Tag: history

A Radio Christmas Remembered

The holidays always make people feel nostalgic. I know I do, even though I don’t really take part in what feels like holiday madness these days, instead of real joy. I get a kick out of the ads that promise big savings if I just spend twice as much as usual.

New Year’s Day has always been a time for me to reflect, feel grateful, and sometimes regretful. Even when I was young, there was always someone or a moment to remember. As we get older, those memories matter even more.

I haven’t done live radio since 2006, and sometimes I miss it. It’s hard not to miss something you dreamed about as a kid and finally got to do. But when I talk to friends, they remind me that radio isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s all programmed and controlled by corporations, with little room for real personalities. I was lucky to work in radio when it meant something, when underground FM was fun and creative.

I wrote the next story a few years back, but it actually happened more than 40 years ago. I’m sharing it again because it’s real and it means a lot to me. People have told me it’s one of their favorite stories, and it’s one of my favorite Christmas memories, too.

A Radio Christmas Remembered

It was a quietly magical December, around 1982. Snow was blowing outside in the middle of the night—well, 3 a.m. is hardly morning. The kind of snow that sneaks up on you, drifting quietly and getting deeper. It moved across the empty parking lot, turning this lonely spot into something like the Montana or Wyoming prairie. It was the perfect scene as Merle Haggard sang about wanting the Big City to let him go. Even though I wasn’t far from Boston, it was easy to feel cut off from the world, watching the snow shape the night. I probably wouldn’t see another person for at least three more hours. I was the only one on duty from midnight to 6 a.m. I could still see most of my car, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move it in the morning, even if someone could get to me.

As the keeper of the light, I stayed in touch with others who were awake during the darkest hours—the night people. I’ve always liked night people. There’s a passion in how they move through life—caring, yet often a little lonely, choosing the quiet roads and the small hours. My way of connecting with them was through a country radio station in the basement of a small strip mall in the middle of nowhere. Still, our AM signal reached far and wide, especially at night—traveling over flat land and even across the ocean, carried on the darkness. I was the only show in town, the only one playing music on the AM dial in that forgotten time zone.

About once a week, a cross-country trucker would call me. When he got to Rhode Island and picked up my signal, he’d say, “The California Kid is on the line.” This time, he wished me a Happy Holiday and, as always, asked for a few songs to help him make it to Maine. I was his companion on the road.

I also got calls from Alice. She drove all over the area, servicing ATMs, and would call once or twice a week while she worked. I never met Alice; she was a bit like the coyotes that roamed the parking lot, always staying out of sight. I called her Dallas Alice, after the Little Feat song Willin’, which I played for her every time she called.

On that snowy night, Alice called to wish me a Merry Christmas and told me to wait a few minutes, then look outside. After we hung up, I played Willin’ and walked up the steps to the door. There, already gathering snow, was a small pre-lit Christmas tree and a card that read, “Merry Christmas from Dallas Alice.” I saw her footprints in the snow. She had parked close to the entrance so she could get back to the main road quickly.

I never met Alice, but her kindness lingered long after that night. I never met the California Kid either, yet in the passion of their journeys and the gentle connections forged in the dark, we shared something rare—a caring warmth that glowed quietly in the lonely hours. On that cold, snowy night so many years ago, a woman named Alice—Dallas Alice—and a trucker called the California Kid gave me memories that still make me smile every Christmas.

Every Christmas, I remember the way we reached for each other across the airwaves—passionate, caring, and yes, a little lonely, but never truly alone.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

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from the Edge of the List

So, it’s official: Pam Bondi, Attorney General and microphone wielder, has reportedly directed the FBI to compile a list of “anti-American” groups. The leaked memo reads like a fever dream of ideological purity — targeting anyone who dares question immigration enforcement, capitalism, gender norms, or traditional family values.

In other words, if you’ve ever posted a meme about billionaires, marched for trans rights, or wondered aloud whether Jesus would deport asylum seekers — congratulations, you might be on the list.

I can’t say I’m surprised. When college students began being arrested for writing in campus newspapers, I figured it was only a short walk to us on social media. The ink dries, the post goes live, and suddenly free speech is treated like contraband.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just a rumor. It’s been fact-checked and confirmed. You can do your own fact-checking, too — the memo exists, the directive is real. What we’re smelling here isn’t the sweet air of liberty; it smells like dictatorship.

The memo builds on Trump’s NSPM‑7 directive and paints dissent as domestic terrorism. It’s not about violence — it’s about views. And if your views don’t align with the administration’s gospel, you’re suddenly a threat.

