Buried Under

  

Photo: Las Vegas Review Journal

     Here's something new to me: the number of above ground nuclear tests done in Nevada in the 40 years since 1951.  What number would you guess?  One or two?  Maybe a dozen?  Keep in mind that these were bombs detonated above ground, powerful enough to light the skies 400 miles away.  So your guess?  Surely by the late-80s we knew the dangers of radiation.  So what do you think?  Maybe 20 or so, as in one test every few years?  Would you have guessed over 100?  And would you have guessed that an additional 900 bombs --most of them larger than those dropped on both Hiroshima and Nagasaki-- were also detonated underground during that same time period?  In Nevada! (and a few in Arizona)  Or that the radiation from those above-ground tests drifted onto the land and water, and thus the grasses that fed cattle, which was how the "downwind" effects of that drifting strontium-90 were discovered as people ate the beef and carried it over into their newborns (a study begun in 1958 collected the baby teeth of children as they naturally fell out, some 360,000 teeth, all of which showed the increased levels of strontium-90).  But we (i.e. the government) pretended not to know and forced many soldiers to witness these above-ground tests, with many reporting that they could "see" the bones in their hands even though their eyes were closed.  Such findings, including the results from those babies' teeth, drove the nuclear testing underground...but not until 1963, about the time that Rachel Carson exposed the dangers of DDT in her book, Silent Spring.  Agent Orange would just have to wait...

 Paris map & images: Green Angel / Shutterstock

     We have a tendency to bury things anyway, from our emotions to our water and sewer lines, keeping everything out of sight/out of mind, yet just below the surface.  As you've read in earlier posts, some archeological digs have found as many as 13 cities, each being built atop earlier ones.  Logically, why move such stones twice when foundations were already there?  Unless you're in France.  Wait, what do I have against the French?  Rien de rien.  But their famous cemetery, should you fall behind or fail to renew your "rental" there, will result in your bones or ashes heading to the reliquary...not quite Catacombs II but almost (Rome is thought to have started the tradition of underground tunnels for burials, but cities such as London and others worldwide have their own fame, even one rumored to be in Los Angeles).  Turns out that Père-Lachaise cemetery, a place which Smithsonian declared perhaps "the best-known cemetery in Europe and perhaps the world," offers burial plots not only on a first-come, first-served basis, but rents them out in what are termed "concessions" with fees set by the city of Paris.  Ten years will run you about 100 euro per year, and about the same for the 30- or 50-year rental period (a perpetual 20 square foot plot will cost you just under 17,000 euro).  At the end of those periods, either pay up again to make way...as the old saying goes, people are dying to get there.  Basically, Paris, as with so many other cemeteries, is out of space (knock off 50% if you decide to use their columbarium for your ashes...same rental periods).  BTW, scattering your ashes in the common area is free (and legal).  And polished granite headstones, common in other French cemeteries, is not allowed in Père-Lachaise.  This all emerged, so to speak, from the recently translated (and quite fascinating background book) by longtime caretaker/conservator, Benoît Gallot: The Secret Life of A Cemetery.  All of which made me wonder, with so many bodies buried, not to mention all the animals and dinosaurs and elephants and such, why does so little of us remain?  Finding a dinosaur bone, much less a fairly complete fossilized skeleton, is a rarity, even if these creatures walked the planet for hundreds of millions of years.  And those mass graves that initially led Napoleon to create the idea of a cemetery in Paris, where are they (the city itself began collapsing from all the tunnels underground, which lead to support columns being installed, wrote Britannica).  

