On Freedom

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 7/1/2025)

“Freedom, in its simplest form, is the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. It’s often associated with liberty and autonomy, signifying the ability to make choices and act without coercion. In a broader sense, freedom can encompass various aspects, including freedom of speech, religion, and the press, as well as freedom from oppression and want.” –Wikipedia

We live in society, living collectively, in a structured existence with certain expectations, common rules of behavior and conduct, and common beliefs on how we should behave. We pride ourselves on being free.

Our common idea of who we are as a community, as a nation, is that none of us are “free” to act as we individually desire, to be anarchists. Instead, each of us has agreed to be part of the tribe, grouped together with common purposes and expectations, and obligations of citizenship.

This acceptance of our “social contract” was extensively discussed during the Age of Enlightenment of the 18^thCentury, and became the framework for the rise of democratic and republican institutions. It was the intellectual foundation of the American Revolution, a rejection of the tired social structure of monarchies and the divine right of kings. Abandoning the autocratic structures of feudalism, reformers advocated for giving voice to individualism and government based on popular, educated debate and majority rule. The Virginia Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, and the US Constitution emerged from such thought and debate.

That debate of our fundamental common principles continues today, as we refine and reshape our society and our governmental and economic structures. We owe it to ourselves and the entire community to respect and nurture these conversations, and to be meaningful, informed parties to those conversations. Such is the labor of a freedom-loving people.

True freedom is not anarchy, and does not thrive without a form of government that respects both individual voices and a collective acceptance of community good. The implementation of individual rights and collective accountability often seem to be conflicting, but in that, both enlightened ideals will thrive and nurture both individual freedoms and society as a whole.

Our disagreements, our debates, our differences of opinions, our seemingly competing values are actually our strengths as a society. Vigorous and informed debates and conflicts sharpen our minds and strengthen our respective opinions and viewpoints. The inquisitive mind and critical thinking are some of our greatest assets. In engaging in vigorous debate, we are truly fulfilling our respective obligations within our social contract, by being educated and active citizens, speaking our minds and giving deep consideration to the views and opinions of others.

Freedom isn’t being able to do whatever I please, or say whatever thought pops into my head. Instead, I have obligations, part of the duties of being a free person, to delve into issue, research my facts, develop sound logical arguments, and engage in dialogue that is respectful of others, informed, and also open to change and reconsideration.

As a citizen, as a person who honors the concept of freedom, I am fulfilling my obligations as a citizen to be informed, to be questioning of my own opinions and the opinions of others, and to participate in the public forum with respect for others and the willingness to change my own views.

Part of freedom is the duty to be a lifelong learner, a continuing gatherer of facts, and to engage in meaningful, respectful debate of the issues of the day. This is good citizenship. And this is being an endorser of the principle of a free and just society.

Each of us is obligated to be a good and responsible member of the tribe, the village, the state, and the nation. By revolting against the king, we have taken on the tasks of governing ourselves, through healthy, vigorous democratic institutions. Each of us has duties to work to strengthen and protect our democratic institutions, “to promote the general welfare and provide for the common defense.”

8/29/2025

Memorial Day is Personal to Me

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 5/26/2024)

Memorial Day is an awkward holiday for me, celebrated publicly for the three day weekend, the winding down of school and planning for summer fun. Our culture celebrates the beginnings of barbeques and picnics at the beach, family gatherings, and the official beginning of summer.

Yet, it is a time of reflection and sadness for me, a time to recall the lives of ancestors who fought and often died in war, a time to recall personal sacrifices for the common good, of conflict waged for the hoped for betterment of humankind. Memorial Day is a way to honor that, but we are more likely to ignore the reality of war, death and sacrifice. It is, instead, a day of disconnectedness and apathy.

Not many people are alive now who remember my grandfather. He lived a rich and fulfilling life as a farmer, taking pride in a well-managed dairy farm and helping to raise a family. He was reluctant to talk about his life and it took twenty years for me to gather the details.

The twelfth child of a German dairy farmer, he was drafted into the Kaiser’s army at the beginning of World War I, and sent to the Russian front. The Russians captured him, and he spent three years in a prisoner of war camp. He joined other soldiers in making their escape in the middle of a bitterly cold winter. One of the few stories he told was of walking through the snow, living off frozen potatoes, as they headed west towards home. He would weep silently at holiday meals, cherishing the bounty of the table, and the warmth of his home, only once mentioning that some of his fellow soldiers froze to death during their escape.

I’ve stood in cemeteries and war memorials, stunned by the thousands of tombstones and the tales of wars now only honored in dusty books and mossy granite monuments. I try to make sense of it all. I listen to the stories of my own generation who went to war, some not coming back, others deeply affected by the horrors they experienced. And, I keep seeing the debris of traumatized lives who fought in newer wars, still trying to find some sense, some higher justification for their sacrifice.

When I was a kid, many people called the day Decoration Day, a term left over from after the Civil War, when people gathered flowers and went to cemeteries to honor the soldiers who died in that war.

