London, Part II: Character Underground

What is the right mix of ego, character, courage, and integrity to make a great leader? When do circumstances create the leader, and when does it arise from within? What befalls a country when circumstances are dire, and the leader is inadequate to the task? As authoritarians jockey for power in 2025, we may find out, but fortunately for Britain, in 1940 Winston Churchill was in command. As Hitler’s squadrons battered the country with aerial bombing raids, the Prime Minister, military strategists, and civilian staff - 500 people - worked in shifts round the clock from the basement war rooms beneath a building in Whitehall to defend their island home. Before our trip to London, when we asked friends what we should see, without exception, Churchill’s War Rooms topped the list. 

Having already scoped out the location, Dave and I arrived, as suggested, 15 minutes ahead of our allotted time. The line was long, but an employee informed us that most were there for the prior time slot, so we had plenty of time to chat with those waiting with us. While traveling, even waiting in line is an opportunity, an open door to lives beyond our own.

The bearded, ruddy-faced man behind us was a discouraged writer in need of inspiration. Here, in the city of Charles Dickens, he had visited the author’s house and visited his grave in Westminster Abbey. As the line to the door of the museum inched forward, we told him about our favorite holiday movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas, which portrays Dickens’s grim childhood and his frustration following three commercial flops. Despite that fallow time, he went on to write his most enduring novel, A Christmas Carol. Our companion’s eyes brightened, and he said he’d watch the movie that very night. I wonder if he did, and if it was the nudge he needed. 

Eventually, we were waved forward into the museum that precedes the actual War Rooms. 

Of Churchill, it must be said that as much as the man had the ego and character for greatness, he was a character as well. Known for his cigars, bow ties, bizarre work habits, breakfast cocktails, and taste for champagne, Churchill once said, “We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm.” In the decades since his death, actors from Richard Burton to Gary Oldman have sought to project that mix of imperious growl and eccentric glow. 

The museum’s exhibits covered the span of Churchill’s life, career, and impact with videos, posters, memorabilia, and vintage photographs as well as his uniforms, personal items, and a collection of hats. A flip board allowed visitors to mix and match photographs of Churchill’s face with different hats. Fun!

Less fun was imagining the claustrophobic quarters and tension in the War Rooms in the years up to Japan’s surrender on August 16, 1945. Relatively protected while encased within reinforced concrete walls, behind steel doors, and below a 5’ thick concrete slab, personnel labored knowing that above ground, bombs were pummeling neighborhoods and scattering loved ones to whatever shelter they could find. Life as they’d known it before their descent into the basement was being obliterated by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. 

As if the danger above and the importance of the work in these rooms was happening even now, there was a hush of held breath as Dave and I snaked down narrow hallways with other visitors. We peered through glass partitions at lifelike mannequins perusing maps, pondering troop movements, or bent to typewriters and phones. Audio recordings played through our individual headsets supplying details about life and the strict security during those years spent largely underground.

I imagined the nagging weight of responsibility in knowing the importance of the work at hand, and the fearful uncertainty for self, loved ones, country, and future. While bombs are not falling in America 2025, I feel something akin to that worry myself lately. How did they bear up under those pressures? 

When the basement lights were turned off in 1945, and the last person closed the door, the rooms went largely untouched until they were turned into a museum. Vestiges of the tactics employed to ease frayed nerves and maintain mental and physical health remained in place. Smoking was a comfort, its risks unknown, and the butt of one of Churchill’s cigars still rests in an ashtray. Commander John Heagerty had a sweet tooth, and three sugar cubes were discovered in his desk drawer, one with an edge shaved off suggesting he was rationing this rare treat. During the war, those in these basement rooms were sustained by simple pleasures, the company of their colleagues, and the knowledge that the nature of the future, our present, depended on them.   

                                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

London, Part I: Brown Wood, Butchers, and Finding Our Way

It was after 11:00 PM London time when Dave and I staggered into a brightly lit Italian deli, the only place open, to grab some pasta and beer. We had traveled that day from JFK to Heathrow Airport to Farringdon Station, emerged from the station, took a left where we should have gone right, and wandered in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood for 45 minutes dragging our loathsome, far-too-big, suitcases in search of our hotel, The Rookery 1764. 

Ultimately, a kind couple heading into the light, camaraderie, and warmth of a pub responded to my near-teary quest for directions by pulling up a map on their phone and pointing the way. If we’d gone right, not left, out of the station, we would have arrived at The Rookery within minutes.

Sigh. Travel and glitches. Part of the deal.  

While many travelers prefer the familiarity of a Marriott or Sheraton, we seek accommodations with a sense of place, of history. Increasingly, that is hard to find. As antiques and brown wood have fallen out of fashion, historic elements have been carted off in dumpsters to make way for smooth white walls and generic furnishings. 

