."

It's simple knowing which side the Post favors. It consistently supports US imperial interests. It's firm against whatever compromises them. It's comfortable about policies harming others. It cheerleads America's war machine. So do other Western media scoundrels.

A Final Comment

On August 16, the London Guardian published ways Assange might leave Britain freely. They range from diplomatic status to smuggling him out. Ideas discussed include:

(1) Giving Assange a diplomatic passport. They facilitate travel but don't confer immunity.

(2) Granting him diplomatic status. Doing so immunizes him from prosecution. Article 29 of the Vienna Convention states:

"The person of a diplomatic agent shall be inviolable. He shall not be liable to any form of arrest or detention. The receiving state shall treat him with due respect and shall take all appropriate steps to prevent any attack on his person, freedom or dignity."

At the same time, nations are obligated to respect each other's laws. According to former UK Foreign Office lawyer Joanne Foakes:

"In principle, a state can freely appoint anyone as a member of its mission, apart from its head of mission."

"But if they were to seek to do so now, it would be an obvious device to evade the laws of the receiving state, the UK. In these circumstances the UK may feel justified in repudiating such an appointment."

(3) Diplomatic vehicles can't be searched. Provide one for transport to London's international airport. At issue is getting on, off, onboard an aircraft, safely out of British airspace, and not intercepted by US warplanes en route to Ecuador.

(4) Smuggle him out or use a crate, bag or other container. The Vienna Convention says "diplomatic bag(s) shall not be opened or detained." They can be scanned or subjected to thermal imaging. Body heat would reveal something live. Britain might demand to know what.

Other alternatives include diplomacy, pro-Assange world opinion, other nations and British MPs speaking out on his behalf, perhaps a favorable World Court decision, UK embarrassment, or maybe after months of standoff its government deciding it's not worth the fuss, bother, or row.

For now, Assange remains in limbo. Determined Ecuadorean ingenuity and commitment are needed to save him.

Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago and can be reached at lendmanstephen (at) sbcglobal.net.

His new book is titled "How Wall Street Fleeces America: Privatized Banking, Government Collusion and Class War"

http://www.claritypress.com/Lendman.html

Visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com and listen to cutting-edge discussions with distinguished guests on the Progressive Radio News Hour on the Progressive Radio Network Thursdays at 10AM US Central time and Saturdays and Sundays at noon. All programs are archived for easy listening.

http://www.progressiveradionetwork.com/the-progressive-news-hour



See also:
http://sjlendman.blogspot.com

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Prescott Breslin’s Stardust Memories War

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Hoagy Carmichael performing Stardust to set the mood for this piece.

He was scared, Prescott Breslin was scared. Scared more than he had ever been at any time in his life over the last forty years, at any time since that 1942 night his 1st Marine Division unit, his Bravo company, stationed out in just being built Camp Pendleton, California had gotten orders to move out west the next day, west to the Jap dotted island of the World War II hard fighting west. And while that scare was prospective his current scare was real, life-threatening real. Several days before he had had pains, heart pains so severe he thought, and his wife Delores thought too, that was the end right then and there. Somehow she had gotten help, gotten help that had gotten him to Portland General Hospital, and gotten him there in time for some heart surgery to work him back to life, for now.

And that for now, and that scared about the end had driven a very private Prescott Breslin to call in his kindred (his old time Appalachia word for his family and others), his available kindred to come and, well, he might not have put it this way, comfort him (and Delores). Thus on the morning of April 16th 1983 I, Josh Breslin, his youngest son, and his only daughter, Lissette, were sitting by his home-side bed up in Olde Saco, Maine listening to him tell some stuff about his life, stuff that neither of us had ever heard much about from this hither-to-fore distant father figure.

While he was having his say he asked to have his favorite music, the music of his generation, the one that had survived (just barely) the Great Depression of the 1930s and had fought (or like Delores had anxiously awaited behind) the hard island and continent battles of World War II playing on the record player in the background.

I, mistakenly, thumbing through the dusty pile of LP records had put on Rosemary Clooney’s Come On To My House, a song I had heard wafting through the house on the radio on the now long gone WMEX, his station of choice out of Portland in those days. He yelled, or what passed for yelling in his condition, that he did not want to hear that rock and roll stuff from the 1950s and made it very clear (as he always did on the not many occasions when he made a big deal out of his wants) that 1950, maybe 1952, was the cutoff date for the background music that he wanted played. This told me already that two things were going to happen.

