myakka flood

We were on a visitation weekend and camping with the kids in Myakka State Park. Lot 36 was our favorite lot. Big and well drained. A good sized culvert to rapidly get rid of the occasional storm runoff.

The tent was a big old Coleman "wall tent". Canvas with a tarp-like floor that ran a foot up the sides. Nice and dry. Usually.

The day was overcast with rain predicted, but visitations are set in advance so there we were. The old Pinto wagon got us there on time and we checked in to the park. We had plenty to do setting everything up and then the rain started. We made spaghetti under an umbrella and ate inside the tent. Nice and dry. As it got dark the rain fell harder and we noticed a bit of water moving under the floor. Still dry inside. Sometime later the floor started to roll like a water bed and water could be seen inching up the sides. Raining like hell now. Then, tiny little jets of water shot up through the floor through pinholes in the tarp. A lot of them. By now the water was 2 or 3 inched deep outside the tent, and rapidly wetting the inside. A quick look with the flashlight showed the marvelous culvert was partially plugged and lot 36 was a pond.

It rained all night and in the morning, still raining, we took down the tent and ate cold leftovers in the wagon. No cooked breakfast that morning. Needless to say the car was like a cloud forest inside. We left in the rain, delivered the wet kids and drove back to Havana. In the rain the whole way.

Sal and I had a good laugh last night remembering that trip, but we never stayed on lot 36 again. And yes, they have skunk apes too.

Photo: www.lorencoleman.com/myakka.html

from the fire of despair

"From the fire of despair we forge ourselves into who we are." I wrote this to a former student yesterday. I was thinking of the terrible obstacles she had to overcome to get where she is today. I think we have all been in the "pit of despair" at one time or another and we emerged changed. Most of us learn from trial and hardship and grow as a result. She certainly has. Many of my former students have braved life experiences that would have crushed me. My admiration for the endurance and success of so many is unbounded.
Remember always that you are who you are because of the total of your life experiences. If you could go back and change anything, you would change too.

At the close of this year and the eve of the next, I wish all of you who read this a happy, safe and prosperous life. And always remember that you are who you are precisely because of who you were.

(There was a real 'pit of despair'. Here is a link that takes you there. Warning: this is heavy awful stuff. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pit_of_despair )

Photo: blog.tilos.hu/irodalmile2/archives/008287.html

Clarence

Frank had a three man operation. He and Stan were the masons and Clarence was the laborer. Clarence did all the support work and the three of them worked together on the job to get ready to lay blocks and bricks. Clarence mixed the mud (mortar for laying block), carried and stacked the blocks and bricks, dug the footers and cesspools, pulled up the forms, cleaned up the sites. You get the idea. Keep in mind this was a small operation. They had no cement mixer. No backhoe. No bobcat. Only shovels, hoes, digging bars, sand screen, hands and backs. During the peak periods Frank needed an extra laborer, and I was it. So, at 17 I signed on to be another pair of hands and a back. Frank turned me over to Clarence to show me how to work. He taught me the way to dig so I could dig all day in the hot sun, and how to carry two 60 pound blocks and swing them up on a chest-high scaffold, and how to mix mud and set cesspool blocks and rings and how to get a 200 pound bluestone chimney cap up two 16 foot ladders. He and I often worked alone on site preparation. We dug footers and cesspools. Now there is a job. A cesspool was built in the ground in a hole that was 10 or more feet deep and about 10 feet around. We dug them by hand. Clarence taught me to throw dirt a long way. Then we dropped the blocks into the hole and Frank built the round cesspit walls. We had lots of time to talk over the years we worked together, but Clarence was a man of few words and I could keep my own company when needed. Lunch time was different. We had 45 minutes to rest and eat and talk. He talked about the world of black men and segregation. How he grew up into that world and how he navigated through it. He owned several houses that he rented out, and had a comfortable retirement planned. He was about 60 when we met. He talked about the events in the South and I listened, but I didn’t understand. It was the time of Brown v Board of Education and Rosa Parks. I was a middle class white boy living in New York and didn’t have a clue what was going on. One day we were talking about racism and he said “If a man steals corn from your field that doesn’t mean the next man coming down the road will steal your corn.” I never thought it did, but that is part of the core of racism. I went off to college in the South and saw firsthand what he was talking about. Clarence was a teacher, mentor, business man, laborer, husband, father and more. I learned a lot from him. He was strong and lean, and dignified. He retired, died, and I never got to tell him that I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. But I did in the end understand. And Clarence, thank you.
Signs: http://www.wvu.edu/~lawfac/jscully/Race/images/colored%20sign.jpg

