James M. Redwine

James M. Redwine

A New World Resolution

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A new year is rapidly approaching. Hope for a better world is evidenced by universal blame placing, always onto someone else. Perhaps Jeffrey Epstein, or Donald Trump or Lane Kiffin or the idiot driving slowly in the passing lane. Or as Jimmy Buffett finally admitted in Margaritaville, “It was his own fault”.

One thing each of us believes is it is never our fault. Yet, in a republic, the United States for example, it is the fault of all citizens since we either choose or allow to remain in office our representatives. Secretary of War Pete Hegseth may have ordered Admiral Frank Bradley to carry out Commander in Chief Donald Trump’s order to kill the people on the alleged drug boat on September 02, 2025, but in America the President represents all of us. In the court of world opinion, each American violated our Constitution’s Bill of Rights and Due Process clauses as contained within the New World Resolutions of the Declaration of Independence and our Constitution.

Our Founders were well aware of the irony contained within those famous New World Resolutions, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal”. They knew that thousands of years of human history belied such a reality. What real truth they knew to be self-evident was that power does not corrupt humans, it enables them to be corrupt. The words were aspirational, not factual. The Constitution of the United States designed a framework for a system of government in which the natural inclination of humans to abuse power is sublimated to the competing powers of the majority who would abide by Due Process of Law.

If the eighty-one people we have killed in the Venezuelan boats were drug runners, there are well established procedures for determining those facts and for dealing with each situation. The U.S.A. has the most powerful military on earth. Even if the Venezuelan government was sponsoring those boats, its military is impotent against ours.

Our aircraft carriers, submarines, destroyers and aircraft can and do monitor every craft that comes within our United States territorial waters. We have the ability and authority to force any such drug boat or fishing boat, to stand down and be searched without danger to American personnel or equipment.

We could safely and thoroughly search such boats and vet their sailors as to drugs or other illegal contents. If such criminal intent against America were to be evidenced, the occupants could be arrested and taken before a court in the United States or a world authorized legal body. Any drugs could be confiscated, used as evidence and later destroyed and the drug runners imprisoned.

Such a procedure is what our Founders would have demanded from King George III. It is called Due Process. As the folk singer Phil Ochs sang in his song, Is There Anybody Here:

♫Is there anybody here
Who thinks that following the orders takes away the blame?
Is there anybody here
Who wouldn’t mind to murder by another name?♫

We Americans who claim to be a light to the world should shout STOP! when our representatives justify killing others without affording them the rights we demand for ourselves. America was born in 1776 and should not lose its aspirational soul after only 249 years. For as Phil Ochs also said in his song, ♫This country is too young to die♫. America today can re-pledge our “Lives, our Fortunes and our Sacred Honor” to the hopes our Founders knew had not yet been made possible but that they and we should resolve to make reality. Due process should be our talisman, not just our hope.

 

Sour Grapes

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A plethora of professional football, a cornucopia of college football and, most importantly, the hallowed echoes of high school football. Thanksgiving brings out the America our Founders dreamed of, “A more perfect union”. One where the battles almost never involve fatal blows but where due process on the field requires impartial officials, the Judiciary (?), involved and spirited fans, citizens (?), teams with different positions, players and coaches who are leaders and standard bearers for the hopes of countless constituencies, fans (?).

Peg and I almost surfeited on football last week but our stomachs have about recovered from gastronomical excess and our eyes and seats are ready for more football. Unfortunately, we are already ruing the long, dark journey from February until the fall of 2026. Ah well, we do have a few other things to attend to. And the memories of this season and seasons past will sustain us until then. For example, my favorite Thanksgiving Day football game occurred during my senior year of high school in 1960. I have carefully and constantly rearranged that game, especially the role of my favorite seventeen-year-old player in the outcome.

Photo by Peg Redwine

I was a linebacker who was not particularly gifted in the speed department. All right, I was on defense because my time in the forty was not clocked, but calendared. On the other hand, as I was a catcher on the baseball team, I was fairly adroit at retrieving fumbles; I just did not usually advance them.