One, that we were not to be entertained by any stories of his life, or of our family life after that time and, two, that he was going to continue to mourn, now apparently to the grave, that his two older sons, Lawrence James (named after his father) and Daniel Francis (named after my mother’s father) were not there at his bedside then. And the reason that those two sons, my brothers whom I too missed, were not available was that Larry was just at that moment serving yet another five to ten stretch for an armed robbery in Bar Harbor (a cheap jack gas station of all places, jesus) up at Shawshank Prison. And Danny had left home heading west (what west, and how far, he did not tell me when he left) in 1966 and had not been seen, or heard of, by the family since despite some serious efforts by Dad to find him.

See, as will become apparent as Prescott Breslin tells his story, or the parts that he wanted told, told by me his son who had made a fair living out of writing up such stories over the previous ten years or so, he was a simple man, with simple values, simple wants, and a simple code. Therefore a most complex man in our go-go times. Larry, Danny and I were his children, his kin, so right or wrong, good or bad, that was it (and Lissette too, but as he told me once many years before when we were in one of our more talkative phases, he never really did understood women, except Delores, and so by the age of puberty Lissette had kind of been a blur to him. She, on the other hand, as was evident that morning between the tears and laughter, worshipped the ground he walked on and, and while I had had my tiffs with him, who was to say she was wrong).

That they (and I) caused him more heartbreak than any simple man should have to endure did not matter, we were his kids, his boys okay, and that was that. So if you sense that Larry and Danny were in the room that April morning and if you sense that the old man just wanted to remember ahead to the early 1950s and no further before the whole thing went awry for him (and Delores) for that reason then that is just about right. And if you hear Lena Horne’ soulful, wistful long gone times past voice singing Stormy Weather to beat away the 1940s blues night that is just about right too. Prescott Breslin expressed himself satisfied when I finally found that gem and placed it on the turntable.

I, by the way, must have eaten up about half of his record collection that day even with many replays of his very most favorite tunes (and some jointly connected with Delores youth favorites). Certainly Lena’s Stormy Weather got several plays as did Tangerine, a mother favorite, Sentimental Journey, a slew of Inkspots stuff, I’ll Get By, If I Didn’t Care, I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire, and Whispering Trees, The Mills Brothers, especially Paper Doll, another mother favorite. A couple of Andrews Sisters things for laughs and, of course their song of songs (or one of them) done by Hoagy Carmichael, I think it was his version, Stardust.

Here though is what he had to say that morning (and after some rest, and lunch, that afternoon) as best I could take it down in my teared-up notebook:

He, at first, kept coming back coming back a few times, to his current frail heart condition and how that brush with death had triggered thoughts about the last time he knew, knew for sure, that he was scared, hard scared. In his in his laconic way he just kept saying he remembered that he was scared, scared silly, and he didn’t care who knew about it. Rugged hills and hollows born, Appalachia mountain Kentucky hard-scrabble farm born, fear hid under the rug, or somewhere else born he was still scared. He, Prescott Breslin, just weeks, maybe a couple of months if he counted it up, out of those hills and hollows, was scared because his unit, his semper fi 1st Marine Corps Division unit had just received orders to head out in the morning, head out west.

He remembered that he was sitting by himself that night before in the make-shift Quonset hut PX at a picnic table munching coffee and cakes and thinking west could only mean the Pacific islands that dotted the way to Japan. Some units had already gone out, gone out quickly all through early 1942 and as 1943 approached all hell was breaking loose with men and material heading west; just like in the old time pioneer west if he had thought about it that way then.

[Prescott Breslin, even forty years later, in relating this story to us would not give the precise day that his unit left California just in case some Nips or Chinks (Prescott’s terms) might be lurking around and could use the information in the future. He was certainly a man of his Great Depression/World War II times. JLB]

Sitting with that cup of black coffee (hell, he said, nobody back home ever had it any other way besides who had extra milk or cream left over for such fixings, and black was fine anyway) and cruller donut (he had grown to love this donut business after a lifetime of his Ma’s old patched-up bread pudding and sunken baking soda-laden cakes) he was not thinking about pioneer west stuff, or even, after he bit into the cruller, scared thoughts so much but about how life was funny. Not funny to have a laugh over but just the way the cards were dealt funny. It might have been the sugar, or it might have been the caffeine but his started to think about all the stuff that he hadn’t done, and some stuff he had done, to keep the thoughts of the days ahead in check.

First off though was his pride in being one of the best troopers in his training unit down at Parris Island, and then his assigned unit at Pendleton. It wasn’t so much that it came natural to him, although coming from the hard rock country didn’t hurt when they went out into the “boonies” on those twenty mile full-pack hikes or when he busted out number one on the rifle range with that silly M-I pop gun. It was more that, at first, guys, yankee city guys from Boston and New York, or northern farm boys anyway, laughed at him about his back mountain drawl, about his not knowing about donuts, about not knowing about how to handle a folk and spoon right and all kinds of yankee stuff that didn’t make sense to him, or them when he asked them to explain what they meant and why.