     One seemingly unstoppable force when it comes to burying is sand, and what greater body of sand than the Sahara (now nearly as large as all of Europe).  Go back 6 or 7 million years and this desert was a lush tropical land, housing an underground aquifer of fresh water that was nearly 2/3 the size of the Mediterranean.  But that was then.  Here's how a review of Judith Scheele's new book on the Sahara in The London Review put today's desert world: More than two-thirds of the Earth's surface is covered in sea water.   The gigantic archipelago we call continents consist of 33 per cent desert, 25 per cent mountain, and 30 per cent forest.  The forested area has been much reduced over the last two thousand years, and in a matter of decades we have shown ourselves capable of melting polar and alpine glaciers and destroying marine ecologies.  But deserts don't seem to be susceptible to humans' dubious achievements.  Desert won't vanish under the pressure of human activity; on the contrary, what frightens us is that it will advance.  The UN Convention to Combat Desertification came into force in 1996.  In 2014 it reported that more than three-quarters of the world's land "has become permanently drier" since the convention was signed.  Much of this expansion is in what the UN calls "drylands", not all of which are desert.  But it estimates that the Sahara-- the desert par excellence-- has claimed around an extra million square kilometers over the last century, inching relentlessly southward into the dry savanah of the Sahel.  At more than nine million square kilometers, it is now nearly the size of Europe...But the most recognizable feature of this environment, though not the most common, is the erg -- a mesmerizing expanse of sand dunes that makes up 15 per cent of the Sahara.  Wait, just fifteen percent of the Sahara is sand dunes?  Somehow I pictured the opposite, the Sahara being mostly dunes with just 15% of it being flat sand... that must be my Lawrence of Arabia misconception (Schelle's book does note that early French colonialists felt that the majority of those living in the Sahara were white).

     Ah, but the Sahara seems up against some tough competition when it comes to burying our past, or our work (that phrase, "Sorry kids, I'm buried at work," which can sometimes end up being true).  So let me show you how this post originally began: Let's break down semi, a word which usually means partial, or a little bit, or half, as in semicircle or semi-truck, although one could say that a semi-truck wouldn't be mistaken for much else other than a truck (unlike the Tesla cybertruck which in my opinion should be termed a semi-auto because, well, 'nuff said).  Throw in words such as semiconductor (just not in an orchestra), semiconscious, semiautomatic, semisweet chocolate, and even semifinal, and you see what I mean about "semi" meaning almost but not quite.  Like that Airbnb that offers a semi-private bedroom or bathroom (yikes).  Of course there are also semicolons, but luckily not semi-colonoscopies!  What's next?  A semi-democratic United States?  Take the 4th, a time for celebrating not only our independence but what should have been an even bigger celebration, our 250th year of a successful revolution, our semi-quincentennial (who comes up with such memorable names since CCL would have been much more memorable)?  Instead, headlines appeared such as this one: "How Trump Stole America's Birthday."  And thinking back, how excited were you at this grand celebration where an alleged record 850,000+ fireworks (paid by taxpayers) polluted the stormy air over Washington, DC (Trump ordered the show to continue despite the weather).  Did you happen to watch it?  Me neither...as the joke went around, I had a fifth on the fourth.

      In my state, conditions are so dry that fireworks were prohibited statewide by our governor (who told the press that he doesn't really have any control over the laws of individual cities).  Still, people cooperated, perhaps because we were already battling the largest uncontrolled wildfire in the US at the time.  $3200 per hour to rent a single-prop plane ($8500 for a larger one, not counting the cost of fuel or retardant), then another $11,000 cost per day in firefighters' salaries wrote my local news station.  Meanwhile, our 8000+ National Guardsmen and their 30 armories sat quiet, their warehouses full of backhoes and bulldozers that could help with those fires...but both our guv and our prez seemed to be distracted by the aerial explosion holiday spectacle.  To date, our state fires have cost nearly $200 million to fight.  It's a good time for arsonists, and even the accidental hunter/target shooter (85% of wildfires in the US are caused by humans, according to the National Park Service).  Only after this costly fire continued to burn and taxpayer costs continued to mount did our state legislature imposed fines (but no jail time).  $1000 per tree.  Lost your home or farm?  That's for you to pursue.  Something's not right here...

Photo of insurrectionists using flag against Capitol police; Trump
pardoned the insurrectionists.  AP photo: Jose Luis Magana

    Okay, that was where it was heading, the Congressionally-approved America 250 program quickly overridden by Trump and his own Freedom 250 shell company.  Said City Weekly: ...donors who intended to support America250 were given Freedom 250's donating information.  Freedom 250 also circulated sponsorship packages, according to the report [a 55-page report by Congressman Jared Huffman who wrote that Trump's personal Freedom 250 fund siphoned money from the taxpayer's America250],, culminating  in a photo op with Trump, effectively selling access to the President.  No public records.  Our big semiquincentennial had become a marketing bonanza; even my PBS station was offering special "declaration" pint glasses as a gift (grift?) if you donated.  Bags of chips and other sorts of "250" picnic items now filled my grocery store's clearance aisle.  Our 250th, whether America or Trump's Freedom version, was a bust.  And I was forced to say it again, even on the 250 anniversary of our independence: something' not right here.