Anyway, as I relive that glorious Thursday afternoon in November of 1960, I see myself clutching a blocked punt from our opponent. Only an uncharitable observer would have pointed out that my teammate actually blocked the punt. Regardless, when the football bounced into my arms, I took off like a lightning bolt for the goal line fifty-one yards away, my player number on the team. Mercury could not have caught me.

The next day the newspaper showed why people dislike the media. My heroic touchdown was described thusly, “Jim Redwine, reputedly the slowest player on the team, lugged the ball over the goal line”. That is why my football career ended in high school.

However, Peg and I still plan to cheer on Indiana and Oklahoma University teams as they conquer the playoffs, cheer on Army in the Army Navy game, watch every single college bowl game late into the nights of January then end the season with the Super Bowl in February. Who knows, with coaches making more money than Croesus, maybe some school will hire me to coach linebackers on how not to run.

Photo by Peg Redwine

Join or Die

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The Haudenosaunee, the democratic confederation of the Six Nations of Native Americans, had existed for centuries before Canasatego, their spokesperson, suggested the 13 colonies should form a similar arrangement. In 1754 Benjamin Franklin adopted the idea and even designed a flag with a snake cut into several pieces with the motto “Join or Die”. Eventually Canasatego’s advice was followed and Native Americans lost their lands. “Be careful what you wish for” or “No good deed goes unpunished”; either adage might apply.

These thoughts led the first of Ken Burns’ six-part PBS documentary of the American Revolution. Gentle Reader, if you did not watch it last week, I recommend you could not find a better use of twelve hours of your valuable time than pulling it up now on the PBS streaming app. My realization was how little I knew about the unlikely birth of the United States of America. Until last week my thought was, we Americans had had only one Civil War. I was ignorant of the animus among the colonies and our revered Founders. The revelations that the people who sacrificed so much and endured such hardships were actually people, much as people of today, was difficult to incorporate with my formal education and years of social experience and hearsay analysis.

I have spent many years sanguine with the core of America’s birth being a struggle for freedom by oppressed colonists against a repressive British monarchy. It was a clean, straight forward story requiring little nuance. I liked it and was comfortable in my beliefs; honor was the hallmark of the American Revolution.

After all, what words are more American than “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor”? Honor was the standard and such things as speculation in Indian lands as a motivation for revolution by such speculators as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin were beyond the pale. However, in Ken Burns’ treatise, the historian Philip Deloria states, “I think the American Revolution was all about land”. And in support of this premise he cited the 1763 British Royal Proclamation that declared all the land west of the Appalachian Mountains off limits to white people for either settlement or speculation. This infuriated the colonists who cited Manifest Destiny and who came from a culture in which 2% of Britain’s population owned 66% of the land. Many colonists believed their only hope of ever owning land was to take it from the Native Americans west of the Appalachians.

And of course, there was that soaring marvelous language, “All men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights and among those are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. My formal schooling did not mention that the population “All men” did not include any women or non-white men nor did it mention the institution of slavery being practiced and jealously protected by many of the men who signed our glorious Declaration of Independence from the British crown.

So, was the American Revolution a straight forward story of good versus bad, of honor versus oppression, or was it vastly more complex? There was much to admire but, as with all human behavior, there are stains that should be acknowledged and learned from. Honor is not just a word; it is a cause. Honor encapsulates all vital human aspirations of honesty, integrity, generosity, humility, fairness, courage and self-sacrifice. The Founders certainly displayed much honorable behavior.

However, as we should know our history so we can learn from it, it should be the full story so the right lessons are applied in our country’s life in our times. Knowing our heroes were human does not denigrate their achievements. It does help us seek the harder right and eschew the easier wrong. I respectfully submit the story of the American Revolution is best celebrated with truth.

Do You Believe In Magic?