After a while, after a ton of callouses and blisters, after a ton of KP, after half a ton of pranks, and after about eight weeks of showing guys, yankee guys and farm boys, that he could be depended on if something happened to them they were practically competing to have him as their “buddy.” More than one guy said, said straight out, when they got the news of the move out that as long as Prescott Breslin was going along with them he wasn’t quite so scared. Here was the kicker though, the one that made him beam. A couple of days before they got orders they had all chipped in to by him drinks at the enlisted men’s club to show their appreciation AND a dozen donuts, assorted, the next morning. Still sitting at that piney table Prescott Breslin was scared.

While he was thinking an odd-scared thought or two somebody, a guy he didn’t recognize sitting with a nice- looking tanned Oceanside girl, at another table had gotten up to put some nickels in the jukebox and he, still thinking about life’s ups and downs, could hear the strains of I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire and that song got him kind of choked up at first. He then laughed, not a funny laugh, as he listened to the lyrics and thought that he sure didn’t want to, and hadn’t, set the world on fire. He sure hadn’t.

Getting into the heart of the song, the lonely guy misery part, he hadn’t a girl left behind to think of him while he was away blasting Pacific islands to smithereens. Out there, out there in sunny California, he had had not too much luck finding a girl, not much luck at all really. The girls seemed too fast for him, to ready to dismiss his back mountain drawl and write him down as a damn hillbilly. One time at the Surfside Grille in Oceanside where all the guys went when they had passes he met a girl, a pretty girl who liked his looks she said, liked his black hair, and brown eyes. She nevertheless told him flat out once she found out where he was from that she would pass him by. Why? Well, she, herself was from some podunk okie town and now that she was a California girl she was thinking of becoming a blonde and had definitely shaken the dust off her of okie kind of boys. She wanted, and she said this flat out too, a movie star soldier boy like Robert Taylor. Jesus, women, California women.

[We all laughed at that one. I because two of my three wives had come from there although neither were blonde and neither had been from Podunk but had been born and bred California women. I too though could shout to the high heavens about the perfidies of California women, transplants or born and bred. Lissette’s first husband had been from there as well and he had run back there when things got tough between them and married his high school sweetheart on the rebound. So change the gender and that explained Lissette’s laugh. Dad laughed at his own story but I think I could detect just the slightest anguish as he was probably thinking about whether Danny had perhaps married a California woman and maybe had some things to say about that.]

Sure, back home, he had had a few nibbles, a couple of girls from Prestonsburg and Hazard, girls with nice looks and manners and who couldn’t complain of his drawl. But nothing serious happened, nothing serious because from about age fourteen all the girls where he came from, even Prestonsburg girls, got all moony over being married and, in order to get from under being embedded in their own large families, start families of their own. He had wanted no part of that, not at twenty, no way. But he got just a little melancholy, taking another sip of that sweet black coffee, when he thought that he might never have a chance to get married. Never have a family of his own to take care of him in his old age, if he had an old age.

[He welled up a little as he mentioned that last thought. He was probably thinking that Larry would never be a comfort to him or Delores now that he had spent a good part of his adult life behind bars and hadn’t learned to keep out of jail. And that Danny would probably never come back after all this time and that I, who had my own fair share of estrangements and non-talkative period with him (and Delores), was at best a fifty-fifty proposition. Whether he factored Lissette into his thoughts that day was another matter but probably not, she was still probably that long ago blur, that blur who worshipped him.]

Mainly though he thought that night about the things he did had done over the previous few years before he had enlisted and wished that he had had more time to do some more of them. Hell, it wasn’t nothing big, nothing to set the world on fire, but it was his life. His life, six or seven years before, once he knew the score, knew the hard-scrabble Kentuck farm score, and that if he didn’t want nothing but hard calloused hands and looking eighty at forty (like his pa and grandpa) he had better hit the highway. Since there were twelve kids at home, and only enough to feed about eight right nobody (except Ma, he later, much too much later, found out) missed him when he set out for Lexington one dark night. He got a ride from Colonel Eddie (not really a colonel but everybody with two bucks for a genuine certificate called himself that) the local long-haul driver who was always looking for company on his runs west, and knew how to keep quiet when a guy asked him to about stuff like where he was going, and why.