Tree Spirits

I was sitting in the kitchen looking out the picture window. I have spent hours there watching birds, squirrels, the occasional deer and the trees. One particular tree always gets my attention. An American beech with a healing wound at the base of the trunk. And suddenly there it is: a perfect woman's face, flowing hair and a beautiful serene look. If there are tree spirits then this is surely a manifestation of one. I have loved this tree from the first day I saw it. I have hugged it. (Yes, I am an unrepentant tree hugger, literally on both counts.) What a treat. When I get the camera fixed I'll add her picture to this, if she can be photographed.

Image: www.door2door-marketing.co.uk/

Waking up dead

This is a wandering that starts with a dream. Sally had a dream that she was dead and standing by her body looking at it and hearing and seeing the actions in the scene. Where the hell do these images come from?

This is sort of what I mean when I say "some day I will wake up dead and........" . Wake up dead? How can you do that? Well, if the dream represents some expression of the existence of a soul or something like that it may actually be true that you can wake up dead. Probably not, though.

Brains produce the most wonderful and weird thoughts and images imaginable. I call one process "cortical skipping". When you see something, say a dog, and that reminds you to buy dog food which reminds you that Publix has wine on sale which reminds you of the wonderful sausage you had in Italy which reminds you to ....... Get the drift? You somehow end up thinking about balancing the tires. These thoughts fly around your brain in the cortex and there is absolutely no way of knowing where they will go. There is probably an algorithm in there somewhere, and some of the connections may be more obvious than others, but in my family we are fond of saying "there is no accounting for a brain".

Or how about all the weird dreams where you fly or pass through walls or are someone you surely will never be, like the pope or god or fill in your own weird dreams.

Driving along, my mind wanders in all sorts of directions, which reminds me of licorice which reminds me that I have to go to the Co-op today which reminds me to stop by Ron's with his flywheel puller which reminds me ........

Photo: www.conozcaseasimismo.com/factoreseng.htm

Tea Olive: Southern Delight.

I walked down the driveway to check the mail when I noticed a familiar perfume in the air. Hmmm. Jasmine? No, wrong season and not cloying enough. What else is there around here? Ah. I remembered that we recently planted a tea olive. Poor thing was way over its “sell by” based on how root bound it was. I turned and there it was, blooming like crazy. New leaves and tons of blooms. And that fragrance. The air was filled with it. Sweet but not cloying and heavy in the near-fog of humidity. I think Osmandus was returning the favor and giving us a great big “thank you” for the rescue and planting. What is a southern yard without a tea olive or two? A disappointment that’s what. Now, a few more quintessential plants and we will have the complete southern garden.

Photo: img.photobucket.com/.../TeaOlive1.jpg

Thoughts on Christmas

When I was a kid and a Christian (by birth, not choice) Christmas was a special time. Sure, we celebrated the birth of Jesus, but I didn’t really know who he was or what he did. I knew he was special. He was born in a manger, killed and reborn. But my brother and I concentrated on Santa Claus. Now he was the real hero of Christmas. Bigger than life. Flew around the world giving toys to kids and perfume and scarves to adults.
As I got older I learned that Santa was a fraud, a lie that for some reason my parents kept going. How wonderful to just give a gift and say “this is from mom and dad, because we love you”. Eventually we got to that, but went through the Santa thing first. Well, Santa fell away, the Easter Bunny faded, the Tooth Fairy went the way of the dodo, and Christianity gradually dimmed, to be replaced by a deeper sense of spirituality.
Christmas never faded. A wonderful time for reaffirmation of family ties and friendships, in my family it has been joined with Chanukah. An all American plethora: Christians, Jews, secular humanists and an atheist or two for balance. I look forward to Christmas with warm remembrances of gatherings past and future. How can you remember the future you ask? Easy. Posit a Christmas, like the next one, and then remember it. (Remember, I have never claimed to be normal). The holiday is a time for renewal of contacts, catching up with the news of the past year and future plans. And being with those you love. I hate the commercialism and barely (if at all) disguised plundering of our good will for the benefit of profit. I long for the time past when the holiday was driven by love of family and love of God, but in this country at least, that is mostly over. I have friends that still cleave to those ideals, but they are few. Interesting that while religiosity is on the increase the season continues to be driven by merchants, not preachers.
So, in summation, I state categorically that I look forward to this Christmas season. Over the next few weeks I will be with friends, family and many people of good will. Thanks, Jesus, for even though your birthday has been corrupted by some, many of us who are not believers still look forward to it and probably feel a deeper sense of your ideals than the “flocks” that flock together.

