The Most Interesting Spot

Should Mr. Jefferson resurrect himself as miraculously as his summer retreat at Poplar Forest has risen from the ashes, I suspect he would find this Lynchburg spot as interesting as it was two hundred years ago, but for different reasons -- not the least of which would be the dominating presence of the sprawling religious and educational complex perched to the southeast atop the rechristened Liberty Mountain; while the patriotic appellation would undoubtedly resonate with the Founding Father, reconciling its ubiquitous evangelism with his rationalist deism would be more problematic.

In fact, the subtle attractions of this "city unto itself" -- so labeled for its relative isolation, which was confirmed years ago by its loss of an interstate highway, and more recently, of its Delta Connection to Atlanta -- are both timeless and evolving, and reflect a similar juxtaposition of contradictions: a refreshing quality of life that conjoins urban sophistication and rural simplicity; involved citizens, conservative and progressive, who interact with admirable civility and bipartisanship for the benefit of the body politic; a community whose socio-economic stratification is counterbalanced by a populace imbued with generosity and compassion; and the unsurpassed beauty of its topographical, seasonal, and floral variety.

Today the dogwoods are blooming. Like resplendent bridesmaids in their shimmering pink and white regalia, they shadow me along Langhorne Road, Rivermont Avenue, even Main Street, during my brief but bittersweet ten-minute commute to and from work, time enough, alas, to enjoy only three country ballads on XM Channel 16, The Highway.

Actually, these days I try to avoid Rivermont Avenue and its sister bridge, where unsightly orange cones, blinking barricades, jarring potholes, ravenous front-end loaders, and grizzled workmen pockmark the formerly pristine thoroughfare that meanders leisurely through a gauntlet of five majestic churches and skirts the intimidating red-brick wall and shaded facade of Randolph College on its way Downtown.

Fortunately, my alternate route -- past the imposing Pearson Cancer Center, the towering new wing of the Lynchburg General Hospital, stately E. C. Glass High School, and the string of small shops and abandoned buildings lining Twelfth Street -- is equally efficient, and in fact deposits me squarely in the back parking lot of the Downtown YMCA (now being ecumenically marketed as simply the "Y"). There, since a chronic knee injury terminated my thirty-five year running career eighteen months ago, I find solace and invigoration in fifty strenuous minutes on a Precor elliptical machine, or in twenty-five plus some moderate weight lifting, or in a rare (no more than once a week) one-mile swim.

The locker room is like an Old Boys Club, where every morning I see the same eclectic assortment of determined faces and perspiring bodies in various stages of exhaustion and deshabille, all earnestly striving, like me, to stave off the inevitable onset of senility and immobility: Calvin, flossing his teeth; Curt, amazingly spry at ninety years old; John, toting his pressed and spotless attorney's suit in its protective clothes bag; my friend Jimmy giving me a "blog" shout out; Tulane, geriatrics entrepreneur, always cheerful even on the most gloomy of days; and dear Nate, who wanders amiably through the aerobics and weight rooms, calling every one by name and wishing him or her a great day, like a Wal-Mart greeter.

This venerable landmark teetered on the brink of financial ruin twenty-five years ago; a reenergized volunteer board, spearheaded by longtime member RCW, who couldn't stomach the forfeiture of his beloved racquetball courts, stabilized the situation, negotiated a conciliatory workout arrangement with sympathetic banker SJT, and recruited a talented, aggressive CEO. Its spectacular resurgence culminated in the construction of a 50,000 sq. ft. state-of-the-art suburban branch -- funded by a $7.5 million capital campaign, twenty per cent of which was provided by the WEJ family for which it is named. Enough was left over to refurbish the Downtown facility, which is no less refined, more intimate, and still offers free towel service.

From the Y it's only two blocks to my office, or to the charming White Hart Cafe (which has captured the attention of travel writers for both the New York Times and the Washington Post) for a cup of Counter Culture black java. Most days this winter it's been mild enough to walk those two blocks -- I never wear an overcoat -- with hardly more than twelve inches of snow accumulating in toto, vanquishing any concerns that last year's back-to-back blizzards were no more than an aberration, as was the oppressive heat wave that followed in their wake.

While many snowbirds prefer the sultry monotony of the Sunny South -- and flock there at the first chill in the air -- who can deny the cyclical pleasantness of Central Virginia's temperate climate? Seasonal extremes never linger long enough to be any more irritating than one of our infrequent traffic jams, and merely whet the appetite for the next quadrant on the calendar; and even winter's most frigid days, and summer's most sweltering, wax and wane like the phases of the moon, prompting this oft-repeated witticism: If you don't like the weather, just wait thirty minutes.

The Downtown where I have been a forty-year fixture is experiencing a revival of sorts -- although my own vantage point has been somewhat handicapped by the absence of a window in my office, despite my exalted position as CEO.

Defying occasional protests from self-interested suburbanites, the City Fathers -- whom I define as successive iterations of our seven-member City Council -- have exhibited commendable courage and vision over the past thirty years in investing significant public funds in a variety of projects -- like the Community Market, its earliest and, looking back, perhaps its most essential seed -- and in encouraging and subsidizing a number of private developments, through grants, guarantees, and tax credits -- like the Market's twin anchor, the original Radisson (now the Holiday Inn Select) and the laudable, luxurious, but precariously leveraged, boutique Craddock Terry Hotel.

The latter houses two respectable dining establishments -- Shoemaker's, which recently reduced its prices but not its quality, its upscale aspirations surrendering to the local pocketbook, and Waterstone Pizza, whose microbrewery has made it a preferred bar stop.

Neighborhood competition is daunting -- from the savory recipes of the master chefs at Main Street Eatery and Bull Branch (both of which have been around ten to fifteen years) to the casual but dependable fare at the Depot Grill, Market on Main, Robin Alexander, and Jimmy on the James (all relative upstarts, less then five years old), to a smattering of smaller, mostly-for-lunch, Mexican, Chinese, Indian, salad and sandwich shops.

In the latter category I include the aforementioned White Hart, where the homemade potato soup and four-grilled cheeses on whole wheat bread are a viable alternative to my daily brown-bagged peanut butter and jelly and carrots, and the Starlight Cafe, located on Fifth Street in a former bus station, where spicy huevos rancheros and sugar-sprinkled French toast are the best options for a dress-down Sunday brunch.

Sadly, Lynchburg's six-month experiment in emulating the New York Club Scene, City Views -- complete with a lighted dance floor, low-slung white leather couches, and a breathtaking view from its roost atop the Bank of the James skyscraper -- came to an ignominious end when the firm of curmudgeonly lawyers ensconced on the floor below detected a clause in its lease forbidding such frivolity and ruthlessly padlocked the doors.

Day and night these places are luring fun lovers and dilettantes Downtown. Despite a dearth of bona fide shopping opportunities -- except for furniture, of course -- and the glaring absences of a drug and grocery store, some have chosen to put down roots in any number of loft apartments that have spontaneously sprung to life.

Taking advantage of tax credits and bargain prices, stimulated by the success of Riverviews, which has morphed from an artists' coop into a general residence, ambitious entrepreneurs have transformed the streetscape, restoring many deteriorating properties to their ancient grandeur. The most audacious of these has, from a command post in his corner barber shop, annexed one whole city block, given it an extreme makeover, and is now poised to conquer another.

Beyond the inner city, within ten miles of my home, are enough restaurants -- all independent -- to overcome any single man's culinary ineptitude: four Italian, three Mexican, two Chinese, and one American original (and barely digestible). But the one my Hyundai Genesis hones in on most often -- at least once or twice a week -- is Oakwood Country Club, not just for the grouper, tuna, or veggie quesadillas, which always taste good to me -- although, truthfully, my palate is not the most discriminating -- but also, as my eighty-five-year-old mother astutely observed, for the conviviality.

Once a thriving hub of social and recreational activity, sporting a roster of five hundred plus, and my father's favorite watering hole (a bronze plaque engraved with his name hangs among others in the bar's Memorial Corner), this grande dame of the Avenue fell prey to a proliferation of dining and drinking alternatives (most of which required no dues), to a status (mostly perceived) and golf course (all too real) decidedly inferior to those of its more rural competitor, and, frankly, to poor management. When a redesign of the golf course failed to boost the membership rolls, a crushing debt burden forced the Club into bankruptcy.

Intent on developing the valuable golf property, an investor group bought the assets at auction; ownership and management of the Club devolved on senior dynamo JLA, who, at an age when most of her ilk have settled into a leisurely retirement, has warmed to her task with a graceful determination, revitalizing the operation, restoring its credibility, corralling new members, and manifesting a contagious exuberance. With friends and acquaintances circulating through the bar and grill room, Friday nights have the buzz of a cocktail party; eighty members enjoyed a festive Mardi Gras buffet; over one hundred and fifty turned out for corned beef and cabbage and live Irish ditties on St. Patrick's Day.

Long known as a tennis club, Oakwood's spacious back terrace overlooks its ten outdoor and two indoor courts -- the perfect setting for the Pro-Am Tournament the Club has hosted every June since the mid-sixties. As for me, I gave up the game -- and all competitive sports -- years ago after an opponent launched an eighty-mile-per-hour projectile at my most sensitive body parts during a friendly mixed doubles contest. I have since restricted myself to more solitary pursuits, like swallowing (before compelled to quit) full or half doses of the ten mile course that traverses the hilly terrain from E. C. Glass High School to Riverside Park and back, and passes one block from the house I now live in.

About forty years ago, when a running frenzy swept the nation, a local guru convinced insurance mogul GTS -- whom, legend has it, had been, two hundred pounds ago, a youthful track star himself -- to underwrite a road race, and felicitously chose this glorious, if not challenging, route. It became another Lynchburg signature event, capturing the imagination of the community and drawing upwards of 5000 devotees, including some of championship caliber, before competition and economics threw up roadblocks almost as insuperable as Farm Basket Hill. In recent years new leadership has nurtured a modest comeback, securing sponsorship dollars, trumpeting its one-mile and four-mile co-races, and importing celebrity spokespersons, like Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf.

If one prefers cycling -- or must resort to it -- or is persuaded by a female friend that it is a mode of conditioning both effective and companionable, the entrance to the Blackwater Creek Bikeway -- which follows the creek 6.5 miles along an abandoned railroad bed to Downtown and across the James River to Percival's Isle -- is a scant five minutes away -- by bike. If veterans tout the incomparable joys of nature viewed from the seat of a bicycle and the wind in one's face, this novice prefers to keep his attention firmly fixed on the path before him, as objects become larger much faster than anticipated.

