David K. Farkas
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Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in the "david_k_farkas" journal:[<< Previous 10 entries]
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11:41 pm
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The Nuptials of Ambrosia and Jimmy
Mid-afternoon on this sunny Saturday, at a pretty spot on the north end of Lake Washington, I was about to set off in my canoe when I met Mr. Michael McAndrews, owner of White Dove Release. He had a wicker hamper full of doves, and he was making preparations for a wedding.
Two hours later as I drew near the shore, I could see that the wedding was about to begin. So as not to be a distraction, a pulled in a bit down-lake from the assembled company and quietly observed the lovely ceremony. At just the right moment, Mr. McAndrews released 16 white doves. The birds put on a nice show, circling us three times before heading south on a 30-mile flight to their home in Des Moines.
Most of Mr. McAndrews’ gigs are local, but he can take a gig in Central Oregon if he wants to. His doves can fly all day—at 50 miles per hour. Eagles will dive for the doves, but the doves are just too fast. Falcons do kill some doves; they ambush the doves as they fly by.
The doves are smart. When they get home they find their nesting boxes by “reading” numbers and letters of the alphabet.
The doves mate for life—how fitting for a wedding. I hope someone told Jimmy and Ambrosia.
 Here is a photo of Mr. McAndrews preparing to release his doves at a funeral (Seattle Times, January 27, 2012).
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05:13 pm
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Cool Alaska Ice
Memphis to Seattle, flying home, my seatmate
has strong sun-reddened arms, denim jeans, and a Hawaiian shirt.
He was born 70 years back to a sharecropping family in Southern Alabama.
The 14 kids picked cotton “about as soon as we could walk.”
Little time for play or rest, “Most of what we ate came from the farm.”
But they all went to school.
It was a hard life, especially the long days of work in the summer months:
“But we didn’t know it ‘cause we were raised into it.”
He did well: made good money installing insulation. But it's sweaty work doing an attic on a hot summer day.
Now, just retired, his wife seated beside him, they listen attentively to the safety announcements.
It’s their second time on a plane.
They’re flying to Seattle to take an Alaska cruise.
He wants to see glaciers.
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08:44 am
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Aviary Aggression
Mating behavior
Stepping outside to get the morning paper, I heard sharp clicking noises in the direction of my car. A small bird was repeatedly attacking his own reflection in the passenger-side mirror, while another small bird—surely the female—looked on. “Get outta here!” I shouted to end the fight between the two rivals. But the little bird was a toughie. Twenty minutes later he was back at war with his image in the mirror. I hope the female was impressed. To enforce a truce, I wrapped the mirror in a dish towel.
Easy-going eagles
Paddling around Lake Ballinger, I saw an eagle driven from his perch on a big branch by an aggressive crow. The eagle could have ripped the crow to shreds, but he flew off with lazy wing-beats and found himself a new branch farther along the shore. On several occasions I’ve seen small birds drive an eagle from their territory. Maybe in the Southern States or other places, the eagles are different, but here in Latte-land, the eagles are easy-going don’t care to fight over a perch on a tree.
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09:19 pm
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A. Farkas
Chatting with my brother on the phone today, I heard a new story about my father. Perhaps Al never told it to me because I don't follow sports.
It was 1945 and Al was in Detroit en route back to New York City where he would be discharged from the Army. Because he’d soon be a salesman again, Al wanted some white dress shirts—hard to get during the war years. But maybe, he thought, there would be some in Detroit.
The folks at the men’s store were polite but not encouraging. Odds were slim. But he could leave his name and maybe a shipment would come in. Because he'd be in Detroit for a few more days, Al wrote “A. Farkas” and the phone number of the place he was staying.
He was almost out the door, when a salesman called him back. “Mr. Farkas, we may have something for you.” Ten minutes later, both pleased and puzzled, he was paying for several nice white dress shirts.
The reason for the sudden turnabout became clear when they asked for his autograph. The great NFL fullback, Andy Farkas, had just joined the Detroit Lions. Not wanting to disappoint, Al graciously fulfilled their request: “Best wishes, A. Farkas.”
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11:23 pm
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The Presidential Election of 1960
My father detested Richard Nixon, but he would not vote for John F. Kennedy because Kennedy had the worst attendance record in the Senate. Faced with this dilemma, he made me an offer, “David, would you like to vote?” I was thirteen.
This was exciting. I was a staunch supporter of the Socialist Labor Party, and I knew they’d need all the help they could get.
We drove down to School 16, in Clifton, New Jersey, and walked into the gym where the volunteer poll officials were sitting behind card tables. Al had an impressive manner: “I’m giving my vote to my son.”
“OK, Mr, Farkas.”
I voted for Eric Haas (President), Georgia Cozzini (Vice President), and for any other SLP candidates I could find. In races where no SLP candidate was running, I voted Socialist Workers Party—I was not into internecine feuding. Al and I both returned home quite satisfied.