The owners of The Rookery, however, were drawn to the property and its sister hotels – Hazlitt’s 1718 and Batty Langley’s 1724 – by the wish to preserve them. And when we finally tottered into the Rookery’s front hall, we were embraced by burnished wood paneled walls, subdued lighting, and Persian rugs warming the stone floor. A glimpse into the library with its shelves of old books, oil paintings, and leather armchairs promised a cozy place for reading once we were settled. 

After checking in, Toosh, the receptionist, led us down the hall to the stairway. Oh dear, a stairway. As I mentioned, our bags were monstrous, we were weary… and our room was on the third floor. Toosh was wise to keep that to himself, and he fought valiantly, though in vain, to wrest our bags from our cramped hands. But the climb was worth it, for our room was a haven with a carved wooden bedstead, massive desk-turned armoire, and a pensive portrait over the fireplace mantel.  

Every room at the hotel is named after a real person who once lived in or frequented this neighborhood in Clerkenwell. Ours was dedicated to Sophie Rood who often accompanied her mother, an “ass driver,” to the meat market just down Cowcross Road from The Rookery. 

After dropping off our bags, we headed down Cowcross to find food, hoping the long-ago cows crossing Cowcross Road had suffered no premonitions on their way to the Victorian monolith of the Smithfield Meat Market which loomed before us. 

While changing times and WW II bomb damage ended trade in livestock there, it continues to operate from midnight to 5:00 AM. Although Dave and I were supping on our beer and pasta in advance of the market’s opening, several white-coated, blood-smeared butchers gearing up for their long work night stopped in to grab black tea, rolls, and sandwiches. 

Dave is ever curious and chatted up one guy who was eager to discuss the fine points of his trade. He was proud of his years as an apprentice and bemoaned the unwillingness of some newer to the craft to do the hard work of butchering a whole carcass. 

“So, you do a lot of heavy lifting?” Dave asked. 

“Not like when we’d get the whole cow. We still get whole lambs though…” 

While Dave asked about the weight of whole lambs, I smiled brightly, eyebrows raised, feigning admiration. We gave up meat decades ago, and butchering is not my favorite subject. However, in this setting, I understood Dave’s interest. We were in London to learn something of its long history, and here, within the shadow of the Smithfield Market, men like this – and Sophie Rood’s mother for that matter - had driven and butchered livestock for centuries.    

                                                           *

The Next Day: 

Yawn. Stretch. Ohhh, that was a long day. Cast a snoozy glance at the time…  

No. That can’t be right. THAT CAN‘T BE RIGHT! 

“Dave! Wake up! It’s 11:15!”

“What? No Way! What time are we meeting the Porters?”

“12:15! We have to catch a train to Paddington and then find the restaurant!”

A wild flurry ensues. Faces washed. Teeth brushed. Rumpled clothes dug from suitcases. Dress and dash down three flights of stairs. Skip coffee. Run to Farringdon Station. Which track? Check once, check twice that the train’s bound for Paddington. Which way to exit the station? Ask directions from this person then that one. Hear “I’m not from around here” more than once. Agh.

Finding our way is not our forte. 

By sheer good luck, we spot the restaurant, and Chris and John waving from a table in the window. Incredibly, we’re only five minutes late… but way overdue on our promise to visit the Porters, old friends from years of working and living at Eagle Hill School.  

Tucker and Casey, now in their forties, have long claimed they were raised in a commune. For decades, we denied it. But as we’ve observed their experiences in raising our grandkids, we’ve had to concede; they’re right. 

For fifteen years, we lived on campus, and the Porters were part of our community. We ate meals together in the dining hall with students, colleagues, and their children. When we needed help, there was always a friend willing to babysit, split a schedule, or keep an eye out on the playground. We forged strong friendships, and when the Porters moved to England, we promised we’d visit soon. 

That was ten years ago. 

Despite our lapse, Chris and John took the two-hour ride from their home in Bradninch to meet us. Our reunion was brief but crammed as we caught up on kids, grandkids, and unease over the impending election.

                                                            *

Is everyone here from somewhere else? Are we all helpless and lost without AI, Google, or GPS to find our way? In these uncertain times, is that a metaphor for life? Maybe. Finding places in London proved to be a challenge.

We had three full days and minimal plans; Churchill’s War Rooms was the only absolute on our list. So, we figured a Hop On, Hop Off bus tour would give us an overview and transportation to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. For this trip – our first to London – we were not pushing for a see-it-all touring experience. 

Despite frequent glimpses of the red buses always just ahead, out of reach, and rounding a corner, we couldn’t find a place to buy tickets and … hop on. It had sounded so easy! But, as happened throughout our stay, asking for directions of passersby and shop vendors generally reaped misinformation, if any. We heard, “I’m not from around here” countless times. Or “I’m not sure where that is, but I DO know that Trafalgar Square is that way.” The helpful, definitive outstretched arm indicating our supposed destination was invariably incorrect, only discovered after we’d hoofed several blocks.