After a heart-pumping diversion, an honest (or not) day's work, an oxymoronic pleasant afternoon of golf, or a sumptuous meal, a plethora of cultural opportunities beckons the curious and the adventurous -- besides, of course, the tedious fare of raunchy comedy, simpering romanticism, fatuous melodrama, and cartoon violence regularly on display at the three local multiplex cinemas. (I've seen four movies in two years: The Blind Side, It's Complicated, Tangled, and The King's Speech.)

Three weekends ago, if one were so inclined, he could have been enraptured by the harmonious hymns of the American Boychoir at the First Presbyterian Church on Friday, awed by the E. C. Glass Theater performing Phantom of the Opera on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick. on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick.

Actually, E. C. Glass -- where director JAA has fashioned a mini-Broadway empire of world-class proportions -- preempted its crosstown rival, unveiling its Phantom three weeks before Liberty University's mirror image will make its own ghostly debut. Arriving thirty minutes prior to the notorious crash of the chandelier, JSG and I are dumfounded at being banished to the balcony -- this in an auditorium that seats 2000, for a show for which there are six performances. Unfortunately, from this distance, while the special effects and costumes are stunning, and the adolescent voices powerful and intense, to a first-time viewer like me, the storyline is confusing, the words mostly unintelligible, and the atmosphere -- well -- a little too operatic.

Thus, indeed, The Barber of Seville may have worn out my weekend. More palatable are these classical musical dramas in small servings, as was the case at the Opera on the James Cabaret gala, where Italian festivity, fine wine, authentic cuisine, and Puccini selections drew four hundred patrons, validating founder DBN's intuition that there is more to the Lynchburg music scene than Country and Western and Gospel.

A week earlier, another cultural phenomenon, The Ellington, celebrated its twenty-eighth anniversary, with dinner, dancing, and the usual live auction of donated vacation giveaways, art works, and catered dinner parties. The Ellington is a former Little Theater playhouse rescued from oblivion by a group of jazz, blues, and rock and roll aficionados, headed by HRL, "the Duke," and now a small showcase for local, regional, and national acts. It's a "home-built exercise in civic excellence," in the exquisite diction of the exuberant auctioneer, who is none other than JFD, the proprietor of -- and nightly entertainment at -- Jimmy on the James. JSG and I go alone, but, as is often the case, run into some folks we know.

Backing up another week, we discover two professional comedians posing as amateurs and playing to a packed house (granted, admission is free and seating is limited) at another Downtown reclamation project, the Renaissance Theater. The cast is well-known to us: CJC, gastroenterologist, real estate developer, and free-wheeling master of ceremonies, who is exercising unusual restraint tonight by adhering to a script, and WJB, versatile musician, actor, humorist, and director, who recently made his operatic debut in The Barber of Seville. It's "Saturday Night Live," as the dynamic duo rolls out its rollicking repertoire, part original, part borrowed, with the raucous insolence of George Carlin (a schoolmate of CJC) and the fluent repartee of Abbott and Costello; in their grand finale, they render the absurd frenzy of "Who's on First" without a misstep, according to one spectator, who has apparently memorized it himself.

Three blocks away, another Downtown prize is celebrating its tenth anniversary -- the Amazement Square Children's Museum, doubly deserving of its name, first for the delight it engenders in the youthful patrons who wander through its magical hallways, and secondly for the disbelief their elders harbor that it ever came to pass. But it did -- thanks to some extraordinary fundraising by its founding board, especially DMW and JKC, the latter a genuine hero whose gentle demeanor cloaks a resolute persuasiveness, and to the genius and vision of Director MAS, whose imagination permeates every nook and cranny of this rehabilitated warehouse and every novel event he devises to keep its budget balanced.

Sadly, Lynchburg's Historic Academy Theater has not been so fortunate and remains in a perilous state of limbo -- despite the tireless efforts of a dedicated corps of volunteers, including YMCA notable RCW. While angels abound in Central Virginia, and indeed have showered over $10 million on this tarnished jewel, almost as much is still needed, and the clock is ticking. Restoration of this architectural treasure and establishing it once again as an elite center for the performing arts and a tourist destination would solidify Lynchburg's cultural Renaissance and be a boon to the local economy.

This morning at the Holiday Inn Select, under the sobering gaze of the Academy shell, which sits idly across the street, about four hundred supporters turn out for a United Way Awards breakfast. While the recession and a fluid corporate landscape -- where the loss of a major player can be devastating -- have taken their toll, leaving the 2010 campaign five per cent shy of its $3.4 million goal, the enthusiasm of resourceful CEO MOM never falters. Alabama transplants with the accents to prove it, she and her husband moved here years ago to peddle Buicks and Pontiacs and wisely bailed out just before the crash. Having enmeshed herself in the non-profit network, she leaped to the helm of the United Way ship when it became vacant and is steering it deftly through turbulent waters. Needless to say, many lives -- 58,000 served through thirty-eight agencies -- depend on its safe passage.

I am particularly aware of the good work of two of these agencies, having sat on their Boards for ten years: The Family Alliance and The Salvation Army. The first counsels, assists, and educates families and individuals in the areas of financial management, interpersonal relationships, pregnancy, parenting, and substance abuse, and has thrived under the inspired leadership of CEO TMP. Ever alert to the needs of the community and to opportunities for growth, he has brought professionalism and entrepreneurship to the social service mission. I applaud him for espousing and embracing a merger with The Presbyterian Home and Family Services; this bold action, an admirable model for the nonprofit industry, demonstrates how a perceived common purpose and potential administrative efficiencies can overcome egos and territoriality.

In fact, today I transition smoothly from the United Way Breakfast to lunch at the Presbyterian Home, to hear a presentation on Ways to Work, an Alliance program which makes car loans available to low-income persons who otherwise could not obtain them.

The Salvation Army is recognized worldwide for efficiently delivering a variety of services: emergency shelter for men, women, and children; food and clothing, and rent and utility subsidies; breakfast and dinner 365 days a year; and child care for infants and special needs children. If I have been less than diligent in attending Advisory Board meetings (except when I was Chairman), I did follow the legacies of my father and grandfather in helping raise $5 million to build a new Center of Hope. That dream would never have come to fruition without the gifted oversight of Major DCC (who has since received a well-deserved promotion and moved on to another assignment) -- a man who exuded joy in every encounter, whose faith in his Creator and love for his fellowman were uncompromising and infectious, and whose confidence, empathy, and charm were irresistible to prospective donors.

A few blocks away another hidden gem illuminates an old Fort Hill neighborhood. While Lynchburg boasts a highly-regarded public school system and a number of first-rate private schools, thirty years ago educator LGR recognized that a more specialized curriculum might be necessary for some children for whom traditional methods of instruction were ineffective and with a few friends and benefactors founded New Vistas School. It flourishes to this day, a lifeline to those who might otherwise slip through the academic cracks, enabling their success.

Beyond the classroom, the school is well-known for its fundraising Feast, hosted in May by Lynchburg legend and retired construction magnate, ACC, on his gorgeous cattle farm in Bedford County at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There, about a dozen Cookin' Fools purchase, cook, serve, and early the next morning clean up the scraps of all the slow-roasted beef, pork, chicken, mixed vegetables, and homemade chili beans two hundred eatin' fools can consume.

Across town, in a small office building in the city's ten-year-old mixed use planned neighborhood -- where an abundance of vacant commercial space is a depressing testament to its poor design -- retired banker SCF administers The Greater Lynchburg Community Trust, a $25 million aggregate of restricted, designated, and unrestricted funds, from which grants are made twice a year to support regional nonprofits. From my seat on the Distribution Committee, buried under reams of financial data and persuasive case statements, baffled by requests from $3000 to $30,000, I make the unconventional decision to apply a modicum of logic to an irrational process and award our limited funds in equal amounts, which, once the predictability becomes apparent, elicits inquisitive looks and a few chuckles from my colleagues.

On the fourth Monday of every month (except for brief respites in August and December, unless a special meeting is called, which it usually is), Lynchburg's Best and Brightest gather either in the Craddock Auditorium at the Virginia Baptist Hospital (VBH) or the Dolan Conference Center at the Lynchburg General Hospital (LGH), enjoy the finest catered meal the resident chefs can concoct -- in other words, not your usual hospital fare -- and deliberate the present and future of the $600 million business known as Centra Health -- although the preferred public designation now omits the surname, probably to align better with its bold new circular emblem, whose muted blue-green-mauve colors and flowing lines are not so subtly suggestive of the region's hills and rivers.

In the front of the room, orchestrating the presentations and power points like a symphony conductor, from his opening prayer to his profuse apology for exceeding his two-and-a-half hour time limit, is the architect -- to quote the search consultant charged with the unenviable task of finding a successor -- of this vast enterprise, its twenty-five-year tenured CEO, the indefatigable GWD. From his presence at the creation, the merger of VBH and LGH, he has never accepted less than its current status as a nationally-respected model of quality and efficiency -- assembling an executive team and physician network equally committed to excellence (every time), expertly navigating his Titanic through the treacherous shoals of regulatory compliance and relentless change, and setting an example to aspiring leaders everywhere by acting consistently with integrity, transparency, sensitivity, and good humor.

Around the elongated rectangular table, other local luminaries light up the night: KSW, Board Chair, whose distinguished career as corporate attorney lends both weight and wisdom to his gavel; RWF, retired banker, former Chair, always a voice of common sense and optimism, and a faithful and grateful celebrant of the good work of others; CWP, whose thorough comprehension and penetrating analysis of every issue leaves no doubt as to his credentials as a highly-sought executive and consultant in the field of nuclear energy; WPS, insurance executive, who invariably elucidates the implications of an action or decision with a perfectly-pitched observation or question; and cardiologist TWN, who courageously and impartially balances physician interests against those of the hospital and the general community, often sacrificing the former for the latter.

Central Virginia's health is in good hands.

And these are only a handful of the hundreds who have made this special spot interesting enough for me to have found contentment and fulfillment here for sixty years. The list of remarkable individuals, selfless volunteers, quiet philanthropists, active humanitarians, concerned citizens, and loyal friends is endless.

Because Lynchburg is a place large enough to offer a multitude of opportunities -- to play, to work, to serve -- yet small enough for almost anyone to be accessible, it has been my good fortune to have made contact with a few of these champions. Being a prominent businessman hasn't hurt; yet I wouldn't say it's a prerequisite. Witness our current mayor -- a relative newcomer and an executive in a nonprofit.

Although I didn't see or hear it, I'm sure that her recent State of the City Address was buoyant and hopeful, predicting a bright and promising future to all who reside here. Even if it's an attitude politicians are compelled to assume, it's also her nature. Contrary to my own habitual view that the glass is half empty, in this case I might have to agree with her. Because in a place with so many heroes and heroines, which is the real reason we love it so much -- far surpassing the climate, the scenery, the entertainment, the flora and fauna -- how could it be otherwise?

