Veteran's Day

From the Camp Casey Alumni board:

Many GSFP members will be attending events this weekend to commemorate Veterans Day.

Bill Mitchell, Jane and Jim Bright, Vickie Castro and Melanie House will be attending the events at the Veterans for Peace Arlington West, Santa Monica.

WHERE: Arlington West is North of the Santa Monica Pier on Beach
(Near Santa Monica Fwy and Pacific Coast Hwy.)

WHEN: Friday, November 11th thru Sunday, November 13th

NOTE: 400 Volunteers are needed at Arlington West just north of Santa Monica Pier at 9AM on Saturday, November 12th to carry 100 flag draped coffins on a procession thru Santa Monica.
To volunteer call Tonia at 310.455.2688.

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Cindy Sheehan and Dede Miller will be in New York City for the Veterans day Parade then on to Amhurst Massachusettes for the American Friends Service Committees Eyes wide open exhibit.

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Karen Meredith will be attending events at DeAnza college, Cupertino Ca.

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Not One More Mother's Child

by Cindy Sheehan

Cindy Sheehan lost her son in an ambush in Iraq in 2004.

As information became available verifying that the war was based on lies and "cooked intelligence," she began speaking out and testifying in the halls of Congress. In August 2005, she went to Crawford, Texas, to confront President Bush, and the floodgates of a renewed American peace movement were opened. 10,000 people joined her, and millions more world wide.

Cindy's just released book of writings is now available on Amazon.com.

GSFP is offering a signed copy of Cindy's book for donations of $100.00 or more. All procedes from these donations will assist in furthering the work of Gold Star Families for Peace.

2000 Dead. Say no. Start tomorrow.

So, I’m watching Faux News. Sometimes I like to see what the under-informed are hearing. At the moment, we seem to be back to, “We could’ve won Viet Nam.”

A few moments ago we saw footage from Iraq; of soldiers explaining how security kept this week’s hotel bombings from inflicting the kind of damage they could have.

Al Qaeda has claimed responsibility for the bombings.

Here’s my thing: I want our soldiers to be thanked for having secured the area to the extent that lives were, in fact, saved. There was a cement truck loaded with explosives that could have brought down a building, and the damage was minimized. The explosives were kept from the locations that would have inflicted the most damage. And it’s because of our troops, and they should be thanked.

Yet….

In a newscast such as this one, how can we make room for the fact that our presence is the reason for the bombs? The fact that, whether effects were mitigated or not, the explosions occurred within the “Green Zone”? The fact that Al Qaeda had no access to central Iraq before we came? That they were distinctly at odds with the secular aims of the regime, and we have opened a vacuum wherein Islamists and fanaticism prosper?

I don’t know what the news should be doing, but I know I want our men and women home.

So, news from the home resistance below.

In Thousand Oaks IMMEDIATE
Citizens of the Conejo Mourn 2,000 U.S. Soldiers Killed in Iraq
Candlelight vigil at the corner of Lynn and Hillcrest
On the lawn across from the Oaks Mall

Thousand Oaks – Local residents will hold a vigil to mourn the 2000 American soldiers who have died in Iraq. People will gather at candle light vigils holding signs that say “How Many More?” and “Support Our Troops. Bring Them Home.”

Vigil details:
Who: Residents of the Conejo Valley and members of MoveOn.org
Where: At the corner of Lynn & Hillcrest, across from the Oaks Mall
When: Wednesday, October 26, 2005, 6:30 PM

Gather in peace with candles, signs, flowers and photos. A special invitation has been extended to veterans and military family members. You can sign up and download placards, etc at moveon.org

In Santa Monica, Sunday:
PLEASE DISTRIBUTE WIDELY…. Bring friends and family…
Veterans For Peace Invites the Public to Attend Special Candlelight Vigil
At the Arlington West Memorial in Santa Monica, next to pier
This Sunday, October 30th ~ 5:00-7:00 PM for Candlelight Vigil
On the Occasion of the 2,000th U.S. Troop Death in Iraq

WHO: Special Invited Guests include: Members of Gold Star Families for Peace,
Military Families Speak Out, and Iraq Veterans Against the War
WHERE: Arlington West is located next to the Santa Monica Pier at Beach
WHEN: Sunday, October 30th
TIME: 7:30 AM – Help set-up crosses
4:00 PM Help set-up - candles
5:00 - 7:00 PM Candlelight Vigil
8:00 PM Help break-down crosses
NOTE: DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME CHANGES ON SUNDAY
TO VOLUNTEER CONTACT: Steven Bowers
213.447.5424 / sbowers@onebox.com

SANTA MONICA -- On the eve of this milestone, the 2,000th troop death in Iraq, Veterans for Peace invites families with loved ones who are serving in Iraq, families whose loved ones were killed in Iraq and families whose loved ones may deploy or re-deploy to join a solemn public memorial and candlelight vigil.

Crosses will be erected in the sand by Veterans for Peace and volunteers next Sunday, October 30th at Santa Monica Pier like every Sunday, only for the first time will include 2,000 markers. A tribute not only to the fallen U.S. soldiers in Iraq, but also to the countless Iraqi civilians.

Flag draped coffins will rest in forefront, beside a 20 foot long board that names the dead servicemen and women. Visitors are invited to write the name of a soldier, any personal comment, and with a fresh flower, place an identity to each cross and bring a candle for the vigil.

Volunteers are encouraged to come early to help set-up or stay late to help break-down the temporary cemetery.

Veterans for Peace will also sponsor a special Veterans Day Weekend program November 11-13 at Arlington West on Santa Monica Beach north of the Pier.

If you have never visited Arlington West, please come. It's unforgettable.

And in DC:
2,000 Dead, Not One More
By Cindy Sheehan

Civil disobedience becomes a sacred duty when the State becomes lawless and corrupt.
- Mahatma Gandhi

Unfortunately, the 2,000th American death in Iraq is tragically coming up too soon. In addition to the young lives wasted in Iraq, 246 of our brave men and women have been killed in Afghanistan. Our troops and the war in Afghanistan get even less attention than Iraq, if possible.

I am in Washington, DC, now and along with a coalition of peace groups and local activists, we will be holding vigils at the White House for the rest of the week from 12 noon to 8 p.m.

Each day, we will be passing out black wrist bands, and we will have each person who picks one up write a KIA troops' name and number on it. Each wrist band will also stand for 50 innocent Iraqis killed. Every day at 6 p.m., we will have a "die-in." We will ask everyone who is present at 6 p.m. to lie down and represent a dead soldier. At that point, the park police will give us three warnings before they arrest us. We are not encouraging people to get arrested. That is a very personal decision. I am planning to not get up on the day after the 2,000th soldier is killed. I may be arrested. Then, when they let me out, I will go back and lie back down. We in America have let this criminal administration get away with murder for too long. Enough is enough. It's time to start practicing non-violent civil disobedience ( C.D.) on a large scale.