Ultimately, we flagged down a bus, and the driver graciously allowed us to board, saying he would alert a salesperson to our presence when the bus reached one of the company’s offices. And so it was.

How great to sit and ride! Generally, we avoid public transportation and prefer to walk, but we’d covered some territory already that day, and it was starting to spit rain. Up on the top deck, under a canopy, we chatted with a family from Minnesota while passing the London Eye – a terrifyingly high Ferris wheel - Parliament, and Big Ben. 

But how could we pass the imposing grandeur of Westminster Abbey and not hop off for a visit?

We could not. And although my spirits had soared even to be in the presence of that magnificent edifice, to believe I’d soon be standing near the resting place of my hero Charles Dickens, we were denied entrance. Westminster Abbey was closed for the day. 

What?

Well, closed to tourists. It was about 3:30 and we’d not considered that a cathedral such as this might close. We’d missed the last entry time by minutes and the two police officers – are they still called bobbies? – were neither sympathetic nor polite. One of them indicated a sign listing visiting hours and mumbled something about tourists and their inability to read.

We could read, and we were mad at Westminster Abbey.  

Sigh. Fine. We’d try another day. By then, we decided to do some reconnaissance to locate Churchill’s War Rooms so we wouldn’t be late for our reservation day after tomorrow. 

It was an easy walk, and once we’d established our route, we strolled through St. James Park and were charmed to chance upon the Bird Keepers Cottage on Duck Island. Framed by trailing sun-lit willows, the cottage seemed a vision from the Brothers Grimm. As if the cozy stucco building with its mossy shingled roof and encircling gardens were not magical enough, great white birds perched on rocks in front of the cottage, stretching their wings to dry. Pelicans. Since first presented as a gift by a Russian ambassador in 1664, pelicans have graced the park along with moorhens, mallards, coots, and wigeons. 

Pummeled Again

After Trump’s blanket pardon of 1500 January 6th rioters, I dug out my journal of that day and read my entry, the handwriting shaky with fear, describing the violent attack on the Capitol as I watched it unfold on TV. Millions of us were witnesses, and no amount of white-washing can change the facts. I am afraid of what lies ahead in this country, for now unrecognizable as the America of “justice under the law” and “all men are created equal.” Rather than try to recapture the emotions of that day in light of the pardons, I decided to re-post my blog from 2020. Wistfully, I note the optimism of the closing paragraph: 

Waves of fury and incredulity pummel my mental shores. Naïve as I am, despite the pundits’ prediction that Senate Republicans would vote to acquit Trump, I believed that dedication to democracy, oaths of office, oaths of impartiality, and love of country would win out over party politics in the face of evidence and the terror of personal experience.

But no.

Buffeted by cross currents, America has been twisted and tortured like its flag in an insurrectionist’s grip. Abused were the stars and stripes on January 6^th as they were wielded as a weapon to bludgeon police. Those who derided Black Lives Matter protesters this summer with calls to “Back the Blue” swarmed the Capitol howling “Stop the Steal” as they brandished the American flag along with their arsenal of bats, fence posts, and pitchforks to bloody those defending the Capitol.

When I was a child, I was told to kiss the flag 100 times if it touched the ground by mistake. Was this my parents’ invention or a national rule? I don’t know, but the message was clear. Dave’s father too, a WW II veteran, taught his grandchildren the solemn lesson “Honor the soldiers and the flag.”

Although they sought to appropriate the motives of America’s revolutionaries, the Trump supporters who breached the Capitol can lay no claim to heroism. They desecrated American symbols while impeding certification of an adjudicated election, endangered lawmakers, spread feces, and destroyed and stole national treasures. Thugs were these, not patriots. The fever of doing Trump’s bidding superseded respect for the flag, democratic process, and human life.

What to make of Mitch McConnell? He refused to call the Senate to session when the House Managers were ready to present the case in mid-January. There was time for a trial, and the former president was still in office. Mitch had not the balls to vote “guilty,” but had the gall after the count to affirm the House Managers’ evidence of Trump as inciter-in-chief. Although the Senate had already addressed the Constitutionality by a majority vote, McConnell defended himself with the timing technicality he created.

In his closing remarks, lead House manager Jamie Raskin looked around the Senate chamber at those before him and quoted Benjamin Franklin, saying, “If you make yourself a sheep, the wolves will eat you. Don’t make yourself a sheep.” How else but as sheep are we to see Senators who believed Trump guilty, yet in their fawning loyalty, absolved him of accountability at the expense of our democracy?

What now? In betraying their oaths and ignoring the result of the vote on the impeachment’s constitutionality, those senators eviscerated the Senate of its credibility and power. They did not “defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic” when Trump and his mob sought to hold power despite the vote of the people. They waived their sworn charge, and clung to a technicality already dismissed by majority vote.

