A Brief Encounter

I bartended at the Moose Lodge for several years while I was going to college. My work station was usually at the service bar, a small cubicle looking out onto the ball room and stage. There were no bar stools, no customers, just four or five waitresses calling out a constant stream of drink orders. The compact bar had everything within reach: booze bottles on rear shelves, beers in the front coolers, clean glasses on the bar top, and ice in the hole. One other guy joined me in the limited space as we turned out one drink after another. The fast paced action made for a lot of fun.

I worked with a couple guys over those summers, either Art or Wayne. They were both Moose members, fifteen or twenty years older than me, and worked to pick up a few dollars on weekends. Both were fun to work with as our activity often resembled a choreographed dance. Maybe the band music helped set the tempo, and much of the enjoyment came from our coordinated action.

We served a variety of drinks. I might grab two beers with each hand, pop the caps and set them on the tray, while the other would be making a grasshopper and I’d hand him a needed bottle of Crème de Mint. I’d start a martini. He’d mix a seven and seven, then I’d reach for the sweet vermouth to make a Manhattan, then a whiskey sour…and so on. We worked well together and I think the two enjoyed the harmonized dance as much as I did.

The weekends saw a lot of action at the Moose. A local band performed each Friday and Saturday, and the spacious dance floor was always full. Sometimes all the waitresses would be shouting orders at us at the same time. There were few lulls during the evenings, and closing time at twelve or one was always welcome.

I would be a bit weary, but having been injected with adrenalin by the evening’s action, was not prepared to go home. We’d draw our pay, ten or twelve bucks for the night ($2 per hour) and put a receipt in the till. The vigor of youth was running through my veins, so I usually joined others heading off to a local establishment to relax and unwind.

One night, near the end of the summer, some people brought in a woman who had worked as a waitress at the Moose the year before. Mom and Dad had told me her story. She was in a fiery auto accident the previous summer, had been burned over most of her body, and hospitalized for months. Several described the young women as having been pretty and popular before the accident dealt her a sad fate. I’d never met her, so the only memory I have is of a burned out hulk. She was a human wreck, likely unrecognizable by those who had known her before. Most of her face had been spared the flames, but her voice was effected, and I think much of her body was scar tissue. Both legs were trapped in braces, and she shuffled, each leg swinging awkwardly forward as she managed a hobbling walk on crutches.

That was back in 1963. Nearly half a century has passed. I didn’t know much about her. I never knew her age, maybe thirty. She was tall, maybe 5’ 9”. I knew nothing about her past, where she was born and grew up, or who her family might have been. I no longer even remember her name.

She came by the lodge on two or three occasions, and one night joined a small group after closing. We went to a bar with music and a dance floor. Art, my bartending partner, and his wife were her friends. He plodded me to ask her to dance. I did so as a courtesy and was surprised she accepted.

Our dance was more of a balancing act than a slow two-step. She had neither the coordination nor strength to do more than teeter back and forth. I noticed a young man smirking at our presence, looking us up-and-down in a manner that signaled his attitude of superiority. I could have challenged him, but I was wise enough, even then, to realize that his attitude was more his problem than ours.

I drove her home that night, stopping in front of a small house in a nice neighborhood. She open the door on the passenger side and asked me if I‘d come in, and then said something like, “You won’t be sorry!”.

I was at a loss. I was being propositioned, and had no idea how to deal with it. I made some lame excuse of it being late and I was tired. A slight pause followed and then, in a plaintive voice she said, "Well, I won’t beg”. She closed the door and shuffled up the walk and disappeared into the house. I never saw her again. Mom said she died the following year.

I yet wonder if she asked me in because she was trying to find a reason to go on living, but I lacked adequate experience in that side of life, and wasn’t willing or able to help. I’ve often pondered what my response would have been had she ask for such a favor before misfortune befell her. Or would she even have bothered? In a way I was as prejudice as the smirking jerk on the dance floor. Maybe, if I’d known her before, or if I had been older and wiser, then maybe I could have offered a benevolence.