Green Door

We have a pastel done by west coast artist Margaret Tcheng Ware. A wonderful and mysterious image of a nearly nude woman in an alley (is it an alley?), facing a green door. Nothing is as it seems. As light is increased, the mood changes from brooding and dangerous to sad and lonely . The soft pastels at times make the scene look as if it were underwater, but that isn’t possible, is it? Why is she nude? Where is she going? In or out of the door? What is behind the door? Was she assaulted? Who is she?
You want to get a blanket, put it around her shoulders and just listen to her story.
I have pondered this work for several years and never tire of the complexity of thought and emotion that it evokes. I play with the spotlight dimmer to change the moods and keep looking for the answers. I expected one day to have the ‘AH HA’ moment when the meanings crystallize. Maybe so, maybe not. The wonder is that Margaret packed all this into one figure standing in an alley.
Thank you Margaret for putting your heart and soul into my mysterious woman, and thank you Sally for sharing her with me.

Clarence

Frank had a three man operation. He and Stan were the masons and Clarence was the laborer. Clarence did all the support work and the three of them worked together on the job to get ready to lay blocks and bricks. Clarence mixed the mud (mortar for laying block), carried and stacked the blocks and bricks, dug the footers and cesspools, pulled up the forms, cleaned up the sites. You get the idea. Keep in mind this was a small operation. They had no cement mixer. No backhoe. No bobcat. Only shovels, hoes, digging bars, sand screen, hands and backs. During the peak periods Frank needed an extra laborer, and I was it.
So, at 17 I signed on to be another pair of hands and a back. Frank turned me over to Clarence to show me how to work. He taught me the way to dig so I could dig all day in the hot sun, and how to carry two 60 pound blocks and swing them up on a chest-high scaffold, and how to mix mud and set cesspool blocks and rings and how to get a 200 pound bluestone chimney cap up two 16 foot ladders. He and I often worked alone on site preparation. We dug footers and cesspools. Now there is a job. A cesspool was built in the ground in a hole that was 10 or more feet deep and about 10 feet around. We dug them by hand. Clarence taught me to throw dirt a long way. Then we dropped the blocks into the hole and Frank built the round cesspit walls. We had lots of time to talk over the years we worked together, but Clarence was a man of few words and I could keep my own company when needed. Lunch time was different. We had 45 minutes to rest and eat and talk. He talked about the world of black men and segregation. How he grew up into that world and how he navigated through it. He owned several houses that he rented out, and had a comfortable retirement planned. He was about 60 when we met.
He talked about the events in the South and I listened, but I didn’t understand. It was the time of Brown v Board of Education and Rosa Parks. I was a middle class white boy living in New York and didn’t have a clue what was going on. One day we were talking about racism and he said “If a man steals corn from your field that doesn’t mean the next man coming down the road will steal your corn.” I never thought it did, but that is part of the core of racism.
I went off to college in the South and saw firsthand what he was talking about.
Clarence was a teacher, mentor, business man, laborer, husband, father and more. I learned a lot from him. He was strong and lean, and dignified. He retired, died, and I never got to tell him that I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. But I did in the end understand. And Clarence, thank you.

Signs: http://www.wvu.edu/~lawfac/jscully/Race/images/colored%20sign.jpg
Rosa Parks: disarminginjustice.files.wordpress.com/2009/0

Burning Castor Oil: Gotta Love It.

