The Publisher's Page BY HAROLD T. BECK

AUGUST 26 - SEPTEMBER 1, 2000

SEPTEMBER 1, 2K

Problems with pigeons

Good morning. It is 66.4 degrees at 6:02 A.M.

I was at a fashionable downtown eatery yesterday having a salad when I ran into one of the area's higher level executives. He had been out with a group of other big shots and had just finished his lunch and was leaving. When he saw me he made the bold move of coming over to speak. That, I thought, was a bold move. None of that crowd would ever want to be seen speaking to me publicly even though every one of them at one time or another have spoke to me privately about one thing or another, and usually something they needed.

"Bud," he said extending his hand. "How have you been? You look great. I heard you lost weight, but this is amazing."

"I'm fine," I said. "How are you?"

He shrugged. "Fair," he said. "Am I interrupting your lunch? Do you have a minute?" he asked.

He was but I could eat anytime. I invited him to sit and join me while I finished my salad.

"What's up?" I asked. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you know someone named Tom from a company called the Perfect Pigeon Removal Service? They are supposed to be out of Erie but I can't find any listing of them there and all I have is a cell phone number that I got using star sixty-nine."

I spoke aloud and repeated what he said. "The Perfect Pigeon Removal Service - no - I haven't heard of that before. And the only Toms I can bring to mind are Tom Clark and Tom Riel. Both of them are busy with signs and windows. I don't think they have anything to do with pigeons. Why? What's up?"

"I don't know if someone is playing a joke or they are for real. I got a phone call a week or so ago and I have been upset ever since. I think I know who is behind it but I want to be sure."

"Why?" I asked.

"It's those lousy pigeons," he said. "Twice a day they fly up to my house from MacDonald's and raid my bird feeders. Do you have any idea how much I spend a week on bird feed?"

"No," I answered. He never told me; instead, he kept on going. I had to assume it was a substantial amount. I knew that there was a pretty large flock of them that hung out around the hamburger joint.

"They are almost as bad as all those welfare kids that show up at my door on Halloween every year," he said. Then he corrected himself. "Actually, I'm not sure which is worse - the pigeons or the kids. They are both dirty. That's one place I agree with you and Tom Clark. Mutants! That's all they are. Mutants and inbred little so and so's. I don't think any of their mothers are over seventeen."

He was getting loud. The people at the tables around me started looking over at us. And I knew that if there was any sort of controversy coming from a table I was sitting at, everyone, and I mean everyone, would believe I was the source. Here I was minding my own business eating a salad for lunch, trying to stay thin and beautiful, and this has to come my way. Why me?

"So what do you need from me?" I asked.

"I want to know who is behind the Perfect Pigeon Removal Company," he said. "I want to know if you can help me. You seem to know all about what is going on around here. You wrote that article about Doctor Safesex and that turned out to be true. Find out for me about this Perfect Pigeon Removal Company and I will be indebted to you. I want to know who is behind this."

He became almost fanatical. He started going on about how they sat on his roof and how they left droppings all over the place.

"Pigeons are like that," I said.

"They have no business being here in the country," he said. "They belong in cities. Not out here."

I was forced to correct him.

"Actually, pigeons are native to this area, and Bradford particularly. Before the white men came there were millions of pigeons that made their home year round in the hemlock trees of this valley. The Seneca would come and hunt them for food in the winter when stores ran low. They were a source of food in hard times because they were so abundant. When the white men came and cut the trees down the pigeons gradually migrated to the cities. What are left here are the descendants of the of the hard core who never left. They are the true survivors and their ancestors probably sat in a tree where your house is today. You have probably infringed on them. Have you ever looked at it like that?"

He was not about to hear it.

"I take good care of my house. I live in a good neighborhood and I like to feed the little birds. I enjoy my life and my house. I don't want pigeons and those little welfare rats around."

I shook my head. "Unfortunately, they go with the territory, just like the winters. Maybe you should talk to that guy Tom again and maybe he could get rid of the pigeons for you. As for the welfare rats, I don't know who could help you on that. Have you thought about calling the Pied Piper?"

