Twenty Minutes to Midnight* (Transferred from WordPress Blog, Originally Posted 1-15-18

My family and I experienced what was hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime event Saturday morning on Oahu, Hawaii, as we received and reacted to a state emergency warning declaring a ballistic missile was heading toward us, punctuated by the words, “This is not a drill.” Below is my account of the events showing how quickly life can be turned upside down.

“Twenty Minutes to Midnight*”
By Joel Seppala

Twenty minutes to midnight. 8:00. Scrambled eggs are in the frying pan while she pours a mix into the waffle maker nearby. “I don’t have corn starch,” she says, “So I had to use flour. The waffles will probably be too hard.” So far, this is the biggest problem of the day.

I’m writing a poem about a touching Christmas thank you note our family received the other day.

Everyone in the house is dressed and messed the same as when we woke up. No one has anywhere to be, a week’s break between the holidays and Saturday morning sports.

The indoor/outdoor thermometer on the window sill reads 66 degrees outside; cool enough to see the dew on the grass mimic a winter frost.

Fifteen minutes to midnight. 8:07. The phones’ alarms ring at once in a haunting harmony. I can’t believe what I see. As I read the message my eyes widen. “BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Oh my God. Silence. Indecision. This is impossible, but it’s not. I’m craving information that is nowhere to be found. There is no local news broadcast. Every bounce of the ball on the stupid basketball game still airing on TV aggravates the situation, with only an inadequate emergency banner to confirm the phone message. Where are the news anchors? This is the biggest story of their lives, if not the last.

Ten minutes to midnight. There’s no more time for clever planning. “Kids come downstairs. There’s a missile headed toward us. Let’s stay together, over here.”

Five minutes to midnight. How many prayers mixed with utterances of disbelief are flying toward heaven from this little island? What is happening, and what will come next?

Midnight. What is happening? Did we shoot it down? Did the missile miss its target? If it impacted, where did it hit? Still nothing from the local news. The impact could be any minute now—perverse exhilaration mixed with anxiety that comes only with personal impending doom. Thoughts of preservation: Maybe it won’t hit us. An inkling of encouragement: Was this all some big mistake? If it was, someone’s fired. Gallows humor I suppose.

Five minutes after midnight. Something isn’t right, because everything is quiet. There’s no Pearl Harbor 2018.

Ten minutes after midnight. It was a mistake, a false alarm. Check for confirmation. Yes, it’s calm. There is no storm.

Then comes the post-crisis sensation, the first conscious breath in half an hour. The national news media is aware of the situation and begin to expose the details. How could this have happened, and what does it all mean?

An island group, a state, paralyzed by a ghost threat—this time. But for us it was real. For 30 minutes we were under attack. In some ways it doesn’t matter that no missiles were inbound. We know how it feels to be 20, 15, 10, 5 minutes to midnight: doomsday.

What a blessing it is to see birds and trees and know that they’re still there
And feel a breeze, 66 degrees, of sea-fed island air
To walk outside and realize the skies are safe, for now
While reflecting on this morning’s errant shot across the bow

*‘Midnight’ is a reference to the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists’ Doomsday Clock which symbolically describes the organization’s estimation on how near the world is to global catastrophe brought on by nuclear war.

The Spittle (Transfer from Tumblr)

By Joel Seppala

I saw the lone drop of spittle

It gleamed brightly, though little

As through the air it flew

A perfect arc

Like an old lawn dart

Right on to a fry or two

Who knows what disease it carried

How hideous, how scary

From the stranger’s beard-ringed mouth

My eyes followed its wicked path

And how I wish now I hadn’t

Helpless was I to stop it

I said nothing but “Thanks”

As my jaw and heart sank

To my infected tray below

Back at my seat I stared at my fries

All but certain of my mortal demise

The only question was, of what ‘itis

I though of my shots

My arms covered in dots

And hoped they all were still working

It’s been now three days

I don’t yet have the plague

But what if inside me it’s lurking

An epic battle for control of my body

Blue skies or gray, healthy or snotty

Only time will tell…

How this spittle tale ends

How my fortune bends

From the lips of my bearded fry spitter

Have You Ever Smelled a Library Book?

By Joel Seppala

Have you ever smelled a library book
One straight from the shelf?
With wrinkled corners
And a tired spine
Like an athlete past his prime

Have you looked inside the cover?
Is there a sleeve for a fitted card?
Are there stamps with dates reminding you
Of trips to the bookmobile
In second grade?

The smell to me is most unique
"Old Book"
Here, Calvin Klein
That must from hibernation
On a scaffold marked A-C

When you pick it up
And open the pages
The words still resonate
To tell the story
They know best

Inside those dog-eared
Corners and stamps from '93
Is a checkout roadtrip
That's all too short

Consent of the Governed: An American Ideal

By Joel Seppala

What does it mean to be an American?  This might seem an overused, overstated, tired, perhaps even provocative question in an age of polar politics that layer a relativist society.

I thought so too. But when I visited the American Revolution Museum at Yorktown, Virginia, I was reminded that despite our differences as individuals and those assigned or associated by demographic linkages, we share a common heritage.

Regardless of race, religion, or categorization into any number of neat boxes fit for use by advertisers and politicians, we all call the United States of America home. If that sentiment has you fitting rubber boots right about now, take a trip with me.

I walked away from the indoor/outdoor museum on the south bank of the York River appreciating the struggle for independence endured by our collective national ancestors. The American men and women of that era, inspired by the philosophical teachings of John Locke and others, decided that they would be the ones, through officials they elected, to decide how the people would henceforth live and be governed. As I toured the wholly impressive museum, complete with a reproduction naval man-of-war, I returned to one phrase in my mind: consent of the governed.

The concept of 'consent of the governed' is self-explanatory in that those appointed or elected to serve in positions of authority would be so elected or appointed by those that the officials would represent, yet the notion is profound. Athens in Ancient Greece was the first democratic society; Rome had an aristocratic Republic. Other than those blips on the world history radar, rulers were largely autocratic, and transitions of power were often defined by bloodshed and heredity--sometimes both.

I reminded myself walking through the museum that the first American warriors and colonial citizens did not have the foreknowledge of victory, as hindsight mercifully grants us. George Washington, through sheer presence and grand leadership, in fact, petitioned Congress and influenced his soldiers to see through the darkest days of the revolution.

Ultimately, despite deep and real differences among our population, there are historical jewels for all of us to collectively identify with. However, a political culture which feeds and profits off of divisiveness will not present these unifying aspects to us, it is up to us as Americans to seek out that which unites us and makes us uniquely American.