Jim Croce again. Rapid Roy was a dirt track demon. Ah, the dirt track at Riverhead. Saturday nights in the summer with the roar of highly tuned old engines. The time was the mid 50’s and the stock cars were cut up coups from the thirties and forties with a few early fifties thrown in for good measure. Flat head Vee-eights, straight eights, flat head sixes and OHV sixes. In the unlimited classes some OHV eights. The roar of straight pipes and the smell of castor oil and burning rubber. Occasionally a wheel would break off and come straight into the stands and everybody would duck. Local farmers, welders, mechanics and a few teachers and doctors. Mostly the same cars every week.
Then, Geraldo showed up. Shiny black ’37 coup with an OHV vee-eight. Black driving suit. Black helmet. Rumor was that he was a hair dresser from Queens somewhere. He was a terrific driver with a great car (grumble: probably paid to get his car that good. Not a good old boy like the rest). He raced week after week and year after year. What a thrill to watch him eat the track and the locals. They were all good drivers and sometimes someone beat Geraldo, but not usually.
Fourth of July fireworks. Beer in cups. Smells. Noise. What a treat. Driving home after the races was a thrill too, because it was a race.
I’m going to get some castor oil and burn it on the grill the next time I barbecue. I hope it smells as sweet as I remember. I’ll let you know.
Photo: winfield.50megs.com/Cowley/oldstockcars_4.htm

That other Mother again

They went to bed under the stars on the Nebraska plains. Light sleeping bags were all they needed to keep the chilled night air and dew from becoming too uncomfortable. My father and his brother woke up early, got a small fire going and passed the time until full daylight planning the rattlesnake hunt for the day. Little did they know. As the sun came up, my mother stirred then suddenly froze. "Hal? There is something in the bottom of my sleeping bag. When I move it buzzes" Right. It was a fairly large rattle snake that had crawled into her bag during the night for warmth. The brothers discussed the possible ways to get the snake out without getting her bitten and came up with a plan. "Stay still until the sun warms the bag. The snake will come out on it's own and then we'll shoot it." So she did. For hours she lay unmoving as gradually the snake warmed up and moved up over her body to the open end of the bag. It poked out it's head. "No shot. Wait a little longer" my father said. Finally the reptile got out and started to move away. A single shot to the head killed it instantly. After some coffee and a late breakfast they hunted rattle snakes. What a woman!

The Merc who Cried

He was big. Cropped hair. Rough look. The kind of man nobody would mess with.

Sal and I were in the Keys for a week of fishing and relaxing. We rented a cheap duplex with a ramp and kept the 13' Whaler close by. One afternoon we decided to stop for a beer at a local bar, really more like a lean to scabbed on to the side of a building. The only people there were sitting at the bar. All the tables were empty. We wanted a bit of space and privacy so we grabbed a table a few away from the bar and got a couple of drafts. We spent a couple of hours talking about the world, us and the guys, eyeing us with suspicion, at the bar. The big quiet guy caught our attention. We speculated about what he might be and why he was there on a weekday afternoon. We decided he was a mercenary in between jobs. Back from Africa probably and waiting for the next contract. Clearly a man not to mess with.

About 3 hours into the afternoon we finally needed some food and ordered something. By this time the locals had stopped paying attention to us, figuring, we thought, we were not a threat. Just strangers spending an afternoon like them, drinking and getting out of the sun.

Slowly, the Merc (as we called him) got up from the bar and turned towards us. Strong arms in a camo jacket of sorts hung loosely at his sides. He looked at us without expression. I mean he had a hard look, not a glare exactly, but no joy there. Not mean exactly either. Hard.

He slowly walked over to our table - graceful- powerful- and we thought (as we discussed later) "crap, we're in for trouble now." Then we saw the change. His face softened and tears rolled down his cheeks. He said "You look like nice people. You mind if I sit with you and talk a while?"

We listened for the next hour or so to the tale of his misery over his wife leaving him. He was a gentle giant, deeply hurt and grieving. We never found out who he really was. To us he remains the Merc who cried, and trusted strangers with his story.

Photo: i11.photobucket.com/albums/a199/don_veto/army...

Sucking the Marrow.

"There never seems to be enough time to do the things that you want once you find them". Jim Croce again. Time has a way of sneaking up on you and then passing you by. John Keating said: "sucking the marrow out of life doesn't mean choking on the bone." (Dead Poet's Society). So the trick is to get the most out of life while you can without killing your self in the process. Don't use the old "When we retire we will....." too often. If possible you want to emulate Marco Polo, quoted from Gary Jennings book: When he was dying he explained his behavior thus:" I lived my life so I would never have to say ' I always wanted to, but I never did.' ".