On Tuesday the 25th, we will be fasting for the length of the vigil in solidarity with the hardships that Americans and Iraqis are enduring on a daily basis. We are asking America to fast in solidarity with us.

On Wednesday the 26th at 10:30 a.m., we will be going to Arlington Cemetery to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then to the White House for our vigil.

On Thursday the 27th at 10:30 a.m., we will be delivering a wreath and signed sympathy cards to the Iraqi Embassy. We are asking people who come out to our vigil on the Lafayette Park side to bring sympathy cards. Then to the White House for our vigil.

On Friday the 28th at 10:30 a.m., we will be delivering flowers and get well wishes to Walter Reed Hospital, and we are asking people to bring get well cards to our vigil. Then off to the White House for our vigil.

Tomorrow I will be calling on President Bush to answer my original question: "What Noble Cause?" There is absolutely no noble cause. Our children and the Iraqi people are dying and suffering for no cause except for power and money-greedy criminals.

The numbers are staggering. More American soldiers have been KIA in the first 32 months of Iraq so far than in the first four years of Vietnam. This isn't another Vietnam, people - this is worse.

We cannot allow the people who are running our country to keep on running it into the ground.

It is time to exercise our sacred duty as human beings.

Let's get peacefully radical.

Please support IVAW

Although I haven't found any local coverage yet, there is a 9 minute interview with John, Aaron, and Tim at LA Indy Media, plus some photos from Simi.
Try a lttle taste test: Listen to W's speech about the War on Terror from the library- or any W speech about Iraq- and then listen to three veterans who've been there discuss why they're willing to stand on a corner and waqit for Bush to drive by.

These guys win the message hands down.

And on we go....

(Photos above courtesy of LA Indy Media),
Just returned from a Bush Greeting at the Ronald Reagan Library. Amazingly, it was easy to get from the 23 down to Country Club Drive, that stretch of Olsen wasn't closed except during the actual motorcade.
I didn't do a head count, I'm guessing that perhaps 50 people were there to greet the president with signs calling for honesty, impeachment, peace, etc. I heard that there were people down the road on Madera, as well, but that stretch of Olsen was closed, so they couldn't get up to where we were.
I was thrilled to see three members of IVAW, including sweet Aaron from Agoura and Tim Goodrich.
I also neglected to bring a camera, which is a shame. There was a 4 year-old in a Superman costume holding a Bush pants-on-fire doll, and I'd have liked a shot of him. However, Aaron said he'd email me, and he was taking a lot of shots, so maybe I will post some of his....
Later.

How to help the VFP in Louisiana

People have asked me how to donate directly to the Louisiana relief effort without going through the Red Cross. Use the Impeachment Tour link to the right and go directly to the VFP Roadtrips page. The page lists current needs and contact information, and also has a PayPal button.

A full working Camp Casey, run by Ann Wright and the VFP from Mendocino is delivering aid directly to residents and evacuees in Covington, LA. They have a sat link and generators, and so are able to keep the web page updated and current.

In peace,

Here it is

For those who are curious, my journal of our Crawford journey. We were only in Crawford from Friday at about noon hrough Monday at about 2:00, but felt almost immediately like it was home.

It was so hard to leave the people we met. So difficult to imagine what the veterans have all faced, what they continue to face as they fight on for their country.

It was so amazing to be welcomed by people who'd put their bodies on the line and their lives on hold for weeks, who lived in a ditch and cared for each other and made space for us.

My only regrets? That I wasn't there longer. That I didn't help more. That I couldn't stay to break camp. That I cannot remember everyone's names. That I probably did not convey the deep admiration I have for every person who has contributed to camp order and success. That I didn't say thanks to the police.

Camp Casey II and everyone who stayed there deserves to be remembered. It is believed fervently among the campers that Camp Casey marked the beginning of the end to this horrid war, this horrid incopetance and injustice.

Heard from some of the VFP yesterday that they are on the ground in Covington, LA, cooking and supplying the community. They are apparently the only relief group in town so far. The Veterans for Peace fight on.

The Drive

Tina and I got on the road Thursday morning at 3:30. We reached the Mojave in time for a gorgeous sunrise, and the drive continued to be perfect and beautiful as we moved into Northern AZ and NM. We took turns napping and driving, and had plenty of music, snacks, and cold drinks in the car.

I kept adjusting my goal for the day…. First I wanted to get to Albuquerque before sleeping, then Amarillo, then Wichita Falls. The drive went so quickly and so well… At about midnight, Tina pulled into a rest stop in Clarendon, Texas, and we caught some sleep. I woke up at 3:00, grabbed a coffee from the vending machine, washed my face, and started the car. We had 397 miles to get to Waco, which is where you pull off and head west about 20 miles to Crawford.

A word about Texas

I hadn’t been there in 15 years or so, but my memories of the highway and the scenery did the state justice. Once you cross the border you’re greeted by a sign, reminding you to “Drive Friendly”. This reminder is repeated every few miles, all the way through the state. One may laugh with a certain cynicism, but I’m here to tell you that once you leave the state again, you really appreciate the “Drive Friendly” concept. In Texas, you really do just set the cruise control and hang out in the #2 lane, until you need to pass someone. When you do, you get right back into the #2 lane, and relax. If someone needs to pass you, they will. There’s no speeding and weaving and tailgating and “I can’t get over, dammit!”. It’s very relaxing.

On the other hand, Texas has perhaps the most confusing freeway onramps ever conceived, and the signs at the interchanges are so crazy and hard to decipher that we always made sure to hit junctions with both of us wide awake- took two to navigate, every time.

Another thing about Texas, and Crawford in particular that you might not understand from watching the news: Texans are, by and large, lovely and welcoming. Yes, it’s “Bush Country”, and yes, there were those who wanted Camp Casey and its denizens gone. Some who wouldn’t meet your eye, some who made rude or racist comments if met on the street, and my favorites: the older couple who showed up at the counter demonstration with a sign that read, “Repent Treasonous Bastard Scum”. The sheriffs made them cross out “bastard”, as profanity is grounds for arrest in those parts.

But there were also families who rode their bikes out to look at the Arlington South memorial and chat with folks, there were busloads of people from Austin, Dallas, Houston, Fort Worth, who came to be a part of it all. There were Gold Star parents from the Bush camp who came over to share coffee and stories with veterans and parents at the camp. And I understand that when the memorial was taken down yesterday- with solemn ceremony- everyone from the Bush camp crossed the road to take part.

Camp Casey was a place of healing and dialogue, and the wonderful Texans that I met knew and appreciated that, whichever side they were on.