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Loyal fans from 2013 IU game.

My first experience with Indiana University football was in 1963 when the United States Air Force sent me to IU to learn the Hungarian language. IU lost six out of nine games that year. As is the case with most Indiana Alumni, I have clung to a hope IU would somehow, sometime, win a game in the fourth quarter rather than lose. Peg and I have attended many games filled with enthusiasm but left crushed by reality.

The cruelty of an Indiana winter’s sleet, snow and rain coupled with IU football faux pas has been an almost unrelenting Hoosier heartbreak for sixty-two years. We did finally reach the Rose Bowl in January 1968, but O.J. Simpson ran over us as easily as he later did the California justice system. Almost every one of those long journeys into darkness called an IU football season has been as fruitless as Linus believing Lucy would let him actually kick the ball. After about the first thirty-one years of ennui Peg and I resigned ourselves to the gods’ destiny for Indiana football and attended games just for the tailgate parties.

Hopeful IU fans at the tailgate party! Photo taken by Diane Selch

Of course, Bloomington, Indiana and the IU campus are beautifully accented by pristine limestone, beautiful fall leaves foliage and great college hangouts. We long ago quit watching for a football star in the east and returned to campus to relive those halcyon days of books and beer. So, Gentle Reader, imagine our amazement in 2024 when IU, that’s right IU, made the first college playoff. We were so mesmerized by the real-life fairytale we even celebrated the last two losses after the first ten wins.

Then along came November 08, 2025 and our game against Penn State, at Penn State, a place at which IU had never won. Peg and I were too attuned to IU’s history of hard play and last-minute losses to believe the so-called experts who predicted a two touchdown, easy IU victory. Our pre-game prayer was any victory by any score. And, while IU’s first nine victories this season somewhat lulled us into believing the hype, we never relaxed; we were right!

As had happened to us fans many times with Hoosier football, we marched right along into the end of the third quarter looking like the fabled Four Horsemen or Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside or even like Jim Thorpe had arisen to lead us. However, as had almost always happened before, the fourth quarter brought the enemy to life and was poised to sound the death knell for us. Peg and I were sanguine; we expected it. Once again, the pigskin devils had stricken IU to have us snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

But with seconds to go and trailing by four points, our Cream and Crimson heroes donned their capes and scored by one toe. It was truly a miracle! Shame on us for ever doubting. Now all I can say is watch out Ohio State and “Holy ‘smokes’, where’s the Tylenol?”

At the IU Bookstore. Photo taken by Peg Redwine

Dad’s Birthday

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Photo by Peg Redwine

 

Gentle Reader, it is possible you have heard or read some of this Civil War type story before. But Peg and I are going to spend this coming weekend at the re-enactment of the Civil War Battle of Honey Springs which was the largest Civil War battle west of the Mississippi River involving Caucasian, Black, and several Native American tribes in a desperate struggle for the control of Fort Gibson, the main installation that controlled the western supply route along the Texas Road. I do not know if my Grandfather Redwine fought in this battle which occurred July 17, 1863 near what is now Checotah, Oklahoma. If he did, it would have been as a teenager on the side of the Confederacy. However, as he eventually ended up in this particular area immediately after the Civil War, I choose to believe that scenario. Anyway, as with many families, our history wanders through numerous thickets of possibilities. In this regard I am returning to what I choose to believe may be a part of the Redwine lore. Should you have seen or read the story before, I hope you will indulge me.

My father was born in 1905 in Indian Territory, what later became Oklahoma in 1907. My grandfather Redwine was born in Georgia in 1848, 13 years before the Civil War began. After the war he moved to Indian Country, declared himself a minister and sought to save souls among non-United States citizens. At a makeshift church-camp meeting he was preaching from a wagon hitched to a team that bolted. Grandpa was thrown off the wagon, hit his head, died from the fall and was buried by his flock right where he fell. The location of his grave was slowly forgotten by all but a few of his family.