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11:11 pm
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Radicalism
Barre, Vermont
Barre, Vermont, is an interesting town. First, it is not pictureque. It’s very gritty and poor. The main industry—for almost 200 years—has been quarrying and cutting granite, but apparently granite has not done much for the standard of living.
Hope Cemetery is an extraordinary place to visit. Many of the quarry workers and gravestone cutters suffered from lung disease and anticipated an early death. With that in mind, they built themselves elaborate, highly expressive gravestone sculptures. My favorite is a man whose swirling pipe smoke depicts a beautiful woman. The enormous gravestone for a couple shows them—full sized—propped up in their (granite) bed. There’s a soccer ball, a racing car—whatever the soon-to-be buried fellow loved most in this world.
Many of the quarrymen and stonecutters were radical trade unionists, socialists, and anarchists. They brought in people like Emma Goldberg to speak. Needless to say, there was intense labor strife—with bloodshed and fatalities.
We took the tour of the Rock of Ages quarry and finished in the gift shop. A salesclerk—a woman in her 70s—eyed me as I intently read from the little book they had about the history of radical unionism in Barre. Then she walked over to me and whispered, “We’re still here, and we’re not done yet.”
Paterson, New Jersey
Paterson, near Clifton—where I was raised—is America’s oldest industrial city. Alexander Hamiltion used Paterson Falls to drive large mills. Though once properous, the textile mills closed or moved South, and by my time (late ‘50s, early ‘60s), Paterson had become very poor, pretty rough, and mostly black and Hispanic. But there were still old, mostly Jewish labor activists left over from the days of the mills, and you could not walk around downtown without being offered leaflets for the Socialist Labor Party. At age 12, I was a committed and reasonably articulate Socialist. My father, a liberal Democrat with a radical streak, didn’t mind a bit.
One evening several somber fellows rang our doorbell. Someone at 200 Chittenden Road had been purchasing a lot of their booklets, and they figured this was someone to meet and formally recruit. They might have been surprised driving up to our very comfortable suburban home. Al was polite and respectful, but told them that his son was too young to enroll as a member of the SLP. Not long afterward, however, I did, have the opportunity to vote a straight Socialist ticket in the Presidential Election of 1960.
Rochester, New York
During my years at the University of Rochester, 1964-1968, I took part in political demonstrations, especially against the Viet Nam War. But my political commitment was eclipsed by a passion for literary study. I’d always been a reader, but by the third week of English 101, I grasped images, symbols, and themes, and deeply felt the beauty and power of great literature. As a sophomore, each new Shakespeare play thrilled me. As a junior and senior, it was Milton and Spenser.
I met Jean as a freshman at a meeting of the Peace Education and Action Committee. Our activism was all about Laos and three princes (one good, two bad) competing for the throne. But a Canadian graduate student who knew far more than the rest of us said, “It’s not going to be about Laos. It’s going to be about Viet Nam”—a phrase I’d never heard. I asked Jean out on a date—a lecture on Shakespeare in translation. We’ve been married for 40 plus years, and in 30 minutes or so—just like every night—we’ll be snuggled up together in bed.
Not long after I met Jean, one of my peace movement acquaintances was part of a group that planted explosives that severely damaged the massive staircase to the downtown Rochester post office, where military recruiting took place. No one was hurt. At age 18, I thought what they'd done was pretty cool.
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11:29 pm
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Biting the Hand that Feeds You: The Stehekin Valley Ranch, 2010
I enjoy Cliff Courtney and the genial folks with whom Cliff runs the Stehekin Valley Ranch. Also, I avoid disparaging individuals in this blog. But Cliff, now a Republican candidate for Washington’s 12th Legislative District, has moved into the public sphere.
Cliff fears encroaching Socialism and stifling taxation, and he believes that “Government budgets can be cut by 30% by trimming inefficiency and waste.” But what should be cut from the budget?
As I write this, last week’s Rainbow Creek Fire, which posed a serious threat to Stehekin, is mostly under control, Within a day after the fire was reported, smoke jumpers parachuted in, and right now firefighters from several Western states are finishing the job. Yesterday I watched helicopters dropping water on smoldering sections of the steep-sided valley wall. A strong, swift firefighting effort was mounted specifically to protect this very small community.
Stehekin and the surrounding area often requires government firefighters. Stehekin also benefits greatly from Forest Service campsites and trail maintenance: its economy is based almost entirely on summer visits by hikers and other outdoor folks. In fact, it seems to me that Stehekin might be regarded as a giant sponge absorbing enormous sums of federal tax revenue. My little suburban neighborhood asks for and receives almost nothing compared to Stehekin.
I am quite willing to be taxed to fight forest fires in every part of the US and to pay for thousands of government services I don’t even know about. But some folks, Cliff among them, seem to have a very narrow and self-focused notion of what constitute essential government services. And, sure, there is waste and inefficiency in government spending, just as there is in almost any endeavor. Build a deck behind your house and you will find yourself with some unneeded lumber and wood stain. Do Conservative Republicans really know how to make tax dollars stretch 30% further when a mass transit system is planned or a new cancer research program is devised?