Arrival

Back to the narrative: we arrived at the Crawford Peace House around noon on Friday. I had printed directions from the Internet, but they weren’t needed. Crawford is a tiny, tiny town, and when you pull in on rte 6 the Peace House is almost the first thing you encounter. Pass it and you cross a small dirt lot and some railroad tracks, and then you’re at The Yellow Rose, which served as pro-Bush headquarters during this last month.


At Peace House, we were greeted by a woman named Walking Mary, who’d been there volunteering for two weeks, she said. She immediately set us to work; I made a schedule poster for Friday’s Casey II activities. There was peacekeeper training starting at 1:00, dinner (Buffalo chili), and a Cindy interview for Real Time with Bill Maher. I can’t remember what else I put on the schedule, but I hung it by the front door so that new arrivals would have the plan.



A lovely man named Carl was driving a shuttle to Camp II, and we loaded our gear and got on. The shuttles are rented and privately owned vans with “Peace Shuttle” and various slogans painted in tempera on the windows, driven by whoever has volunteered for the day. They continually make the rounds: between Peace House and the camps, or between camps I and II. In addition to shuttles, once you’re settled in camp, you never drive anywhere without a full car. Etiquette dictates that you pull up to the shuttle stop and shout, “Anyone need a ride to Camp II?” or where ever, and there are always takers.

Our drive through Crawford was mercifully air conditioned, and we began making friends immediately with people who’d just arrived and people who’d been there a few days. Aside from the crazy décor at Yellow Rose and a couple of “We Support Our President” signs on a couple of houses, I didn’t notice too much propaganda on the road to camp. I though that it would be much more aggressive, with warring posters everywhere. That’s what it sounded like in the news, anyway. But it was just a drive down bucolic country lanes, after all.

Camp Casey II: The party camp

Camp II sat on an acre of land, lent by Mr. Mattelage. It is at the rear entrance to the president’s “ranch”. On the acre sits the tremendous white catering tent, which was used at the infamous Bush fundraiser at the Broken Spoke Ranch two weeks ago. On the day of the fundraiser, folks far and wide were appalled to hear of the presidential Suburbans whizzing past Camp Casey and Cindy without looking or stopping. Understand: the road is narrow, and he had to drive practically on top of the Arlington South memorial to get to the $2 million fundraiser. It seemed so callous, so rude. It was, however, a great thing in the end. If the fundraiser had not happened, the tent wouldn’t have been in Crawford, and there wouldn’t have been any shelter at Camp Casey II. As it turned out, the fundraiser was a blessing.


Of course, the tent wouldn’t have been needed if Bush had just stopped the motorcade and got out, talked to Cindy and acknowledged the war memorial.

That was the last time he left the “ranch” by car.

At Camp II, you are greeted as elsewhere by a reception table under an awning. There you sign in, and can begin volunteering almost immediately. Beyond the reception table is the Arlington South memorial, white crosses with the names of the fallen, and boots placed among them by Eyes Wide Open, a group within the American Friends Service Committee.


Behind the memorial is a gallery of portraits, and beyond it, fronting the road, are the booths for Iraq Veterans Against the War, Code Pink, Not in Our Name, and Peace House. The Iraq war vets have pitched their pup tents on the site, as well. You can find them sitting at the booth, greeting people, answering questions, planning, hanging out. They are mostly young, all wonderful and open and earnest. To a man (or, in the case of Kelley, a woman) they will tell you that they joined up to serve their country, and that Iraq was disillusionment, a travesty, a catastrophe, an abomination of justice. One by one, when they came home they decided to organize and advocate getting the rest of the soldiers out.


Hanging all around the tent are banners from various supporting groups, including “Repentant Republicans”. Under the tent, 1/2 the space is taken up by round tables, which seat 8-10 people, some set aside for military families, some for press, some for poster making or newspaper cruising.

Beyond is the catering table, running the length of the tent, always loaded with snacks or meals, and cold lemonade and iced tea. Full ice chests, constantly replenished by volunteers, surround huge stacks of bottled water. The makeshift kitchen sits under its own awning, and includes two ranges, several barbecues, workspace, etc.


The other end of the tent covers the stage and seating area, the soundboard, etc. Artists Against the War have painted banners that hang in a corner, and more banners back the stage. At any time of day or evening (until about 10:00 PM) there will be speakers or musicians on stage, or a movie running on the side.


There will always be media blogging away at the tables, and cameras and mics following everyone. At intervals, someone will announce over the PA, “We need 4 volunteers for traffic,” or “Can I get 5 volunteers in the kitchen?” or “The security crew needs water, can 4 volunteers run some out to them?” Often, that someone is Ann Wright, the US diplomat and 29 year Army vet who resigned in March 2003 in protest against the administration’s choice to invade Iraq. Although this amazing woman is famous among those of us who’ve been paying rapt attention to every Iraq development since fall 2002, most people don’t recognize Ann, so she’s free to move about and run things and talk to people without a barrage of cameras and boom mics following her. Not so for Cindy, who emerges to throngs of press and supporters. She’s like Mother Theresa, everyone wanting to touch her, to hug her, to catch a smile from her. I confess, I was one of them a couple of times.

In short, the tent at Camp II is busy, and seems somewhat like a working cocktail party, only everyone’s drinking from water bottles.

Have I mentioned yet how humbling it is to be in the presence of so much bravery, dedication, and love?

We shall camp in the ditch

Camp Casey II is also completely full, as far as camping goes. There isn’t much space outside of the tent, and a single row of tents along the backside belong to a few volunteers and media who have become like staff. On one side is the kitchen, and the other Cindy’s trailer and VIP hangout tents. That’s about it, so we took Carl’s shuttle back to Camp I to find a spot in the drainage ditch.

We had a good deal of help getting our things down the road to the ditch. Carl, knowing that we’d been in the car for about 30 hours, wanted to help us get settled quickly. He grabbed a couple of vets and asked them to help us find a spot. We all carried our stuff down the road, passing tent after tent, until we found an open spot with room for the tent and my car. They asked us if we needed anything else, and then Tina and I let them all go and we set to work.

It was hot. Really horribly, unbearably hot. And humid. You sweat everywhere, and the sun hurts. We managed to get the very large tent set up, and realized we were both faint and turning red. We grabbed some water, some trail mix, and some emergenC, sat in a bit of shade that some tall sticky grass was casting, and tried to cool off a bit.

We had brought this gigantic tent, because Tina’s boss asked us to donate it. Fitting it in the drainage ditch, between the barbed-wire fence and the road, with no part hanging into the narrow road that farmers had to drive their trucks on, was rather a chore and a miracle. Still, the inside sloped way up toward the fence, and then swooped down into the ditch. Finding a good sleeping position was tricky. We very quickly became famous as the girls with the mansion.