And he also thought about how once he got to Lexington, after a few crop-picking and dish-washing jobs to keep him alive in the city, he met up with a couple of guys, Doc and Hank, at Lucy’s Diner who wanted form a band and make some money playing what they called the coal-dust circuit. He played a fair guitar for a kid, had a decent voice that had become deeper and more tuneful as he aged, and best of all he knew all the old-timey songs that the hills and hollows folks wanted to hear. Boy, did he know them all. Stuff like Tom Doulas, Ommie Wise, and Come All You Fair And Tender Ladies.

[With some Inkspot tune playing softly in the background he nevertheless started to sing Hank Williams’ Cold, Cold Heart and sounded pretty damn good for a guy in his condition. You could see, see just for a moment, that Kentuck Sheik boy who had all the young girls, the young Prestonsburg and Hazard girls ordering dresses through some mail order catalogue just to be pretty on Saturday night barn dance time. And, hell, easily see how my own mother could have fallen for him, fallen hard for him, when they first met at Old Orchard’s Starlight Ballroom back in 1943 or 44.]

A couple of weeks later with some practice, a small stake, and lots of dreams, they hit the back road Saturday night places where the locals held their weekly barn dances (complete with plenty of moonshine to liven things up). Sometimes they, now known as the Kentuck Sheiks (that sheik name had been made popular a few years before and you just added your state name in front and you had a genuine band name), passed the hat, sometimes when there was no dough they just took a couple of days room and board for their troubles.

He remembered too the time that through some white lightning connections, some Moonshine Johnnie, the king of the illegal local whiskey ring, or whatever the liquid was by the time it got boiled down, packaged, and run through the hills and hollows just in front of the revenue agents, the Sheiks got to play before a crowd in his hometown of Hazard. And they were billed on flyers, handbills, and posters as the Kentuck Sheiks featuring Prescott Breslin. Moonshine Johnnie’s idea was that he would throw a free Saturday barn dance down at Farmer Ben’s, a place where locals had been having their weekly dances since, well, since there was a Hazard as far as anybody knew. Johnnie wanted to introduce those who didn’t know to his product, or who knew and had a thirst. In short to move product, be an outstanding citizen, and listen to the mountain-etched music just like any other hillbilly.

The Sheiks were to pass the hat like they had done at a hundred such gatherings and with a hometown boy on the stage they expected a little extra haul. Additionally, Johnnie, just in case the cash haul was short, threw in five jugs of his premium liquor for the boys. That addition proved to be my father’s undoing. The art of drinking hard liquor, hard still-made liquor takes some cultivation, some time to get used to it. Young men need to grow into it with age like drinking wine is for some Europeans. The night of the barn dance, that Saturday afternoon really, he had started drinking a steady stream out of the jug so that by show time his was in good form (as were Doc and Hank partners), and as far as the show went they were a great success. As far as the show part went.

But this was just flat-out the wrong night to develop his whiskey skills. Just before the dance, while the band was setting up and checking things out, Becky Price, an old Hazard sweetheart came up and started to rekindle some flame. Becky sure did look fine that night he thought with a pretty, frilly store-bought dress (really Montgomery Ward catalogue bought he found out later) and her hair done up in ribbons. She had heard he was playing that night and had gotten herself all pretty for him. They talked some then and some at intermission and agreed to meet after the dance at Lance’s Diner over on Route 5 when he was finished packing up after the show.

But that is where the liquor proved to be a demon. After the show, things packed up, he decided to take a little curse off the liquor in his system by having a couple more hits at the jug. After the second swallow he just keeled over dead drunk. When he woke up the next morning the boys were up front in their sedan, Doc driving, while he laid across the back seat as they headed for a show in Steubenville, Ohio. Poor Becky, he hoped she didn’t wait long that night.

[We laughed again although I noticed that his sweet Delores, my mother, didn’t laugh quite so heartily on this story. She had, if asked, her own stories to tell about fending off a couple of Olde Saco girlfriends who were also taken by his black hair, brown eyes and fine uniform look and who, unlike her, were willing “to do” it, if necessary to win his favor. This information only came to me much later when she was ready for me to tell her story.]

That band job lasted for about a year or so, maybe a little bit more, but then times got so bad about 1937 or 38 that three guys just couldn’t make it on bread and butter, literally. So he got off the road, headed back home, and started to work in Mr. Peabody’s coal mines (not every mine was owned by the Peabody Coal Company as he was at pains to inform his fellow platoon members when they had asked what he did in the “real world” but that is what everybody called it around home when a guy went into the mines).