Do your own fact-checking. Here are the verified fact-checking and reporting links on Pam Bondi’s leaked DOJ memo directing the FBI to compile lists of “anti-American” groups:

  • Snopes – Confirmed leaked memo
  • Reuters – Bondi orders law enforcement to investigate “extremist groups”
  • Ken Klippenstein – Original leaked memo publication
  • Common Dreams – Coverage of Bondi memo
  • Democracy Now! – “Domestic Terrorism” leaked DOJ memo
  • Nation of Change – Memo targets anti‑Americanism, anti‑capitalism, anti‑Christianity
  • Crooks and Liars – Bondi plans to treat anti‑Trump activists as domestic terrorists
  • Factually – Fact‑check summary of Bondi memo

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November 15, 1969 — Vietnam Moratorium

On this day in 1969, the Vietnam Moratorium Committee staged one of the most potent anti-war protests in American history. Students, activists, religious leaders, veterans—millions of us—took to the streets, calling for an end to the war and the withdrawal of American troops.

And I was there. I remember the sound of voices rising together, the signs carried high, Peace Now, Bring the Boys Home, Stop the Killing. It wasn’t fringe, it wasn’t small. It was a broad coalition of Americans from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder in a peaceful, nonviolent demand for change.

The Moratorium wasn’t just one day. It was a series of protests, teach-ins, vigils, and marches that grew month after month. On November 15, 1969, it culminated in Washington, D.C., where more than half a million people gathered—the largest anti-war demonstration in U.S. history. From Arlington National Cemetery to the Capitol Building, we marched and listened to voices that carried moral weight: Senator George McGovern, Coretta Scott King, Pete Seeger, Muhammad Ali, John Kerry, Daniel Ellsberg, and Abbie Hoffman.

President Nixon wasn’t swayed. Just weeks earlier, he had given his “silent majority” speech, asking Americans to back his plan for “Vietnamization”—gradually withdrawing U.S. troops while shifting responsibility to South Vietnamese forces. He claimed to have a secret plan to end the war, but offered no details. His approval ratings soared, and many rallied behind him.

But for those of us in the streets, the war was not an abstract policy. It was blood and loss, friends drafted, lives shattered. We weren’t silent, and we weren’t a minority. We were the conscience of a nation, refusing to let the killing continue unnoticed.

Looking back, the Vietnam Moratorium was more than a protest. It was a turning point in public opinion, proof that ordinary people could gather in extraordinary numbers to demand peace. It showed the world that America’s heart was divided, and that many of us believed the war was morally, politically, and economically wrong.

I was there, and I carry that memory with me still—the chants, the music, the hope, and the stubborn belief that voices raised together can bend history.

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RAMBLING HARBOR: Red Flags, Pink Dreams, and the Ghost of Karl Marx

So it begins again.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, where the fog rolls thicker than campaign promises and gulls squawk like pundits, I heard the old chant—Communism!—echoed not from a union hall, but from the gilded throat of a man who once sold steaks and bankrupt casinos. Trump saw Zohran Mamdani win the mayor’s race and called him a communist. Not a progressive. Not a democratic socialist. Just red paint on a dreamer.

It’s familiar. Every time someone feeds the hungry or dares to house the poor, the powerful reach for fear. They don’t know Marx from Mamdani, but they know fear sells. Say “communism” loud enough, and you don’t have to explain why the soup kitchen’s empty or the subway’s crumbling.

Trump says it’s “communism vs. common sense.” But if common sense means ignoring hunger, I’ll take the red flag and wave it like a lifeline.

Out here, we remember sovereignty isn’t yachts and tax breaks—it’s warm meals, safe beds, and mayors who dream in public.

And I’ve been thinking about words. Big ones. Loaded ones. Communism dreams of erasing the lines. Socialism redraws them more fairly. One says, “No rich or poor.” The other says, “Let’s make sure the poor don’t die waiting.”

We weaponize both. Call libraries socialist and bailouts capitalist. We forget the post office is a miracle, and roads don’t pave themselves.

Me? I’m just a poet with a busted radio, listening to hunger beneath the headlines and wondering what kind of world we could build if we stopped arguing about labels and started listening to mercy.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, the tide keeps rising. And I keep writing—because someone has to remember the difference between a dream and a distraction.

—Dan, still rambling, still harboring

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Wounded Knee

On December 29, 1890, U.S. troops surrounded a Sioux encampment, leading to the massacre of around 300 Lakota. This event foreshadowed a later occupation of Wounded Knee in 1973 by AIM activists.

It was cold on December 29 in the year 1890. And when one thinks about the year, it was only 134 years ago. Not that long ago when you consider that a woman in England, a few years ago, celebrated her 109th birthday. My grandfather was 98 when he died, and that was in 1968; this means he was born in 1866 and was a young man of 24 when the Massacre at Wounded Knee took place. My grandfather was Cherokee, and my mother was at least part Cherokee from her father; her mother was not known to me; both were born in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee.

