In Memory of Gordon Bunker II, 1923 – 1985

There’s a National Cemetery in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I have driven by it countless times and each time have been moved by what I see. There are hundreds of tomb stones, all white, lined up in precise rows covering a hillside. The order of it is haunting, in such stark contrast to the madness we call war. For some, there is satisfaction in this. To me the graveyard is a poignant reminder of how fallible we are and the horrible things we do to each other as a result.

My dad, Gordon Bunker II fought as a pilot in World War II, Korea and Vietnam, flying B-17’s bombing Germany and cargo and troop transport missions in later conflicts. He hardly had a thing to say about his participation in the wars, but did tell me how troubled he was one particular Sunday morning flying high above a German city – Hamburg, possibly Dresden – and dropping tons of bombs. Looking out the window he got thinking about people down there at that moment were likely getting out of church. He was visibly disturbed in telling me this. It had to be the tip of an iceberg, the rest of which he carried in privacy.

The wars go on. Some believe certain killing is just. Whether we agree or not, we all pay dearly and the costs reach far beyond the obvious deaths and dollars. There are the lasting effects of violence on the surviving victims and perpetrators, in so many cases squelching their life potential; and perhaps the greatest is violence perpetuates violence. Human nature is a funny thing. It encompasses the very best and worst of what we are capable of doing and being. We all seem to be intelligent enough to know, at least on some level violence is bad, yet we lack the will to stop it.

Today in remembering my dad, I hope I can exert my will over the small corner of my nature that is violent. I hope others make a similar effort. In doing so, some day, perhaps a long long time from now we will not have war.

Gordon Bunker

Good Morning All,

There’s a place I think about, one particular point in the middle of the Indian Ocean about half way between South Africa and Australia.

My brother-in-law Robert was visiting for a few days. His first morning here he stumbled out of the bathroom with a quizzical expression and asked, “um… Gordon, why do you have a plumb bob hanging in the window?” He was the first person to ask.

“Well Robert,” I said, “that’s in honor of a friend from years ago.” I went on to tell Robert about a colleague when I worked for a small art museum back east. Maria was the librarian and I was the registrar. Like most librarians, Maria’s knowledge of the world was and is encyclopedic. An immigrant from Russia, she is of a small elfin structure with striking features… with eyes the color of a sparkling lake on a clear day. If Maria wasn’t of an age appropriate to be my mother some sparkles of another type may have happened. Instead we developed a great friendship over the years I worked for the museum. Maria called me, “The Nordic Prince.”

On a few occasions, Maria had me over for dinner. The conversation was always animated, fascinating, and intense. And there was vodka… with no holding back. We drank a lot of vodka. The meals Maria prepared, I am amused to say, I don’t quite remember. And this not for their lacking. One such evening I used the bathroom, and there in the window hung a plumb bob. Returning to the sitting room and unable to contain my laughter, I threw myself in a chair. Maria sat there with a grin and asked as only she could, “Yes?” She always knew I was full of questions. I looked at her, and between guffaws croaked out, “why… do you have a plumb bob… hanging in the bathroom window?”

She raised her glass of vodka a bit. “You see… when I get up in the morning, the plumb bob establishes vertical. So long as I can line myself up with it and get my bearings, everything else falls into place.”

And so there is a plumb bob in my bathroom window. I look at it and am fascinated by it’s stillness, simply hanging there by the force of gravity. It points precisely to the center of the Earth, and if one were to keep going, to a tiny little point in the middle of the Indian Ocean. It inspires me to think about my bearings in this world, and wonder how things are on the other side, at that place, great waves of seawater rolling by. I recall fond memories of so many wonderful conversations and times with Maria.

Gordon Bunker

Good Morning,

Thank you first follower. Whoever you are, you made my day.

When plants flower in the desert, it’s an event. My neighbor Jay has modest plantings in front of her house, and considering she doesn’t have running water, they are just that more dear. The cactus have been working toward these blossoms all along, a continual process, and yesterday morning, there they were. “C’mon hummingbirds, we’re the ones you want!” There are some iris nearby but they don’t have buds yet.

Santa Fe New Mexico draws seekers. It also draws gurus, shamans, and healers. Which came first I do not know. The validity of the claims, some quite extravagant made by the second group? You got me. Santa Fe is a special place. The open landscape, the sky, the light all contribute to an experience or a set of feelings people often describe as expansive. I am one of those people. To live here is a gift each and every day.

A few years ago, the self proclaimed “Redneck Hindu,” Robert Ransom Odom had a regular column in a local weekly paper and wrote (as best as I can recall) about his experience at a nearby pueblo ruin. It was set on the edge of a mesa with sweeping views of a valley and river. He was particularly taken with the remains of a ceremonial kiva, and prompted readers to find such a place of their own, a special place with powerful good mojo. We all need such a place to reconnect with the universe, to recharge our batteries he said.