History Day

For the past few months I've been following the progress of a seventh-grade friend of mine, AEG (actually -- one of her favorite words -- she's the daughter of a friend, JSG), laboring over History Day.

It's a more interactive and individualistic exposure to history than the the rote regurgitation of facts from a textbook that my generation was raised on, and one which should hardly have been so novel to me, since, when I asked my own son if he had ever participated, he reminded me with a look of condescending impatience of his award-winning video (twenty years ago) on the architecture of Lynchburg.

Drawing on a specific theme -- this year it's "Debate and Diplomacy in History: Successes, Failures, Consequences" -- the student selects a topic, conducts his own research, and creates a paper, performance, documentary, exhibit, or web site, which must consist of not only a description of an event but also an analysis of it.

Fortunately for AEG, her mother "loves History Day," and, like an eager scuba diver, immersed herself in the uncharted waters from the day the former deposited her bright red informational folder on the kitchen counter, flashed her rosy-cheeked grin, rolled her soulful green eyes, and emitted a silent thought bubble: "What now?"

Adding to the pressure was a daunting family tradition. One brother had earned a ticket to the National Finals by assuming the persona of Isaac Stern speaking and performing at Carnegie Hall. Another would have followed in his wake had he not, in a stunning burst of honesty, nobly admitted never having read the entire Uncle Tom's Cabin novel upon which his original one-man docudrama was based.

If one learns nothing else, it's how to follow directions, since the rules for History Day are both extensive and exhaustive -- at least twenty-five depending on the format, specifying such minutia as exhibit size, time limits, type size, and page-numbering.

Entries must clearly relate to the theme and possess historical importance -- thus eliminating one of my favorite debates, the struggle for baseball free agency. They must include a title page, an annotated bibliography identifying primary and secondary sources (the difference between which I did not learn until high school), and a 500-word process paper.

As many as four students may team up; having always been suspicious of group study, I'm pleased to see that all of them "must be involved in research and interpretation," although I'm not sure how this is monitored, other than by the Honor System.

Parents are permitted to help in the one area their children could most help them: typing.

After several days of diplomacy, debate, and anxiety, AEG, whose popularity makes her a much sought-after coworker, decides to take the solo route, loath to reject and disappoint any of the classmates clamoring for her many talents, particularly theatrics. Besides, she has a resourceful partner already -- her enthusiastic mother.

The next order of business is to select a topic. While I'm not sure if originality is permissible, certainly the proffered list of about eighty includes a surfeit of juicy possibilities. The art is to find one broad enough to be significant yet restrictive enough to be manageable, given its inherent constraints.

As we peruse the titles -- I've been enlisted as a consultant -- some fail the first test, carrying too little weight (The Purchase of Alaska, Setting Silver/Gold Standards of 1896, The Pure Food and Drug Act, The Release of Francis Gary Powers), while others don't pass the second, too expansive in detail and implications for a seventh-grader to explicate adequately (The Federal Reserve Act, Brown v. Board of Education, The Six-Day War, Diplomacy at Versailles 1919).

Scrolling down, I'm startled by two, then three, Holocaust-related suggestions -- Finding Guilt: Judgment at Nuremberg; Debating the Final Solution: Wannsee; and Raoul Wallenburg: Negotiating for Lives.

"Raoul Wallenberg. Do you know who he was?" I inquire of mother and daughter, who stare at me like two lovely deer caught in the headlights. "He saved thousands of Jews during World War II. You can look him up on my blog -- and lots of other places." In fact, he had surfaced a few months ago when I was researching a Sphex Club paper on America's feeble response to the Holocaust.

"Raoul Wallenberg was a Swedish businessman who volunteered to go to Budapest, Hungary, in 1944 under the auspices of President Roosevelt's War Refugee Board. Most accounts credit him with rescuing 100,000 Jews from deportation and certain death."

A little googling piques their interest and confirms my report. Further discussion leads us all to the conclusion that here is a topic ideally suited to the parameters of History Day.

The Holocaust is the signature genocide of a century that witnessed too many of them. In researching it, AEG will be exposed not only to its unrelenting horror -- the subjugation and extermination of an isolated ethnic group -- but also to a redeeming display of heroism against overwhelming odds.

This is diplomacy of the highest order, yet conducted at a frenzied pace, in a surreal environment, as Wallenburg negotiates for human lives, employing a wide variety of techniques, occasionally legitimate, more often bogus: bargaining, threatening, posturing, lying, falsifying documents.

A secondary theme emerges, simplistic yet powerful: how one man, by choosing to act, forcefully, courageously, selflessly, can make a difference, belying the professed helplessness and vacuous rhetoric of the establishment.

Finally, since History Day seeks to invigorate what might otherwise be dry recitations of the past, the appropriate mode of presentation is self-evident: the testimonial, or personal revelation, whether by letter, journal, or oral narrative, of a Holocaust victim who owes her survival to Raoul Wallenberg.

And so, after providing some essential background material, let me assume the role of a triumphant seventh grader and submit my own version of her History Day production, while reassuring my faithful readers that she has indeed completed hers, in a succinct 500 words compared to my own habitually lengthy exposition.

Born in 1912, Raoul Wallenberg was heir to a long line of Swedish statesmen, bishops, diplomats, militarists, and financiers. (Morse, p. 362) His father having died three months before his birth (his mother later remarried), he fell under the tutelage of his paternal grandfather, Gustav, ambassador to Japan and later Turkey. Raoul acquiesced to his grandfather's wish that he pursue a career in commerce, but only after earning a degree in architecture at the University of Michigan. A classmate there remembered him as "a talented yet modest person who showed great insight in finding simple solutions to complex problems." (Bierman, p. 21)

With his grandfather's influence, he found work selling building materials, timber, and chemicals in Cape Town, Africa -- where one partner described him as a "splendid organizer" whose "ability to carry on negotiations has been made use of to the fullest" -- and later in Haifa, Palestine -- where he encountered a number of young Jews fleeing Nazi Germany. (Bierman, pp. 23-24)

Gustav died in 1937, granting the young man a greater degree of independence. He went to work for a Jewish refugee in the import-export business who needed "a reliable Gentile who could travel freely in Europe and the Nazi-occupied countries." It was on such business trips to France, Germany, and Hungary that Wallenberg witnessed the brutal effects of Nazi anti-Semitism. (Bierman, p. 26)

His friends at the time have testified that he was appalled by the horror he saw and "frustrated by his inability to do anything about it." One said "he seemed depressed. I had the feeling he wanted to do something more worthwhile with his life." He told his half-sister he wanted to emulate Pimpernel Smith, the absent-minded professor who rescued dozens of victims from the Nazis in the film of the same name. (Bierman, pp. 27-29)

By the spring of 1944, Hungary was sheltering 760,000 Jewish refugees and natives, who had been spared the gas chambers by the lenient regency of Admiral Miklos von Horthy, a German ally but a reluctant accessory to mass murder. In March, Hitler, infuriated by Horthy's procrastination, intervened, forced the appointment of a more militant government, and, two months later, initiated large-scale deportations under the personal supervision of Adolph Eichmann. Between May 14th and July 7th, 430,000 Jews were shipped to Auschwitz aboard 148 trains; the remaining 230,000 awaited Eichmann's final twenty-four hour blitz, which would complete, in his words, "a deportation surpassing in magnitude every preceding one." (Bierman, p. 39)

World opinion mobilized in defense of the Hungarian Jews. Pope Pius XV urged Horthy to intervene and warned he would excommunicate the Nazi accomplices. (Morse, p. 353) President Roosevelt threatened to bomb Hungary and promised retribution after the war. The International Committee of the Red Cross appealed to Horthy and "the chivalrous tradition of the great Hungarian people." (Morse, p. 362) King Gustav V of Sweden, conscious of his country's high reputation in humanitarian matters, protested "the extraordinarily harsh methods" and implored Horthy to "take measures to save those who still remained." (Fenyvesi, p. 8)

Recognizing that Germany was destined for defeat, Horthy ordered a halt to the deportations.

Saving the surviving remnant became the top priority of President Roosevelt's newly-formed War Refugee Board (WRB). When Gustav agreed to expand his diplomatic and consular staffs in Hungary, the task of recruiting a suitable envoy fell to Ivar Olsen, the WRB's representative in Sweden. Among the prominent Swedish Jews convened by Olsen to advise him was Raoul Wallenberg's business partner, Koloman Lauer; he cited Wallenberg's quick wits, energy, courage, and compassion in endorsing him for the job. (Bierman, p. 31)

Wallenberg was determined not to be hamstrung in his mission by bureaucratic protocols or red tape. Among the conditions which he insisted upon, all of which were approved by the Foreign Office, were: a free hand to use any methods he saw fit, including bribery; empowerment to deal directly with any persons he wished, including enemies of the regime and members of the Hungarian government; and authorization to grant asylum in Legation-owned buildings to persons holding Swedish protective passes. (Bierman, p. 33)

Wallenberg arrived in Budapest on July 9,1944; his passenger train "quite probably crossed paths en route with the twenty-nine cattle cars transporting the last batch of Hungary's provincial Jews to Auschwitz." (Bierman, p.39) His unparalleled accomplishments during those last desperate months of the war are legendary. Among those who witnessed the exceptionalism of this "Righteous Gentile" was Anna Goldman, a thirteen-year old survivor, whose oral testimony is herein transcribed for History Day.

Day after day, we often think, "What have we done to deserve to be treated this way? Why do the Nazis hate us so much?" (Fenyvesi, p. 37) They make us wear yellow stars. They take away our telephones, our bicycles, our appliances, even my mother's wedding ring. They herd us into ghettos, where no one can go in or out and everything is forbidden. But the most awful thing of all is that the punishment for everything is death. People are beaten until they reveal where their possessions are hidden. Others are locked into wagons, eighty at a time, given one pail of water, and left to suffocate in the terrible heat. (Bierman, pp. 45-47)

We think, "It cannot go on like this. God is bound to send someone to help us." (Fenyvesi, p. 37) And He does.

His name is Raoul Wallenberg.