By that acquittal, the Senate has granted future presidents a “January Exception” for whatever purposes he or she might have in that final month in office; Congress and the Republic be damned. After his final summation of the evidence of Trump’s efforts to prevent the transfer of power, delight at the attack, and refusal to send help, Representative Raskin said, “If that’s not a high crime and misdemeanor, then nothing is.”

It is work to contain my fury and contempt, but friends remind me of reasons for optimism. President Biden has remained focused on the people and the planet. Vaccinations have doubled. A COVID relief bill will soon pass. The U.S. has re-entered the global community in positive ways, re-joining the Paris Climate Accord and the WHO. In discrediting their vote and abdicating their responsibility, the Senate has re-affirmed what has always been true: it is up to us, the people, to govern wisely with our votes.

Something's Amiss

Wait. What? That’s not the way it happened…

It was Christmas night, and Dave and I were watching TV. We were not watching the news, neither a Fox re-write of the 2020 election results nor an MSNBC grind on some GOP folly. We were watching It’s a Wonderful Life on Amazon Prime, and a critical segment of the movie had been cut. 

It had been a lovely day of opening gifts in front of a cozy fire with daughter Casey, 6-year-old Eleanor, son-in-law PJ, and their dear old dog, Tallulah. We’d exchanged cheery texts with friends, sisters, and nephews, and enjoyed a Zoom call with my son and his family. For dinner, we savored Dave’s homemade lasagna, baccala, and stuffed calamari. How lovely to settle in after all the hubbub and excitement with some black and white serenity and the familiar holiday message of It’s a Wonderful Life.  

For those who don’t know the story – and there can’t be many of you – good guy George Bailey had repeatedly given up his dreams of travel to bolster the Bedford Falls Savings and Loan Company. This small bank enabled the town’s hard-working people to buy homes rather than rent from the wealthy, scheming Mr. Potter. Potter finally gets his chance to sink the Savings and Loan when George’s addled uncle misplaces an $8,000 deposit. Potter refuses George’s plea for help and tells him that, because George has a $10,000 life insurance policy, he’s worth more dead than alive. As his misfortunes mount, George decides the world would indeed be better if he had never lived. He heads to the river intending to jump.

Enter Clarence, a wing-less angel, Heaven-sent, to help George understand his value.  

CUT!

What? Yes! Cut! The trip back in time to a George-less world. Cut! The scene where George’s little brother dies because George isn’t there to save him. Cut! The embittered citizens living in Potter’s Field squalor without a kindly Savings and Loan to support them. Cut! Worst of all – ghastly really - George’s wife consigned to life as an Old Maid of a Librarian. Cut! Every scene showing George how important he had been in the lives of so many. Instead, we next see George gleefully sprinting through the snowy streets of Bedford Falls, inexplicably restored to good spirits. 

Since its release in 1946, It's a Wonderful Life has become a Christmas classic, a reminder of the ripples every one of us generates in all we do, whether we are given to know the impacts or not. Why would the geniuses behind Amazon Prime mess with a movie we all treasure and know so well? 

Reportedly, they felt the deleted scenes were too dark. 

Too dark? Please. Amazon Prime offers Silence of the Lambs  and Psycho. Graphic violence is available to all ages at all times, yet A Wonderful Life required censorship? Was this a sample of some soulless AI editing or the work of an ignorant corporate pup who understood neither the message nor the importance of tradition? 

In fairness, I confess I am not one to go to the mountain for the First Amendment. I’ve always taken issue with First Amendment sanctions cited to allow hate speech, Klan marches in Black neighborhoods, or Neo-Nazi marches through those that are Jewish. I feel the First has loftier goals, protection of the right to speak out against unjust laws or government, not license to preach and practice harm. My son and I have had some conversations about this: who would dictate what should be censored and where it should stop? I get his point, but still… 

Perhaps I’m over-reacting to Amazon's edits to It's a Wonderful Life, but with politicians and social media obscuring truth, the free press under assault, and Texan textbooks “softening” history to avoid causing discomfort, I’m concerned to see how readily the powerful can change a storyline. 

Lately, reality and fiction seem blurred with a convicted felon in line for the presidency, an anti-vaxxer nominated to head Health and Human Services, an accused sexual predator for Department of Defense, and a Vengeance advocate for the FBI. If we didn’t already feel something was amiss, here in Easton, the very heavens shuddered on the Eve of 2025. Thunder blasted celestial anger, lightning flashed, and torrents pelted the beleaguered Earth. Surely Shakespeare would have written it just so.   

 

 

 

 

Easton Rounds

When people ask where Dave and I live, I say in a small farming town with over 50% open space. I say we live in an 18^th century house in the woods. I say sometimes bears lumber through our yard and chickadees alight on our fingers to eat seeds. As a rule, I don’t delve into the people - the farmers, first responders, departments, and services - but they are woven into life in Easton as much as the stone walls, streams, and trees. On a recent round of errands throughout town, I reflected on all of it, and the blessing of my sense of belonging here.      