My feeling is we need to be able tap into the powerful good mojo wherever we are. I sent him an email to this effect, citing Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe’s commercial strip as an example. Flanked by strip malls, fast food joints and gas stations, the road is a total of eight lanes wide, and except for a brief window of respite in the wee hours, it carries a constant snarl of traffic. In a word, it is madness. A hundred years ago it was a stretch of relatively wild untouched land. No doubt it was beautiful then. It is the challenge to see it as beautiful today, and immersed in it to be able to connect with all the universe’s good mojo.

He got right back to me, and this is not a direct quote, “… if you can pull this off… you’re doing better than me!” I respect Robert Ransom Odom for his candor. And have I been able to pull this off? Well, survival of the fittest through defensive driving is Job Number One on Cerrillos Road. But when I’m sitting at a red light I have glimpses of it. It is there.

Gordon Bunker

Good Morning,

Rather than get fully suckered into writing about politics – so easy to do and most of it ends up amounting to only a volume of hot gas – I will write about many aspects of life. Taking care of our day to day living after all is the basis of making the world a better place to live in.

I live on the rough end of more than a mile of dirt road in northern New Mexico. There are times it’s a royal pain in the butt getting in and out of here, but so far the benefits make up for it. We have peace and quiet, privacy and wild life out here. I feel safe. My few neighbors are all interesting people. Most I have great friendships with. One of them is a complete ass-wipe, but what are you gonna do? We also have a dark night sky. Looking at the stars on a clear moonless night takes my breath away, and I’ve lived out here for years. In the immediate neighborhood, gosh, I’m the old timer, that is, I have lived here the longest. Huh. Maybe I ought to run for Mayor. No, that’s politics again.

I have never owned a TV and gave up on the “news” years ago. That happened shortly after September 11, 2001. I only needed to see aircraft hitting buildings once to get it. What the media did with instant replay for days to follow convinced me the news had little to do with providing useful information. As a matter of fact my previous two posts were both inspired by dipping into, looking at the “news.” Somehow I feel I owe you an apology for getting off to such a ranting start. Sorry about that.

In place of TV and the news, I read a lot of books and pay attention to what’s going on around me. Good readers make good writers, and writing is what I do. There are many many great books written, all the products of fertile minds. Lately I have been reading a lot of Ernest Hemingway, a remarkable writer and man.

What I see going on around me, yes there are things to rant about, but mostly I see people getting on pretty well. Despite the inequities of life, they put in a good effort, they love their mates and their children.

Gordon Bunker

Good Morning,

“What would you do with $37 billion?”

This question was asked in a local newspaper over seven years ago as we were invading Iraq. The figure was the George W. Bush administration’s estimate of what the war would cost us taxpayers start to finish. I remember looking at the number and dreaming of the possibilities; the educational programs we could fund with that kind of money… the r&d we could put into finding viable and ecologically sound alternatives to oil.

Well, how does $900 billion strike you? That’s one estimate of what you and I have spent making war – and a big mess out of a small one - in Iraq. And we’re not out of there yet. What would you do with $900 billion? (To give the number some perspective that’s 900 thousand million dollars.) Wow. The possibilities are staggering. Think about it. Go ahead, dream about it.

I love my country but I am not proud of it. The resources; human, intellectual, material and economic we have squandered being bullies around the world, recently and historically is just awful. And the bad will we have created, especially in the Middle East – ugh!

We’re all in this together, we all share in the responsibility. Can you and I change the course of this country? I believe we can. I have a few ideas…

Gordon Bunker

P.S. The question I pose about keeping one's chin up is not rhetorical. I'd appreciate your thoughts. And for those who would like to read more:

http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/nhsr/nhsr004.pdf

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/26/opinion/26dowd.html

Gordon Bunker

Today's NY Times op-ed piece by Maureen Dowd shows how US regulatories and oil industry biggies have their hands in each other's pockets. No surprise there really, but once again the trail goes directly to why we have 5,000 barrels of crude oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico each day since 20 April. (5,000 barrels of crude by the way represents about 2 minutes of US consumption.)

So, let's face it, we don't really have government. We have business.

Most recent data from the US Center for Disease Control show in hospital outpatient departments the second most prescribed drugs are antidepressants. This would be after analgesics; you know, aspirin. Why am I not surprised?

I look out the window. There's a blue sky with puffy white clouds floating by, the mountains are still there and they are still beautiful. I am not taking antidepressants but there are days I am tempted. The splendors of the natural world aren't enough to make up for the madness we humans create, and I'm lucky; I live in the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth. How people in the big smelly cities do it I don't know. Looking at the rate of antidepressant prescriptions by zip code might be telling.

Perhaps the question is, how does one keep one's chin up? WIthout antidepressants.

Gordon Bunker