In other words, do what you can while you can and don't depend on the future to be there for you. Enter Sciatica. Sal and I were walking our sweet Catahaula Wednesday when an escaped pit bull attacked her. She was on a lead, so the attack was around our feet. We both tried to break up the one-sided fight, bending, pulling, kicking, lifting. The owner of the pit bull finally got there and dragged him off and away, getting bitten twice in the process. The next day, Thanksgiving, Sal started to hurt. Lower back. Leg. By Saturday she couldn't sit or stand or walk or sleep with out pain. Sunday, after x rays to be sure there was no lower spinal damage, the diagnosis: Sciatica. Take cyclobenzaprene, ibuprofen and rest. Rest. Sally.

This morning Sal is at work, hopefully taking it a bit easier. The sciatica will get better in time, but we both got a wake up call here. Both of us are a heartbeat from some life-changing event. Makes us glad we have sucked some of the marrow from life and not yet choked. And it isn't over yet. There are still pockets of marrow to be sucked, and suck we will.

Sweet Millie is fine. No bites.

Photo: 1.bp.blogspot.com/.../s400/thoreau.jpg

The Cheshire Cat

If you don't know where you are going, any road will get you there." Wise observation by Lewis Carroll. The Cheshire cat advised something like it to Alice. So, if you don't know or care where you are going, then take any road at all. They all get there. Ah, but the next trick is to know when you get there. Carroll said you would know when you get there because the road would end. So simple.

I can't help thinking that the world is in Wonderland with Alice. It is definitely going somewhere and we will definitely know when we get there (the end). My 80-something year old grandmother by marriage was dying of cancer and said that she didn't much mind the dying, it was the approach road she was worried about. This all fits together somehow. Curiouser and curiouser. And, we might not get any older, either.

Photo: katrinastonoff.wordpress.com/2009/09/

Your Song is Your Own

I was cruis'n on the treadmill this morning with Pandora Radio streaming loud and clear. "Blood, Sweat and Tears Radio" is the station I use. The pounding rhythm is just about right for 4 miles an hour. Anyway, this is a sort of "Zen" part of the day, where thoughts come unbidden and often forgotten in the fog. The Beatles were singing "Yesterday". "Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be..." and I thought about the minor struggles and minor aches and pains and though Yeah, that's me. But the rest of the song is way off. Other lyrics floated by... "If I could save time in a bottle....." ....."killing me softly with her song...." ..."nothing I can do about it now...."...."He stopped loving her today....."....."put'em in a tree museum...." WHOA!!!

Bits and pieces of songs in some ways reflect bits and pieces of life, don't they? Every so often you hear a song or read a poem and say "YES"! That's ME! Maybe so, maybe not. (Jim Croce Radio is on now and Simon and Garfunkel are doing Mrs. Robinson). Don't forget to listen or read the whole thing. Life is more than bits and pieces.

And never forget: Your song is uniquely your own. No one else can sing it or know it.

Bad Decisions make Good Stories

I got this aphorism in a list from a friend and thought about my essays. Yup, many of them really represent bad decisions. Thing is the decisions didn't all seem bad at the time. You gotta wonder if the decisions we make every day that seem reasonable will be fodder for good stories later. Hmmmm.

Photo: http://www.zazzle.com/golden_oldies/gifts?cg=196731234868895805

Eating Road Kill

Sally and I had stopped at a local BBQ place for a late afternoon supper. A few other tables were occupied, but the place was mostly empty. While we were waiting for our meal, the cook came out with a large platter and went to the nearest table to the kitchen and presented it to the couple there. I couldn't see what was on the plate, but it was a fairly large pile of BBQ. The couple shook their heads, and the cook moved on to the next table. Same reaction. He got to us, presented the platter and asked "Did you order the Armadillo?" On the platter was a fully clothed whole Armadillo, barbecued and steaming hot. We said no, we didn't order the Armadillo. The cook asked if we would like to try some of the meat when he carved it, and we said "Sure, why not?" So a few minutes later we got a small plate of lean meat, redolent with wood smoke and mild sauce. It was tasty.

The story: On the way to work that morning, the cook hit the Armadillo with his car and killed it. He picked it up, brought it to work, cleaned it and cooked it slowly with the chickens and pork. He playfully presented it to the patrons and shared the meat. This guy was taking a big chance since I am sure that cooking road kill in a restaurant kitchen isn't legal, and he had no way of knowing who was sitting at the tables. But we all had a taste and a good laugh.