The days have turned cold, the sky artfully brushed with a veil of wispy clouds. With leaves brown and dry on the ground, the ledges and slopes previously cloaked by foliage are open to view. With dark comfortably settling in early, the days fly by. Where did November go? Already it’s time to pull down our perilous folding stairs and haul the bins of Christmas decorations out of the attic. 

The holidays with their bustle of cooking, shopping, events, and gatherings have given me permission to avoid the news as best I can. Election-shock sent me reeling, and circling the wagons around friends and family is my stay-sane-strategy for now. My to-do list is ever-evolving and checking things off is a productive alternative to doomscrolling. So, I head out: first, to the post office to mail my grandson’s birthday gifts.  

On the drive down Morehouse Road past the stubbly brown fields in front of Staples Elementary School, I hum “Come ye thankful people come, raise the song of harvest home. All is safely gathered in ‘ere the winter storms begin.” This season always flips through my memory file of childhood Sundays at church and offers up that soothing song of preparation and provisions for winter. Today, I’ll do just that, stock up and look ahead.  

When I arrive at the post office, Mary greets me from behind the counter and indulges my sadness over our son’s decision to move his family to Zurich. Our grandson Paul turns nine this month; a bizarre twist since he just turned seven, didn’t he? How can I drink in every minute of Paul and Lexi’s little kid years when they are far away, and Time keeps passing, fast and fluid? 

Mary knows the story already but listens kindly while checking the weight of Paul’s presents and assessing the best packaging and price. An acquaintance pushes open the door, and that errand turns into a lovely chat among friends. 

My list compels me to move along, and next door, Greisers’ festive lights, gift ideas, and the thought of a slice of heavenly almond pie lure me inside. 

Shopkeeper Adrienne highlights local artists, and I wander about admiring beautifully crafted wooden bowls, hand-painted ornaments, and silver jewelry.  I linger over beaded fabric stars and hand towels depicting a red fox. Turns out, I’m not the only fan of the almond pie and there’s none left. Just as well.  

Next, on to the police station. Over the years, Easton’s officers have helped open my car when my keys were locked inside, calmed and guided us when our house was robbed, joined members of the fire department in investigating the source of a burning smell, and thrilled our grandkids with a tour of the police station. Next week, I’ll swing by for their Stuff-a-Cruiser event for Toys for Tots. But today, I seek advice about a possible scam. 

Like everyone else, we get more dubious phone calls, emails, and texts than those that are legit, and while this letter looks official, we have our doubts. Tara, the dispatcher, welcomes me with a hug and takes the letter back to a detective. 

While I wait in the foyer for the detective’s assessment - he judges the letter authentic and tells me what to do - I study two photographs of members of the Easton police force, one taken in 2014 and the other, this year. So many of our officers have been here over the span of those ten years, and we have come to know some of them personally. Uncertainty is part of life, but to the degree possible, those individuals and their continuing dedication to Easton make me feel secure.  

Down the road, I stop to drop off treats at EMS and then the Fire Department. It must have been a tense stretch for them with the drought and statewide burn ban. Dave and I have lived in town for close to 35 years, and some members of those departments have been serving for as long as I can remember. Several firefighters went to school with my kids, and I love seeing them at the summer carnival, manning the Bingo tent, giving back, be it for fun or in an emergency.

Dave is making soup, and I’ll stop at Tom Sherwood’s farm to visit Claudia and pick up some crusty bread and fresh mozzarella on my way home, but first, I head to Sport Hill Farm. 

‘Tis the season in Easton, officially designated the Christmas Tree Capital of Connecticut. In the weeks ahead the town’s tree farms will buzz with the sounds of saws and voices calling, “I found the perfect tree!” Even now, cars stream by with trees lashed to their rooves. A CD of traditional Christmas carols serenades me as I drive, and I look forward to special events, holiday markets, sales, and services held by the Senior Center, library, and churches. 

During the spring and fall, I set up a booth at the Sunday markets hosted by Farmer Patti at Sport Hill Farm. I sold a few things, had a great time chatting with friends and strangers, and commissioned some extraordinary pet portraits by visiting artist, Kathy Reddy. In December, the skeletons and ghouls greeting Patti’s October customers have ceded their post to white reindeer and a festive chicken in red and green.   

As the harvest hymn intones, by now, most crops have been gathered in, and Dave needs kale, potatoes, and escarole for his soup. Michelle is helping a customer up front while Patti arranges artful holiday displays. I fill a basket with Dave’s requests and can’t resist picking up two heads of Romanesco, so exotic with their pale green florets clustered in mini spires. Hmm, packs of maple sugar candy would be a nice touch of New England in the Christmas package we send to Zurich, so I add that to my basket. 