During the Viet Nam War the anti-war protestors raised so much Cain our government sought to ease the pressure by honoring deceased veterans from prior wars. As the great Woke Movement had not yet begun, sometimes “veteran” included Civil War soldiers from both sides. As my paternal grandfather was a Georgia teenager during the war years 1861-1865, he must have been counted as a war veteran. The details of his allegiance were not noted.

However, Gentle Reader, my maternal great, great grandfather who was born in La Grange, Indiana served with the Iron 44th of the Union forces. My family was rather ecumenical. Regardless, Grandfather Redwine was included in the whole class and was deemed entitled to a bronze marker for his grave only 100 or so years after his service.

Therefore, the War Department sent out a representative to Oklahoma but he could not locate Grandpa’s grave. So, he contacted my first Cousin, Pal Gene Redwine in Wilburton, Oklahoma to enlist his help. Pal Gene was an accommodating and friendly guy who had been to our grandfather’s grave. He agreed to help but suggested that our Uncle Henry might be even more knowledgeable and brewed excellent moonshine besides. They proceeded to Uncle Henry’s still.

Uncle Henry was as affable as Pal Gene. He insisted his latest vintage be taste-tested before they went to find Grandpa’s grave. The federal man and Pal Gene felt it impolite to refuse such hospitality so a few hours were spent trying to get directions to Grandpa’s rural resting site. Of course, such mental exercise required chemical assistance.

Eventually, Pal Gene and the Veteran’s Affairs official left Uncle Henry’s with Grandpa’s marker and sought the mysterious grave. They never found it but did manage to lose the marker somewhere along the search. Talk about honor in the breach, or, just desserts if one is not a Rebel.

Photo by Peg Redwine

 

The Public Forum

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I have subscribed to The Posey County News and its progenitors for about forty years. At the request of the then editor and owner, Jim Kohlmeyer, in 1990 I began writing “Gavel Gamut”. Current editor Dave Pearce continued to publish my column after he and his wife Connie took over the paper. Neither Jim nor Dave nor Connie ever sought to censor any of the more than 1,000 columns I have written.

Gentle Reader, you are undoubtedly aware of how rare it has become for news outlets to provide a true forum for the exchange of differing views. The Posey County News provides such a forum. The Posey County News is a beacon to the First Amendment at a time that such beacons of illumination are under attack from several powerful and diverse sources. Our republic will not survive as the America our Founders envisioned if our citizens cannot freely express conflicting views, especially on deeply felt issues. As newspapers throughout our country continue to be subsumed by major news outlets, we need more than ever the courage of such local papers as The Posey County News.

Our republic’s free flow of ideas has been the major driver of our desire for “a more perfect union”. There was a time only 21-year-old, white, male citizens could vote. Due to the most vigorous of public debates, now 18-year-old citizens can not only be sent to war, they can vote on who sends them. My first vote for president was when I turned 21 even though I had already earned my honorable discharge from the Air Force.

My grandmother could not vote until 1921 after millions of Americans had demonstrated for her right to do so. It took a Civil War to get Blacks citizenship and many Native Americans are still in a struggle for the right to self-determination; but public outcries are forcing progress.

Therefore, when I opened my October 15, 2025 edition of my Posey County News and saw that Reverend Norman Martin had written a respectful and measured disagreement to one of my columns I was elated. There were no aspersions or threats, just calm opposing views. Thank you, Reverend, for reading my column. I am truly grateful you and I both have the right and, thanks to The Posey County News, the ability to publicly state our views without fear or expectation of favor.

We are all aware of our current climate of uncivil behavior among citizens of differing viewpoints. It may just be my age but I believe our culture was at one time able to discuss without cussing and disagree without canceling. Reverend Martin and I may never have the opportunity to have a cup of coffee and vigorously and respectfully exchange views, but thanks to one of America’s bedrock institutions, The Posey County News, if we ever have the chance, I bet we can do so.