I have seen him myself a few times. He is tall, slender, very good-looking, with dark hair and fine features -- not your typical blond-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He has the manner of a European patrician, superior in every way, and projects an air of authority. (Fenyvesi, p. 39)

Before his arrival, a few lucky Jews with demonstrable business or family ties to Sweden were able to obtain protective passes indicating they were awaiting emigration or travel. One day a friend shows me an impressive-looking Schutz-Pass; it is "printed in yellow and blue, embellished with the triple crown of the Royal Swedish government, and dotted with seals, stamps, a photo, and signatures," almost like it has been designed by an artist. "After being reduced to mere things by all the measures and propaganda against us, it makes me feel like a real human being," she says. (Bierman, p. 52)

Wallenberg uses bribery, blackmail, and skillful negotiating to convince the Hungarian Ministry to increase its initial authorization of these passes from 1500 to eventually 20,000; his success encourages other legations to follow suit. I see friends with Spanish passports and Swiss passports. One is baptized in an air raid shelter. Another escapes with her family to Palestine using documents issued by the Papal Nuncio. Imagine that: Hungarian Jews transformed overnight into Swedes, Spaniards, Roman Catholics.

They say the man never sleeps. He throws himself at his task with the same zeal, energy, and organizational efficiency that his demon counterpart exhibits in pursuing his own murderous agenda. (Bierman, p. 53) In a few short weeks, Wallenberg has wrought miracles: setting up hospitals, nurseries, and soup kitchens; purchasing food, clothing, and medicine; accumulating a staff of four hundred; and coordinating the rescue and relief efforts of all the neutral missions. (Morse, p. 364)

Even though the trains have stopped, we never feel safe. Walking the streets, we stay close to the walls because we never know when we might be accosted by a policeman accusing us of hiding our yellow stars. (Bierman, p. 64) One day a strange girl about my age turns up in the neighborhood with the words "war whore" tattooed on her arm; she is too ashamed and traumatized to tell us what happened to her after she was kidnapped three days ago. (Bierman, p. 54)

A rumor flies through the ghetto that one million Jews (Where are they?) will be ransomed for ten thousand trucks and other non-lethal war material; if it were ever true -- unlikely, when one considers Eichmann's monomaniacal blood lust -- the Russians veto it, staunchly opposed to supplying their enemy.

The Horthy government, emboldened by the collapse of neighboring Romania and the advancing Allied armies, demands and secures the withdrawal of Eichmann and his Kommandos from Budapest. It also manages to prevent the transfer of all able-bodied Jews in the city to nearby work camps, where the back-breaking labor and undernourishment portend certain death. (Bierman, p. 70)

October 15th is a day of excruciating emotional turmoil. With the Russian army rapidly approaching, Admiral Horthy broadcasts a proclamation that the war is over. "This is the moment we have been waiting for after so many terrible months . . . It seems incredible . . . that we can now go out into the streets, cast off our yellow stars, and look for our relatives." Bierman, pp. 73-74)

Within hours, however, a different, ominous voice is heard. The Germans storm across the city, kidnap Horthy's son, and, holding him hostage, intimidate the Hungarian ruler into surrendering to them, abdicating his position, and fleeing the country. Their surrogate Arrow Cross party takes control, headed by the fanatical anti-Semite, Ferenc Szalasi. "The next day Eichmann returns to Budapest in triumph." (Bierman, p. 75)

Now Szalasi's thugs roam the street, looking for Jews to kill. Some -- as many as 13,000, eventually -- find refuge in one of the thirty-two apartment buildings Wallenberg has begged, borrowed, and rented, where the Swedish flag flies overhead like a beacon of hope, food and medicine are stashed in every corner, and forty doctors stand by to inoculate newcomers against typhoid and cholera. (Morse, p. 367) "The Swede is now Budapest's number one landlord." (Fenyvesi, p. 46)

When Hungarian gendarmes try to force their way into one of these safe houses with orders to seize all able-bodied men, Wallenberg bars the entrance. "Nonsense," he says. "This is Swedish territory. You have no right to be on these premises . . . By agreement between the Royal Swedish Government and the Royal Hungarian Government, these men are specifically exempted from labor levies . . . If you want to take them, you will have to shoot me first." The gendarmes leave empty-handed. (Bierman, p. 92)

A bizarre negotiation with the Arrow Cross government saves more lives. When Interior Minister Vajna announces the illegitimacy of Jews belonging to the Roman Catholic or Lutheran churches and the invalidity of foreign passports and letters of safe conduct, Wallenberg persuades Foreign Minister Kemeny to rescind the directive -- appealing to the sympathies of his wife, who is of Jewish birth, and to the regime's desire for international recognition. (Bierman, p. 77)

When, despite a shortage of equipment, the Auschwitz-bound trains begin rolling again, the resourceful rescuer chases them down. "How dare you attempt to remove these people who are under the protection of the Royal Swedish legation?" he demands of the lieutenant in charge, who produces his orders and a list of prisoners. "Your list cannot possibly include Jews who hold Swedish passports. And if it does, someone has made a grievous mistake, and he will pay for it," says Wallenberg. He brandishes his own list, and gets his wards off the train. (Bierman, p. 92)

At Kelenfold, on the western outskirts of Budapest, a deportation center, he flaunts his Swedish credentials and plunges into the crowd, "waving documents and shouting, 'You -- Mr. Katz! Mr. Berger! We have your papers!' The names don't matter, of course. Most of them are just made up. He hands out documents to those nearby," and snatches anyone who flashes a driver's license or ration card. "In the confusion, even people who have nothing are able to slip away." (Fenyvesi, pp. 47-48)

At the Jozsefvaros Railway Station, he brushes past an SS officer, climbs up on the roof of the train, and begins thrusting protective passes through the unsealed doors. The Arrow Cross men shout at him to desist and then open fire, deliberately aiming over his head, so as not to hit him. Wallenberg calmly orders all those with passports to disembark and leads them to a caravan of cars parked nearby, past their dumfounded captors. (Bierman, p. 91)

Weary of contesting the German Army for every locomotive and cattle car, Eichmann, resolute as ever, conceives the diabolical plan of deporting the remaining Jews on foot -- 120 miles to the Austrian border. In the bitter cold of late November, my mother and I fall in among thirty thousand refugees (one fifth will die en route) straggling down the highway, ragged, starving, exhausted, many so old they can hardly crawl. Whipped on by Hungarian guards, those who falter or fall are shot. (Morse, p. 368)

"The conditions are frightful. We walk twenty miles a day in freezing rain . . . One night we stop in a square in the middle of a village, and lay down to rest, without shelter. . . In the morning some of the older women are dead." (Bierman, p. 80)

When we reach the frontier, I manage to slip away to a barn where hundreds of women claiming to hold Swedish passports are being held. "A few days later I hear a great commotion among the women. 'It's Wallenberg,' they say. . . Dozens cluster around him, crying 'Save us, save us.' "

"How handsome he looks -- and how clean -- in his leather coat and hat, like he's from another world . . . Why does he bother with such wretched creatures as we . . . He says: 'Please, you must forgive me, but I cannot help you all. I can only provide certificates for a hundred of you . . . I feel I have a mission to save the Jewish nation and so I must rescue the young ones first' . . . He adds my name to his list. After a day or two, the hundred of us whose names have been recorded are put on a train bound for Budapest." (Bierman, pp. 81-82)

After my rescue, the Hungarian Fascists come to the house where I am staying and kidnap several women. They are taken to the river, expecting the worst, when a car arrives, and out steps Wallenberg. Confronting the Arrow Cross guards, he argues that the women are under his protection. "He has incredible charisma, great personal authority -- because there is absolutely nothing behind him, nothing to back him up . . . The guards can shoot him in the street and no one will know. Instead, they relent and let the women go." (Bierman, p. 89)

Somehow he has intuited that "he can order high-ranking Germans around by raising his voice just a little and giving it the right firmness." When Germans cannot read the rank on someone's shoulders, because he's wearing civilian clothes, and fear he may have been sent by Hitler or Himmler, they prefer to obey orders. (Fenyvesi, p. 49)

What's extraordinary is the absolutely convincing power of his behavior. When his personal driver is arrested by the Arrow Cross, he drives straight to their headquarters, marches inside, demands his release, and within minutes emerges with the man in tow. (Bierman, p. 90)

Some say Wallenberg is not a brave man, that he is always the first to seek shelter during an air raid. But when it is a question of saving lives, he never hesitates, acting boldly and fearlessly, even though the risk is much greater. (Fenyvesi, p. 52)

One miracle the imperturbable Wallenberg cannot consummate is to deflect Eichmann from his path of destruction. During a chance encounter, the saint invites the sinner to dine with him. After the "pleasures of good food, fine wine, and inconsequential chatter," he launches an attack on the Nazi doctrine, predicting the total defeat of its adherents. Eichmann responds, but his "propaganda phrases sound hollow compared with Wallenberg's intelligent reasoning. Finally he says, 'I admit you are right, Herr Wallenberg. I have never believed in Nazism, as such, but it has given me power and wealth. I know this pleasant life of mine will soon be over.' " (Bierman, pp. 99-100)

Nevertheless, he resolves to "obey his orders from Berlin and exercise his power harshly enough so that he may prolong his respite for some time." He warns Wallenberg that he will do his utmost to stop him, and that his Swedish passport will not protect him should Eichmann decide to have him removed; after all, "accidents do happen, even to a neutral diplomat" (Bierman, p. 100) -- including a car bombing and a truck ramming, both of which fail to harm their intended victim.

Despite his bluster at the dinner party, Eichmann flees Budapest on December 23rd, leaving orders with the Arrow Cross and the German Army to liquidate the 100,000 surviving Jews.

The first phase of the final act involves the transfer on foot of 25,000 Jews from the International Ghetto to the General Ghetto, where 75,000 are already on the verge of starvation. Wallenberg bribes Arrow Cross officials to cancel this order in exchange for Swedish food supplies and protective passes.

Now our fate lies in the hands of SS General August Schmidthuber. Wallenberg sends word to Schmidthuber that he will hold the General personally responsible for any massacre and see to it that he is hanged as a war criminal. With the Russians' arrival imminent, Schmidthuber realizes he has no time to find Wallenberg and silence him. "His nerve breaks. He picks up the telephone and instructs his men that under no circumstances are the ghetto killings to take place." Our defiant warrior claims his final victory. (Bierman, p. 116)

When the smoke clears, twenty-five thousand more of our brothers and sisters emerge from their hiding places in Gentile homes, monasteries, convents, and church cellars; they too owe their lives to the prodigious efforts of this brave and kind man.

Wallenberg himself was not so fortunate. Believing his best hope for securing emergency food and medical supplies for the decimated Jewish community was the Russian Army, he gathered his personal belongings and the rest of his funds, and on January 17th, 1945, left with his driver and a Russian escort for its headquarters in Debrecen, 120 miles to the east. He was never seen or heard from again.

