“And what greater calamity can fall upon a nation than the loss of worship? Then all things go to decay. Genius leaves the temple, to haunt the senate or the market. Literature becomes frivolous. Science is cold. The eye of youth is not lighted by the hope of other worlds, and age is without honor. Society lives to trifles, and when men die we do not mention them.”

Emerson was damned by many of the clergy of his time because of his transcendental views, his perceived departure from the faith. Yet, in his address to prospective ministers he called attention, as did Benjamin Franklin before him, to the need of worship in a civilized society. And both were far closer to the actual history of America from which they spoke and had better access to primary sources than any “cherry-picking” detractors of such a thing today. However, both Franklin and Emerson recognized the need of freedom for such worship taking many forms, even Tom Paine giving credence to this. The best minds throughout history have devoted themselves to the support of religious sentiment in various forms, but invariably with a cautionary word that such sentiment not be given the power of the sword. And as we watch and listen to reports of so much Muslim religious barbarism in the world we should be grateful America had a founding in the great literature of Western Civilization, especially the Bible rather than the Koran.

It was while living on the mining claim as a boy I built a platform high in the branches of an old digger pine. When the weather was nice, I would often take a book or a National Geographic, climb up to my aerie and there with the wide vista of the Sequoia National Forest surrounding me unspoiled by fences or rooftops, I would lose myself in the world of literature and far off exotic lands of adventure and excitement.

So, no I did not spend all my time in this forest fastness hunting and fishing; as important as these were. I was raised to the great literature of Western Civilization, and great books became great friends. Some of you may recall times as a child, reading by flashlight under the covers at night. Where the heritage of such great books that fire the imagination of children in like fashion today? Where the families that make such great literature of such importance to children today?

There is an indelible picture in my mind of my great-grandmother reading a book late at night by the light of a kerosene lamp; and no one could read the stories from books, from The Saturday Evening Post and Colliers and make them come so alive to my brother and me like our great-grandmother.

And what of those great old radio shows that required so much exercise of the imagination, rather than the passive form of TV making no such like demand. You do not “explain” to anyone without like experience, the inanity of things today like TV and video games. But this does not prevent someone like me with such experience from attempting explanation, though it amounts to “spitting into the wind.”

From his interview as to why she never wrote again after To Kill A Mockingbird Roy Newquist concluded in part: “Harper Lee having told the truth about the deplorable state of writing in America, the failure of the universities to truly educate and pass on the heritage of great literature that has blessed Western Civilization, England and America, perhaps she may have realized she would be spitting into the wind to attempt any further attempts.”

Jesus said, “No man also having drunk old wine straightway desireth new: for he saith, The old is better.” But when it comes to things like the great books and literature of Western Civilization, there is this admonition in Scripture as well: “Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set.”

For any who are interested my three books presently in print can be viewed at iUniverse.com. The novel about two twelve year old children growing up during WWII in Bakersfield, in which the Padre Hotel gets a mention, and being mostly autobiographical draws heavily from the actual history of the area during that time. Four years in the writing my small cottage here in the Kern River Valley became my “storyboard,” the photos and artifacts I had spread all over the place of that time long ago helping me to relive the time and people of that bygone era. Visitors were few during those four years since I became a virtual recluse, the necessity for which any writer compelled to write will affirm.

But the old saying “life is stranger than fiction,” and the caution concerning the difference between fiction and non-fiction is that fiction has to make sense was ever before me in the writing of the novel. But much of what made life stranger than fiction for those of us who lived the era of WWII can only be understood fully by those of us left to tell the stories of what America was like back then; and in many ways it was stranger than fiction. Part of this was due to the fact children of that era were raised with the idea honesty was the best policy, and crime did not pay. These concepts were encouraged by the stories and fairytales with which we were raised, most of them having a sound moral basis.

Without TV, children were very much given to making up there own stories and games much as Harper Lee describes of the children in TKM. And notwithstanding raising my own children to be readers and encouraging them to use their imagination, sometimes I was taken by surprise. While living in Lancaster my daughter Karen (Karrie), who was six at the time, came to me and said, “Daddy, I just saw a bear outside.”

Now there had been a dearth of bears in the Antelope Valley for quite some time. Being desert, it is doubtful there had ever been much of a bear population even before hoards of people began to move to this desert environment and start building cities. But Karrie, while having at least as active an imagination as any healthy six year old was not given to telling “stories.” So what was I to make of this revelation about a bear in the neighborhood?