Food Not Bombs

We made our way down the road, sweaty and rather miserable, but still awed at being there. Keith and Lee of Food Not Bombs provided our first look at the generosity of the camp. They offered water and dinner and fruit as soon as they saw us, and talked to us about where they were from, and what they do. Throughout our stay, they were part of home. Lee made the best coffee in the morning in her little tent in the ditch- better than the kitchens at Casey II or the Peace House. All meals were vegan and delicious. There was always a big bowl of apples on the table.

Tina is considering starting a Food Not Bombs group here in the Conejo Valley. I think the closest chapter is in Venice- or maybe the SF Valley. Anyway, Keith gave us all of his contact info so that she can kick it off when she’s ready.

Camp Casey I: Where it all started

Camp I is set up along an intersection, and a big grass triangle is in the middle of the intersecting roads. Sort of like a traffic roundabout. Approaching from Crawford, along the backside sit the tents for food, first aid, Louisiana Activist Network, and some of the Vets for Peace. On the left side is the Arlington South memorial, winding far down the road, and including two Vets for Peace dome tents. The road leading off to the left is where most of us are camped. Along the right side of the road, Bush supporters have made their camp, which is all red, white, and blue, and lights up at night with generators. There are one or two tents, but mostly people go home at night. By the end of the weekend they seemed to figure out that pallets of water were a good idea, but other than that they didn’t seem to be provisioned in any way. The center triangle is no man’s land. The sheriffs park and stand there, and none of us venture onto it. It is the DMZ at Camp Casey I.


We walked the Arlington South memorial. We snapped a few pictures. We caught a shuttle in to town so that I could pick up my car. We were exhausted and sweaty, and really wanted to get clean and get dinner.

Showers and our first insane friend

Aboard Carl’s shuttle once again, and the young man behind us said we were clearly new arrivals, we seemed to have too much energy. Clearly, he was talking about Tina, as I was barely speaking at that point. We struck up a conversation, and he turned out to be the MD on duty at the Camp II medical tent. He’s doing his residency in Chicago, and had just returned from Delhi, attending his father’s memorial. When he got home, he just decided at 11:30 one night to load up the car and head for Crawford. So he’d been there a few days, and was happy to take us into the Peace House, introduce us around, and see that we got showers. Saif became a friend that night, and we spent a good deal of our time in Texas laughing with him. He was the first person I talked to when I got home (he was still winding his way back to Chicago, site seeing along the way).

Peace House is no different from camp; in that once you’re there you don’t want for anything. Towels, soap, toothbrushes, coffee, home made bread- it’s all there and if you’re a volunteer you’re welcome to it. Although there’s only one bathroom and a five-minute shower limit, after sweating in the ditch it feels like heaven.



Freshly showered (but still in smelly clothes), we sat in the garden as the sun dipped, and made more friends while we sipped coffee and water and had some snacks. Saif entertained us all with impressions and weird accents and general silliness, and we got to meet people young and old who we’d see every morning at camp. I felt so good- clean and cooler and without the sun beating me up. My energy came back and I felt ready for anything.

The charm of Crawford

Crawford has a rather fabled swimming hole, down the road a bit at Tonkawa Falls Park. We decided a stroll down to the falls was a good idea, so we headed down a little road through woods and small houses with patchy lawns, and people on riding mowers.



The swimming hole did not disappoint. Set at the foot of a small falls, and cut out of rock topped with trees, next to a wide green lawn, it is deep, cool, moving water in a calming and lovely place. We encountered a soon to be friend there, as well. “Packer-Backer Bob”, also from Chicago, was enjoying a swim when we got there, and became a regular appendage through the rest of the weekend. Saif dove in, Tina and I begged off. Freshly showered, we wanted to relish being clean for a while. We resolved to go for a swim on Saturday.







After about 45 minutes at the swimming hole, we sauntered back towards town in silly moods. The walk takes you past the Crawford football stadium, and a high school game was taking place. Saif decided he needed pictures, and much to the dismay of the boosters taking tickets out front, we lingered and enjoyed the scene for a few minutes. The next day, the stadium would be filled with 1500 Bush supporters from around the country, angry and chanting, and nearly beating up two of there own because they didn’t understand their sign and thought they were Cindy supporters.



We walked back and got in my car, drove back to Camp I. There was a party atmosphere at camp, with people fashioning crazy hats out of foil and milling about and laughing. After a vegan dinner of rice and vegetables (thank you, Keith and Lee), I got anxious to get back to Camp II, see what the festivities were for the night. Shuttles weren’t around, and I decided to walk. Saif looked at me like I was crazy, but came along anyway.

The party starts

Of course, Saif is actually crazy. The walk to Camp II is long, it was dark, the roads are tiny and not lit, and one can get lost rather easily. Cars passing belonged to locals with no interest in picking up peacenik hitchhikers. Finally, a small car pulled up and a woman jumped out and said, “Help me get this box into the trunk.” And we got in, and she drove us all the way, past the secret service blocked entrance to the “ranch”, past the white church, and Camp Casey II blazed into full view.

There was pita and organic peanut butter, and coffee and cold drinks. There was music and a movie by a group of artists against the war. Cindy came out and we all gathered into a hushed semi-circle, as she prepared to do Real Time with Bill Maher, live. Cindy sat under the lights, with the huge painting of Casey behind her. We cheered her on while she talked with Bill, and she was funny. She said, “Bill, that’s my peeps.” And then, responding to him, “Well, Pat Robertson isn’t the only one who can be gangsta.”

She went off to bed, and I encountered Ann Wright and told her much I admired her and was thrilled to be there. We headed back to Camp I (funny, I don’t remember how we got there), and back to our tent. My air mattress developed a huge leak and went flat within three minutes, so we tucked in with our blankets as best we could. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t wake until morning.

Saturday: The Big Day

The morning was humid and warm, but still rather pleasant. A whore’s bath and good tooth brushing, and getting dressed just as Buddy Spell commenced the camp meeting a little ways outside the tent.

Buddy is a lawyer from New Orleans, part of the Louisiana Activist Network, and one of Cindy’s lawyers (his wife’s another). He’s a tall, bald charmer with a deep voice and a Big Easy accent, and he’s funny and sharp and warm. His instructions for Saturday: respect the invisible line down the center of the road; do not cross it for anything. “There will be people here who want to hurt you physically. Do not engage.” The sheriffs, he said, were there for our protection, but if they had to arrest one of us we’d be in jail until the judge came back on Monday.

Thus the plan for the day was laid, and we went down to Food Not Bombs for excellent coffee and oatmeal and apples. I had the pleasure of watching the first arrest of the day; a Bushie who I think walked into no-man’s-land, or maybe used profanity or something. They put him in the plastic handcuffs and sat him on a tailgate. Buddy won a $5 bet on whom the first arrest would be.