Now even a hills and hollows boy who grew up in that hard –scrabble country but who grew up on a farm needed to adjust to the hard times in the mines. The early hours, the wash up time that was unpaid for adding to the long day, the damn coal dust, the noise, the deafening noise, from the machines drilling against god’s ancient rock, and the sweat, the infernal sweat even on cold days once you got down in the pits. After a couple of months he adjusted to the routine, got to know real coal-miners who were the third or fourth generation going down there, and got some respect when he told the boys that they were not getting paid nearly enough for the tough work they did for the damn Johnson Coal Company. The boys listened, and knowing Kentucky coalfields traditions, hell Harlan, bloody Harlan, was just down the road they prepared to strike one time. Somehow the company got wind of it and offered a small raise and paid wash-up time just to keep the production moving. That was enough, enough then with plenty of guys out of work, and plenty of guys, scabs, guys from the outside, with hungry mouths to feed, but still scabs, ready to cross the lines if anything happened.

There he was though stuck in the mines, the damn black-lung mines (his mother cried every time he came home at night looking, well, looking like a damn nigra, and coughing the dust out half the night) when the news of the Japs hitting Pearl came over the radio and guys, guys like him, all over the country, were lined up three, maybe more, deep, to enlist. Funny though he could, having worked his way up a little in the mines, have gotten a vital industries draft deferral and been sitting right then in the Prestonsburg hotel with some pretty town girl drinking real store-bought liquor and working up his courage to ask her up into his room. But no, on December 9, 1941 he had gone to Prestonsburg and enlisted in the Marines right on the dotted line. And he never looked back.

Scared, scared to death, or not, sitting at that wooden table having a second cruller and a third cup of mud Private First Class Prescott Breslin thought it over for a minute. He then said to himself, hell, between shoveling coal for Mr. Peabody forever and fighting the damn Japs I’ll take the Japs. And that made him just a little less scared as someone walked up and put another nickel in the jukebox to play If I Didn’t Care.

[After relating that last pearl of wisdom, which my father had actually imparted to me a long time ago when I was about seventeen or eighteen after I had asked him about his uniform that was hanging in a back closet, he expressed a wish for a little rest before lunch. The following is what he had to say in the afternoon after lunch. Of course he was still tired, a little groggy and disoriented from the mix of medications and so he rambled more, at times a lot more, in the afternoon and went back and forth on subjects. He still though adamantly refused somewhere in that deep Breslin reservoir of hurt to go much beyond the early 1950s. And of course he, as he had done in the morning, kept asking me to put his beloved 1940s songs on the record player. I had just put Benny Goodman’s Sing, Sing, Sing on and that triggered a story that my mother had told him when they first met at the Starlight Ballroom in Old Orchard. Like I said the afternoon just rambled on but this one will tell anybody a lot about my mother and father, their love, and why they had endured in Olde Saco, foreign territory for him, through thick and thin.]

Your mother had had just enough of Elizabeth LaCroix, Aunt Betty, and her tangled love life with your mother’s brother, Jean. [Always called in proper F-C speak, Jeanbon.] Every other week, it seemed, Betty was breaking up with him over one question. Let me give you a hint it starts with an s and ends with an x. [Lissette and my mother blushed but he just plowed ahead and after noticing their discomfort he said that he was well past having to be polite about thing now that he was facing the grim reaper (his words) one on one.]

See Betty and your mother were seniors at Olde Saco High School in 1937. Let me add that they were, and the yearbook photos don’t lie, were both dark-haired French-Canadian [F-C remember?] American beauties, dewy roses like only those with forbears from the north up in Quebec can be. So sex was naturally in the equation, in the eternal boy-girl, Betty-Jean, equation. And for your mother too, since about fourteen when she learned that she could, with just a little effort, get the guys stirring, stirring over thoughts about dewy roses and other material matters. But this is strictly, well almost strictly, a Betty-Jean story so we will leave the Delores-smitten guys to stew. [He laughed a victor’s laugh at that one.]

The friction between your mother and Betty, or rather her momentary wrath at Betty, was centered on the hard fact that in a few months the girls would be having their senior prom, always a highlight in the Olde Saco calendar year, for those who graduated and those who, for one reason or another didn’t. And, graduation or not, the next step was marriage. That was just, as I well know, the established working class and religious ethos of the town, the F-C-inspired culture, and the times. Get out of your parents’ overburdened house and into your own small cold-water flat, maybe over on Fourteenth Street by the river, and dream of your own small white picket fence future house, maybe on Atlantic Avenue toward the ocean. And that cycle, as I also found out although I could never do much about it, had been established for a long while.

It seemed that although Betty and Jean had been an “item” for only a few months that Betty had this Saturday night I am talking about had her fifteenth, no sixteenth, and never make-up with dear Jean fight. And like I said whether the year was 1037, 1537, or 1937 the issue, to put it straight now that I’ve already said it, was sex, or rather to use the latest craze saying then “doing it.” Really though, the real crux of the matter, was that she wanted to wait until that cold- water flat marriage, and not before, no way before, to give in to your uncle, one Jean Claude LeBlanc.

Needless to say All-American boy, really all All-American French-Canadian boy and former star of the Olde Saco High football team, the one that beat Auburn for the state in 1935, Jean, was all for “doing the do” right then as a test run for marriage, or so that is how he presented it to Betty that Saturday (and many a previous Saturday night) down in the dunes of Olde Saco Beach. And Jean had almost made the sale, except by the time Betty decided yes, she was so anxious and the hour was so late that she wasn’t in the mood any longer. Jesus. [More womanly blushes]

You don’t get my drift. Okay, let me go by the numbers. Boy (really man since Jean has already graduated from Olde Saco and been working as a high-grade machine mechanic at the MacAdams Textile Mill over on Main Street for a while then. That defined man in these parts) meets girl. Boy (man) takes girl here and there in his new, well fairly new, Studebaker and they cap the night off watching the fishes swim down at the close-by beach (at the secluded far end, the Squaw Rock end, known by one and all as, well just known for being secluded, okay). Girl successfully holds off boy (man). Got it. [Jesus Dad we all know about Squaw Rock and that stuff although nothing was said while he was speaking.]

But how do you think our boy Jean, champion football mover but a little bashful in the sex department when he came right down to it, tried to get one Betty La Croix in the mood. Take one guess. Backing up the ocean swells and moonlight in the mood department is one Benny Goodman and his gang on that car radio, providing that heavenly deep beat-pacing clarinet that sets those drums a rolling, those trumpets blowing to Gabriel’s heaven, and sets those sexy saxes on fire to blow the walls of Jericho down that I mentioned before. A little Buddha Swings at the right moment will go a long way. So Benny did his part.

[After a little break to take his afternoon medication my father moved on to tell this one. I thought it sounded kind of familiar some of the details anyway. And it was, partially because it was his version of a story my mother had told to me about their courting days when she was in one of her expansive non-blaspheming Josh Breslin to hell and say seven novenas moods. The story had something, actually little, to do with my oldest brother Larry and so my father told it in such a way that even with Larry now serving his third (or was it fourth ) stretch in Shawshank you could tell that he was still the old man’s favorite. It was okay with me by then, and had been for a long time. That was just the old man and his hard and fast loyalties, likes and prejudices.]

“Lawrence Breslin get your dirty hands off that wall this minute,” yelled your mother, Mother Breslin to you then if I recall. I think you kids called her that then over some scheme you Josh had devised to show contemptuous respect or something, and it included the yelled at Larry. She was always honey to me as I never bought into that Mother thing you kept pestering me about, that sounded too much like some Ste. Brigitte’s nun thing to me. I though was only the mother-supporting father to the boy being yelled at just that minute. Just as, hell, let’s call her Delores, was getting ready for cascade rant number two aimed in Larry’s direction wafting through the air, the radio WMEX air, came the melodious voice of Bing Crosby singing in that sweet, nuanced voice of his, Far Away Places. Our song, or one of them. Our forever memory song.

As a result, the proposed rant was halted, momentarily halted, as Delores flashed back and began to speak of the night in 1943 over at the Starlight Ballroom on East Grand in Old Orchard Beach when she, then a typist for the State Insurance Company right here in Olde Saco (and making good money for a single, no high maintenance girl) and one Marine PFC Prescott Breslin, me, stationed after serious service in the Pacific wars (Guadalcanal, etc.) at the Portsmouth Naval Base met while they were playing that song on the jukebox between sets. Sets being performed by the Be-Bop Sextet, a hot, well, be-bop band that was making a national tour to boost civilian morale while our boys were off fighting. We hit it off right away, made Far Away Places our song, and prepared for a future, a joint future, once the war was over, and we could get our dream, shared dream, little white house, with or without picket fence, maybe a dog, and definitely kids, a few although we never specified a number. [My mother silently nodded in agreement with some kind of smile on her face.] The perfect dream to chase the old Great Depression no dough blues and World War II fighting dust away, far away. And to be able to breath a decent breathe, a not from hunger breathe.