Patti mentions that this is the 25^th anniversary of Sport Hill Farm. Whoa. Again, how can that be? Another customer joins us in marveling at time’s fleet passage, and we laugh, maybe a touch grimly, at its effects in our own aging. 

I really should get home, and I still have to stop at Sherwoods for bread, but a parking spot opens at Silverman’s Farm as I draw near, so I pull in. In July, Farmer Irv transformed the fields in front of Staples with thousands of sunflowers, a gift to every Eastonite and a tribute to Ukraine. For the holiday season, Nancy Silverman, managers Julie and Aiden, and their staff transform the farm shop with greens, poinsettias, Santas, and snowmen. On this visit, Irv happens to be out front with Julie, so I get a hug before heading in to browse. I select a felt snowman for granddaughter Eleanor’s stocking and two honey crisp apples for Dave.  

Last stop, Sherwoods, and a quick visit with Claudia. She asks about “the littles” as she calls my grandkids, and I pull out my phone to show her pictures of Eleanor dressed as Belle for Halloween. And yes, I remember to buy mozzarella and the last loaf of rosemary and olive oil ciabatta.  

Errands take longer when chats, hugs, and chance encounters pepper my route, but that’s the gift of this day and of living in this town for so many years. While I worry that Peace on Earth is, for now, unattainable, we are fortunate that in Easton, Good Will – and hugs – abound.  

 

 

Centuries of Service

In top hat and great coat, the tour guide swung his lantern to illuminate the stone façade of the building before him. A cluster of tourists crowded closer, eager to hear a ghostly tale. From my perch in the upper window of our room across the road, I could sense their disappointment in slumped shoulders and shuffling feet as the guide spoke of history, not spirits. 

Newport’s Clarke Street is lined with clapboard eighteenth and nineteenth century homes painted the dark colors of that era. The glow of streetlamps is just bright enough to light the way, and the past seems to coexist with the present. I must have made a movement that caught the attention of one of the tourists, and my face, suddenly glimpsed through the misted glass pane, seemed the eerie vision they’d hoped to see. There was a ripple of startled exclamations as heads turned and tipped, then a hesitant flutter of hands returning my wave. 

Because of that gathering in the street below, I keyed into the 1838 Artillery Company Museum, and the next morning, Dave and I went to visit. 

The stone building houses an extraordinary collection of military memorabilia and is home to the Artillery Company of Newport, chartered in 1741 by King George II of Britain. The company is now a ceremonial unit of the Rhode Island militia and the Council of Historic Military Commands.

We were greeted by men in navy blue polo shirts bearing the Artillery Company’s insignia. I could imagine each of the three volunteers, whether bearded, craggy, or clean shaven, in the  uniform of the Union or Confederate armies. In fact, this company fought in the French and Indian Wars, the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Spanish-American War. Members of the Company have served in the country’s  20^th and 21^st century engagements as well. Memorabilia from each are preserved in the museum.

A faded American flag with a unique circular configuration of  37 stars spans most of a side wall, its tattered condition attesting to years of service to the company. Uniforms, still gold-buttoned and dignified in bearing, surround the room. Once worn by such illustrious individuals as Prince Philip of England, U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell, Egyptian president Anwar Sedat, and Colonel Katherine Towle, first Director of  Women – U.S. Marine Corps, they stand guard now over four bronze cannons cast by Paul Revere in 1798. In glass cases, spent shells and bullets from the World Wars and the Battle of Gettysburg rest beside letters, medals, weapons, caps, and vintage photographs.

Near hidden in the shadows in the back of the museum is an ambulance jeep, the poles and canvas stretchers that once carried the wounded mounted on each side. I thought of Dave’s Uncle Jack, who was assigned to a medical unit in Africa as an ambulance driver during World War II. His brothers, Dave’s dad and Uncle Phil, served in the Air Force and Navy in Italy and the Pacific, respectively. All three boys were first generation Americans born of Italian immigrants.

Jack was a gentle guy, not cut out to carry a weapon that might harm someone else, but he saw, up close, the brutal aftermath of battle. 

Whatever wounds he tended, whatever fears he tried to soothe, whatever carnage he witnessed, came home with him after the war, pain as real to him as the suffering of the men he’d transported on stretchers. While he was always funny and dear to Dave and Steve, his little nephews, Jack was never the same.

Now, the tactics employed by the Fascists in the 30’s are back in play: dehumanization of vulnerable populations, exaltation of a cult leader, violent rhetoric, and disinformation. Those who support them or remain silent dishonor the uncles, aunts, parents, and grandparents who endured grievous harm in striving to defeat such forces. 

We Americans have a critical choice before us. Now, all together, Vote as if Democracy depends on it… because it does.

 

Project 2025: What Would Change? What Would We Lose?