The second time we ate "road kill" was the whale. I think those are the only times for road kill. But, remember "Fried Green Tomatoes" ? Well, years ago Sally and I drove many times to Bradenton on Hwy 301. Just before the bridge over the Hillsboro river was a long low building. One end had a sign that read(I am making up the name since I don't remember the original one) "JONES FUNERAL HOME". And on the other end of the same building was a sigh that read "JONES BAR-B-QUE". Hmmmmm.

Photo:http://wonderingbrit.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/roadkill.jpg

Three Score and Twenty

It occurred to me the other day that I was nearly at my "3 score and ten". I got to figuring that with luck I'd make it to 3 score and twenty. Do the math. If 80 is the end point, then when you get to 70 you have already had seven eights of your life. Only one eighth to go. Eighty years has 4160 weeks or 29200 days. The ten years left have only 520 weeks or 3650 days. Damn, that doesn't look like much compared to the original total.

What this says to me is "GO FOR IT BABY" before all you can do is watch and wait.

Maybe I can squeeze out 3 score and 25. Now that would be a nice bonus.

Photo: (by the way, this is a 70 year old farmer.)

www.spencerart.ku.edu/.../farm/hotvedt.shtml

weird woody rides again

No kidding. Weird things happen to me at the most unlikely times. Yes, I have seen ghosts. Yes, I have had an out of body experience (not drug or alcohol induced) and Yes, I have personally communicated with spirits (call them what you will) without peyote or other assistance. I have not experienced any of these things (and others) by choice nor can I repeat them at will. They just happened. Another manifestation of the weird: shadowy forms lurking in the peripheral vision. Whoa! Eye trouble? Not according to the eye exams. And, these forms are shaped in most cases like either large birds or ghostly humans. A little research turns up some interesting spiritual possibilities. Some sources claim that the shades of past lives appear to those that are getting ready to join them. Possible I suppose but these have been around me for quite awhile. Others indicate that the shades are there for all to see, but most are not tuned in to seeing them. Yet others suggest that seeing shades is a stage of development on the road to spiritual awakening and the realization of spiritual power. Lets look more closely.

Birds are thought to be spirit guides and or totems in many cultures. Certain birds are associated with specific aspects of spirit. As I indicated in an earlier post, my family has had a very long association with Owl. I now live amongst a colony of Barred Owls. Hmmmm.

Here is a partial list of attributes of those chosen by Owl:

perceives truths that are veiled to many

A shaman with an owl spirit guide is an old soul with much wisdom thanks to this maturity

knows when to speak and when to keep its peace

the Barred Owl is spirit guide to Shamans who are gifted in speech, and cooperative with others

powers of second sight and great sensitivity

The owl puts an end to doubt and offers vision and clarity of the truth of events, people or circumstances in your life.

I don't claim to be a Shaman or anything else holy.

I was surprised to see so many aspects of how I think of myself reflected in the discussions of Owl as guide and totem. I am surprised that I even consider this to be possibly a reflection of some spiritual reality. After all, I have spent the greater part of my life and consciousness in an analytical mode, denying these aspects of the realm and considering them to be fantasy. But have always been "spiritual" in some ways. The very heart of contradiction, I know. But you know something? Sometimes you have to step back and take another long and deep look at your self and the world around you. And realize that there are many realities, not just one.

See? I told you this would be weird.

(One point of clarification: I am not talking here about religion. Someday I may write about religion, but this is not the day.)

Photo: www.flightschoolphotography.com/Workshops/FSP

Mystery Meat, or, Strange Friends

A friend of ours needed help building a long fence line and as an incentive we were invited for a bar-b-que at the end of the project. The kids were with us for the summer, so one morning we loaded into the old Pinto and headed out. The job was easy to see: about half a mile of field fencing and too many posts to count. Ron had rented a post hole auger, the kind lovingly called a "man killer" and we got down to it. Hole after hole. The heavy auger digs down then with bent back two people haul it up out of the hole and move to the next spot. We worked for several hours when Ron's wife called us in for the treat: Bar-b-qued Mystery Meat. Interesting.

So we cleaned up and got down to the beer and grill. On went the meat, lean, thick and dark. And a couple of pigs ears for good measure. Yummm. Grilled Pigs Ears. Should have left right then.