Part 7 - Hazel's Last Years

Mom lived three more years. I was on my way for a visit in the spring of 1997 when I received a phone call upon getting into Los Angeles. It was Don. He told me that Jodi Spiegel, Ellie’s middle child from her first marriage, had died suddenly of a brain tumor. She had been having severe headaches for weeks. Don had helped raise Jodi and her two sisters since she was eight years old. They were still at the hospital, in shock, and not sure they would be able to pick me up as planned. I told them not to worry, I’d find my way, but they managed, and were waiting when I deplaned in San Diego.

 I stayed with Mom at her one-bedroom apartment. Her rental was in a small retirement community of four two-story buildings that enclosed a beautifully landscaped courtyard - rather charming. There were gates at each corner, one lead conveniently to a strip mall and grocery. Don and Ellie lived only a couple miles away.

The clan gathered at Don and Ellie’s place each evening during those sad days. The core group included more than a dozen people: Ellie’s surviving daughters, Stephanie and Susan, along with their families, her first husband, Jerry Spiegel, and Don‘s sons, Lee and Dennis Buckingham, who flew in from Indiana. They planned a memorial service for Jodi at Dog Beach in San Diego, a favorite of Jodi as she had often taken her dog there. It was an entertainment to see the dogs frolicking in the waves, seemingly with
out a care in the world. A pavilion was pitched on the beach, and the service consisted of friends and family taking turns telling remembrances of events that they had shared with Jodi.

 One evening, as I was helping Mom into the car to take her back to her apartment she let me know she would be interested in trying some pot. This was a bit of a surprise. She had been a smoker all her adult life, but never showed the lease interest in the stuff of Reefer Madness. She had, no doubt, smelled the characteristic aroma of the weed wafting through the group that night, and I suspect her dormant curiosity became aroused. Maybe she had always been curious, but the opportunity had never presented itself at a convenient time. But she was in California now, land of liberalism, so why not join in. Besides, what did it matter at that stage of her life. I told her I would see if someone could help her.

Jerry Spiegel was known to be a connoisseur, and the next evening he presented Mom with a joint. She immediately took a puff, inhaled deeply and started coughing. She coughed for several minutes, loud and hurtful hacks, with big tears rolling down her cheeks. She never finished her joint, never got to experience a marijuana high. Most everybody smiled sheepishly, and I think all felt sorry for her, though the sympathy might have followed different paths of reasoning.

Mom never got into the California niche, once admitting to me of feeling overwhelmed by the move, and not able to make herself get involved. She was depressed and withdrawn.

There were plenty of activities at the senior complex. Don said they passed the community room on one occasion where a number of residents were playing cards and kibitzing. It looked like a lot of fun, but they were on their way to dinner, and didn’t stop. He regretted not taking her in as it was a perfect opportunity to introduce her to the new neighbors as Mom was not the type to boldly go in on her own.

Mom stayed in the apartment for a little over a year before Don moved her into a care facility. She had a series of small strokes that robbed her of short-term memory. Don was devoted in his caretaking, going over every day to spend time with her. I visited a last time a few months before she died, and took our newly adopted boy, John. We visited at the hospice. Mom was confined to a wheel chair. We strolled with her out the walk around the facility. She stopped to ask about the name of a flower along the path‘s edge. Don said she asked that same question every day. Mom died a month later on May 5th, 1999, four and a half months short of 86.

Part 6 - Hazel's Life Without Her Friend Bob

Bob had a stroke the next year and was confined to a nursing home. I visited Mom right after the stroke. Mom was busy; she had a mission. She went to the nursing home every day, brought clean cloths, and stayed with him till evening. She was devoted. They had become very close over the years. Bob sat in a chair resting his head on a table with his face turned to one side. He was helpless, wasn’t enjoying life, and had run his trapline for the last time. He lifted his head off the table only one time. He made the effort to look at me and attest that it sucked, and then laid his head down again. Bob died a month or so later.

Mom was alone and very much lost again. She got sick and brother Don took a bus from San Diego, getting to Kokomo in time to put her in the hospital. When she improved he loaded her in her car and drove back to California. I flew in and we had a conference as to what should be done. It was evident that Mom, at nearly eighty-three, could no longer live by herself. We decided she would sell the house and move to California to be near Don and Ellie.