I know that Cliff has encountered some foolish Forest Service bureaucracy, and I think he seeks office for admirable motives. But leaving aside the technical flaws in his economic theory (do we really dig ourselves out of a deep recession by cutting budgets?), Cliff Courtney does not sufficiently acknowledge the contradictions between his pioneer spirit and libertarian values and the more complex, deeply interconnected world in which he lives.
More on Stehekin and the Courtneys
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11:27 pm
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Hawaiian Paradise
The "Scary Mile" to Kalalau
The Napali Coast Trail, on the Hawaiian island of Kawaii, is regarded as one of the world’s most spectacular backpacking trips. Back in 2003, Kalalau Beach, where the trail ends, was an interesting place.
My group of three oldsters had just reached the start of the “scary mile” when we encountered a very tanned, very fit fellow about our age, gently shepherding an obviously traumatized young woman. The man, wearing only swim trunks and sneakers, bid her good bye, and we watched her begin her two-day trip back to civilization. “I’m heading back to Kalalau,” said Dr. Ron Jacobs. "Maybe you'd like to stick with me over this next part of the trail."
As he led our little group, Ron explained that the girl had somehow strayed off the trail and out onto a precipice, where she had spent the night in terror. Ron had rescued her early that morning and, given her condition, chose to walk her past the scary mile. At the Kalalau end of the scary mile, Ron—who was ready to move at twice our speed—said good bye. Continuing at our own pace, we reached Kalalau, made camp, and watched the first of several magnificent sunsets.
Ron strolled by our campsite the next morning. In fact, he was much in evidence during the three days we stayed at Kalalau, eager for conversation with well-educated folks his own age. I learned a lot about Kalalau from Dr. Ron Jacobs.
The Community
The Hawaii Department of Natural Resources will issue you a 5-day permit to camp at Kalalau. Apply early, many people want to experience this bit of paradise. There was also a renegade community—maybe 50 people—who lived there for months and even years at a stretch. There's probably an unpermitted group living there now. With all the fruit you can pick and all the fish you can catch, you just need to hike in with a 10-pound bag of rice and you’ll do fine for months. The renegades strung their hammocks and tarps in the surrounding hills. Thanks to backpackers leaving books behind, there was a sizable library. The underfunded, understaffed Hawaii DNR had given up on ejecting these folks. They sent in a crew twice a month to empty the latrines, but that was it, except for emergencies.
The community was a mixed bag of drop-outs and sketchy characters. Ron himself had given up his life as a psychiatrist in Los Angeles. Apparently, there was often wild sex late at night by the verdant, stream-fed pools with some of the young women who had backpacked in.
I hung out with some of the Kalalauans. There was the college drop-out who dreamed of starting a kayak touring company catering to movie stars and other celebrities who wouldn’t care how much he charged them. I spent more time with a friendly trio in their thirties—a guy who occasionally worked as a helicopter mechanic, his New Age girlfriend who spoke a lot about her love for dolphins, and their native Hawaiian buddy. They liked to smoke pot, play guitar, and sing. I happily joined in.
Mayor Ron
Because Dr. Ron was by far the most level-headed person living at Kalalau, he had been appointed “mayor,” not a small job given the make-up of the community. With a wry laugh Ron told me that he’d left Los Angeles to escape responsibility. Ron mostly resolved disputes, but he took care of other stuff too. When a guy hiked in aggressively brandishing a rifle, Mayor Ron arranged for the DNR to take the guy away. On the Fourth of July he arranged for an ultra-lite to fly in several gallons of ice cream.
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10:16 am
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Customer Service II
My friend Tyson Greer grew up in Baltimore in the 1950s. As it happened, the family phone number was just one digit off from that of the Catholic cathedral, and so the family received many wrong-number calls—including late-night calls from drunk men in bars. Tyson’s dad, a sales rep for a printing company, took these calls. They went something like this:
A male voice, slurred with booze: “Father, I’m a sinner. I’ve strayed.”
Tyson’s dad: “First, you need to stop drinking and get yourself home.”
“Yes, Father.”
“We have Mass tomorrow at 9:00 and 10:30. Can you make it?”
“Yes, Father.”
“After Mass, talk to the priest in the confessional.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good night. God bless you.”
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10:15 am
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Customer Service I
My friend Terry Brooks is a highly accomplished watercolorist. One summer morning he set up his easel at Golden Gardens Park and spent several hours painting sand, sea, and sky. Periodically folks wandered over to see how the scene was being captured on canvas and to watch the technique of the artist. But Terry found something unsatisfactory about the painting, unclipped it from his easel, and began to push it into a pail he uses for discarded tissue and the like.
A bystander quickly intervened, “Are you throwing that painting away?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
Terry thought for a moment. “Sure.” And he handed it over.
The new owner scrutinized the watercolor. “Can you put birds in the sky?”
“OK,” answered Terry, and he clipped the painting back to his easel and set to work.
A little while later: “That’s great. But how ‘bout a dog running on the beach?”
“OK,’ said Terry.
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