Because of his association with the War Refugee Board and the known affiliation of his sponsor, Ivar Olsen with the U.S. espionage agency, the Office of Strategic Services, the Russians suspected him of being a spy. Whether he was or not, "the fact that he was a heroic rescuer of Jews only strengthened the Soviet determination to get him. They hated heroes . . . and probably laughed when he told them he saved Jews because he believed in humanity." Moreover, as a first step toward communizing Hungary, they were systematically eliminating foreign influences, and regarded him as an American imperialist agent. (Fenyvesi, p. 71)

Since 1941, well-intentioned statesmen had wrung their hands in frustration, affirming a proper measure of compassion, bemoaning the Jewish tragedy, and lamenting their inability to stay the executioner's sword. While it is true that Hungary presented a uniquely receptive environment, who can say if another person would have seized the day as Wallenberg did, or what factors in his personality drove him so relentlessly in his self-imposed crusade?

Undoubtedly, he was courageous, steadfast, and unselfish -- to a point seldom associated with "real, living people" -- and motivated by a simple belief in goodness and a desire to foil evil, a natural humanitarian sympathetic to the weak and downtrodden. (Fenyvesi, pp. 50-51)

But beyond that, he embraced his mission as an opportunity to exercise his individuality, to shatter his family's traditional commercial boundaries. He exulted in an unprecedented freedom of action. "He could operate outside the narrowly defined laws of any one country or community . . . Though posted as a diplomat, he ignored the restrictions of that code-bound profession. He himself would determine what was right." In a universe of moral inversion, anything that saved lives -- lying, bluffing, forging documents -- was permissible. (Fenyvesi, p.52)

The Jews of Budapest named a street for Raoul Wallenberg. There was little more they could do to express their gratitude, since he had disappeared into the vastness of the Soviet Union. But the Israelite Congregation of Pest, where the Swedish safe houses had been located, paid him this tribute:

"We witnessed the redemption of prisoners and the relief of suffering when Mr. Wallenberg came among the persecuted to help. In a superhuman effort, not yielding to fatigue and exposing himself to all sorts of dangers, he brought home children who had been dragged away and he liberated parents. We saw him give food to the starving and aid to the ailing . . . He was a righteous man." (Morse, pp. 373-374)

REFERENCES

Bierman, John. Righteous Gentile: The Story of Raoul Wallenberg, Missing Hero of the Holocaust. New York: The Viking Press, 1981.

Fenyvesi, Charles. When Angels Fooled the World: Rescuers of Jews in Wartime Hungary. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2003.

Morse, Arthur D. While Six Million Died: A Chronicle of American Apathy. New York: Random House, 1967.

Destination Wedding

Although it certainly sounded like one when I named the place and the occasion and was duly congratulated, this wasn't really a destination wedding, if one subscribes to the technical definition, which purports that the nuptial site be some exotic distant locale, foreign to both bride and groom and requiring complicated (and expensive) travel arrangements by all invitees.

If the truth be told, my daughter's wedding, which took place five months ago, would more accurately qualify, luring as it did one hundred friends and family members to the remote hamlet of Haverhill, New Hampshire, there to be enchanted by its pastoral, rural beauty and breath-taking mountain vistas, the place where her affianced had spent many a languid summer visiting his grandmother, one of its 5000 residents. The minor problem of how to get there in less than eight hours flying and driving was easily solved by the Schewel contingent of eight indulging in a rare extravagance and chartering a private jet.

In this case, however, the destination -- Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic -- was chosen not for its tropical charm -- a refreshing antidote to winter's early wrath -- nor its tourist appeal but because it was, in fact, the birthplace and home of my son Matthew's fiancee, Patricia Rodriguez, whose parents -- esteemed, genteel professionals -- would consider nothing less than the finest traditional celebration for their oldest daughter and the first to wed.

Like champagne from an uncorked bottle, they erupted impromptu, two weddings in one year, which, while not entirely unexpected -- both Sara 32 and Matthew 28 had been courting their respective significant others for some time -- still retained elements of surprise. After all, despite one's paternal intimacy, which may be more wishful thinking than reality, no one really knows when, if ever, these affairs will be consummated, at least in a legal sense, especially in a family where both parents and five aunts and uncles have bequeathed to their offspring an intimidating and dispiriting legacy of divorce.

Nevertheless, omnia vincit amor, and within three months of Sara's receiving a ring from her beau Nate -- at the finish line of the Philadelphia Marathon, no less, which they crossed in unison, signifying perhaps the arduous nature of the marriage compact -- Matthew boldly produced one of his own, on Valentine's Day. He may have been spurred to action by his Dominican girl friend's admonition that "engagement is the happiest day in a Latino's life" and her resourceful emergency flight to Washington, D. C., ostensibly to nurse his bruised ego and a broken wrist back to health after a nasty bicycle spill.

In defiance of the conventional wisdom that long-distance relationships are doomed to fail, this valiant couple confronted and conquered periods of prolonged separation. When the two met at a conference four years ago, both were teaching in bilingual elementary school programs, he in Durham, N. C., she in Greenville. After Matthew moved to Washington, D. C., to embark on his journalism career, four-hour drives each way became the norm as the two alternated weekend rendezvous. When the renewal of Patricia's visa fell prey to bureaucratic carelessness and she was exiled to the DR, reunions became fewer, farther apart, and more costly. Thank goodness for Skype.

And when the two decided to tie the proverbial knot -- confirming the adage that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," and not of someone else, as a cynical friend of mine was quick to observe (actually she was quoting her grandmother) -- they learned that navigating the murky waters of the State Department is a slow, treacherous, frustrating process, typified by its culmination, a five-hour wait for a ten-minute interview at the Embassy in Santo Domingo. The subsequent issuing of Patricia's fiancee visa was a Pyrrhic victory, however, since the U. S. Government's perverse logic forbade her return to the DR -- should she choose to leave to visit her betrothed -- even for her own wedding unless married in the States in a civil ceremony.

By a stroke of luck, the eleven Lynchburgers (including me, my mother, my friend JSG, my sister, my brother-in-law, their two children, and my brother and his three children) who board their Delta Regional Jet at 6:00 AM on December 28th, bound for Atlanta and the Dominican Republic, manage to avoid such inconveniences. Well, almost.

Upon checking in, I am subjected to another tiresome example of how an ubiquitous Big Brother is watching out for me (and three hundred million other Americans). The agent is required to verify my credit card, and when the numbers don't match -- since I lost my card two months ago and had to get a new one -- she has to cancel and reissue the three tickets purchased with the old one. Says my niece Esther: "Someone used Marc Schewel's credit card to buy a ticket for Marc Schewel. I wonder who it was."

Our return flight, reservations for which were made long before the axe fell, is scheduled for January 2nd, which, while not the last Delta flight into Lynchburg, is only one whisker-thin day shy of the distressing termination of the Atlanta Connection. It's as if an angry god has swooped down from the friendly skies and erased our fair city from the map. (And he even has the audacity to email me a customer satisfaction survey after I am safely home.)

By the time we are in the air at 6:30 AM, it's already been a long day. At 3:30 my stepdaughter Kali called the house (a second alarm, as if I needed one). She and her sister Adrienne had missed their flight from New York due to a blizzard, had driven all night to Lynchburg to pick up their passports and warm-weather clothes, and were halfway to Charlotte to embark from there to the DR -- minus Adrienne's formal dress which she had left at her mother's apartment. Would I go by and pick it up? "Sure," I said, with bleary-eyed exasperation, assuming I can find it in the middle of the night, having never set sight on my ex-wife's residence. Fortunately I was spared the adventure when, just as I was pulling out of the driveway, Kali called back with the gratifying news that Adrienne had another dress she could wear.

Ten minutes underway my mother implored me to go back to her house for her reading glasses. Then, at the airport, how could I, a dutiful son, deny her request to carry her cumbersome overcoat out to the parked car, only to find out, after clearing security, that I had to go back to search the pockets for her boarding passes -- which meant off and on with the shoes again, as if this suspicious character had inseminated them with explosives during his mysterious disappearance.

For an eighty-five-year-old woman my mother travels well; she just occasionally forgets things, like trading her seat next to mine for JSG's, the number of which I wrote clearly on her boarding pass. When she has to reverse course and walk back up the aisle against a swarm of incoming passengers, she looks like a goldfish caught in a tidal wave.

Otherwise our three-hour flight from Atlanta to Santo Domingo and immigration into the DR are uneventful. (Every one has to pay a $10 tourist fee.) Since one never knows when the local currency might be useful or necessary, I decide to convert $100 into Dominican pesos; at thirty-one per dollar, my wallet bulges with over three thousand, and I feel like a rich man. A vast disillusionment sets in, however, when I discover that most Dominicans have no faith in Mr. Bernanke's efforts to devalue the dollar and prefer it to the peso.

With eighteen family members and a dozen other out-of-towners now in unfamiliar territory, Matthew has procured (at a cost of course which Dad is underwriting) a forty-passenger bus, which meets us at the airport and conveys us to our four-star accommodations at the Melia Hotel and Casino, a sprawling complex set amidst similar establishments on a long thoroughfare fronting the harbor.

After four hours in the air, I conclude that our brief bus ride through the crowded streets of Santo Domingo, dodging and muscling past hordes of automobiles, trucks, and motor scooters, the imperturbable drivers of which, swept up in a frenzied game of chicken, are serenely oblivious not only to each other but to the infrequent signs and signals that flash by, is much more harrowing than any takeoff, turbulence, or touchdown -- that is until JSG and I venture out to cross the highway for a leisurely stroll along the waterfront. An impenetrable stampede of motor power thunders by, bunched like Nascar racers on restart, changing lanes with no margin for error, daring foolhardy pedestrians (like us) to risk disaster.

Sadly, the scene is depressing. Noise and exhaust pollute the atmosphere. The late afternoon sun shimmers on the blue-green water and scattered whitecaps, but the beach is narrow, rocky, and littered with paper trash and plastic containers. Ever the critic, I instruct JSG that the city would be better served by dispatching half of the superfluous police officers idly patrolling the premises to clean-up duty.

A few hours later, it's time to Meet the . . . Rodriguezes. Their spacious stucco villa -- about twenty minutes from our hotel -- protected by an iron gate, is tucked into an elite neighborhood that requires our dexterous driver to coax his unwieldy vehicle around tight corners, up steep inclines, and across deep gullies, eliciting groans of protest from the overworked transmission.

My son's imminent in-laws, Julio and Josefina, have graciously opened their home to the entire Schewel clan for a delightful Dominican repast on the eve of the wedding -- substituting their exceptional hospitality for the customary rehearsal dinner sponsored by the groom's parents.

Julio, or more respectfully, Don Julio, according to my older son David, is tall, courtly, and animated; attired in khaki slacks and a casual shirt that matches his Roman crown of white hair (I have chosen stripes and a blue blazer, the proper uniform of a Virginia Don), he and Josefina, equally regal in a full-length patterned dress, greet us at the door and direct us through the living room, where Josefina's elderly mother, confined to a wheelchair, smiles and whispers a few words of welcome.