We are, in many ways, a young country. At least, we are young in terms of the arrival of the Pilgrims and the desecration of an ancient land and its original people. The people who had farmed and hunted the land for centuries before the settlers. People that revered nature and the animals that served their needs. They took only what they needed and would have never polluted the skies or dirtied the waters.

On that cold December day in 1890, 500 troops of the U.S. 7th cavalry, supported by Hotchkiss guns—lightweight, made for travel—allowed the Calvary to surround the encampment of the Miniconjou, Sioux (Lakota), and Hunkpapa. The army had orders to transport the Sioux by railroad to Omaha, Nebraska. The day before, the Sioux had given up their flight with the troops. They had agreed to turn themselves in peacefully at the Pine Ridge Agency in South Dakota. They were the last of the Sioux to do that.

In the process of disarming the Sioux, a deaf Sioux by the name of Black Coyote could not hear the order to surrender his rifle. This set off a fight that left approximately 300 Lakota women, men, and children dead. About 25 troops were killed; many believed to be the victims of friendly fire in the chaos. About 150 Lakota fled, and the rest were left on the ground to die from hypothermia.

After this battle, the most Medals of Honor, the highest recognition for bravery, were awarded to the Calvaery more than any U.S. soldiers of all wars in the United States—and to think it was all because a deaf Lakota could not hear the order to surrender his rifle.

In witness to how little we learned, 83 years later, on February 27, 1973, the town of Wounded Knee was seized peacefully by followers of the American Indian Movement (AIM). The control of the city lasted for 71 days. There is disagreement about whether the town was cordoned off as AIM claims or if the blockade occurred after the takeover. However, the reason that AIM was there was to oppose Oglala tribal chairman Richard A.” Dick” Wilson. Wounded Knee was chosen for obvious reasons.

By the morning of February 28, the police had set up roadblocks, cordoned off the area, and began arresting people trying to leave the town. The equipment brought by the military included fifteen armored personnel carriers, rifles, grenade launchers, flares, and 133,000 rounds of ammunition. There were paramilitary personnel armed with automatic weapons, snipers, helicopters, and armored personnel carriers equipped with .50 mm caliber machine guns.

One eyewitness, a journalist, chronicled…” sniper fire from federal helicopters,” “bullets dancing around in the dirt, and “sounds of shooting all over town.” Frank Clearwater, a Wounded Knee occupier, was shot in the head while asleep and died on April 25. Lawrence Lamont was shot in the heart and died on April 26. U.S. Marshall Lloyd Grimm was paralyzed from the waist down, again by a gunshot wound. AIM claims that the government tried starving the occupants, and the occupiers smuggled food and medical supplies past roadblocks set up by Dick Wilson.

Now, here comes what may be a surprise to the reader: I was an eyewitness to at least a part of the occupation and can certify that the military presence, the roadblocks, and the attempt to starve not just men but women and children as well were real.

On a moonless March night, I took a back road with a jeep loaded with peanut butter and bread. Actually, it wasn’t a road, just an expanse of Prairie, mile after mile of open areas, and somewhere, I had been told there was a well-worn buffalo trail that was difficult to see in the dark; obviously, headlights were not going to happen, never before or since have I wished as much to see a tree or a rock or at least a small hill or dried-up lake bed, anything to remember. I went into the town in and out. I returned while my heart was still pounding and counted 27 bullet holes in my jeep. There was some blood running down one arm and some cuts and blood coming through my jacket, but there was no way at that point to examine myself. I was not about to remove any clothing to determine if they had missed me entirely or not. I figured there was no real pain, and I was vertical, so it was not a problem. Maybe it was Jeep fragments or rocks thrown up from the ground.

I had dropped off my supplies and left the way I came in. When I read about bullets dancing around in the dark and the dirt, I smiled because some bullets were dancing behind, around, and in front of me. You will never see my name associated with this movement. I am sure that none of the occupants of that small town of Pine Ridge, South Dakota, knew my name. That was how I wanted it, and I wanted out as quickly as possible. I do not want to prove any of this; I was also not the only one; a good friend who no longer walks this earth made the same trip on a different day. Most of it can be proven by history. However, I will tell you that I often smile to think that some child ate and lived because of a peanut butter sandwich instead of a gun.

Coda: I have shrapnel lodged in my back. And a few other scares from that night. A few years ago, I was having an MRI on my spinal stenosis, and the technician saw the metal and asked through the intercom if I had ever been shot. I said yeah, maybe, Wounded Knee, he said no, I mean in your back. I didn’t bother explaining.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

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