Don took Mom back to Indiana, and in three months we met again to clear her house, arrange shipping for what she wanted to keep, and put the rest up for auction. The attic and basement were full of fifty years of living. We found curtains stored in the attic that had hung in our bedroom in the 1950’s. Grandma Frank died in 1968, but her clothes were still hanging in a stand-alone closet in the basement. We rented one of those big trash containers, the type you see at construction sites, had it set at the back of driveway, and the proceeded to fill it.

Most of the stuff was in the attic. I’d go up, rummage around till I found something interesting, and bring it down to the driveway. Sometimes we’d decide it should go into the trash bin. If it passed muster Don would clean it (often washing it with the garden hose), and store it in the garage.

The auction was held on Sunday, September 29, 1996. The auctioneer lined tables along the length of the driveway, and filled them with smaller items. Larger things were carried from the garage when their turn came. Lots of people showed up to buy lots of interesting artifacts. One of the last things auctioned was Bob’s car, a late model Chrysler. Mom had driven it to the nursing home everyday after his stroke, and he indicated that he wanted her to have it. We got the title out realized that Bob had never signed it over to her. I handed it to the auctioneer, he looked at it a moment, took out his pen and forged Bob’s name on it. The auction was a complete success.
GO TO: Part 7 - Hazel's Last Years

Part 5 - Hazel and Friend Bob Visit Alaska

Mom and Bob Eschelman at Portage Glacier, Alaska, 1993 

Mom believed mightily in fate. What was to be, would be, so when a direction was set she generally followed course. I think this was the result of her having been the youngest sibling in a family of three older brothers. She never got the chance to be the lead dog while growing up, and since Dad was older by a year and a half the situation continued into their marriage. 

Bob, Mom and Mary at Garage Sale in Anchorage, Ak, 1993

In 1992 Mom and Bob planned a trip to visit Don and Ellie in California by car, and then to fly up to Alaska to see us. I think she had misgivings about the road trip; probably because of Bob’s drinking. She called when they were about to head west. She seemed subdued, and when we hung up she said “goodbye” in a tone of such finality that I wondered if she thought she might be speaking to me for the last time. They made the trip without incident.

Mom and Bob at neighbors for a Salmon Bake

In August they flew into Anchorage. Mary and I waited for them to deplane at the gate. The passengers filed out, and we stood there as the last trickled by. Then Mom came out trailed by a flight attendant shoving Bob in a Wheel chair. He suddenly rose from the chair, tripped on the foot rest, and fell flat on his face. He was drunker than a skunk, and Mom was beside herself with anger and embarrassment. We got him back in the chair. The attendant informed me that if I didn’t take responsibility she would have to turn him over to airport security. I was tempered to decline the option, but agreed to see after him. It seems Bob had bought two bottles of Absolute Vodka just before departing the Minneapolis Airport. Mom hide them in her purse on boarding, and Bob preceded to have a four thousand mile party.

Mom and Bob in boat returning to Cabin, 1993

I no longer recall how we got to the baggage claim on the lower level, but we soon found the designated carrousel with weary travelers crowded in front of a conveyor laded with rotating baggage. Mom recognized her bags, but couldn’t identify Bob’s so I maneuvered him in behind the first row of people. He spotted his sliding down the shoot, and bolted out of the chair, dived past the people in front and landed on the conveyor belt. He lay there clutching his suitcase in triumph as the conveyor transported him toward the exit. I hesitated for a moment but then extracted him and his luggage before they disappeared behind the curtain.

Bob and Mom at Window all Day

We took Bob to the house, filled him with coffee, and put him to bed. He slept on a fold-out couch in the recreation room, a large open area downstairs. A big wood stove stood near the couch/bed. I pulled the curtains to darken the room. It was August but daylight still lingered long into evenings That proved to be a mistake, because Bob got up in the middle of the night needing to take a potty break. In the alcoholic infused confusion he tripped, fell over the stove, bruised a rib and skinned his nose. He was quite a sight for the next week, but continued to smile in that uncomplaining way even though we limited him to beer for the rest of the stay.

Bob and Mom at window at night

I took them to the cabin in Seldovia for a week. Mostly I remember them sitting at the table before the big picture window, Bob on the left, Mom on the right. They would sit there for hours with heads turned toward the window, chins propped on a hands supported by elbows on the table. The tide would flow from high to low in six hours, sometimes with as much as a twenty-seven foot change in level. The high tide flooded the cove climbing up the banks to where tips of tree limbs dipped into the ocean’s surface. Then it would drain exposing the sea floor with mud flats extending out for hundreds of feet from the shore. They could never get enough of watching it.