Back at Camp Casey II

We shuttled to Camp II as the crowd began to build. There were various speakers that morning: Cindy, Ann, members of Iraq Veterans Against the War and Gold Star Families Speak Out, Joan Baez led us all in Amazing Grace and all of the other songs you’ve always wanted to sing with her.

“The night they drove ole’ Dixie down……”

Buses arrived every 20 minutes or so from Dallas, Austin, Fort Worth; Texas was standing up to end the war. Everywhere were heads bent over laptops, laughing faces, faces full of tears, shouts and hugs and warmth.

A woman from Dallas brought boxes and boxes- hundreds of umbrellas, which had been painted by Texas school children with symbols of peace. Kids aged four to twelve painted them- some were more abstract than others. They provided shelter from the blazing sun while waiting in line for a privy, or working traffic, or sitting amid the crosses. Mine was clearly painted by an older child. It is black and covered with faces and symbols and “peace” and “love”.


New friends were made, among them Sheila and Stephen, a young pair from Boston. Stephen had enlisted after 9/11, but by the time he was turning 18 it was clear he’d be going to Iraq, not Afghanistan.

Messing around in the driveway one day with his best friend, Sheila, he jumped onto the hood of her car. She accidentally pushed the car into gear, and it lurched forward, throwing him off and breaking his leg badly enough that he was allowed to void his contract. “She saved my life”, he said. She’s majoring in, I think, poli/sci with a minor in Arabic, and he’s pursuing another degree which I cannot remember but which should place him on the path to international diplomacy. When I said goodbye to them on Sunday I reminded them that we were counting on them to take over the world. They promised they would, and they’d keep in touch so I’d know where to find them.

The IVAW

I met and thanked several young Iraq Veterans Against the War. They were powerful speakers, and impassioned advocates for sensible policy and the return of our troops from Iraq.

For the most part, they told the same stories: enlisted to fight for our country, for the “Noble Cause”, got to Iraq and saw poverty, saw the effects of 10 years of sanctions and the depleted uranium left by our bombs in the first gulf war, saw Iraqi children with no water or food while the mess tents for US forces fed all they could eat, saw the anger and the desperation of the Iraqi people, realized they had been sent there for a lie, saw the deaths of their friends, suffered exposure to depleted uranium and god knows what else themselves…. They were wounded or mourning, they were angry, they had come to believe that this war was being waged for the benefit of a few, at the expense of the many, and with total disorganization and total lack of concern for order and security.

One of the vets hails from Agoura. He’s lovely and charming, and his dad’s been involved with Eyes Wide Open since he took a trip to Baghdad a couple of years ago. While I did remember to find him and say goodbye, I did not remember to give him my card, so I hope I will run into him again, but have no way to get in touch with him. I want to find him a nice girl.

Have I mentioned, yet, how humbling it is to be in the presence of such bravery and dedication? As much as I wanted to, I couldn't sit for hours and ask these young men for their full stories. I was simply too shy, too inadequate, to demand much of their time and energy. They are beautiful.

What you do in the tent

Texas Barbecue in the afternoon; buffalo, pork, chicken, beef, tamales, pasta and salads. Cold lemonade and iced tea. There were 1500 to 2000 people passing through camp on Saturday, and volunteer duties included icing bottles of water, and then transferring them, chilled, to big coolers near the food tables. Chito- camp hero- drove ice and water in all weekend, but the ice melts quickly, so pre-chilling was necessary. If you dump warm bottles into a cooler, the ice commences to melt, so we’d reserved several coolers for warm bottles, which were then transferred to several reserved only for chilled bottles. In this way, only 1/2 of the coolers needed refilling when Chito would arrive with new ice.

Other volunteer duties included carrying water around in trays, making sure that all guests had a bottle in their hands at all times. One of the Mds also carried powdered Gatorade, checking each table to make sure people were hydrated. Carrying water, umbrellas, etc outside to the traffic volunteers and checking on the people in line in the sun for a privy were duties that everyone pitched in with. I made a few additional signs for the traffic folks- there were lines of cars stretched in every direction all day. Whenever a bus would arrive, a contingent would welcome it curbside with cheers, water, umbrellas. Tina and I spent some time at the ice trays; it took two of us so that one could hold the umbrella. As people walked by, we’d smile and offer cups of ice, and help direct them to whatever else they might need to find. You meet the nicest people doing jobs like that.

The tempest

At about 5:00, great black storm clouds built on the eastern horizon. Soon, wind began to pick up, and word went around that a lightening storm was coming, and to stay away from the metal poles holding up the tent. Tina and I manned the ice trays, our backs to the storm clouds. All at once, a great gust came through, and everything went flying from the buffet tables and the kitchen behind us. My hat flew off my head, quickly followed by bags of cups, followed by bowls of potato chips. The gusts gained strength, and soon chairs began to tip. The IVAW took down their pup tents, and then the canopies over the shuttle stop and portrait gallery. The medical staff began battening down the hatches- supplies and cots trying to escape, and the awning threatening to carry the whole operation over to W’s house.

Tina and I started stuffing buffet supplies under tables and weighting them down as best we could. I worried that we had left our tent wide open back at Camp I, and that all of our bedding and clothes would be drenched by the time I could get back.

I noticed that the “Free Speech Tent” sheltering Code Pink and the Peace House and other groups, was having difficulty securing, ran over there. We started trying to shove boxes of papers and t-shirts under tables, but soon realized the tables wanted to fly and we had to drop them. Two or three of us were at each corner of the awning, pulling hard on canvas straps, trying not to touch metal, while 5 or 6 people under the canopy tried to drop the poles. I began to wonder if our tent would even be there when we got back: we had staked it as best we could, but it wasn’t really secure.

Saif, who I believe I mentioned before, is crazy, ran around laughing and snapping pictures. Honestly, he provided welcome comic relief, and did drop the camera once or twice when I shouted at him to grab a strap or a pole.

When we thought we had done what we could outside, we went back under the big tent to await the rain. Tina kept saying a storm was no big deal, but I have experienced Texas thunderstorms before, and I do not like it when it rains baseballs and the wind howls and the thunder is so loud you think it must be crushing something big and physical, like the Astrodome.

Inside the big tent, the huge glass lamps swayed threateningly in the wind. We decided we’d rather be outside than under the lamps, and no one trusted the tent to be able to withstand the wind forever. If it came down, it could kill people. Electricity was cut, the lights and PA went out.

So we stood out on the road and watched the lightening approach, photographed cows in the neighboring pasture who didn’t seem to care.

And the wind died.

Suddenly, it was just nice out. The clouds seemed to be heading on a route skirting Crawford entirely. People went back into the tent, the lights came back on. Shuttles started up. I believe movies were played, but I don’t remember for sure. Folks who weren’t staying at camp, like my new friend Eric from north of Fresno, got their things together and started to leave.