Memorial Day is a day where I am out of sorts. Firing up the barbeque and putting the flag up on the side of the house are part of my rituals for the day, but I find no peace, no action that gives me satisfaction for this day. I remember my grandfather, who chose to be mostly silent about his service in a nearly forgotten war. As I peel the potatoes for dinner, I remember his story, and can feel the icy cold of a Russian potato field in the middle of winter, a memory told and, over a hundred years later, still remembered.

And, every year, I read this poem, written by a soldier trying to put his tears into print, to try to make sense of the horrors and casualties of war. I cry as I read it today, the words raw and bloody still. When I stood in a cemetery in France, overlooking headstones in fields that seemed endless, I read this poem, engraved in marble, speaking its truth to me and all those who came after me, to honor and to remember.

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

(1918, public domain)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

5/26/2024

Renewal

Before me stood only a few–

Second step up, paint can and brush,

High above the entry way, up where no one would look,

Except we few painters, every generation or two.

I am a chosen one, honored to stand in this place, the air still, dusty with time —

adding a new color to the layers of time.

Those who came here before me —

Their paint splattered fingers on mine, gripping the brush,

whisper bits of history to me in the hot afternoon air.

Some sixty years ago, the painter before me dreamed with turquoise,

Covering up the brown of the Depression, and the

Burnt orange of origin, back in 1912.

My turn now, renewal, out of new dreams, an old building.

He, too, thought of this place, its stories, as he dipped his brush.

How it came to be, out of the dreams of farmers and loggers.

A place to dance on a Saturday night,

Seeing friends, and sharing a meal,

Simply being together, maybe falling in love,

Building lives.

Since then, only spiders and a few flies, and dust,

The still air and silence of the old hall, broken by the rumbling of log trucks,

Milk trucks, and cars on the road nearby —

Daily lives, generations lived, driving by the Grange.

The first one, a carpenter, and his helpers —

Farmers, loggers, maybe a store clerk —

Built this place with calloused hands.

Then the painters, each standing where I am, brush in hand.

Their voices now, in the stillness:

My turn now, to be its steward.

Standing on the second step, history in the layers,

I am number five,

Each one writing the same poem,

Hoping I’d show up

With fresh paint.

—Neal Lemery, August 6, 2018

Making Inquiry

Courage came into my life the other day, and taught me a few lessons.

It is not often that we are given the opportunity to look back in our lives, to take a deep look at a dark time, and reflect on what we have learned, and what we still need to do.

He had asked me for help.

“I’m not sure what to say here,” he said.

The counselor had given him a big assignment, the last challenge he had to complete to finish the treatment program.

He had to write down his thoughts about a terrible time in his childhood, a time that still causes him nightmares. Once this was done, he could move on with his life.

I read the assignment out loud, giving voice to the three pages of questions and the writing assignment that required him to relive the bad times, and maybe make some sense of it.

To do this work, he had to look to a time when life for him was upside down, nonsensical. He knew that now. Time away from all of that had given him some perspective, some maturity, an ability to see all of that for what it was, and understand the why of it all.

The questions shook me to my core. If this was my book, my treatment program, could I be strong enough to answer all of this, to put into words the thoughts I’d had? Could I be objective about the actions I took, way back then, and reflect on what I’d learned, how I had changed?
Or would I run away from that, ignoring these questions, and pretend it had never happened? Often, I see that as the easier path.

“Could you write it down for me?” he asked. “I’ll just talk and you put it into words on the paper.”

I could do that, to be his witness, his scribe.

He was Courage today, and I was his student.

He took a breath and began.

Almost matter of fact, he told his story and answered the questions in order, detached at times, reflecting on a long ago life, seen now from a safe distance. Now, an adult, a graduate of years of treatment and therapy and discussion groups, he spoke with authority. Everything was clear to him. What had happened, what he did was in the past; it was that old way of life, that old way of thinking.

His words flowed, organized, methodical, and I wrote them all down. Sometimes, I’d prompt him with the next question, the next exercise in the book where I wrote.

I looked into his eyes, and saw glimmers of the old pain, the guilt, the shame; tempered now with a blaze of forgiveness and wisdom. The time of judgment and condemnation had long passed, and today, we were moving on. I witnessed his fire, the spirit of a new man, who had grown beyond the old, and was able to make sense of that story, his story — history.

Those questions he had had long ago now were answered. He’s made a new life for himself, orderly, peaceful. He had a purpose now, a direction. It was down on paper, proof that he’d moved on.

The poet Rainer Rilke writes:
“Love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually live your way into the answer.”

My young friend is doing his work, looking at those questions, breathing in the answers, and figuring out who he is, and how to move on.

Our journeys through life are not without challenge, and not without peril. Seeking the truth is not for the meek or the timid.

Were I to be as wise as him, as determined, I, too, could ask my friend to take his pen and write down what I had to say.

Making inquiry is part of our work here as we live our lives, pausing now and then to look inside.

–Neal Lemery
July 10, 2016