BOXES

I have a box that I keep my stuff in.  Not a real box but a phycological box.  In it, I keep my things like number 6 and the color blue.  These are my favorites.  I also keep my opinions in it and my religious, social and political beliefs.  I admit during my formative years I opened it often adding new things.  Now I keep it locked very very rarely opening it to add something.  I wonder why that is?  Perhaps because my box has limited space.

Everyone has a box like mine.  Mostly with different stuff in theirs.  And that's okay with me.  I don't try to make others put 6 or blue in their boxes.  The problem I have encountered is that isn't true of a lot of people.  They want to force me to put their favorite number or color in my box.  They say I must think outside my box.  Meaning they don't agree with the stuff in my box and want me to change it.

The saying "Think outside your box" is absurd.  It is impossible for people to think differently than what is in their box.  One can only add to or take away from the stuff in their box for we are slaves to our boxes.  Wars are caused by people trying to force their boxes on others.

Recently a friend opened my eyes, or rather my box, to a remarkable concept.  Forget "thinking outside the box."  She said we should dump all our stuff out the box and throw the box away.
Now that is a liberating thought.  I am no longer in bondage to the confines of my box.  All my stuff is now lying right there in front of me with plenty of room.  I can add to it or take away from it at my pleasure, never running out of room for new stuff.  Other people's stuff can mix with mine and it doesn't matter.  There's plenty of space so I can just ignore their stuff, or perhaps add new.  Maybe even some of your stuff.

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren     

Mr. MaGraferty

My story begins in the early days of the war, WWII, in Englands' rural farming area, at a crossroads locally called, MaGrafertys' Junction after the family that lived near it.  Their house was about 250 yards out the west road behind a grove of trees.  Two miles out the east road the RAF built an auxiliary airfield.  

These roads were little more than lanes, never intended for cars or trucks, and none had proper names.  The countryside was pleasing to the eye, well kept like you would see on postcards.  The RAF marred the scenery with a guard post at MaGrafertys' Junction.  Its' main purposes were to direct traffic to the airfield, maintain a military presence and just sorta keep an eye out.

Private Pennington, along with the rest of a skeleton crew were stationed at the airfield, named No. 6.  Pvt. Penningtons' job was to man the guard post at MaGrafertys' Junction.  A dubious duty, more usually associated with punishment, and he hated it.  In the ignorance of his youth, he longed to be where the action was.  Nevertheless Pvt. Pennington arose at reville, ate breakfast, and rode the bicycle assigned to him to the guard post.  He remained there until time for evening mess then rode back, ate and joined the other enlisted men in the tent they lived in.  The war was passing him by. 

A week had passed since the guardhouse, little more than a telephone booth really, had been finished and he took up his post.  It was March 6th, and dreary.  Pvt. Pennington was dreaming of glory on the battlefield when he noticed a man coming out of the grove of trees heading his way.  The man was carrying a mess tin.  He walked up to the Private and introduced himself as Mr. MaGraferty.  "My house is just the other side of that grove of trees.  It's 3 o'clock, I thought you might like a spot of tea and cakes.  Pvt. Pennington didn't quite know what to do.  Not sure about the rules, but glad for the company, he said "Yes sir, I'm Harvey Pennington, I-I mean Pvt. Pennington," he stammered. 

They sat down on the wooden bench.  As the Pvt. got out his canteen cup Mr. MaGraferty took the lid off the mess tin and lifted out the still-warm plate of cakes.  Beneath it, the pot was full of hot tea laced with cream and honey.  What a treat for Pvt. Pennington.

They chatted about the war as they drank the tea and ate the cakes.  Mr. MaGraferty talked about his family.  His great-great-grandfather had bought their little farm out of serfdom and spent his life paying it off.  His grandfather had built their house.  He said, "I have two daughters in the RAF.  My wife, the Mrs., is in the house," indicating toward the grove of trees with his head.

Pvt. Pennington didn't have much life to talk about.  At 18 he had just finished school and joined the Army.  That was three months ago.  "And now here I am in this backwater guardhouse while the war passes me by,"  he blurted out.  Dying was a remote concept to the Private. Something that happened to other people.  After tea, Mr. MaGraferty wished him well and said, "I'll drop by and we'll have tea again."  Then he headed back into the grove of trees.

The tea times had been going on for several weeks when Sergeant Harris, the Sergeant of Guards for Pvt. Penningtons' post, stopped by for an inspection.  As the Sergeant and the Pvt. talked Mr. MaGraferty walked up with tea.  He introduced himself to the Sergeant and Pvt. Pennington explained who Mr. MaGraferty was and about the tea visits.  Sergeant Harris was upset and wanted to know why the Pvt. hadn't informed him.  The Pvt. admitted he was afraid it was against the rules.  

Mr. MaGraferty said, "Please Sergeant, won't you join us for tea?  I have plenty for three."  The Sergeant, a bit stiffly, agreed. After tea, as Mr. MaGraferty walked back into the grove of trees the Sergeant said, "I'd better go check him out.  Just to be sure he's on the level" and headed for the grove.