Bob, Mom, Joe and Mary at Farewell Celebration, 1993

Mary had planned a garage sale on our return. Those events were always more like parties at our house. It was a big success, lots of friends showed up to meet the soon to be departing couple. Mount Spur blew its top the day before they were to fly home. Volcanic ash covered everything and their departure was delayed for a couple days. Bob seemed more anxious about the interruption, and was more eager to depart than we were to see him go. Things ended fairly well as it was hard to stay mad at Bob.
GO TO: Part 6 - Hazel's Life Without Her Friend Bob

Part 4 - Hazels' Life After She Renewed an Old Friendship

It turned out that Mom’s “boyfriend” was Bob Eschelman, a person I‘d known for many years. I’d met him in the sixties when I bartended at the Moose Lodge, and Bob was one of the two full-time bartenders, working there for many years, possibly till his retirement. He and his wife had been at Dad’s funeral. She died a couple years after that.

Bob was a jovial fellow with a mischievous smile perpetually pasted on his face. He liked to drink, was fun loving, and partied till his dying day. I went with him on one occasion when he run his “trap lines”. That is what he called his daily round of visits to a string of local clubs: VFW, American Legion, Eagles and the Moose Lodge. He had a drink at each one, visited with the bartender and fellow patrons, and then went on to the next. Bob never appeared to be drunk, but did manifest a watery-eyed glow through most of each day. He had a spontaneous nature, and didn’t seem to put much thought into contemplating the consequences of his actions, he just did them.

Mom told me that Bob grew up only child of a prominent family in Anderson, Indiana, hinting that he had been a bit spoiled. He was a wiry little guy, a veteran of World War II, and had served in Europe through most of it. I remember something about the “Battle of the Bulge“. He might have been a prisoner-of-war, though I’m not certain of that. I often wondered if the war might have had something to do with his laissez-faire approach to life, and the uncomplaining toughness that I liked about him .

One time in 1989, after one of my visits to, Mom and I had planned to fly to California to visit my brother and his wife, Don and Ellie. Bob volunteered to drive us to the Indianapolis airport. He arrived a bit late to pick us up, but there was still time to comfortably make it. Kokomo is a long narrow town, measuring two miles on its east-west axis and eight miles north-south. Mom’s house sat on the eastern edge. When Bob pulled out of the driveway he turned west toward the center of town instead of east which would have taken us the half-block to the by-pass and quickly around town. He drove to the center, turned south weaving his way through perceived shortcuts, and finally reached the south edge of town and open road.

It was then that Mom realized she had forgotten her airline ticket. We had to go back to the house. Bob could have taken the by-pass back but retraced his way back through town. Mom retrieved her ticket and Bob started back through town, but I intervened. Now we were running late so Bob sped down the road only to be stopped and ticketed. That took another ten minutes. It did not seem probable but we did make the airport on time.
GO TO: Part 5: Hazel and Her Friend, Bob, Visit Alaska

Part 3 - Hazel's Life after Dad Died in 1985

Dad died in 1985. Mom was 71 years old, my age as I write this. She was alone for the first time in her life, and in shock for sometime afterward. Don and Ellie had recently lost their farm in Wisconsin, had moved to New Orleans, and arrived there only a few days before his passing. They dropped everything and headed to Kokomo. I took a day to arrange for a substitute before boarding a plane for home.

Mom lived another fourteen years without Dad. I think several of those years were pretty lonely especially the first and final few. She visited Don and Ellie in New Orleans, and came up to Alaska, but was kind of a lost sole in both places. She had lived in Kokomo since 1937, but life around town seemed alien to her after he passed.

The trouble with living a long life is that you out-live most everyone else. One of her friends sat in the front row at Dad’s funeral. I no longer remember her name, Bernice maybe, but she and Mom had been the best of buddies since the sixties, did a lot of things together. The woman had emphysema, and breathed with difficulty. I heard that she passed a short time later.

Mom was the last of her generation to go. She outlived her three brothers, and Dad’s four siblings - family members of whom I’d known from my beginning.

Three or four years passed. I visited for a week every year of so, cleaned gutters and did needed repairs around the house. We tried the Senior Center for lunch a couple times, but she didn’t seem to know any one there. We went to a Unitarian Church service. She liked it and continued to attend till summer recess, but never went back when they commenced in the fall. She lived in her bedroom with the television on 24/7. On visits I often crept into the room to turn off the blaring TV after she had gone to sleep. The TV was her constant companion in those days. The bedroom and kitchen became all she needed and were the only rooms she went into.

Then things changed for her in the next year. One night she called me, said she had been out with a couple old friends, a rare occasion. The three had a couple of drinks and Mom’s voice possessed a bit of an uncharacteristic slur. We talked on for a while, then the phone line went silent for a short spell, and then Mom blurted out, “What would you think if I got myself a boy friend?” In-a-way she was asking my permission, would it be alright with me? If I had said something like, “You don’t want to do that.”, she would have dropped the subject and I’d have never heard anything more about it. I said, “That sounds like a good idea to me”. I consider that to have been one of the wisest and most thoughtful statements I’ve made in my life.
GO TO: Part 4 - Hazel's Life After She Renewed an Old Friendship

Part 2 - Hazel's Life in the 1940's and 1950's

Mom took care of Don and I through our toddler years, but went back to work at the Globe factory in Kokomo before the war ended. The factory made parachutes, and was only four or five blocks from the house. I still remember the factory whistle sounding its sad low tone at noon every day.

She ironed clothes at Riggs Dry Cleaners shop for several years in the early fifties. It was a true sweat shop in a small building behind the Riggs’ house. We picked her up at 5pm in the evening and the shop was sometimes so hot that I could not stay inside. She took some courses at the local business school, typing and bookkeeping, and went to work for the Moose Lodge as Dad’s assistant in 1953. She worked in the Moose office until she retired some twenty years later.

Mom was five feet two and weighed 108 pounds. I’m not certain why I remember such an exact weight, but it has stuck in my mind these many years. She was slim, and had auburn colored hair. When I was young she had rounded shoulders; the condition would be diagnosed as scoliosis nowadays. The rounded shoulders became more pronounced as the years passed. Near the end of her life her back was curved into a classic hunchback. It came about so gradually that I don’t think it much concerned her.

Her private time was early in the day. I remember hearing her pad around the house at four and five on many a morning. She had two or three hours to herself, and I still don’t know what she was doing, not for certain. The Kokomo Tribune, like many newspaper of its day, was an evening edition, so she had no morning paper to read. She made coffee, and probably did some light house cleaning, or laundry, but mostly, I think it was simply a private time for her. The rest of the family was up by seven, had breakfast, and on our way to work or school by eight.

We gathered at home again around five or six. Grandma Frank usually made supper, and by seven the dishes were done and Mom laid down on the living room couch to watch some television. Sometimes, early on, she would spoon with Dad as he lay at the back of the couch and she cradled in front. Other times she crashed alone, but she invariably fell asleep and missed most of the nights TV shows. She’d awake, sleepy eyed, about ten or eleven and go off to bed. Five or six hours later the pattern would repeat, and you could again hear quiet padding about the house.

Mom was a smoker. I don’t know when she started, but I suspect she began in her teens. She came from tobacco country, and I expect she saw nearly everyone around her smoking while she was growing up. Phillip Morris cigarettes were her choice when I was young, and later she switched to Kools and Salems. As a kid I heard her hacking cough almost every morning. She smoked to nearly the end of her life, but emphysema eventually destroyed her lungs.

A low point for the family came the year after I graduated from high school. Dad had an affair with a divorced woman who was affiliated with the Moose Lodge. Mom got suspicious and had me drive her by the woman’s house on more than one occasion. One night, as we drove through the alley behind the house Mom spotted Dad’s car in the drive way.

She had me stop and then left the car, picked up a board in the offending woman's yard and broke a window in the back of her house. She then proceeded around the house smashing one window after another. I watched in stunned disbelief as Mom sent shock waves of smashed glass resounding through the neighborhood. I had only a vague notion as to why she was having me drive her, and no idea about what she planned to do. Dad came out about the time she reached the front. He put her in his car and drove away.

 A day or so later two police officers stopped by at midnight with a warrant and took her to jail. It was the worst time our family ever had. I felt used by Mom for dragging me into it, and I was angry at Dad for the betrayal. It was not pleasant around the house for a while, and I never did hear the outcome. I assume someone in the family paid for the broken windows. I do not love them any less for what happened. There was a lot more good than here ever was bad.
GO TO: Part 3 - Hazel's Life After Dad died in 1985

The Life of Hazel (Frank) Buckingham (1913-1999)

Mom always claimed she would never live long enough to see Halley’s Comet, but 1986 came and went, and she was still here. She said she would never make the Millennium, and proved herself right on that one - she died Cinco De Mayo, 1999. Mom often saw the darker side of things, so her prediction of an early death, at 85, was understandable. She was a nice person, even gentle, but her outlook was fatalistic. She accepted life as something of which she had little control, but was frustrated by her powerlessness. Mom often groused against the injustices and stupidities of the world, and she especially loved to hate politicians.

Happiness is a phoenix with a short life span. There were many times when she was buoyed with a smile or laughing at a joke. She loved to play Euchre and I remember her sitting in a foursome at the Moose Lodge on many occasions. She worked crossword puzzles, and read lots of books. She could be on a high for weeks, but the mythical bird of happiness would eventually crash and burn. She did not plunge into an emotional darkness, but simply leveled off flat after a shallow dive. A lot of people who are depressed can be irritable but it wasn't her way. I never recognized it then but now realize she probably suffered mild depression most of her life.

Mom was born in a railroad car in eastern Kentucky on September 17, 1913. She went by Hazel Mae Frank, but her birth certificate indicated that she was "Mary Frank". She didn't know why that name was on it, and was never given an explanation. Mom once told me that she always felt like an outsider in her own birth family. 

She had three older brothers, Art, Charlie and Joe. The family returned to Catawba Kentucky shortly after she was born. It was her parents hometown, and both their families still lived there. Her maternal grandparents, Charles and Julia Jacobs, died the year before she was born, but her Pop’s parents, George and Mary Frank, were still alive.

She grew up dirt poor because her Pop too often drank up his paycheck. He had a good job with the railroad, but was a bit crazy and several of Mom’s stories about his escapades are hair raising. Catawba was an L&N Railroad creation. There wasn’t much to it then, and it’s not even a ghost town now. The old town is gone, the Jacobs family home was razed years ago, and there is new house sitting where it stood. Their graves lay in a far corner of its backyard.

The family left Catawba in about 1919 and spent a couple years outside Cincinnati before moving on to Connersville, Indiana when she was nine. She quit school after her sophomore year, and was working at the Auburn Auto Company when she met Dad in 1935. They married in June of 1936 and moved to Kokomo, Indiana the following year

GO TO: Part 2 - Hazel's Life in the 1940's and 1950's

Wes Warner's Memorial Day - July 23, 2011

Wes's Salmon Carving at the Fish Camp

Friends and family met at Wes's Fish Camp, his home on the Kenai River, to remember and celebrate his life, They came from Arizona, Idaho, Mississippi, Nevada, North Carolina, and Alaska.

Our new Winnebago Class C

Mary and I drove our new RV on it maiden voyage. It was a brand new 2007 model... but it was new to us.  Pogo, our young dog made her fisrt camping trip with us.

Mary and Pogo at Wes' s Fish Camp

Carla & Frances Ann Prepare food

There was a hugh run of Red Salmon up the river, so the river was packed with fish in the channel and people on the banks pulling them out. Lots caught at Wes's fish camp that weekend.

Paul and Pete Warner share a memory.

Ernie Warner flew in from Coeur d' Alene, ID

Warren and Wendy Hagman came in from Henderson, NV

Paul Warner flew in from Seattle to make friends with Pogo

Pete Warner talks to his cousin, Sean Waterman, from Arizona.

Frances Waterman came from Arizona with his two sons.

Friends and Family gather to share memories.

Waitning for the start of the Memorial Service.

Fishing was great on the Kenai - the Reds were running.

 

At five the group gathered for the Memorial to Wes.  Warren Hagman read  The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service,  Wes's favorite Alaska poem.