Tina and I shuttled back to Camp I, and I went to our tent to see if it had blown away. It was there, and what’s more, someone had come through and closed it up for us. Turned out to have been Elle, who apologized for going into our tent when we weren’t home. I assured her I was only grateful.

I made my bed and was sound asleep by 10:30. Tina tells me that people came by to visit and try to get us to come out and play, but I never woke up. Sleeping in my ditch, with a blanket and a sheet and no padding, with the threat of fire ant invasion constant, I slept so soundly while I was at Camp Casey, you’d think I was at the Hilton with an Ambien.

At about 3:00 AM, security walked down the road calling, “There’s a lightening storm, you’d be safer in your car. There’s a lightening storm, you should leave your tent.”
Tina and I grabbed our blankets and got into the car, reclined the seats and were out again. The storm came, loud crashing thunder and lightening and raining baseballs, and we slept through it in the front seat of the Saturn.

Sunday morning and cool, with news

I woke at 7:30, stretched and brushed my teeth and changed clothes. More excellent coffee from lovely Lee, and I sat down under the canopy at the shuttle stop to sip and write and watch the camp come to life. I met Sami, from Austin, who’d never camped in her life yet braved the ditch to be here. I snapped a couple of photos: one of Mike, a vet for peace who’d made a sign that said, “If Bush is right, Jesus was wrong.” Packer-Backer-Bob came over and serenaded us on his Native American flute.



Buddy came by and sat down, and I asked what the word for the day was. That was the first I heard of the threat to Louisiana. Buddy explained that they needed to evacuate 6 million people, and he was going to head back home to start working with relief efforts. He hoped he’d still have a house.

When we got up, Buddy handed me a CD by Gulf War vet Dennis Kyne, called “I’m not resisting”. Don’t forget this, he said. I said it wasn’t mine, and Buddy said take it. “You should get him to autograph it,” he said. Whether or not Dennis is a good musician, he grinned, “He’ll be a famous political prisoner some day, and I’ll represent him.”

He was in a remarkably good mood for someone waiting for his hometown to be washed away. I can’t imagine Buddy Spell looking discouraged or anxious. From the very brief time I spent in his presence, I will say he’s just one of those people that you’d always look to in a tight situation, radiating honesty, humor, and strength.

We meet Yasser and then go pray

Sunday morning was also when Tina met Yasser, a remarkable young man from Los Angeles who is active in social justice work in the Latino community. Yasser’s father was a Guatemalan revolutionary, assassinated when Yasser was a week old. The people collected money and sent Yasser’s mother to California to escape the danger, baby Yasser stayed behind with his aunt until he was 5.

He is a committed socialist, and is brave and passionate and puts his body on the line whenever asked. He camps on the border and faces down Minutemen. He joins human barriers between skinheads and day laborers. He advocates on behalf of downtown communities trying to save their garden, planted in a vacant lot and feeding many families.

He’s also very handsome and funny, and moved easily to tears. He’s always ready with a hug when you need it. Tina and I are really grateful that we live so close to him, and will be able to keep him in our lives.

We decided to head over to Camp II for the interfaith prayer service, although I really wanted to make sure that I could get back to Camp I for the remainder of the day. We arrived at Camp II for the end of a prayer led by Rev Al Sharpton, and then everyone filed out, stopping to grab some of the 40,000 roses that had been delivered for the memorial. Cindy and Al went to the front of the Arlington South site, knelt and prayed and laid roses on crosses. The rest of us filed solemnly into the rows and rows of crosses and boots and Texas flags, and laid roses, and cried, and prayed. As I sat with the cross of a soldier, a Gold Star family behind me sobbed. When they stood I went and hugged the woman tightly, and her tears fell on my shoulder.




I went to the tent and retrieved rubber bands, and went among the crosses making sure that roses and names were secure. I found myself sitting with a pair of boots and sobbing. A photographer snapped some photos and asked who I’d lost. I blinked and said no one- but really, we’ve all lost almost 2000 of our children, haven’t we?

Saif came and hugged me and made me giggle. I left the memorial and wandered into the tent, sat in on a few interviews and thanked the clergy that had come and given us such a beautiful morning. I found Eric, who hadn’t been to Camp I yet, and really wanted to see it. We drove back, and I settled down in front of the snack table, and snapped pics and got a few updates.

Back at “home”, the sharing and the healing

I hadn’t been able to get back to Camp I all day on Saturday, and so missed most of the action between the Bush supporter’s so-called “Camp Reality” and our side. I know that the police faced the Bush side all day, trusting us and knowing that all of the vets and families they had come to think of as friends would insure order at our camp. And they did, of course.

On Sunday, there were fewer people, but still a line held on our side facing another line on their side. Our people knew not to engage; their side was happy shouting taunts and insults across the road. Some of my favorite Bushie signs:

“The 60s are over, why are y’all still here?”
“It’s about terrorism, stupid”
“Thank the vets who GIVE to support our freedom”
And, my absolute favorite, “Repent Treasonous Bastard Scum”. The police made the nice old couple black out the word “Bastard”, but we’d all seen it anyway.

A sign war commenced on our side. “Nice Car Warmonger” had to be put away, because the police thought it was rude, but “W doesn’t own my flag” was quite popular on the Camp Casey line, as was “Air conditioned patriots, can’t you take the heat?”

There was a really obnoxious 12 or 13-year-old kid on the Bush side. He was shouting taunts at our kids, who just stood patiently. There was an Ann Coulter clone (only with more mascara) who shouted that we should get jobs. Because that’s one of the slogans they hand you at the brain-check booth, apparently.

But here’s what the press doesn’t really write about: there were also people crossing the lines to help each other out, push cars out of ditches, offer directions, and even share stories. There were families from town who rode their bikes out to visit and say hello. There were Gold Star families and veterans from both camps exchanging ideas.

More than anything else, Camp Casey I was a place for dialogue, reconciliation, healing.

Eric walked around and talked to everyone, thrilled at hearing everyone’s stories, making friends, bringing water. Yasser breezed in and out, always with humor. Families from Dallas and Houston came and made signs and expressed their joy at being among friends. Dennis walked around playing guitar and singing. And we stayed as on top of news from Louisiana as best we could.

There were young guys from Austin and a great Texas native who now lives in Oakland, a very cheerful guy whose name I cannot remember for the life of me. There was rice and pasta and sandwiches, Gatorade and coffee and sodas. There was milling about and laughing and playing. The storm had left the sky overcast and the day cooler, so it was pleasant on the sign line and in the chairs in front of the tents.

Back to the party

I heard that Martin Sheen and O magazine were at Camp II, and decided to catch a ride over and see what was up. Martin Sheen had led a rosary, which was apparently so lovely that Tina- who is rather nervous around “churchy” things, found herself participating.