Sergeant Harris knocked on the front door.  "Good afternoon Mum, I'm Sergeant Harris from the guardhouse at the crossroads, are you Mrs. MaGraferty?"  "Yes, please come in."  Not wanting to be too demonstrative he meekly followed her into the living room.  "Warm yourself by the fire, would you like some tea?" "No thank you, Mum, actually I would like to talk to Mr. MaGraferty, I just had tea with him."  She looked at him for a moment and said, "There must be some mistake.  My husband, Mr. MaGraferty died last year."  The Sergeant looked at the family pictures on the mantle.  Pointing to the picture of a stoic looking man he said, "That's the man I'm talking about.  Is that Mr. MaGraferty?"  She replied, "Yes it is, but as I said, there must be some mistake, he died a year ago March 6th."  Sergeant Harris stood looking at her for several seconds.  "Is there another Mr. MaGraferty?  A brother or son?" he asked.  "No one," she said sadly.  A strange feeling came over him leaving him at a loss for words.  Finally, the Sergeant said, "Yes Mum, I-I won't trouble you any further."  She escorted him to the door in silence.  And bid him farewell.

"I'm telling you she said the man we just had tea with has been dead over a year.  She's living in near poverty. None of this makes any sense. I've got to report it to the O.I.C." Sergeant Harris got into the jeep slowly shaking his head.   Pvt. Pennington stood dumbfounded as the Sergeant drove off.  

At headquarters, Sergeant Harris reported the incident to his company commander.  A quick check of the files they had on all the families in the area verified Mrs. MaGraferty.  There were Mr. MaGrafertys' picture and copy of death certificate dated March 6 of last year.  "Of course, Sergeant, you have made a mistake.  And by the way, your orders just came in.  You're being transferred to a combat infantry unit."  The file picture convinced Sergeant Harris there was no mistake, but he disappeared into the war and the incident was forgotten by the Army.

Meanwhile, the RAF built an entrance gate at the airfield and moved the guardhouse to the main gate.  Pvt. Pennington never saw Mr. MaGraferty again and was soon transferred to another outfit.  From time to time he would tell his buddies the story of Mr. MaGraferty.  Of course, they would laugh at it and soon the war erased it from his memory. Private Pennington was killed in action seven months later.

Four years later Mrs. MaGraferty answered the knock at her front door.  There stood a young officer.  "Are you Mrs. MaGraferty?"  "Yes, what can I do for you?"  "Well Mum, I'm Captain Bigaloe from the Dept. of Economic Welfare.  Do you know a Sergeant Roland Harris?"  "Sergeant Harris," she pondered a few seconds, then glancing at the picture of her late husband said," Oh yes, I met Sergeant Harris briefly when he was in charge of the guard post at the Junction.  Why?"  

"Mrs. MaGraferty, Sergeant Harris made you his beneficiary.  He had no family and apparently you impressed him.  I regret he was killed in the Normandy invasion."  "Oh my, I'm so sorry.  So many young men dying these days." "He left you his life insurance," the Captain said and handed her an envelope which she opened and took out a check.  It was for the sum of 5000 pounds.  "I can't believe it.  Are you sure there is no mistake?"  "No Mum,  no mistake," he replied.  

"This money is God sent," she said.  I am about to lose the farm.  With my husband dead I simply haven't been able to make ends meet."  The officer smiled and acknowledged her surprise and thankfulness.  "Will you have some tea?"  she asked.  "Sorry Mum, but as you said, so many young men dying.  I have to be off."

After escorting him to the door Mrs. MaGraferty returned to the living room, walked over to the fireplace, reached up to the mantle and leaned the check against the picture of Mr. MaGraferty.  She glanced up at his face, gasped loudly and jumped back a step.  Regaining her composure she picked up the now smiling picture and gave Mr. MaGraferty a loving kiss. 

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren                                 

WHAT'S NEXT?

Since I'm old and know that I will die soon I find myself facing the question of what's next.  I have had my childhood, my youth, my hour in the sun, my middle age, and my old age.  So now, what's next?  As far back as history records, people have asked this question, for dying is certainly a common practice.  As I see it there are only three possibilities.   

The first is that existence and awareness don't end with physical death.  We are created with a spirit, soul, and body.  Just as natural birth is the beginning of life so death is the continuation of a  different kind of life.  A life that isn't bound by physical laws.  One in which we have glorified (supernatural) bodies and live in an eternal dimension of some sort. 

This life is a preparatory time for the "real" eternal life that is to follow the shedding of our mortal bodies.  The major religions of the world all share this belief or some variation of it.  Their point is that the way we live our finite physical lives, good or bad, has a direct bearing on the quality of our eternal life.  Which brings us to reward or punishment.  Therefore giving purpose to this life in hopes of eternal reward. 

The second belief is that existence and awareness end with physical death.  This belief can be very attractive.  Basically, it borrows the same right and wrong guidelines as the first.  However, the door is open to whatever you can get away with.  There are no "otherworldly" consequences.  In other words, stealing isn't wrong, has no consequences, unless you get caught.  These laws may vary from one country or culture to another, or change over time.  Behavior is relative.  We obey these laws out of fear of punishment or social pressure.  As in a pack, herd, or tribe.  Our rewards come in the form of material things and attaboys from others, and punishment comes when we get caught breaking one of the systems' empirical rules.