As Bing finished up your mother snapped back into the reality of the Larry hands on the wall moment, the two by four reality, of our make due, temporary veterans’ housing set up by the Olde Saco Housing Authority (at the request of and funded by the War Department) to house housing-hungry returning vets and give us a leg up that we had lived in way too long. Add on the further reality that my job at the Macadam’s Textile Mill was none too sure as there were rumors circulating around town that the mill-owners were thinking of relocating to North Carolina. And the biggest reality of all: well, Larry, Danny, Joshua, and most recently still in the cradle Lissette. And four is enough, more than enough thank you.

But as that terrific tenor of Dick Haymes started singing Little White Lies right after Bing she fell back again to thinking about that now old dream of the little white house, with or without picket fence, a dog and a few (exactly three, thank you) that was coming just around the next corner when we first started out together . And just as I saw she was winding up to blast young Larry , his forever dirty hands, and that wall, maybe a little less furiously that she intended to before, I sensed that her thoughts had returned to her Prince Charming, me, the Starlight Ballroom 1943, and our song. Our forever memory song. She then said, “We’ll get by.” Yes, we would get by. [Plenty of sniffles and Kleenex all around.]

[I could tell my father was getting tired, he started looking a little gray around the eyes and had a drowsy look, a look of the medications wearing off. I, we, offered to leave and let him rest, and he agreed after this one last story he felt he needed to get straight on. The story about his military uniform in that old back closet that I had asked about when I was a kid getting ready for college and how he had basically dismissed me out of hand ]

Josh was a curious kid even when he was little. Not curious about everything in the world just that minute, although more than one teacher had noted on his early childhood reports cards that little characteristic, but curious about my military uniform, my faded, drab, slightly moth-eaten army dress uniform, World War II version, of course. That curiousness came not from, like the usual, some Josh daydream curiosity but the result, the this minute result, of having come across my suit in an attic closet as he was preparing to store his own not used, not much used, or merely out-of-fashion, excess clothing against time. And that time was the time of his imminent departure for State University and his first extended time away from home.

Funny Josh knew that I had been in World War II, had gotten some medals for my service as was apparent from the fruit salad on the uniform, and that I had spent a little time, he was not exactly sure on the time but his mother had told him 1950 when he asked, in the Veterans Hospital for an undisclosed ailment. But he had not heard anything beyond those bare facts from me. Never. And his mother had insistently shh-ed him away whenever he tried to bring it up.

Oh sure Josh had been sick unto death back in the 1950s when the kitchen radio, tuned into WMEX exclusively to old-time World War II parent music. I can remember the battles like they were yesterday. To the exclusion of any serious rock music of his like Elvis, Chuck, Little Richard and Jerry Lee, but that was parents just being parents and kicking up old torches. Especially when Frank Sinatra sang I’ll Be Seeing You, or his mother would laugh whimsically when The Andrew Sisters performed Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy or The Mills Brothers would croon Till Then. But we never discussed that war, nor was it discussed when my cronies, and fellow veterans, came over to play our weekly card games until dawn.


I guess after having spied the uniform Josh decided it was time to ask those questions, those curiosity questions. Later, he said, it would be too late, he would be too busy raising a family of his own, or he would be doing his own military service, although he hoped not on that count. It just didn’t figure into his plans, and that was that. So with a deep breathe one evening, one Friday evening after dinner, when I would not be distracted by thoughts of next day work, or Saturday night card games, his asked the big question. And I answered- “I did what a lot of guys did, not more not less, I did it the best way I could, I saw some things, some tough things, I survived and that’s all that there is to say.” And I said it in such a way that there was no torture too severe, no hole too deep, and no hell too hot to get more than that out of me.

Later that evening, still shell-shocked I guess at my response, as he prepared to go out with his boys for one last Olde Saco fling before heading to State, he could hear his mother softy sobbing while we listened on the living room phonograph to Martha Tilton warble I’ll Walk Alone, The Ink Spots heavenly harmonize on I’ll Get By, Doris Day songbird Sentimental Journey, Vaughn Monroe sentimentally stir When The Lights Go on Again, and Harry James orchestrate through It’s Been A Long, Long Time. I hope Josh understood, understood as well as an eighteen year old boy could understand such things, that it was those songs that had gotten his mother and me through the war, and its aftermath. And that was all he had to know about the damn war. [And I did understand although not that night, or not for many nights after.]

[After that last one instead of calling it a day my father got a little morose after thinking about those songs and maybe when he thought about how he never did provide my mother with that white picket fence future house on Atlantic Avenue, never did partake of the great golden age that he had promised and could not make good on in a world that he too had no say in. He then blurted this out of the blue.]