Warren reads The Cremation of Sam McGee

The launch to spread Wes's ashed.

Scott Waterman of Arizona pays his respect.

Carla Warner gives Wes's sshes to the Kenai.

In Memory of Wes Warner.

Wes We'll Miss You.

More Taxes on the Wealthy

They Can Afford it, and the Country Needs It

The rich and Corporate American can well afford to pay more taxes. Congress and President Reagan enthusiastically reduced government revenue thirty years ago, but lacked the will to make corresponding cuts in spending. That is also the time our country began to run huge deficits, and started borrowing to fill the void. We have been selling our financial soul to the Orient ever since, a fact that many Americans seem to have been ignorant of until two years ago - curious.

Much of the grousing about President Obama’s plan to “tax the rich” circles around the specious theory that tax cuts for the wealthy spurs economic growth, and increases revenue (remember the “Laffer Curve“, “Supply-Side” and “trickle down“ economics?) The Republicans have been pushing the bogus argument for thirty years. It has yet to bare fruit; we aught to stop trying things that don‘t work.

Over those same thirty years the wealth of the country has become concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. Republicans seem to think taxes are evil and unfair, especially taxes on the rich. They conveniently disregard the fact that government, by its nature, redistributes wealth. They don’t acknowledge that the redistribution has, for the past generation, been a continual siphon from the lower to the upper classes of the economic ladder.

It is ludicrous to hear Republicans complain that Obama wants to “spread the wealth” by increasing the top tax bracket to the 2001 level of 39.6%. - a rate that is historically modest. For many years government tax policy was geared toward an equitable distribution of wealth. That started to shift in the mid-sixties, and accelerated in the early eighties. Only twice in our history has the top bracket been lower than the present era: 1.) 1913 at 7% when income tax was enacted. It jumped to 67% in 1917 and rose above 70% in succeeding years; 2.) 1925 thru 1931, when it fell to 25% . By 1928 the nation’s wealth was concentrated at the top of the economic pyramid, a recorder breaker surpassed only by the present. “The Great Depression” followed in 1929. We are now in “The Great Recession”.

The top tax bracket from 1944 through 1963, a twenty year span, was never less than 91% and had as many as 26 brackets. The economy boomed. The middle class was active and robust. Jobs were plentiful. The wealth of the country was more evenly distributed than at any time in our history. One can argue whether higher taxes make that possible. Maybe, but it certainly didn’t stymie economic growth.

The federal tax code presently has just six brackets, the top being 35%. A person making a taxable income of $250,000 will pay $67,617 (that’s maximum - lots of loop holes to whittle it down). Another way of looking at it - the person gets to keep over $182,000. Most Americans today would have difficulty comprehending an after-tax paycheck of $3,500 a week. An earner making a million a year will take home $13,000 per week; one making ten million a year gets to keep over $125,000.

Impressive! But those are paltry in comparison to the super-rich. One making a hundred million a year takes home $1,250,000 per week. A billion year earner - yes, there are such creatures - takes home $12,500,000 - like winning the lottery every week. Many pay a smaller tax rate than the rest of us. Numerous corporations pay no taxes. CEO’s and hedge funds managers pay only 15% “capital gains” tax.

One thing that’s changed over the last thirty years is the rivers of money that have flowed into the political system. This commenced in the mid-seventies when businesses began to form (The Business Roundtable, an early example) in unprecedented ways, creating and financing organizations whose aim were to influence government policy. The trend continues. Hundreds of millions fund “Think Tanks” and K Street Lobbies. Phalanxes of lawyers write “White Papers”, authoritative reports, to sway congress to “special interest” view points. Sometimes they even write the laws. For every public sector lobbyist in Washington there are hundreds speaking for Corporate America and the superrich.

Equal sums are funneled into political action committees to finance campaigns and manipulate elections. The recent Supreme Court decision “Citizens United vs The Federal Elections Commission” has freed corporations and labor unions to pump unlimited funds, anonymously, into politics. That contest will certainly go to corporate America because its adversary, labor, is a frail shadow of its former self. These moneyed activities are self-serving. They act neither for the common good nor the long-term interest of people.