Don Julio is a Renaissance man. Seventy-five years old, he is the chief medical officer at Santo Domingo's major hospital while continuing to practice and teach pediatrics. He is an amateur historian, having published works on the Trujillo regime, maintains a web site on the subject, and writes a weekly column in a local newspaper. He is an avid baseball fan and an accomplished bridge player. And, as I am about to discover, he knows how to throw a party.

The patio where we congregate is surrounded on three sides by a fifty-foot ivy-covered wall. In the center is a large orchid garden featuring two dozen varieties of the seductive flower; more protrude from the rising greenery. Josefina, says Patricia, is the resident horticulturist, the heritage of her rural origins. Not to be outdone by her husband, she trained as a pharmacist and a physician, but had her career swamped by five children before she could launch it.

In this exquisite setting -- which our host apologizes for, since at 19* C (61* F), it's the coldest night in two years, but not nearly as cold as the two weeks he spent in Wisconsin -- we meet his family of achievers -- dazzling women, handsome men, all friendly, effusive, and charming, fluent in English, current or future doctors, dentists, executives -- sip the Dominican cocktail of choice, rum and coke or whiskey (scotch) and water; and partake of a sumptuous buffet spread out in the dining room: lettuce, tomato, and avocado salad, a hearty stew (sancocho) stocked with chicken, beef, and pork, eggplant lasagna, sweet potatoes, and a fruit custard.


Apparently, the vivacious, black-haired beauty who has won my son's heart is a source of humor for her family. "What do you think of Patricia in the States?" asks one of her brothers, as if there are some things about her I should know. Turning to baseball, a favorite Dominican topic, he lauds the Nationals for signing Jason Werth to replace Adam Dunn, who "strikes out too much." He supplies me with ammunition for a toast when he tells me that Patricia doesn't know that much about baseball and was frantically texting him for information when I took Matthew and her to a game -- the first time I met her, a presumed baseball savant.

Poor Patricia. "She's the worst driver in the family," says Julio, when his turn comes, recalling an accident in North Carolina and one closer to home when she tendered this irrefutable defense: 'That pole wasn't supposed to be there."

The next day JSG and I discover the pleasures of a Dominican coffee as bold as espresso and Presidente beer served ice-cold, sandwiched around a visit to the Colonial City. After pawning off 350 pesos on a cab driver (he wanted dollars, ten of them), we spurn the imprecations of an official guide who thrusts his laminated badge in our faces to verify his credibility and offers us a forty-five minute tour for thirty dollars.

Maybe we shouldn't have been so cavalier -- and penurious. We spot the Cathedral of Santa Marie la Menos, the oldest in the New World, from where we are standing and amble through, but after that we find ourselves on a pedestrian mall lined with small restaurants, souvenir shops, and street vendors. Most enticing are primitive oils of native women and colorful produce, which can be had for $30 to $130, depending on one's negotiating skills, and tantalizing concoctions of "mamajuana," which, when mixed with rum, is guaranteed to cure the common cold, alleviate the pain of gout, and enhance sexual potency. We settle for frozen yogurt.

Matthew's wedding takes place that evening in another church, Regina Angelorum, not far from our afternoon excursion. A crash course in the catechism and a signed oath to raise his children Catholic have been sufficient to neutralize his Jewish roots. We're on Dominican time now, so even though the invitation reads "half past seven," the Wedding Party (in its own Wedding Bus) and the guests don't arrive until 8:00 PM.

I am a little apprehensive about my role in the ceremony since there's been no rehearsal and I won't understand a word that is spoken. Matthew informs me that, after escorting Josefina down the aisle -- in a new tuxedo no less, having finally consigned my thirty-year-old antique to the dustbin of memories, the frayed veteran of innumerable weddings, including at least one, possibly two, of my own -- I am to do what the Rodriguezes do.

Five chairs are arranged on either side of the altar -- the first time I have ever seen that -- and when Josefina takes a seat on the bride's side, I follow suit facing her beside Matthew's mother (my first ex-wife) and her husband. I'd prefer to be next to him since he's Catholic and could coach me at crucial moments.

Matthew -- all 6'2" of his gangling arms, legs, and torso lathered up in black (tux) and white (tie) -- and his older brother, his best man, race down the aisle like thoroughbreds let loose. And then, here comes the bride, escorted by Don Julio, at a more leisurely, practiced pace, and well she should, resplendent in a flowing white dress layered with lace, ruffles, pleats, and crinolines, trailing a six-foot train, which commands the constant attention of her bridesmaid sister. And then the priest -- solemn and smiling, serious and jovial, robust and humble -- begins.


It's in Spanish of course, and there are no interpreters or subtitles; other than a few "Jesu's" which penetrate my language barrier, the prayers, prescriptions, blessings, and sermons soar right over my head -- to heaven -- which they may just as well have done had they been in English. Afterward Matthew tells me that the priest carefully explains to his congregants why this service is different -- a lot different -- from what they are accustomed to: one of the participants is Jewish. As are his parents.

I am guilty of one faux pas and come perilously close to another. Midway through, mirroring the Rodriguezes, I rise to greet my companions on the altar; when I assume they're saying "Congratulations," Matthew corrects me to "Peace be with you." And when the Rodriguezes, padre y madre, step forward to take communion, following instructions, I fall in line, until my ex-wife's husband, the Catholic, waves me off like a hockey goalie protecting his net. Of course, I know better.

If I had tasted the wine and wafer, I could never have denied it, since every minute of action and dialogue is being recorded for posterity -- in triplicate. Like paparazzi stalking British royalty, two videographers and a photographer with a dedicated light-man circle the altar, capturing every nuance of expression of bride, groom, (and parent) from a multitude of angles. Their output may even surpass the six hundred images from the couple's prenuptial photo shoot, so sequential they can be scrolled through like an animated movie.

Twenty family members are summoned to the altar to sign a witness book (a relic of a bygone pre-digital era), including me, who somehow ends up shoulder to shoulder with the priest as he delivers the benediction. As the celebrants parade down the aisle, one mystery is solved; the source of the harmonious hymns we have enjoyed: a four-piece combo seated in the back row and a honey-tongued female vocalist.


By this time it's 9:30. We board the Wedding Bus for quick transport to the Museo de las Casas Reales. Inside the lobby, to the silvery tones of dueling violinists, the bride, groom, and parents form a receiving line, a gauntlet of "felicitaciones" and "gracias," through which all one hundred fifty guests must pass, shaking hands, hugging, and kissing (cheek-to-cheek).

Around 10:00 we adjourn to the lighted courtyard, find a seat at one of the fifteen tables, lift a spot of champagne, and absorb the scene: the tropical foliage, the festive decorations, the large imported dance floor, the fifteen-piece band nestled in the shadows, the bar and buffet peeking from behind a stone portico.

On display at each formal place setting are a chocolate coin wrapped in gold foil inscribed "Matthew and Patricia" and a gift-wrapped doll, each one unique, "a manifestation of Dominican expression," faceless, representing "the union of three races: Native, African, and European, reason thus the Dominicans have no defined phenotypic characteristic."


The band starts up, and, after the newlyweds' first dance, like metal rods drawn to a magnet, the entire entourage rushes to the stage and unleashes a powerful Caribbean rhythm. Bodies are packed in tighter than a Dominican traffic jam.

In the dense crowd I intuit that a basic rock-and-roll step and some vigorous hip-shaking will do as well as anything. My fledgling daughter-in-law pays me the ultimate compliment: "For a gringo, you sure know how to dance." Lights flicker, cameras flash, the pulse quickens, the flesh dampens. The Beat Goes On. It's after 11:00 but still not time to eat.

Taking a break, I strike up a conversation with an unfamiliar American -- his generous girth a telltale sign -- Dr. Robert G. He introduces himself as "the token Jew" ("Not tonight," says my brother), a longtime friend of Don Julio and the DR's Medical Examiner, a position he has held since 1983. Before that, he was the Forensic Pathologist to the Attorney-General of the United States.

"And what does such a person do?" I ask, my exposure to the profession limited to the exploits of Kay Scarpetta, Patricia Cornwell's literary creation. "Well," says Dr. G., "investigate incidents like the explosion of Pan Am 103, the Oklahoma City bombing, and the death of Saddam Hussein's son."

We were warned by Patricia that dinner wouldn't be served until 11:00; actually, it's not until 11:45, but well worth waiting for: strawberry, mushroom, and shrimp salads; tomatoes and mozzarella salad; cheese ravioli; mashed potato casserole; roasted pig; assorted pastries and petit fours for dessert; and a four-foot tall five-layer birthday cake (well, at least it looked like one).


The band starts up again -- but not for us. Six professional dancers, male and female, flaunting bright red and yellow costumes, burst to the stage to demonstrate some authentic and intricate Dominican footwork, much to the delight and appreciation of an enthusiastic, slightly inebriated audience.


Straw hats and glow sticks magically appear; it's Club Rave as the party goers reclaim the floor; bathed in alternating strobe lights, they jerk and twitch in robotic stop-action. A half-full drink glass becomes the center of attention as crazed dancers, including my mother, see how low they can go. In a tribute to the gringos, Rock Around the Clock, YMCA, and Tell Me More blast from the loudspeakers, and then Hava Nagila, the Jewish folk song; two chairs are hustled to the stage and Matthew and Patricia are hoisted to the starry heavens.


A Night to Remember -- and it's not even New Year's Eve -- which comes a scant forty-eight hours later.

By this time, with hardly any sleep -- when we left the party at 2:00 AM, it was still going on -- we have packed our bags and boarded our bus for transport to our second Dominican destination: the Ocean Blue Resort in Punta Cana, where, in a contemporary variation of the traditional practice, the Schewel family and a few of their friends will honeymoon with the bride and groom.

If I had any doubts that driving in the DR is risky business, they were unanimously resolved in the affirmative during this three-and-a-half hour ride (and back three days later). It's every man, vehicle, and horse for himself; fortunately, our six-wheeled beast presents an imposing -- though hardly invincible -- obstacle to its diminutive -- though still fearless -- road rivals. Our impatient driver shakes them off like pesky flies as he bullies past them on blind hills and corners, sometimes running three abreast on a two-lane road.

There are no speed limits in the DR, only speed bumps or speed gullies; they announce with a vengeance the approach, main street, and exit of every town in our path, strain our axles and transmission, but enable me to spot a neighborhood of meubles stores -- the only Spanish word I know, furniture.