Project 2025, or The Presidential Transition Project, is no secret. A quick Google search opens Project 2025.com, and those interested can read on. Given the document’s daunting 900+ pages and extravagant language however, few people will. So, beyond the introduction that follows, I recommend the 17-page Foreword by Kevin Roberts, president of The Heritage Foundation, and a selective wade into the areas of greatest concern to you.

Because you should be concerned. We all should. If the Supreme Court ruling on presidential immunity didn’t shake you, familiarity with the changes Project 2025 proposes in our government policies, programs, and personnel will. 

Authored by contributors from over 100 conservative organizations and facilitated by The Heritage Foundation, Project 2025 is a game plan for the next conservative president and his administration. As Paul Dans, Project 2025 director states in his opening note, “Our goal is to assemble an army of aligned, vetted, trained, and prepared conservatives to go to work on Day One to deconstruct the Administrative State.” (pg. xiv)

When Donald Trump won the 2016 election, he was surprised, unprepared, and ill-equipped. The chaos caused by his style and lack of experience in governing was, to some degree, offset by civil servants with expertise in their fields as well as the checks and balances established in the Constitution… inconveniences that Project 2025 seeks to address. 

One might hope Congress would be a check on the expanded presidential power outlined in Project 2025, but beyond the divisiveness and inertia apparent in that body, impoundment is a means to circumvent policies by withholding money already appropriated by Congress. We saw impoundment in action when the former president sought to withhold money from Ukraine unless President Zelenskyy launched an investigation into Hunter Biden. Also, the document states that some significant offices and acts, such as those within the FBI, can be eliminated “without any action from Congress.” (pg. 550)

In the work of deconstruction, the crosshairs of Project 2025 are focused on ending the independence of the Department of Justice and the FBI. The document aims to “place the FBI under a politically accountable leader” (pg. 550) and “prepare a plan to end immediately any policies, investigations, or cases that run contrary to law or Administration policies.” (pg. 557, italics, mine.) In this, one can foresee a rash of pardons and dropped court cases related to January 6th.

In his Foreword, Kevin Roberts states, “There are many executive tools a courageous conservative President can use to handcuff the bureaucracy.” (pg. 9) The word “handcuff” is certainly troubling, but that aside, another tool, Schedule F, would reclassify nonpartisan, merit-based, career civil servants – experts in fields such as science, health, etc. -  to facilitate firing those viewed as inadequately dedicated to the president’s agenda. Reportedly tens of thousands of jobs could be affected, making way for that army of loyalists who lack independence and expertise in arenas important to the American people.  

It's fair to say that those arenas are, to some degree, common to most of us. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” covers them well, assuming our health and well-being and that of our loved ones fall under those headings. But as much as Project 2025 pays lip service to reducing the size and scope of government, its recommendations send that conservative army nosing into bedrooms, bathrooms, and mailboxes to gnaw away at established freedoms in ways not seen in half a century, the privacy protections of the Fourth Amendment be damned. 

Project 2025 proposes new goals for the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS): “Protecting life, conscience, and bodily integrity.” Existing social services such as Head Start, school meal programs, and Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) would be abolished or reduced. In reinforcing the “traditional family” – married mother, father, and their  children – programs supporting single mothers and funding for out-of-home daycare would be curtailed, all the better to restrict women’s job opportunities beyond motherhood. 

Across all departments, policies related to the LGBTQ+ community, gender-affirming care, and Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) would be assessed and for the most part, repealed. In the belief that “abortion pills pose the single greatest threat to unborn children in the post-Roe world,” Project 2025 states that the FDA should reverse approval of Mifepristone. Invoking the Comstock Act of 1873, the mailing and interstate sale of such medications would be prohibited. As Roberts affirms in the Foreword, “the Dobbs decision is just the beginning.” (pg. 6)  

The danger to women’s health in the wake of overturning Roe vs. Wade has been apparent in publicized cases of doctors immobilized by uncertainty as to abortion laws in their state. Whereas the Emergency Medical Treatment and Active Labor Act (EMTALA) was enacted to protect medical professionals deeming an abortion necessary for the health of the mother, Project 2025 states, “the EMTALA requires no abortion, preempts no pro-life laws, and explicitly requires stabilization of the unborn child.” (pg. 473) 

Funding for Planned Parenthood would be eliminated, and coverage under the Affordable Care Act (ACA) for “women’s preventative services” – i.e. contraception – would be rescinded. Despite a litany of new rules directed to women, their bodies, and reproductive rights, and in denial of the mutual responsibility for pregnancy, men are mentioned only to say that men’s “preventive services” should not be considered under a mandate for women.  

If the Christian Nationalism theme has not yet been apparent, Project 2025 proposes to change the name of the Office for Civil Rights to “Conscience Enforcement.” Feel free to think about that while your conscience is your own.

Beyond that, the Project seeks to rescind countless Biden initiatives and dismantle, reform, and reduce many departments and regulations established and enacted to protect and preserve the people, the planet, and the creatures. The authors ignore or disdain the reality of the importance of the health and connectivity of this shared Earth and global community in sustaining us all in terms of climate, trade, agreements, and alliances. 