The unequal distribution of wealth hasn’t come about because the rich are smarter, or better educated. They don’t work harder, or have an edge on technology. It has transpired, as it did in the “Gilded Age” of the 1870‘s, and again in the 1920’s, because money is power and organized power impacts government policy.

We Americans pride ourselves on being an egalitarian society, but a natural tension exists between democratic ideals and the moneyed aspirations of Capitalism. Wealth presently dominates the system. The middle class is in decline. Many wonder if the unequal economy is devolving toward us becoming a nation of “have-and-have-nots“. Some think we are already there. Others say that our democratic government is a parody of its former self? The article was published in the Anchorage Press

Wes on the Kenai River

Bob Evans & Wes Warner visiting, 1987

Bob Evans came home one day in 1975 to inform us that he was buying a condo in Mount Vernon Estates in mid-town, and would be moving. That was the beginning of the end of our bachelor household. Wes had met Carla Clayton a year earlier and the two would marry within a couple years. So our trio broke up and I became the sole owner of the house.

Wes, Carla, and Frances, visiting in 1994

Wes went into business with two other guys, obtained a NAPA auto parts franchise, and opened their first store on the Old Seward Highway. Over the years the business expanded to include stores in several towns around the State.

Joe & Moonshine visiting Wes in 2007

Wes and Carla had a girl, Frances, and in 1992 they moved to a log home on the Kenai River off Funny River Road near Soldotna. Wes managed the NAPA store in Soldotna for several years before retiring. They went to Mississippi each winter, but Wes never missed coming back to Funny River every summer.

Mary visiting Wes on Kenai River in 2007

We continued to get together over the years. Mary and I stopped by to visit Wes nearly every season. More than once we parked our travel trailer behind his house, over-looking the Kenai River, and spent a few leisure days fishing and visiting while sitting at the fire pit near the river’s bank.

Joe at the firepit at Wes's place, Kenai River, 2007 

On one occasion I picked him up at the airport on his spring return from Mississippi when his flight leg to Kenai had an extra long layover. He came back to Anchorage only one time that I remember. That was in 2003. He drove up intending to spend a few days looking around town to see how much it had changed. He stayed two nights - couldn’t stand the bustle of the big city any longer.

Joe, Moonshine & Wes on Wendys Way, 2003

Mary, our dog Moonshine, and I spent three or four nights with Wes in 2007. Moonshine was forever transfixed by the resident squirrel living in the tree next to the house, but the main event that visit was Mary’s decision to fish for salmon. A run of Sockeyes filled the river, and she, after twenty years of distaining the fish, had discovered “blackened salmon” and couldn’t seem to get enough of it. We went to Soldotna and got her a license, but she gave up the sport before getting a line wet. I caught the first one, clubbed it over the head to send it to fish heaven, and Mary decided, then-and-there, the sport was to violent for her. However, she had no qualms in continuing to consume the abused creatures.

Moonshine visits squirrel at Wes's, 2007

View of Kenai River from our Trailer, 2007

In 2009 we stopped by for an afternoon to introduce Wes to my nephew and grandnephew, Lee and Daulton, who were making their first visit to Alaska from the flatlands of Indiana. Mary and I were giving them a whirlwind tour in seven days, and I wanted them to meet Wes.

Joe with a Red Salmon, 2007

I went down by myself for the last visit of 2010. The summer had been miserable with constant rain - a record of more than thirty consecutive days. A break in the weather finally came in September. I had a pleasant stay with Wes and his son Pete. Pete fixed a freshly caught Silver Salmon the first night and we had steaks the next.

Wes at Funny River, 2007

I called Wes several times over that winter. We invited him and Pete for Thanksgiving, but the drive was, I think, more than he could handle. We talked to him right after New Years - invited him again.

The ladder to the fishing hole at Wes's, 2007

Pete called to report the sad news the first of April. I knew Wes had felt poorly for a couple of years. I’d ask him how he was feeling, and he’d say, “Not so good”. He didn’t sleep well, had trouble walking, couldn’t even get down the ladder to fish anymore. Several times he said something like, “I don’t know why I’m still around!”. Wes “Crossed the Bar” on March 31, 2011. He was one of the nicest guys I ever knew, and the first friend I made in Alaska. I’ll miss him.
GO TO: Wes's Memorial Day