I found friends that I hadn’t seen all day, among them Tina and Saif. They’d gone into town and visited the Yellow Rose and “Camp Quall”, mingled among the Bush supporters and tried to have good conversation. Some of the folks in town were friendly and open, some were not. A woman asked Saif where his accent was from, and he answered India. She responded, “I don’t like Indians.” And walked away. Tina had what she thought was a good exchange, and she bought some souvenirs at the Yellow Rose. Including a postcard with Laura Bush’s guacamole recipe, which cracked her up. “Who needs a recipe for guacamole?” she wanted to know. Saif rang the big Liberty Bell in front of the store, which was apparently extremely loud.

Dinner was served at Camp II, and we all sat down to eat. A young man from Crawford walked over to our table and asked me if we’d be willing to talk to him. Of course! Sit down, introduce yourself!

He was 19, and said he wasn’t on one side or the other, but was curious and open. He’d spent time at Camp Quall talking to everyone there, and then wanted to get to know Camp Casey. He said he’d asked some friends to come out with him, but they were all rednecks and didn’t want to hear what we had to say (his words, not mine).

He stayed at the table for quite a while, chatting with Tina and Saif and Dave and several others of our new crowd who wandered by from time to time. When last I saw him, he was sitting down with a film crew, preparing for an interview, “your turn,” I winked. He smiled and nodded.

Movie night under the tent. The VFP showed their video of the beginning, the first day. Then they showed their movie, “Beyond Treason”, which documents the experimental drugs used on Gulf I troops, and the exposures they suffered to chemical agents and depleted uranium. It also illustrates the effects of uranium contamination on the Iraqi population over the last 10 years, and our government’s shameful denial of veteran’s claims. I walked over to Fred and Dennis, clasped their shoulders and said, “You guys rock.” Fred laughed his Fred laugh and said, “Yeah, we kick ass!”

Eric, Tina, and I ended up joining Fred for the rest of the movies. Tina and Eric both bought copies of “Beyond Treason”. We made plans to transfer ownership of our mansion tent to them the next morning, and of course, to meet in DC on September 24.

A Blue Star mom stood up with Ann and said that her son’s unit had made a DVD of their experiences, using stills captured on cell phones and digital cameras. They couldn’t get it to play on the projector, so a small group of us gathered around a laptop and watched the video. It showed soldiers in all sorts of situations: stalking the streets with guns, posing with smiling children, driving humvees. It was set to music, a song that I haven’t heard before. The refrain was something like, “love me when I’m not me,” something like that. The mom who’d brought the DVD cried when she said that the video made her hopeful that when her son came home, there’d be enough left of him to heal, and find normalcy again. Ann Wright hugged her, I patted her shoulder.

Eric volunteered for 11:00 to 1:00 security duty. We walked Dave Chase out to his car, the Anti-Bush Wagon that has been shown on several news sites. His van towed a trailer that he’d covered with things like “Bush is a Deserter from the Truth”. Dave was driving back to San Diego. I heard from him on Tuesday, he left a message saying he was driving through Albuquerque.

Saif said he had to hit the road. It was about 11:30, and he had a 14-hour drive back to Chicago. We walked to his car, and he gave us a ride back to camp. He blasted trip-hop and zoomed down the lanes, startling the secret service at the entrance to the “ranch”, who flashed spotlights while Tina and I squealed for Saif to slow down.

Goodbyes and the honor system

He drove us to our tent, and we hugged and said goodbye. He left us each with trip-hop Cds.

I noticed that the tarp and rope we’d lent someone the night before had been returned, tucked under my car with a CD, and contact information. So, we’d helped out Frank Morgan, according to the CD. Couldn’t have told you that for anything. We were just walking down the dark road and heard someone saying they didn’t have a rain fly.

At the door to the tent lay the deck of playing cards Tina had lent to Albert and Elle. She didn’t think she’d get them back; not that Albert and Elle weren’t perfectly nice, but they seemed a bit flakey. We’d had to capture their dog, Kaia, the night before when she was found wandering down the road without a collar, and I kept her in the tent while Tina searched for Albert. So, Tina doubted that Albert would remember to return anything, but at Camp Casey, everything is on the honor system, and people respect that.

Food Not Bombs was short water, which they’d need for coffee and oatmeal in the morning. We had four gallons that we hadn’t touched, so Tina and I walked it down to them. They were asleep, so we left it by the stove.

Up at the end of camp, a small circle sat around a Coleman lantern and chatted about the day. We wandered up and took seats, Yasser, Patrick, Fred, Dennis, and one or two others were there. Ann Wright drove up and came and sat for a while, told stories of different people who’d come to Camp Casey, chuckled about some of the things they’d done and achieved.

Have I mentioned what a humbling experience Camp Casey is? You're sitting with a few people who have become your heroes, and then someone like Ann Wright wanders over and plops down. And you think, how did I get here?

Ann went off to bed, and shortly after that so did I. Our tent had been invaded by fire ants earlier in the afternoon, and though I’d cleaned them up and swept them out, I didn’t feel like making my bed. I slept in the car again, soundly and comfortably.

Monday morning, the last

In the morning I stopped for coffee as usual, and hugged Lee and told her for the 150th time that she made the best coffee anywhere. Keith was starting to pack up; they wanted to get the bus down to Louisiana. With camp breaking over the next two days, they wouldn’t need 3 different food providers. Everyone was going to consolidate at Camp I. We talked about starting a local group, gave them whatever supplies we had that we thought might be helpful.

Up at the end of camp, where we’d had our little circle the night before, sat a few men. I went over to say good morning and bum a cigarette. My bud from Oakland/Texas whose name I can’t remember whispered to me, “He’s a Gold Star dad from the Bush camp.” He was talking with some of the VFP. He told the story of his son, and his mission, to raise money and erect memorials in the hometowns of the fallen. The guys from the VFP, who’d been living in a ditch fro 3 weeks, dug into their pockets and pulled out ones and fives to contribute to his cause.

More people came and drew on our tent. Tina drew flowers, and I wrote things to the VFP.




A camp meeting was called, and Cindy came down to give some words. I grasped her hand and thanked her before she left, and then camp business started up.

Word from New Orleans was bad. It was spotty, and of course Monday was the day the storm hit, so we had no way of knowing yet the extent of the tragedy. However, mobilization to offer assistance was already under way at Camp Casey. First, volunteer crews were assigned to gather and inventory supplies from both camps: food, first aid, blankets, tarps, batteries, etc. Second, the supplies were to be sorted into 3 groups: those to be returned to the Peace House, those to move with camp on the tour (minimal supplies, at this point), and those that could be loaded up for Louisiana.

The VFP announced that they were headed to LA after scheduled stops in Austin and Houston, to report for duty with the Red Cross, and they’d be calling on veterans nationwide to do the same. The IVAW was holding a press conference up at Camp II, explaining the shortage of National Guard and equipment, and the implications for the storm areas, and calling on all veterans to help out the relief effort.