Our escort tries to distract us with an on-board movie, the Jeff Bridges comedy-drama, The Fisher King; it's tolerable, but when he switches to an ear-splitting prison revolt abomination in Spanish with subtitles, I ask him to turn the volume down (twice) since only he and the driver can understand it. But just about the time I start to doze off the bus hits a speed bump or blasts its horn at an errant motor scooter.

Our all-inclusive resort boasts the usual amenities: all you can drink; unlimited buffets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; two swimming pools the size of football fields; a broad beach stocked with canopied chaises; and mediocre entertainment. Our mini-vacation has its share of memorable -- and forgettable -- moments.


Upon my checking in, the concierge whisks me aside, peruses my officious-looking blue blazer, respectfully inquires, "Aren't you with the Embassy?" -- and tries to sell me an upgrade. (I'm already paying $160 per night per person.)

I probably should have acquiesced since it may have garnered me (and a few others) entrance to one of the five seated dining establishments -- Mexican, Caribbean, Italian, American casual, American beef -- which never had any reservations available, no matter what time of day one called. (I suspect all the food came from the same kitchen anyway.)

When I ask my daughter Sara if she and her husband would like to join JSG and me for the Dominican Las Vegas Revue, she references a similar show at the Riu Palace in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and says, "I'd rather read a book," a good choice, since the recorded music sounds like it's coming from a cave and the choreography doesn't meet high school standards.

With the fitness center barely large enough to accommodate its lone treadmill and stationary bicycle, our exercise regimen is relegated to long walks on the beach; the sight of a few topless fifty-somethings hardly compensates for spraining my foot in the porous sand or soaking my athletic shoes in the incoming tide when I wear them to ease the pain.

Some practical joker pours vodka in a plastic water bottle and leaves it on a dining room table; who should take a swallow but JSG?

One morning at breakfast I am entranced by the dexterity of a grill man cracking eggs one-handed and allowing only the whites to dribble out.

In anticipation of an upcoming resolution, I splurge at the New Year's Eve dessert bar, a huge spread of tables filling the hotel lobby and covered with yule logs the size of tree trunks, white and dark chocolate truffles, mousses in chocolate shells, cookies, dried fruit, nougats, apple pastries, marshmallows, pralines, eclairs, gelatins, meringues, a gingerbread house, and chocolate-carved leaves, castles, turtles, and dogs.


After sampling too many, we join several hundred other revelers in the courtyard behind the lobby for our second extravaganza in three nights, ringing in 2011 with more dancing, more alcohol, a bilingual countdown, an explosion of fireworks, and -- Prince-like -- the release of a flock of doves. May Peace Be With You.

Two days later, it's back to reality. As we board our plane to Atlanta, the flight attendant takes one look at the weary Schewel family and says we are the grumpiest travelers she's ever seen (or at least since her last flight). And why shouldn't we be? We've endured another three-hour bus ride (which left forty minutes late -- unless you're on Dominican time), one-and-a-half hours in line to check-in, and four security screenings (including an x-ray and a hand search of our carry ons and a body frisk), and we're leaving 19*C weather for 19*F.

But there are rewards: no more chauffeurs, a home-cooked meal, workouts at the YMCA, and it's safe to drink the water. Happy New Year.

Day of Infamy

Like a string of Christmas lights bursting into color or a full Menorah displaying its nine flickering candles, a host of provocative titles lit up my brain this morning, December 7, 2010.

Should I label this article "Happy Days," recalling the halcyon high school adventures of Richie Cunningham and Fonzie Fonzarelli, since, indeed, who among us should not be mindlessly blissful at the prospect of savory tax treats graciously bestowed upon us for the holidays by our indulgent President and his suddenly amicable Republican cohorts -- except for a handful of liberal Grinches, like me?

Or how about "Height of Hypocrisy," since, while sanctimonious Congressmen and Senators from both parties -- but particularly Republicans eager to flay their opponents at every opportunity -- and the White House have been almost unanimous in "warning about the existential threat posed by large deficits and mounting federal debt," (Christopher Hayes, The Nation, December 9, 2010) no one expressed undue concern that the just-consummated tax deal will add $900 billion to a two-year accumulated deficit of $2 trillion?

Or how about "Kick the Can" (down the road), the simple game we have all played in our youth (which required only a well-worn tennis shoe and a discarded soda can), since once again our cowardly politicians, looking no further than their next campaign, have refused to face up to the fiscal facts of life and chosen to defer their responsibilities to future generations, whose burden was just made a little more onerous?

Or how about "Blackmail," since no less odious a term can be applied to the process by which the Republican leadership negotiated with President Obama, threatening an "all or nothing" expiration of the Bush tax cuts of 2001 and 2003, which compelled him to keep them all in place, even for high-income earners, lest he renege on his promise not to raise taxes on families making less than $250,000?

But I finally settled on "Day of Infamy," with no disrespect to the 2403 Americans killed in Japan's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor sixty-nine years ago. Because if December 7, 2010, will soon be forgotten -- indeed has already been forgotten -- the deal struck that day -- if it stands, which it surely will, despite sporadic fulminations by a few feckless Democrats (and an eight-hour filibuster by one) -- says as much about the sorry state of our Republic as World War II did about its enduring grandeur, now consigned to history.

While Obama staggers under attacks from the Left, who accuse him of spinelessness and betrayal for abandoning his principles, and from the Right, who resent his characterization of them as "hostage takers" and still didn't get their wish list complete -- the tax cuts made permanent and the unemployment benefits "paid for" by spending cuts -- I believe he will emerge from this battle unscathed.

Democrats can posture and protest until Santa Claus flies over the Capitol, and some even vote their conscience, but enough will support the bill to assure its passage, loath to forgo the sackful of bounty lavished upon their lower and middle class constituencies. On the other side of the aisle, even the most glib commentators seem flummoxed -- even outfoxed -- by their enemy's tax-cutting oneupmanship, and have been reduced to a vacuous critique of his rhetoric and demeanor.

The two-year deal sets the stage for a showdown in 2012. The Republicans, emboldened by their success, will argue that if the economy is still soft, it's no time to raise taxes (it never is), or if conditions have improved, lower taxes were the reason. Obama's position is more problematic; having conceded on "tax cuts for the wealthy," he will be hard-pressed to revive it as the centerpiece of his reelection campaign.

Undoubtedly, both parties will decry the escalating federal debt -- which by that time will have reached an unfathomable $15 trillion -- and the looming insolvency of Social Security and Medicare, bemoan the burden being foisted upon our grandchildren, blame each other for the deplorable situation -- and persist in piling deficits upon deficits. Because whether Tax-and-Spend Democrats or Borrow-and-Spend Republicans are steering the titanic ship of state, it's headed for a perilous day of reckoning.

As best I can determine, according to Department of Treasury Revenue Estimates, the tax cut deal will add $540 billion to an already bloated 2011 budget deficit and a somewhat lesser amount in 2012 assuming its one-year provisions (the payroll tax reduction and the unemployment benefits extension) are terminated.

Reducing the payroll tax, whose trust fund is already stuffed with Government IOU's, from 6.2% to 4.2% will cost $120 billion.

Extending unemployment benefits for thirteen months will cost $55 billion.

Maintaining the Bush marginal tax rates will cost $90 billion, $30 billion more than if the rates were kept for all but the high (over $250,000) earners.

Maintaining capital gains and dividend tax rates at 15% rather than allowing them to revert to pre-2003 levels (20% for capital gains and the taxpayers' ordinary income rate for dividends) will cost $30 billion.

Fixing the Alternative Minimum Tax, which would impact 24 million additional households, will cost $70 billion.

Continuing the Earned Income Tax Credit, the Child Tax Credit, the American Opportunity Tax Credit, and certain business tax extenders will cost $40 billion.

Establishing an estate tax rate of 35% on spousal estates of $10 million and up (as opposed to the pre-2001 rate of 55% on estates of $1,350,000 and up) will cost $35 billion.

Allowing businesses to accelerate depreciation of new equipment purchases will cost $100 billion in 2011 (and $50 billion in 2012).

As this schedule reveals, the current contentiousness over "tax cuts for the wealthy" is largely a distraction. While $100 billion -- their sum total -- is hardly a pittance, it's only 20% of the whole package, which includes some juicy new delicacies as well as some old favorites. For years Congress has failed to address the Alternative Minimum Tax, which, like a creeping quicksand, would ensnare more unsuspecting families unless, once again, temporarily fixed. The two-year $150 billion price tag on accelerated depreciation is more like a loan than a credit, since it will all be recouped by the Federal Government in future years.

Although many economists and politicians -- most notably Dick Cheney -- have reassured a skeptical public that "deficits don't matter," common sense would suggest to a layman that they do.

While this may be a gross oversimplification, I understand that, because the dollar is the reserve currency of international trade, the United States is the only country that can print money at will to purchase its own government debt -- an activity which Mr. Bernanke is engaged in as I write, supposedly to ward off deflation. But all that cash floating around reminds me of a tinderbox, just waiting for a spark of recovery to ignite into a roaring inflation, a poisonous stealth tax I'm not sure Mr. Bernanke would be able to suppress in a timely manner.

Second, isn't borrowing just as pernicious a means of feeding the insatiable maw of the government beast as taxation? Both practices suck marginal investment dollars out of the private sector and deposit them into the public coffers, where they may not be allocated as efficiently.

Third, one would have to think that the Federal Government's voracious appetite for credit would at some point boost interest rates -- as indeed was the case after the announcement of the tax deal; mortgage rates surged fifty basis points, in contravention of the Federal Reserve's Quantitative Easing, which was supposed to have the opposite effect. Furthermore, rising interest rates in a healthier economic climate will unproductively consume an ever-increasing portion of the federal budget, enriching foreign bondholders and a domestic rentier class -- unless those foreigners should lose confidence in America's financial strength and seek other outlets for their savings, an even more frightening prospect.

Finally, a debt approaching $14 trillion is not the only liability weighing down the national balance sheet. The present value of projected scheduled benefits for Social Security and Medicare retirees exceeds the earmarked revenues for those programs by $46 trillion over the next seventy-five years -- not to mention the brand-new Health Care entitlement, which no reasonable person could view as a money-saver, in spite of Congressional and Presidential assertions.

How ironic that just one week before President Obama and Republican Congressional leaders hatched a plan to add $900 billion to the national debt, the co-chairmen of the National Commission on Fiscal Responsibility and Reform, Erskine Bowles and Alan Simpson, warned that the greatest threat to the economic and political stability of the United States is the fiscal crisis," a cancer that will destroy this country from within unless checked by tough action from Washington," and that "without the sacrifice [their report] calls for, the reckoning will be sure and the devastation severe."

Their draconian recommendations, which included the following, with some editorial comment, barely made it out of the starting gate before being savaged by self-interest groups and representatives from one end of the political spectrum to the other.