Rather than immediately reaching for my bear gun, I fearlessly went outside in search of this bear, and danged if I didn’t find it! It was only a few houses away; in a cage mounted on a flatbed trailer parked in front of a home. As it turned out, a friend of this neighbor was a government trapper. He had caught the troublesome bear in Tehachapi where it had wandered down from the hills and was posing a threat to the community, and had stopped by his friend’s house in our neighborhood on the way to relocate the animal elsewhere.

My first response to Karrie’s telling me of seeing the bear could have been to explain to her how unlikely it was that a bear would be anywhere in our neighborhood, that we lived in the desert where bears simply did not exist, let alone a well developed city like Lancaster far removed from any bear habitat. After all, I was the adult and Karrie was only a small child. I surely knew more about bears than Karrie, as the adult I knew how implausible it was that she could possibly have seen a bear in our neighborhood.

But I had the advantage of knowing the source of the story of a bear in the neighborhood. I knew my little girl; I knew she was not given to fabrications and would never lie or make up such a story. Further, how likely would it be for any six year old telling of something as exciting as seeing a bear to have explained all the circumstances of such a thing, that they saw the bear in a cage on a trailer? No, a small child tells only the most relevant fact of what they see; in this case the only relevant fact was “Daddy, I just saw a bear outside.”

As trite as it sounds, adults would do well to listen to children. As Henry Thoreau pointed out, children play at life with more wisdom than adults live it. And one of the reasons for this is that adults too soon forsake the wisdom of childhood, and give in to the “wisdom” of adults continuing to make war on one another and make life a living hell on earth.

There is a time for the fairy tales and legends as children are growing up, because the best of these encourage the concept of doing what is right. If you were among the fortunate you were raised among people that taught children the legends and fairy tales that inspired hope and imagination, the kind that led Francis Church to respond to little Virginia with his marvelous defense of fairies and Santa Claus.

In Little Oklahoma, my brother Ronnie and I were surrounded by the kind of people that were a treasure trove of stories, fairy tales and legends, many brought from far away and exotic lands like Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. One such story, and one I have often used by way of illustration, was told my brother and I by an Indian. He claimed he had once owned a pistol that had been used to commit a murder. He slept with this gun under his pillow, and every morning when he awakened the pistol would have blood on it. He would wipe it clean, but each time he awoke the blood would be there once more.

Ronnie and I were raised with the kind of good manners and courtesy that taught children did not “talk back” or show disrespect to our elders. Therefore, it never crossed our minds to express disbelief at the Indian’s story. Besides, he was a fount of such stories and we accepted them as we did the fanciful legends and fairy tales of our books, the funny papers, and radio shows like Inner Sanctum and so many others.

In much the same way, the marvelous stories of the Bible, stories like the baby Moses found in the bulrushes, of Samson, David and Goliath and so many others were the things of “theater” that inspired imagination when preached by grandad in our grandparent’s little church.

A lie is told with the intent to do harm or take advantage. Stories like that of the Indian’s were not lies, so it never crossed our minds to consider them such; they were simply stories, not unlike the healing power of a mother’s kiss. And what child would discount the efficacy of such healing power?

It is only when stories are told to do harm or take advantage that they fall into the realm of lies. So it is that I distinguish between stories like those of Francis Church defending Santa, the stories by those like the Indian, and those being told by so many politicians. Listening to politicians jockeying for position and power brought an appropriate episode to mind from my life as a boy living on the mining claim.

It was summer time and I had been out hunting. It was nearly dark when I got back to the cabin, and my grandparents were away so the lamps had not been lit. I was barefoot as usual, and upon entering the cabin my bare right foot came right smack down on a snake! All I remember is the feel of the poor reptile’s sudden, muscular jerking coiling under my foot. I don’t remember leaving the cabin, let alone how I went through the door. All I know is I was magically outside the cabin instantly.

Once my heart started up again, I gathered my wits and courage and very cautiously and carefully stepped back inside the cabin once more. There was no sign of the snake, so, lighting a coal oil lamp, I made a careful survey of the place. Looking back, I know the snake had to have been at least as surprised as I was. But the serpent probably didn’t have the propensity for heart failure. This world is full of “snakes” and it behooves us to tread through the often darkness properly shod and light in hand.