Jesus, it had been three months since the mill closed on the first day of our lord, January 1954, as the huge black and red sign in front of the dead-ass silent mill kept screaming at us (and also to not trespass under penalty of arrest, christ,) and I still hadn’t been able to get steady work, steady work anywhere, what with every other guy looking for work too, and I didn’t even have a high school diploma to do anything but some logging work up North when they needed extra crews. I remember talking about my plight to Jack Amber, a fellow out-of-worker sitting on the counter-stool next to his from the same MacAdams Mill that had been in Olde Saco since, well, since forever. This conversation and ones like it in previous weeks between us, and between many guys on those same stools, took place, of course, at Millie’s Diner right across the street from that damn closed, dead-ass mill the place where every guy (and an occasion wife, or girlfriend waiting to pick up her guy) who worked there went for his coffee and, and whatever else got him through another mill week.

Just then I stopped talking and started just staring into space, a silence that had been recurring more frequently lately as I thought of the reality of dead-end Maine prospects and rekindled a thought that first came creeping through my brain when Jack MacAdams, the owner’s son, told me the plant was shutting down and moving south to North Carolina not far, not far at all, from my eastern Kentucky roots. Hearing the announcement there was just a second of self-doubt but now sitting on this unemployed stool thoughts started ringing incessantly in my brain.

Why the hell had I fallen for, and married, a Northern mill-town girl [my mother, the sweet, reliable Delores, nee LeBlanc, met at the Starlight Ballroom over in Old Orchard Beach when he had been Marine Corps short-time stationed at the Portsmouth Naval Base down in New Hampshire just before heading back to the Pacific Japan death battles], stayed up North after the war when I knew the mills were only a shade bit better that the mines that I had worked in my youth, faced every kind of insult for being southern from the insular Mainiacs and had had three growing, incredibly fast growing, boys with Delores and a couple of years before his sweet daughter , Lissette . Then he was able to shrug it off but not now.

[We actually call ourselves Mainiacs with pride, we hicks, and it wasn’t really because my father was from the south that he was insulted although that made him an easy target but because he was not born in Maine and could never be a Mainiac even if he lived there one hundred years.]

The only thing that could break the cursed thoughts was some old home music that Millie, good mother Millie, the diner’s owner (and a third generation Millie and Mainiac) made sure the jukebox man inserted for “her” country boys while they had their coffee and. I reached, suddenly, into my pocket, found a stray nickel, put it in the counter-side jukebox, and playedWill The Circle Be Unbroken, a song that my late, long-gone mother sang to me on her knee when I was just a ragamuffin young boy.

That got me to thinking about home, the Harlan hell home of worked-out mines, of labor struggles that were just this side of fighting the Japanese in their intensity and possibilities of getting killed, or worst grievously injured and a burden on some woe-begotten family, of barren land eroded by the deforested hills and hollows that looked, in places, like the face of the moon on a bad night. And of not enough to eat when twelve kids, a mostly absence father and a fading, fading mother needed vast quantities of food that were not on table and turnips and watery broth had to do, of not enough heat when cruel winter ran down the ravines and struck at your very bones, and of not enough dough, never enough dough to have anything but hand-me-down, and then again hand-me-downs clothes, sometimes sister girls stuff just to keep from being bare-assed.

Then I thought about the Saturday night barn dances where I cut quite a figure with the girls when I was in my teens and had gleefully graduated to only having to wear hand-me-downs. I was particularly lively (and amorous) after swilling (there is no other way to put it) some of Moonshine Johnnie’s just-brewed “white lightening.” And I heard, just like then on the jukebox, the long, lonesome fiddle playing behind some fresh-faced country girl in her best dress swaying through Will The Circle Be Unbroken that closed most Saturday barn dances. As Millie asked me for the third time, “More coffee?” I came out of his trance. After saying no to Millie, I said no to myself with that same kind of December 1941 resolve. A peep-break Saturday night dance didn’t mean squat against that other stuff. And once again I let out my breathe and said to myself one more time- Yes, times are tough, times will still be tough, jesus, but Delores, the three boys, and I would eke it out somehow. There was no going back, no way.

Just then through the door Jim LaCroix yelled, “Hey, Prescott, the Great Northern Lumber Company just called and they want to know if you want two months’ work clearing some land up north for them. I’m going, that’s for sure.” And, hell, I was going too.

[A couple of years after that, maybe three, Larry got picked by the cops stealing some onyx rings at Sid Smith’s Jewelry Store in downtown Olde Saco. Shortly after that Danny started to wander off for days at a time with no explanation. After, well, after that the Breslin kids madness just took over.]
*********
In honor of Prescott Lee Breslin, 1917-1985, Lance Corporal, United States Marine Corps, World War II, Pacific Theater , and perhaps, other Olde Saco fathers too.