Eliminate the mortgage interest tax deduction on homes over $500,000. Why should the government subsidize this vulgar flaunting of wealth and egregious misappropriation of resources?

Make health care benefits taxable to employees. After all, it's a form of income; a 1099 form and a tax bill may encourage recipients to be more judicious in utilization.

Raise the Social Security eligibility age to 68 in 2050 and 69 in 2075. With people living longer, healthier lives, seventy in five years would be my target.

Raise the gasoline tax $0.15 a gallon, to foster a transition to more fuel-efficient vehicles and to finance infrastructure improvements.

Make capital gains taxable as ordinary income.

Raise the payroll tax cap rate to $190,000, a fair share for high-income earners.

Cut military spending and farm subsidies. Reduce Social Security benefits to wealthier retirees and offer less generous cost of living adjustments. Freeze the federal payroll for three years, and reduce the workforce 10% by 2020.

After paying obligatory lip service to this "take no prisoners" report, Obama and the Republicans filed it where the sun doesn't shine and turned their attention to a more pleasant pastime -- doling out more Stimulus, although that terminology was avoided like the plague, which is not surprising, considering the dismal track record of the first go round, and, indeed, when one looks back, of the entire Bush tax-cutting regime. As others far wiser than I have opined, "If these things work so well, where are all the jobs?"

Low marginal tax rates are a relatively recent phenomenon. In the early 1960's, high income earners paid as much as 91%, with hardly an objection from Democrats or Republicans, including President Eisenhower, who said, "The only way to make more and more tax cuts is to have bigger and bigger deficits and borrow more and more money. This is one kind of chicken that always comes home to roost. An unwise tax cutter . . . is no friend of the taxpayer."

From 1953 to 1963, U.S. Real Gross Domestic Product grew an average of 3.o6% a year, jumping to an average of 3.75% for the ten years after John Kennedy cut the marginal rate to 70% in 1965.

Ronald Reagan reduced the marginal rate to 50% in 1981 and then to 28% in 1986 -- although other provisions of the Tax Reform Act of that year partially offset the lower rate by eliminating some deductions. The fashionable argument that total federal revenues doubled during Reagan's two terms conveniently ignores the fact that they had doubled every single decade since the Great Depression -- and that part of the Reagan increase must be attributed to a rise in the FICA tax from 6.13% to 7.65%. Average GDP growth for the ten-year period was 3.33%.

In 1993, Bill Clinton and a Democratic Congress raised the marginal tax rate in three stages to 31%, 36%, and 39.6%. From 1993 to 2002, GDP grew an average of 3.48% per year, and 26 million jobs were created. By 1998, the $300 billion budget deficit Clinton had inherited had been turned into a surplus, which lasted until 2002.

In 2001 and 2003, George W. Bush and a Republican Congress implemented two rounds of tax cuts -- lowering marginal rates at all income levels and reducing the rates on capital gains (to 15%) and on dividend income (to 20%). They maneuvered around Senate rules regarding projected deficits by agreeing to a ten-year sunset provision.

These cuts contributed to federal revenues as a share of the economy dropping to their lowest level since 1950 -- and to a surge in the deficit even before the onset of the Recession in 2007. In 2002, receipts as a per cent of GDP fell from 19.8% to 17%, and to 16.4% and 16.5% in 2003 and 2004 before recovering to an average of 18% in the next four years. Accumulated deficits during the Bush years reached $2 trillion, a number that would be exceeded by 50% during the first two years of the Obama Administration, as government receipts fell 20% and spending exploded, the harrowing consequences of a Recession-driven perfect storm.

To whatever one might attribute the country's sudden and severe economic collapse -- an overheated housing industry precariously constructed on easy credit, artificially low interest rates, and irrational exuberance; the federal government's misguided subsidization and ill-conceived promotion of the ownership society; the greed and chicanery of Wall Street bankers and investment firms, who packaged mortgage-backed securities and invented abstruse instruments to trade and speculate on them -- the verdict is in on the Bush tax cuts.

From 2001 to 2010, U.S. Real GDP grew an average of 1.66% a year -- about half the average growth rate for the previous five decades since 1950. Even without the Recession, the average growth rate from 2001 to 2007 was still abysmal -- 2.39% a year.

Nor did lower taxes increase employment. In June 2001, when the first round of the Bush tax cuts passed, there were 132 million Americans employed; in November 2010, that number had fallen to 130.5 million. In all fairness, from June 2003 to December 2007, the number of Americans employed rose from 129.8 million to 138 million before contracting. But work force participation -- the percentage of the population 16 and over which is employed -- never grew at all during the Bush years, falling from a high of 64.7% in 2000 to 62.7% in December 2007 to 58.2% today, the lowest since 1983.

Wrote David Leonhardt in The New York Times, November 18, 2010: "The theory why tax cuts should create growth and jobs is a strong one. When people are allowed to keep more of each dollar they earn, they are likely to work longer and harder [and they will have more money to spend]. The uncertainty is the magnitude of this effect. With everything else that's happening in a $15 trillion economy, how large of an effect on growth do tax cuts have?"

Nobody like to pay taxes, including me. And as the owner of a business classified as Subchapter S Corporation -- the profits of which flow directly to my personal income tax return -- I fall into the "over $250,000" income level, which means my personal (and business) marginal tax rate would rise from 35% to 39.6% should the Bush tax cuts be repealed. In years when profits are good (which hasn't been recently), that difference translates into a substantial amount of money.

I'm not an economist, so I wouldn't pretend to speculate on the optimum rate of taxation, either on a macro- or micro-economic level. When Bill Clinton and the Democrats raised taxes in 1993 -- by one vote -- with the purported goal of balancing the budget -- which they did, six years later -- my business prospered, experiencing a period of sustained growth which reached a peak in 2006. With the advent of the Recession, sales fell 18%, until by 2009 the company's volume was exactly the same as it had been in 2001, when George W. Bush took office, and it was making considerably less money -- in spite of those lower tax rates.

While I'm happy when the government takes less of my profits, I can unequivocally state that in my forty years in retail furniture -- like the video business owner I saw quoted on television -- I have never considered the tax rate when hiring or deciding whether to open, close, or expand a store. Much more likely to influence me -- and other entrepreneurs -- are optimism about the future, market opportunities, management expertise, and the availability of credit.

The benefits that the Bush tax cuts provided to different groups varied dramatically. In 2004, households in the middle 20% of the income spectrum received an average tax cut of $647, an 8.9% share of the total cut, and a 2.3% increase in their after-tax income. The top 1% of households received an average tax cut of $35,000, a 24.2% share of the total cut, and a 5.3% increase in their after-tax income. And millionaires, the top 0.2% of the population, received an average tax cut of $124,000, a 15.3% share of the total cut, and a 6.4% increase in their after-tax income.

These statistics would seem to confirm the widespread suspicion that Conservatives are intent on dismantling this country's long-standing system of progressive taxation and thus further exacerbating a problem of growing income inequality. From 1950 to 1980, the share of the nation's income going to the top 10% of the population averaged about 35%. From 1982 to 1987, it spiked to 40%, and to 50% by 2010. During the same period 1950 to 1980, the inflation-adjusted average income for the other 90% grew from $17,719 to $30,941 -- where it remains today, thirty years later.

The richest 1% of Americans take home almost 24% of the income, up from 9% in 1976; the richest 20% own 84% of the nation's wealth. CEO's of the largest American companies earned 42 times as much as the average American worker in 1980 but 531 times as much in 2001.

According to Timothy Noah of Slate Magazine, the U.S. now may have a more unequal distribution of wealth than traditional banana republics like Nicaragua, Venezuela, and Guyana.

If some see no harm in this trend, others point to financial distress on a micro-economic level -- as people end up in debt and bankruptcy trying to keep up with their wealthier neighbors -- to an erosion of political consensus as economic self-interests fracture our common purpose, and to the crises of 1929 and 2008 as periods of our greatest income disparity. Is it not conceivable that exorbitant compensation -- and low taxes -- created strong incentives for executives to take excessive risks, engineering new and dangerous types of securities?

Sooner or later, Democrats and Republicans, and the voters who elect them, will have to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth that taxes -- for everybody -- have to rise. In my view, the most desirable outcome to last week's private palaver -- but one which I am not so gullible as to think even slightly possible -- would have been to do nothing , let all the Bush tax cuts expire, and thus "Do No Harm."

According to Alan Binder, writing in The Wall Street Journal, December 17th, reverting to pre-2001 tax rates would achieve budgetary savings of $4 trillion over ten years, an amount equal to that generated by the recommendations of the Bowles-Simpson Commission.

As coldhearted as it sounds, even the 2% payroll tax stimulus and the extension of unemployment benefits are problematic. Economists have argued that wage earners have a tendency to save -- not spend -- rollbacks and rebates which are temporary, and that the unemployed have a greater motivation to look for work when their checks run out.

But instead, on this Day of Infamy, in a Height of Hypocrisy, eager for Happy Days, succumbing to Blackmail, our lawmakers decided to Kick the Can further down the road. To ask why is to expose one's naivete, opacity, disingenuousness. Nevertheless, I offer this pathetic explanation: We have become a society of entitlements -- for the poor and for the rich. Which is why those who say the solution to this tax problem is simply to cut spending are blowing smoke.

For if the former want their earned income tax credits, their food stamps, their welfare checks, and their Medicaid, the latter want their Social Security at 65 with no diminution of benefits, their Medicare, even in the last hopeless months of life, their mansion mortgage deductions, cheap gas for their suv's, and their bank bailouts.

Wrote Uwe Reinhardt in The New York Times, November 18, 2010: "With the notable exception of the latter part of the 1990's, the American people have consistently demanded from their government more spending -- particularly in the form of benefits to older Americans -- than they have been willing to pay for with taxes, increasingly relying on foreign savers to fill the gap.

"They want to enjoy overpowering military might that can be swiftly projected to any corner of the globe.

"With one of the most unequal distributions of wealth and income in the industrialized world, they want ever-more expensive basic services -- education, justice, and health care -- available to all citizens on roughly equal terms.

"They never want to say no to any health care benefit, however small it is to the relative cost . . . Because about half of American health care is tax-financed, this preference requires added taxes." And let someone be so audacious as to mention rationing -- or end-of-life counseling -- and he is summarily scorned as a pariah and death merchant.

Yes, no one wants his piece of the pie purloined or his backyard uprooted. If the last three years have taught us anything, it is that, regardless of what Capitol Hill and the White House keep professing, we can't have it all -- without pain, sacrifice, and compromise. Somehow I have to hope that, in spite of this most recent Christmas present, most celebrants don't believe it either.