My answer infuriated him. He stormed off and everyone who was sitting around me began staring and talking among themselves wondering what I had done to make him so mad. It didn't bother me all that much. I was used to it. No matter what I did I was wrong. I went back to eating my salad. 

Not much after I took my second mouthful another man I knew came up to me.

"Bud. What do you think about your buddy Weaver hiring scab painters to paint the court house?" he asked.

I swallowed hard and put down my fork.

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AUGUST 31, 2K

Sam and the Indians

Good morning. It is 62.6 degrees at 6:04 A.M. 

Before I went off the deep end of the world Wednesday evening and became Rodriguez, my daughter called and asked for a favor. She wanted me to watch my grandson the next day. She needed a baby sitter.

Now, in case you don't know, Sam is my buddy. For some reason he loves his gramps and his gramps loves him right back. When he is fussy and won't take his nap or fall asleep, Sam is handed off to grandpa who is sitting in his comfortable chair in front of the television, and after a few minutes of squirming, pulling on my beard, sticking his fingers in my mouth, and grabbing at my glasses, he generally falls asleep on my chest. When asked to watch him, and considering I already knew I would be too sore to work a second day like I had that day, I gladly accepted.

Sam and I generally bum around when I watch him. He likes to help me out with my chores like going to the Post Office and collecting the mail, going to the bank, getting the car washed, or doing grocery shopping. When he helps me like that, I reward him and take him to lunch. It's a guy thing between Sam and his gramps and it works pretty good. Yesterday, however, aside from getting the car washed, we came back up the hill.

I thought about going over to Warren for awhile and since we had Rocky with us riding shotgun, we would have to take him home before we went on our way.

Rocky has been good for Sam's vocabulary. One of the first words he learned was "dog." Quickly, on the heels of learning "dog," he learned "bad dog" next. One goes with the other, especially when the dog is the same age as Sam, give or take eleven days. But at the same time, Rocky doesn't exactly understand that when Sam is here, Sam is the baby and not Rocky.

Don't get me wrong. Rocky is always good with Sam. They are both about the same size now and Sam likes to climb over him and pet him on the nose. Rocky will try to lick him, but Sam pushes him away. But, when you are with Sam, Rocky always tries to get between you so he can be the center of attention. That is where and how Sam learned "bad dog." Now it is a toss up whether he calls Rocky "dog" or "bad dog."

Rocky was glad to get out of the car and so was Sam. Once we were in the house Sam quickly pulled out all of the toys in the toy box we keep in the corner of the dining room. With a wide assortment of toys scattered over the living room it was at that point Sam spotted a hummingbird at the front window.

"Bird," he said (more or less - but it sounded like "bird") pointing at the hummingbird. I looked and the feeder was empty. That postponed our departure for Warren. We had to make more nectar for them. 

Sam was more than willing to help. As I took out a small pot to cook the mixture for the hummingbirds, Sam helped out by pulling out the rest of the pots and pans and scattering them over the kitchen floor.

It was about the time that I had just put the hummingbird feeder back up, picked up the pots and pans, and had changed a diaper that they showed up. Sam was the first to see them and began to squeal with delight. I couldn't understand it exactly, but Sam took to the two of them instantly. Red Jacket and Cornplanter were on the back porch knocking at the door. Sam began to walk over to them but soon gave up and began crawling. He couldn't get to them fast enough. Kids always love Indians.

"Hello," I said to the two Indian Chiefs. "This is unexpected. You usually show up in the middle of the night."

"We are on our way to the Senior Center," Red Jacket said. 

"He is chasing after some eighty-six year old," Cornplanter said. "He has a fresh supply of skunk liver."

I laughed. Who was I to be critical? If skunk liver helped the old Chief's love life, what could I say? I was envious. I wondered if I couldn't get the formula?

Red Jacket spoke to Sam by name and picked him up. Sam smiled and began pulling on the old Indian's nose.

"Little kids and old women," Cornplanter said. "They all love him."

"That's obvious," I said.

"Thanks for letting me have my job back," Red Jacket said. "I understand why we can't be calling the Publisher and the staff of the Bradford Error bigots and racists and low life bottom feeders just because they are anti-Native American. You're the boss. I do what you say."

I didn't answer. I knew better than look a gift horse in the mouth and I caught Cornplanter out of the side of my eye trying to hold back the laughter. 

I offered them something to drink but they refused. "Not before happy hour," Cornplanter said.

"Water or juice," I said. "Not alcohol. I know you don't drink."

"Not before happy hour," Cornplanter said repeating himself. "We are careful with fluid intake. We maintain good prostate health and that is the secret."

I didn't exactly get the connection, but who was I to question them. At their ages I was sure that they had some idea of what they were talking about.

"How old is he?" Red Jacket asked.

"His birthday is September 1st. Day after tomorrow," I answered.

"Are you having a birthday party for him?" he asked.

"I'm taking him to lunch for his birthday. The party is on Monday when mom and dad aren't working. We'll celebrate his birthday together."

Cornplanter explained that they were just passing through and had to be on their way. I thanked them for stopping and as they left Sam waved good bye to the both of them. By then it was too late to go to Warren. Instead we played a bit and he had a bottle. 

Before long as we sat watching television he was asleep on my chest and I found myself dosing, too. When the phone woke us both I thought about the two Indian Chiefs showing up. Were they really there or had that been a dream? That was answered quickly when Sam walked over to me an handed me an eagle feather.

Anyway, if you see us out tomorrow for lunch, it is Sam's birthday. He wil be one year old. Wish him happy birthday.

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AUGUST 30, 2K

Back to the Bradford Hotel

Good morning. It is 62.3 degrees at 6:11 A.M.

I stopped in the Bradford Hotel last night. Tom Clark wanted to have a cold one with me so we agreed to meet around nine. He said he had something really hot for me.

As soon as I entered I was bombarded with a number of questions about what the commissioners were doing. As if I knew.

"I don't read the paper except what is on line," I told one man I had never spoken to before.

Toothless Tim straightened me out. "Not one of the commissioners knew how many people worked for the county," he said. "To a man not one of them had even a close idea. Do you?" he asked me.

"Between 350 and 400, depending on how many the Judge has hired to enhance his empire since I left," I said. "The majority of them work at Sena Kean Manor."

"Well at least you have an idea," Mattress Margie said. "The others didn't have a clue."

"Does that surprise you?" I asked. "It doesn't me."

Then one man started running on about the Court House getting painted.

"They never even put it out for bids. They hired one of Al Pingie's friends to do the work. They said he had the best price but where are the other prices and why didn't the rest of us get a shot at the job?"

I laughed. "What did you expect?" I asked. 

"Jim Weaver ought to resign his position in the union. He isn't looking out for the working man. He looks out for himself and himself only. If they were going to paint the court house, it should have been bid and bid to union shops."

"They don't have to bid jobs under $10,000 under State Law and we lowered it to $5,000 when we took office in 1996. But that was four years ago and they may have decided to use the State Law when they started the new administration in January," I said.

"That's got nothing to do with it," the man insisted. "Weaver came around looking for votes when you were running as a Democrat. He said you knew nothing about unions and you were not a real Democrat. He told all of us that he would look out for us and you wouldn't. He lied to us. 

"He raised our taxes and now he is giving out work in the court house without bids and giving it to scab painters who don't belong to the union. Do you know how many union painters we have here in Bradford?"

I didn't get a chance to answer. He began rattling them off.

"Any of those companies could have done the job and they should have been given the chance to do it. But because Weaver doesn't care and Stratton is still sleeping, Pingie is up to the same tricks and deals he pulled off when he was Township Supervisor."

There wasn't a whole lot for me to say. I hadn't read the story and really knew nothing other than what the bar crowd was telling me. For some reason they thought I could do something. For probably the same reason they thought I cared. In both cases they were wrong.

Painting the Court House should be a minor deal. At least I thought so and probably the commissioners did too. Obviously, at least to the people who were telling me about it, that was not the case. It was a major deal because from what they were saying they were concerned how and where their tax dollars were being spent. And they felt they were betrayed by the men that they elected to oversee that spending.

When I thought about that, I laughed again. Stratton cannot read a financial statement. Weaver doesn't care to even see it. And Al Pingie, if he picked it up, is probably too dumb to understand it. Oversee spending? Who are they kidding? That's why no one knew how many people worked for the county.

Tom Clark arrived about that time. "I heard Ralph Nader speak up in Erie," he told me. "He was great."

I listened as he told me what he said.

"He was asking the union to support him. He said that both of the parties had abandoned them and it was time for a Blue Collar/Green Party alliance."

"I think he's right," I said immediately. "The parties don't care. They just want the jobs and the power."

I thought of Jim Weaver. I liked him but I knew how lazy he was. I also knew how he followed the path of least resistance time and time again. Fight for a union painter at the court house would not be his cup of tea regardless of what his responsibilities to his union brothers might be.

As for me not knowing anything about unions, he was totally wrong about that. For years I held a card in the Teamsters Union. My dad was one of the very first members and he got me in when I graduated high school. I unloaded trucks on the docks in Pittsburgh. I understood and still understand union brotherhood. Weaver just sees it as a means to his own ends and most of the men who know him, know that to be true.

"I don't think I should write about it," Tom said. "But probably you should and I think it would make a great article, too. With you backing Belitskus, that would be a natural."

"Who backs Belitskus?" someone roared.

"Bud does. He likes him," Tom answered.

Immediately I explained that I was not a tree hugger. I said I disagreed with his views on that whole heartedly. I believed that we needed the logging industry and explained that I had cut some of my own cherry trees and a few maples. 

"Why let them rot and fall down when they can go to good use and at the same time make light and space for the new trees to grow." 

That seemed to calm the man down. Then I went on.

"Bill Belitskus is an honest man. Peterson is a professional politician just like Weaver. That should tell you something right off the bat. One is a Republican and one is a Democrat. There isn't five cents worth of difference between the two. All they care about is themselves."

That changed the tone and the subject of the conversation.

"Looks like we have three of that kind in Smethport now," Tim said.

"Yeah," Mattress Margie said. " A whole lot of people are sorry they didn't vote for you now. No one knows what is going on now that you are out. I'm sorry I didn't vote for you."

"I'm not," I said and I shook her hand. "I really am not. They are going to have to keep raising taxes to continue what they are doing. I hope they kept the budget I wrote. They might just need it the end of this year. As for being commissioner," I said. "They can have it. Have you seen how fat Weaver and Stratton have gotten? Look at me! I weight 181 pounds and feel great. My blood pressure is the same as when I was in the service and I have never been happier. Let them have it. I am doing better than ever."

Then Tom and I got into a deep discussion about Ralph Nader. The room kept complaining and I couldn't help but smile. Life after Smethport was great.

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AUGUST 29, 2K

The return of Red Jacket

Good morning. It is 61.5 degrees at 6:12 A.M.

Cornplanter came by last evening. It was a pleasant surprise. I hadn't seen him in quite a long time.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" I asked him.

"Traveling," he answered. He had a worried look on his face. I could see that this was more than a social call. The chief was never one for that sort of thing - just dropping by and chewing the fat. Everything had a purpose  and this visit was not any exception.

"What's up?" I asked.

"It's Red Jacket," he said. "You hired him to write for you, sent him on assignment, and then refused to print the story he wrote. He is upset and doesn't know how to deal with this. He is saying that you are discriminating against him because he is an old man."

I shook my head. "That's not the case," I said. "That's not the case at all."

"He hired himself. He picked the day of the week his articles would be published. He chose his own articles. He went on assignment on his own, ran up huge bills, and then made outrageous claims against the current staff of The Error and got mad when I wouldn't go along with him."

Cornplanter laughed. "It's the part about the staff of The Error that bothered him the most."

"Me too!" I said.

"Since when did you start sticking up for them?" he asked. "He's told me what he has. I would have to agree with him. They are Indian haters. Did you read their slant on the problem my people had when they were fighting New York over the gas tax situation?"

"I read it," I answered. "I didn't see anything in it. Clue me in."

"Oh," Cornplanter said. "It had the only good Indian business all through it."

I didn't argue with him. Arguing over that would be fruitless and if he wanted to agree with Red Jacket about the staff of The Error, what was it to me? They were never kind to me. In fact they participated in working me over at each and every turn of the page whenever the chance arose.

"They have never liked Indians. Back when the dam was being built they supported stealing our land - my land. They said it would be good for the community over all and moving a few Indians was over shadowed by the good that it would do for the area.

"That was my land. George Washington, the Great White Father, and Benjamin Franklin gave me that land. Then along comes John Kennedy and he steals it from me and the Bradford Error supports him stealing it.

"Let me ask you. Are you better off today with the dam than before it was built?"

I thought about it. I couldn't say one way or the other. The dam and the reservoir, aside from providing Pittsburgh and the towns going down the Allegheny with flood protection, I couldn't say. But I was a small boy back then. I came up here with my dad to hunt and fish. There were more deer back then. The fishing was way better back then. But there weren't marinas and the boating that we have today. The Allegheny Reservoir is the largest man made lake east of the Mississippi. It should be quite an attraction, and it is, but not like they said.

It never produced the tourism that they promised back when it was envisioned. When they promised six million visitors a year back in 1959, that lit up everyone's eyes. That was instant prosperity for an area that was already prosperous with oil, gas, and timber. Over the years the people in charge changed. 

They went from the benevolent caretakers of the forest and the reservoir to agents of the government acting like greedy guardians who begrudgingly allowed us to use what was rightfully our. The forest, rich with valuable black cherry trees, became their private tree farm. Decisions were made without any explanation. Spraying for insects that destroyed their trees destroyed others like the honey bees. That's why we have no apple crop this year. There are no honey bees left in the Allegheny National Forest or the surrounding area due to the heavy spraying five years ago.

As for the six million visitors we were supposed to have by the year 2000, they went from actual visitors to visitor days. And a visitor day, unlike the physical presence of one human being here one time during that year, is counted every time someone enters and leaves the forest, hunts, fishes, sight sees, or anything - and one person is counted multiple times when they do more than one thing. And, that also includes the commercial and general traffic that travels state and federal highways through the forest. Even when you go to work you are counted! What a lie that one is.

When I thought about it like that, no, I wasn't better off and neither was the area. The Indians are gone with the native Rainbow trout. Now they stock every year what grew naturally. And they are trying to kill off the deer, too. Fortunately for the deer, they are as incompetent at that as they are at managing the forest. But sooner or later they will resort to some drastic plan and we will suffer the consequences just like the honey bees did.

"No. I am not better off," I admitted. "I have something different, but I can't say it is better. It is just something different."

"See," Cornplanter said. "The Error did the same thing to my people that it did to you. 

As much as I wanted to make that leap with him, I couldn't. But I had to give him something. You don't let a chief the stature of Cornplanter walk away empty handed. Many people have done that and not lived to regret it. I wasn't making that mistake.

"I have to be careful on that ground. I can't call the staff of The Error the names that Red Jacket did."

"I understand," Cornplanter said. "Let him come back and save face. The women at the Senior Center were impressed when they saw his picture. He got a few dates out of that and now that he is restocked with skunk liver, what the hey? I'll talk to him. No more expensive trips and going off without you giving him permission. He got carried away. He knew that. He was a bit full of himself. I'll fix it for you."

"Okay," I agreed. Red Jacket was back on the staff. 

Cornplanter was happy. He went off into the forest and I came into the house and check my e-mail before going to bed. 

And as I did, I opened an announcement from Bill Belitskus who is running for Congress. 

GREEN PARTY CANDIDATE RUNS FOR FIFTH CONGRESSIONAL SEAT

It mirrored what I had been thinking about the forest. While I have always supported select cutting and pruning of the forest, I have not supported the disregard that I have seen recently. And Belitskus pointed it out in his release.

Belitskus stressed, “It has been a scandalous year in Pennsylvania politics.  We have been watching in “full, living color” while our state legislators are indicted by grand juries, charged with crimes, forced to resign from office, and even jailed in federal prison and released on in-house arrest and probation.  We have seen the corruption of money in our political campaign system.  While we may want to return to viewing it in “black and white” it’s not possible to return to Pleasantville.”

 

Belitskus told reporters, “In 1998, I stood before you then and announced the beginning of democracy in the 5^th district when I opposed John Peterson.  Today, I stand before you and announce the end of “Democracy, Republican-styl