When the meat was ready we sat down to the meal. Sliced like London Broil the meat was tender and fairly tasty. We couldn't guess what it was and there was no telling: these guys had at one time cooked and eaten an aborted goat fetus. Ron finally told the story. He was on a sampling trip to the coast and ran across a dead beached pilot whale. The eyes were still clear and the carcase didn't stink, so he sliced open the back and removed a large slab of meat.

So resolved the question of what kind of meat we had just had. On reflection, the ears were probably safer, but the whale was kind of tasty.

Photo: www.diseaseproof.com/archives/2009/04/

fun n. A source of enjoyment, amusement, or pleasure. Enjoyment; amusement: have fun at the beach. Playful, often noisy, activity.

The last several trips to here and there have usually produced a billboard that touts the "fun" available: Scary rides, rushing around an amusement park standing in lines, mountain biking, skiing, snow boarding, jet skiing. You get the point. On TV (seen on hotel sets since I don't have access at home) ads for resorts include playing volleyball on the beach, hot dancing, and more of the above. Not my idea of fun. When asked "Have any fun on your trip?", or " What did you do that was fun?", my reply is usually met with "Oh". Sally and I hike into quiet places and sit. We sit around a fire and talk, or just sit. We read. We cook a nice meal and have a good wine to go with it. Oh yeah, that's fun. Why do so many people think that fun must be dangerous, scary or frenetic? Calm, relaxed and laid back stuff is fun for me. So yeah, I have loads of fun on trips. And good beer too.

Photo: i.ehow.com/.../4525856/2campfire_Full.jpg

Dooster and Gruster

We moved into Rainbow Farm and found a small flock of wild chickens living there. Not ordinary chickens gone wild, but fighting chickens gone wild. A pretty rooster and a flock of plain hens. We moved our flock of Reds a few days later and the battles began. The big Red rooster, named Dooster, was immediately challenged by the wild rooster that came to be named Gruster. They fought several battles over several weeks, always to a draw. Dooster was much bigger and heavier and Gruster was faster and bred for fighting. Both had prodigious spurs.

One cold afternoon we came home from work and noticed Gruster just sitting in the yard. Dooster was no where in sight. Odd. We walked up to Gruster and noticed a couple of things: he didn't run away; he had a pure white patch on his bald head where feathers once lived; we could see no eyes through the clotted blood that covered his head, except for the white patch; he was alive.

What a mess. We picked him up and took him inside to the sink. There, we covered his head with a warm wet washcloth to try to loosen the caked blood. That is when we realized that the white patch was his skull. Just bone, no skin, muscle or feathers. And no eyes. We figured that he was a dead rooster standing. Well what to do? Wring his neck? Throw him out into the cold? Put him in a warm box by the stove and treat him? What do you think?

Day after day he just stood or sat in the box. Didn't eat and only took some water when we put his beak into a shallow bowl full. After a few days we saw a horizontal slit begin to open on one side of his head, and a bright eye peeped out. After a few more days, the eye was open and blinking. The other side of his head had a dent where the eye used to be. He gradually healed, started to eat and finally we turned him loose. He avoided Dooster after that. But the gruesome sight of his head as found and as it healed earned him the name "Gruster".

He managed to marshall his hens for a year or so after that, and managed to "rooster" a few batches of biddies.

Life is not easy for a one-eyed rooster. One day when he was visiting the radio station that was our neighbor, he got run over very slowly by a car backing out of a parking space. He was "blind sided" in the most classical sense.

Dooster went on for awhile until he and his entire harem got killed one night by a pack of dogs. No more chickens after that.

Moo-Mac and the Bulldog

When Moo-Mac got older and occasionally got out, usually because the "Doat", a beautiful Nubian goat, led him through the fence somewhere and on to an excellent adventure, to get him home we had to get a rope around his neck and lead him back with difficulty. He was way to big and strong for the "Davis" technique.
One day I was talking to my father-in-law, a former dairy farmer in England, about Moo-Mac and he said matter of factly "Put a bulldog on his nose - always works and easy to lead them." A bulldog? On his nose? How the hell do you get a bulldog to grab a steer's nose and lead him around? John looked at me with something between pity and resignation and said " You know, the ring in their nose - called a bulldog. Just snap a rope on it and they follow you anywhere." No doubt good advice, but we froze Moo-Mac before we got to "put a bulldog on his nose". Tasty too.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/agnescao/452911489/