Fred sort of walked into my arms, crying, He’d been down the road taking pictures, and some of the 15 crosses that the “Camp Reality” folks had removed from Arlington South had fallen over. “I set them right,” he said, “but it just got to me.”

Carl explained plans for the removal of the two Arlington South memorials. The memorials would be taken down with much ceremony and prayer. I read yesterday that the denizens of “Camp Reality” across the road came to help and pray, as well. Carl then announced that the VFP had decided to leave a small section of the memorial at Camp Casey I in place, with a colonial flag at 1/2 staff and an honor guard, until the day that all the troops are brought home from Iraq. That was when I started crying. Yasser hugged me.

A word about the president

Soon volunteer groups commenced work, and Tina and I began to pack up. We stopped for the presidential helicopters headed for the “ranch”, to pick up Bush and take him golfing in Tucson. We all lined up in the road, smiling and looking up and waving peace signs. A few minutes later, they flew over again, loaded up with the administration. We stood in line again, except for Yasser, who couldn’t resist running along the road, his Palestinian flag cape flapping and his middle finger held high.

Let’s just take a moment to reflect: Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi were being slammed by a category five storm, with much loss of life anticipated. A couple hundred people were camped in ditches next to war memorials, begging for recognition of their pain.

The president was going golfing in AZ, and then on to San Diego to stay at Hotel del Coronado. Unlike, say, the Teri Schiavo craziness, which saw him zooming back from Crawford and signing “emergency” legislation in his pajamas, he was flying as far away from death and reminders of death as he could. And while the papers would cover his irrelevant speeches on Medicare or whatever, Camp Casey was mobilizing to address grief and pain once again.

I remember Buddy saying, when he first told us the news on Katrina, “People are going to die.” Maybe lawyers have better forecasting skills than fake cowboys? Is that why Bush didn’t seem to get it?

Goodbye

Patrick, Gordon, Fred, and Dennis walked down to our tent with us to take possession. We’d left them with my air mattress, which Gordon thought he could fix, a quilt, a blanket, some food and drinks. We all posed together for pictures outside the tent, and the guys decided to move it down to the main camp, make everybody sign it before they left. As we drove away, Fred and Gordon were pulling the stakes, and Dennis was playing his guitar and singing a song he’d written about Camp Casey.

We took one more look at the memorial and headed into town.

We arrived at Peace House and went in to see about taking showers. Even though Tina and I had barely been there, even though we had helped out at the house only minimally, the hospitality provided us was ample and loving. I showered while Tina folded towels, and then she showered while I hung some damp things out on the clothesline. There was fresh homemade bread and coffee and tea out in the garden, and we stopped to talk to few people we knew from Camp. Gary was busy typing away on his laptop, but took a few moments to direct us on what we should be reading and doing. He’s a very earnest guy, and had started giving each of us advice within 30 seconds of meeting him on Friday. “Read this book, tell the Peace House to put such and such on the website, contact this group in So Cal for activism, paint this kind of painting, do this for work….” He had plenty of advice. We smiled and nodded a lot. He's very earnest.


Eric showed up, and we talked about the weekend and what to do next, and where to see each other again. Many people from camp- almost everyone, actually, have sworn to be in DC for the 9/24 march. I promised I’d be at Arlington West when it hits Huntington Beach; the VFP is planning on being there.



We ended up staying at Peace House for a couple of hours. I walked up the street and shot a couple more pics of “Bush Country”, I stopped into a gas station for cigarettes and the woman there refused to meet my eye. Still, it was really hard to think about leaving Crawford.



Some of the VFP pulled into town to have breakfast at the café- it’s famed for being where W eats but some of the older vets have made fast friends with the owner and the cook. Keith and Lee pulled up in the bus, dropping supplies and getting ready to head out. Some new people showed up and wanted directions, and I oriented them on shuttles and who was at which camp and what was happening today- which was packing up, mostly.

Finally we walked to the car, and I slapped 2 new bumper stickers on the rear window: “I ™ Crawford Cindy”, and “Support Our Troops/ Bring Them Home Now”. We out along rte 6, back toward Waco, and then south to Austin and home.

We drove almost straight through, stopping once for about 3 hours in New Mexico. The Texas night was dark out west, the Milky Way was fabulous, and every time we stopped, people were remarkably friendly and kind.

Around dawn we drove through Lordsburg, NM, and stopped for 1/2 a tank of gas, as it’s about 20 cents cheaper in NM than in AZ. The man behind the counter asked if we’d been driving all night. Yeah. Goin’ back to California? Yeah. From where? Crawford. Isn’t that where…. Yeah, that’s where we were. “Which side were you on?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and smiled what I hoped was a humble smile and said, “Well, we’re on Cindy’s side.” He said, “you know what gets me about all these people who’re sayin’ she don’t speak for them? She isn’t trying to speak for anybody but herself.” He told me he’s a Gulf I Navy vet, and opposed to the Iraq war. I mentioned VFP to him, and we wished each other well.

Sweet guy. You never know where you’ll find them.

Home again, with CNN

Now sitting back at home, and watching the hideous news from Louisiana, and hoping the buses with our vets on them get there, but I’m sure it won’t be soon enough.

This is the USA. We are, for now, the world’s last remaining super power. New Orleans has descended into chaos, with death and rape and hunger and dehydration and looting and no escape for 10s of thousands of people.

While over 100,000 of our bravest and best are sweltering and dying in Iraq, we cannot drop food and water to our dying citizens. We cannot get them out of the city. They are dying in the street, and reporters say no one is in charge, no help is in sight, no first responders anywhere.

I’m sick of incompetence, and I’m sick of death. I’m sick of the shrill demonization of people who are crying for justice and truth. I am sick of apologists whose only response to tragedy is “Support Bush!” or “How can you blame him for this?” or “It’s the America hating left’s fault!”

I’m sick. It has to change. I know the arc of justice is long, and that it will take dedication and patience. But I’m so sick at the moment.

Say a prayer for the citizens of New Orleans. Say a prayer for our soldiers in Iraq, and private Iraqi citizens. Say a prayer for our brave and hurting veterans, who put their patriotism ahead of their anguish and fight on. Pull yourself up and see how you can help. And, as Dennis Kyne says, Support the Truth.

Thought you might like to see

Just a few more pics.

Images of Bush Country

A shot of "Camp Reality", across the road

More of the same

This makes no sense to me, can someone explain?

More of the same

Images from Camp Casey I


Wedding at Camp I (there was another at Camp II on the same day)

Tina

I was bothered by the fact that the war memorial on one side of the road was answered with "IM4W" signs on the other side. What kind of answer is that?

IVAW member blessing the fallen with sage.

Oh, another thing....

Tina really hates Arizona.