Remember feeling united as a country?
Photo: Thomas E. Franklin, USA Today

     In a dream the other night, a friend asked me to perform a song, this before his group went on.  No biggee, sort of a backyard thing with a dozen or so people sitting on a hillside.  Very casual.  It took a bit of convincing but eventually I agreed, asking if I could borrow his small guitar and see if I could remember the chords; after all, I hadn't picked up a guitar in over 20 years, and I was certainly no Paul McCartney who could just play nearly any instrument at any moment.  He slid over his guitar and while my fingers fell into place as easily as hopping back on a bike, there was almost no sound from the guitar, just a muffled noise as if someone had their palm on the strings (nobody did).  I tried again with the same results, put the guitar down, and walked up to the makeshift microphone.  "This is one of my proudest songs," I told the few in front of me, "especially in today's world...a song titled I Don't Understand," and began.  The first verses went well, the emotions cracking my voice as I felt the words coming across, then the chorus, and then...blank.  It was there somewhere, the last few lines visible but some were missing, not from stage fright but for seemingly just forgetting.  How could that be?  I had written the dang thing and it remained impactful to me, even now.  So how could I not remember those lyrics?  Once I woke up, I still struggled to remember and finally had to peek back at the lyric sheet.  Here were the missing verses: And I don't understand how we hurt those we love, trying to find out what we're made of.  And I don't understand all the rich and the poor, some people want, some just want more.

     Now, Lindsay Graham.  Never one for conspiracy theories, my wife and I couldn't help but wonder if this was simply a message to Trump and his cronies, a Putin-esque, Netanyahu-type "we can get to you at any time" message.  Suddenly Supreme Court justices were asking for even more protection (they already have security details guarding them but are now asking for more).  I remember when I had just entered middle school and Kennedy was assassinated, and questions from that far back still stuck with me.  An "independent" commission found no foul play, but the records were sealed anyway for 50 years?  What do all these government officials have to hide when they add "national security" reasons and block investigations or court findings?  But that's me, old school, old mind, slow to accept the new world of AI and electronic wallets (even though friends older than me are quite happy to accept such changes).  Graham's death, as with the secretive Mitch McConnell, seem to be reflective of me, unwilling to step out of the way, unwilling to look at fresh ideas, unwilling to move forward as if, like Trump, technology will bring them a fountain of youth serum at the last moment.  But of course, it won't.  My forgetting of those lyrics in my dream made me reflect not on memory but on what my subconscious was perhaps trying to tell me, that I was growing placid, close to accepting what was happening in life and the world while trying to fight it...by forgetting.  Rage against the dark of night.  

     But it was time to start digging, to refuse to bury my head in the sand, or to admit to the sadness of such atrocities that I could cry out in unison, bury my heart at wounded knee.  Some images we can't erase, one of mine being a film at a slaughterhouse, the cow still stunned from the bolt gun but already being hooked to the processing belt and the robotic arms halfway through with peeling off its hide, all while the uncomprehending eyes of the cow, still alive, stared at the camera.  How could this be happening, those eyes said, even as it transferred those thoughts into my own mind, burying itself under my own skin until my own time comes.  But that was me, old school, unable to forget, unable to erase a wrong.  Thinking back, my own deal with the devil likely would not be for riches or fame or power, but rather to erase such suffering, to end such unnecessary pain, all while grappling with the higher order we call nature.  Political gain and clinging to youth seem especially futile when one grows older.  But if those higher up won't listen or make way, perhaps they, too, have their heads buried in the sand, never realizing that the rest of their body is exposed to the world...and the world can see that it is getting older.

Remains of the Challenger spacecraft.  Photo: Roland Miller/NASA/Kennedy Space Center