This belief promotes domination of the strongest or most persuasive person, country, religion or idea.  It guarantees perpetual competition and warring for dominance.        

 The third belief is reincarnation.  In this belief, we perpetually die and are reborn as another person or creature.  Who or what we become depends on how we live this life, good or bad.

  As I look at the natural world I see a well-balanced system.  Symbiotic creatures depending on each other for survival and predators that maintain the natural balance of life.  Nature is simply rocking along maintaining a healthy planet by repairing and replenishing itself. When I throw in humans look at what happens.  People only take and ruin.  Humans give nothing back to this little planet.  We are like a plague, an infestation destroying the earth.  We're not even working together for the survival of our species.  In other words, humanity isn't getting better it's getting worse.  In this system, we will reincarnate ourselves out of existence.      

No one knows for sure which belief is correct. So let's get on with life and enjoy ourselves.  Blow up a Mosque here, a Synagogue there, bring down a couple of skyscrapers, shoot up a church or school, down an airliner, oops, recruit more suicide bombers, oh, and never mind what our side is doing.  After all, life is short.    

Of course, life is not as simple as I have postulated it herein.  We live in a convoluted world.  People who believe in life after death act like they don't and people who don't believe in the hereafter live like they do.   

 "For what I am doing, I do not understand; for I am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate."   Wretched man that I am!"

Yep, that about sums it up.  

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren

   

  

                   

  

       

THIS SMALL PLANET

The planet we live on,

its name is Earth,

compared to the universe,

is to small to measure.

On a universal scale, 

we don't even exist.

Yet on this small planet
there lives in abundance

an incredible variety of life.

The natural balance

and interdependence

is truly amazing.

Philosophers philosophize 

and scientists scientificate,

but the truth is

matter happened
without the help of man. 

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren

THE VANISHING  2

As I walked to Delta operations in Dallas I replayed what had happened.  I had just landed Delta Airlines Flight 57. I had left L.A. that morning on the Early Bird flight heading for Atlanta with stops in Las Vegas and Dallas.  The flight to Las Vegas had been routine.  We then took off, climbing to altitude and leveled off above the desert at Flight Level 370 just as the sun rose above the eastern horizon.  It was blinding so I pulled my sunscreen down and closed my eyes.  The sun was warm on my face making me drowsy so I put on my quick doning oxygen mask.  Never the less I must have dozed off.  I awoke with a start and turned to apologize to the other guys and was surprised to see they were asleep as well.   I shook the First Officer and Flight Engineer.  They had difficulty waking up and appeared disoriented.
I called for a flight attendant to get some coffee for us.  No one answered.  I made a PA asking for one to come forward.  No response.  Making sure the aircraft was safely on autopilot, I got out of my seat, walked back to the cockpit door, and opened it.  Everyone appeared asleep.  I went to the A-Line Flight Attendant and tried to wake her up.  She was listless, unable to focus on what I was saying.  All the passengers were either asleep or in a stupor.
I climbed back in my seat and strapped in.  The sky was clear so I could see the desert below and mountains in the distance.   Checking the fuel gauges, I saw they were normal.  Fighting to control myself I squawked 7700, the emergency code on the transponder and called air traffic control center.  While they were searching for me, I checked my VOR to establish my position.  About the same time center found me, I established my position as 50 miles east of Tuba City, Arizona. I declared an emergency and asked center for clearance direct Dallas. They asked me where I had come from as they had no flight plan or previous radar contact with me and also wanted to know the nature of my emergency.  I stammered, "We left Las Vegas at 0530.  I-I don't know what's going on.  Everyone is unconscious.  Have ambulances standing by.  I have 157 passengers and crew on board." They came back with, "Roger, Delta 57, fly heading 095.  Keep us advised."   As I continued the flight to Dallas, playing pilot and flight engineer the co-pilot and engineer slowly came around but remained disoriented.  Back in my Captain zone the flight, approach, and landing were uneventful.
By the time we got to the gate in Dallas, everyone was ambulatory.  Medics escorted them to waiting buses to take them to the hospital.  The station manager was just as shocked as I was.  He had no idea what was going on.  He took me to the pilot lounge to rest while he contacted the company.
I fell asleep immediately and had a dream.  I was sitting in my cockpit seat when suddenly the aircraft was engulfed in what looked like static electricity.
The station manager came in and woke me.  I could tell he was nervous as he told me the company was sending some people out from Atlanta, and in the meantime, they wanted him to take me to the hospital for a check-up.  I thought there may have been some sort of failure in the pressurization system causing us all to blackout so I agreed to go. On the way, the station manager asked me to tell him again when I left L.A.  I told him,  "This morning, we pushed back at four o'clock.  The hour meter on the aircraft should confirm my flight time."  Looking at me with a strange look on his face he said, "Your flight has been missing for nearly a month."

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren