I take my hat off to the editor of The Fort Scott Tribune for her gumption in printing the whole of his obituary writer's essay on the death, at age 93, of world-famous photojournalist Gordon Parks, without, for the sake of Fort Scott's civic self-esteem, killing the sentence, "For many years, Parks had carried deep wounds in his heart from his childhood in Fort Scott and from the lack of respect shown to his parents and other hard-working African-Americans who lived, worked, died, and were buried here." TV newscasters said last week that Parks's most powerful work would prove to be the black movie "Shaft." I think, rather, that Parks's most enduring fame was born the moment he realized that his "choice of weapons" (the title of one of his autobiographies) had better be not a gun, but, rather, a camera, a far better and more lethal weapon in his lifelong war against evil. Born in 1912, not a good year for African-Americans in any part of the U.S. (only a couple of years after Mark Twain wrote his acerbic "The United States of Lyncherdom"), by 1948 he had long-since fled Kansas, and been hired on as staff photographer by the new "Life" magazine, among an incredible stable of photographers including John Vachon, Ben Shawn, Margaret Bourke-White, and Alfred Stieglitz. It was "Life" that published his photojournalistic foray into the life of inner-city gangs. His home thereafter was New York City.

It was therefore interesting that while he had instructed that his funeral be held in his adopted city, he left instructions that he be buried in his native Fort Scott, where his parents lie interred. Therein a story may lie.

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As our President's approval rating dwindles to 34 percent, and one wonders what goes on in the minds of that 34 percent, as they ponder the dismal prospects of our country under the man‚s inept bungling for the next couple of years, may I suggest they read "Dressed to Kill," an article by James Wolcott, from page 192 -200, in the March 2006 issue of Vanity Fair. Wolcott's analytical vivisection of George begins by suggesting that the man periodically dresses in military duds to make himself feel better about the dreadful job he's doing in the white House. Speaking from "idiot cards" to groups of the military assembled for such occasions, he feeds off the approval of those young men and women as if it were a hormone injection, a feel-good shot. These televised rallies with the troops foster the illusion that Bush, whose own military record is a bit smudgy and lacking in heroics, is truly one of them in body, mind, and spirit -- a fellow warrior. It would be a narcissistic joke if it weren't carried to such delusional extremes. . . . Although the grandiosity of Bush's "Mission Accomplished‚ moment"[Gosh, remember that one?] "became an embarrassment as the insurgency swung into ruthless action and the casualty toll mounted, Bush's childish fantasy has remained intact, intensified." Walcott then reminds us that until the current Bush, American Presidents have honored the separation between the civilian and military ranks. Even General Dwight Eisenhower always wore civilian garb when addressing his civilian constituents. Even Dick Cheney, who managed to receive "five deferments when he was eligible for the draft during the Vietnam War," doesn't get gussied up in military uniform. All our Presidents except George "recognize that militarizing politics and politicizing the military endanger the Republic, invite tyranny." George Bush's presidency may ultimately prove to have been more dangerous to this country than even I had anticipated.

For all Bush's brave babble about staying the course in Iraq, it's Wolcott's opinion that the U.S. military is gradually in for defeat there. "Lacking popular will and spare bodies, the American Empire is," he says, "grudgingly receding. . . . the U.S. military is eyeing exits from Iraq, planning an ordely pullout no one will interpret as retreat" Yes, it seems almost inevitable that George will be remembered as one of our "wartime Presidents." But, alas, as only one of the couple who presided over our defeat.