Robert Capa: Wounded Loyalist Is Aided Behind The Lines, Spanish Civil War (1937)

" … must I remain on the ramparts as if my presence alone repels a disoriented and misguided aggressor?"

Even breaking news eventually grows old. The sense that my attention might be the only thing holding this increasingly fragile world together becomes self-destructive. Even though the battle, let alone any wider war, remains unfinished, my effectiveness diminishes. I realize it cannot be my calling to be always up to date with the latest developments. My media diet seems too anemic to maintain an adequate watch. I don't even subscribe to cable, and I cannot figure out how to access local television stations without The Muse's intervention. I get by with what I can stream, my local paper, which has a surprisingly effective editor, and the beleaguered NYTimes, my Washington Post sadly having recently disqualified itself. Much of what I can perceive from here appears to be feinting moves, stuff of little short or long-term consequence. It's helpful to understand that there is no master plan guiding these intrusions, and even if there were, those executing those plans seem incapable of following directions, even those painstakingly written with kindergarten crayons.

April came, dragging Spring behind her. Spring had arrived earlier, but she began as an intermittent as usual. She always has. Snow fell up the hill the day after we hit eighty down on the valley floor, and all—or much—began seeming right with this world again. Spring knows no editor. It blurts out its messages. The leaves leftover to foster overwinter worm activity and ladybug cover must be removed and disposed of months after the city stopped collecting leaves. The few weeds that reliably take their futile places must be dealt with before they reseed themselves. The beds fondly remember past years' amendments. They're ready with only the barest encouragement. I feel my age after a long winter's idleness. Fretting over the end of civilization does not constitute aerobic exercise. My smartphone-holding hand feels stupid. My fingers feel crooked. I struggle into my green jean overalls, humming the Captain Kangaroo theme song, channeling Mr. GreenJeans, and looking for Bunny Rabbit. I crawl around the yard, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Baseball returned, clutching a few new incomprehensible rules in its non-dominant hand. Must overseers always insist upon improvements? I understand that a few malcontents complained that the games moved too slowly, so the executive changed the rules to render the result more efficient. Now, a player might magically appear on second base in later innings, a subsidy nobody ever really needed. When that rule was introduced, I remember the Yankee fans protesting by standing in the stands and yelling in unison, "Play Real Baseball!" A near riot ensued. I find the pitch clock and the often failing communications media slipped into the pitcher's hatband distracting. Between the fresh distractions, the players still seem to be able to find their game lurking around in there somewhere. Old reliables return with graying sideburns. Fresh kids set out to impress themselves, if nobody else. I buy some unsalted peanuts and watch rapt.

I am always confused through the early season. The teams have played Firedrill again, and familiar faces appear in unfamiliar guises. The world champions seem to have only deepened their already nearly insurmountable bullpen. They and The Padres play almost perfect games. Has anyone ever before seen a seven-and-nothing start? It's a reassurance to us fans of the team, of course, and a curse for everyone else. I take considerable reassurance when I see The Mountie retake the mound, having followed him since he was a rookie in my old adopted hometown’s Nats organization. We share hometowns now, and it's a genuine relief to me when he’s the reliever. Someone reliable remains available to right some imbalance and to bring the effort home. I know MSNBC continues grinding away while I'm smiling reassuredly in the basement, eating my supper in front of the game. I can take up the emergency again in the morning.

I can feel the world hesitantly embracing me again. It was not wholly broken after all—or yet. It was and is suffering from a non-life-threatening infection, and treatment will take some time and patience. Rome wasn't destroyed in a day, and patience might be the scarcest commodity now. Yes, we're fast running out of time, but if my decades of project work taught me anything, it clearly showed me the absolute necessity of circumspectly responding to urgencies. One must hasten even more slowly then, if one really must hasten at all. Each season holds a rhythm invisible to invaders. Those intending to undermine order usually fail to account for the rhythm of the operation they revile. They assume it's whatever they assert, which, of course, it isn't ever. The resulting arrhythmia haunts the aggressor like a gravity they cannot anticipate or escape. They retard their own pace in ignorance. They rush toward their inevitable oblivion. Would it kill anybody for me to enjoy a well-tended garden and a baseball game or two, or must I remain on the ramparts as if my presence alone repels a disoriented and misguided aggressor? I'm asking for a newly found friend.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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