Science that conflicts with the presidential agenda of “Energy Dominance” is seen as a threat. Offices, acts, and regulations that contain references to climate change, clean energy, renewable resources, and sustainability are viewed as impediments to the project’s reorientation of America’s energy programs toward nuclear research and development and increased drilling and mining for fossil fuels, natural gas, and coal. 

Viewed as “one of the main drivers of the climate change alarm industry” as it monitors and alerts the public to weather, storms, and rising temperatures, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) would be dismantled and many of its functions eliminated. “Scientific agencies like NOAA are vulnerable to obstructionism of an Administration’s aims if political appointees are not wholly in sync with Administration policy. Particular attention must be paid to appointments in this area.” (pg. 677)  

Through revocation of funding and termination of personnel, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) would be reduced in size and scope. Provisions of the Clean Water Act and Safe Drinking Water Act would be reviewed as possible infringements on private property rights. Clean air standards related to interstate pollution, downwind impacts, greenhouse gases, etc. would be “reconsidered or repealed.” 

Redirection of Department of Commerce services would reduce protections for critical habitat and threatened species under the Endangered Species Act (ESA) and Marine Mammal Protection Act (MMPA). In this time of rising seas and temperatures, extinctions, extreme storms, subsequent human migrations, and international turmoil, it is at our peril that experienced scientists and experts would be relegated to the visions of a president and his or her loyalists. 

Project 2025 recommends abolishing the federal Department of Education and turning that responsibility and funding over to the states, thereby eliminating national standards for academics, civil rights, and psycho-social support. Programs and references to DEI, gender identity, and Critical Race Theory would be purged. Rather than an emphasis on meeting the needs of students, the Project’s contention, voiced by Kevin Roberts, is that “schools serve parents.” (pg. 5) 

National security under Project 2025 will undergo a “most significant shift” in discerning “who are friends and who are not.” (pg. 179) The State Department must “right the ship,” and presumably in a quaint reference to President Lincoln’s hat, “Bureaucratic stovepipes of the past should be less important than commitment to, and achievement of, the President’s foreign policy agenda.” (pg. 176) The text is clear that those stovepipes are existing international treaties, agreements, and organizations. Since it is not George Washington running for president, one must question what that foreign policy might look like under a president who admires authoritarian leaders and stores classified documents in his bathroom.

In the “execution of U.S. policy that is focused on [the president’s] vision for the nation and the world” (pg. 196), the authors propose dismantling the Department of Homeland Security while investing in a Department of Defense (DOD) devoted to “warfighting.” Additionally, military personnel would be deployed to prevent illegal crossing at U.S. points of entry as well as assist  in completion of the wall at the southern border. The Department of Energy would veer from alternative energy initiatives toward nuclear research programs and expansion of the nuclear arsenal. International nonproliferation agreements with the United Nations and Iran would be terminated.  

DACA, or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, is viewed as “unlawful,” thereby opening the “Dreamers” previously protected to inclusion in the expanded and expedited arrests, detention, and deportation of illegal immigrants outlined in Project 2025. State and local enforcement officials, as well as the military and secret service personnel not involved in a protective capacity, would also be enlisted in these actions. 

While Candidate Trump has claimed lack of knowledge or support for the Project, 25 of the 36 principal authors are involved in the former president’s current campaign or served in his administration. His speeches and posts have reflected many of the stances and policies outlined in the document. Presidential adherence to the Constitution and the rule of law is a drumbeat throughout the pages of Project 2025, but that rings hollow in the face of January 6, election denial, and 34 counts of falsifying business records.  

Federal safety nets for American citizens, from children to seniors, would be compromised as food programs, Medicare, Medicaid, Head Start, and the like are reduced or eliminated. In fact, the long-standing role, in a broad sense, of the United States federal government as a safety net for humans, planetary ecosystems, and world peace would be abdicated in consolidating power to serve the president’s agenda. Economics – bolstered by resource exploitation, military sales, and elimination and reduction of “entitlements” – would take precedence. States’ rights, touted as a cornerstone of Project 2025, would remain in force only in areas that suit that agenda. State policies governing environmental regulations, immigrant protections, and women’s health and reproductive rights would be overridden.  

Throughout their writings, the Founders considered the needs of future generations in an America beyond 1787. They enshrined the guard rails of checks and balances to protect against the rise of a dictator and included amendments to allow for a changing world. Partisanship has weakened those safeguards. Christian Nationalism and near-unbounded presidential power dominate Project 2025, and Americans are left with a new take on our unalienable rights as: Life (certainly for fetuses), “ordered Liberty” (whatever that means), and the Pursuit of “Blessedness” (or doing “what we ought.” Pg. 13). 

If that’s not your vision, VOTE… for Democracy.