How to Steer a Calf

The calf got out ----- again. This time we got a call from the Stones Home Center at the corner: "Your calf is walking around the parking lot." So Sally and I ran down to the parking lot (half a block away) and tried to circle around and slowly "drive" baby Moo-Mac back home. He just ran around us - playing - if calves play. We were afraid he would run onto US 27 and end up roadkill so we kept trying to "contain" him. Hot and frustrated, we doggedly pursued him, but never got close. Along came old Mr. Davis, probably 80ish, and asked if we needed some help getting the calf back home (he knew where the calf lived - seemed like everyone in town knew). We were grateful for the offer but I thought "If we couldn't catch Moo-Mac how is this old boy going to do it"? Well, never underestimate a country boy, old or not! Davis told us to walk away from the calf and just call him to get his attention. He walked around behind him as if he were going to his truck and suddenly grabbed the calf's tail. Moo-Mac took off with Davis skidding behind and as he was dragged along he steered the calf down the street, up the driveway, through the gate and into the pasture. Slick as a whistle. The secret? Use the tail like a rudder: pull right - the calf goes left; pull left - the calf goes right; just hang on and he goes straight.

So, the next time your calf gets loose, use the "Davis" technique. Works like a charm.

Photo: saintlouisconservative.blogspot.com/2009/07/m...

The "Doat" and the Great Escape

We got back from a very long drive from Bradenton to Havana about midnight. The answering machine was flashing with a message: " Mr. Search? This is the Havana Police (you could hear in his voice the unspoken "again"). We found your cow and goat wandering around down town (again). They're OK. Please call us in the morning." Here's how the scene unfolded: sometime after dark someone reported a "cow and a large dog loose in town". The Police knew exactly who they were and who they belonged to. The had found out on earlier "jailbreaks" that if they just put them back in the pasture they'd be out again in no time so they took them to a neighboring farmer to hold. When the squad car pulled up to the escapees, Doat would climb into the back seat and sit down. She loved to ride in cars. Moo-Mac waited while they put a rope around his neck, tied it to the bumper, and walked them to the farm, Doat watching from the back seat like a Queen. The next morning after hearing the story we went to the neighbor to collect our jailbirds. Moo-Mac was happily munching hay in a small paddock and Doat was resting in a clean horse box trailer. Doat jumped in the back of the Pinto wagon and Moo-Mac walked regally home. We fixed the fence - again- and they were content to stay at home until the next time we went out of town. We finally solved the problem: gave the goat back to the friend that gave her to us, and ate Moo-Mac.

Photo of Holstein: http://www.flickr.com/search/?w=all&q=dimitra%27s+face&m=text

Photo of "Doat":http://www.flickr.com/photos/24777260@N02/2413440035/

I Don't Understand

I sat on the side of the road, unable to drive for the tears in my eyes. NPR was broadcasting the Ft. Hood ceremony for the murdered soldiers. The Chaplin was better than any I have heard. The generals and the President said exactly the right things and set exactly the right tone. And yet ---- and yet. I don't understand why they said these troops "gave their lives" for their country and service. They didn't give anything. Their lives were taken by a madman who murdered them. I don't understand if the metaphor for being killed at home by a madman is supposed to make me better understand their sacrifice. I don't understand if we say that they were taken before their time by a madman that murdered them that we somehow diminish their lives, or their commitment to their principles and country. It doesn't diminish my sorrow or my grief or my anger at the taker. These wonderful people didn't sign up to be murdered in their home base. They would have given their lives in service if asked, there is no doubt about that. They weren't asked.
I don't understand the final words of the Chaplin when he asked God to bless the families and the country with the strength to persevere and to understand and to not hate. I don't understand why a God would give the families the strength to do that but not step in and save the fallen, so unjustly murdered. I never will.

Photo: chile.usembassy.gov/press2009_memorial_day.html

Muslim Killer and Muslim Innocents

Many soldiers killed by an insane psychologist. Insane? He would have to be to do something like that. Oh, and he was a Muslim too. So now crazies all over the country are threatening mosques and individuals. Question: if he had been a Baptist would the crazies bomb churches? Of course not. We would never consider blaming innocent members of a group like that because of one sick stupid act by a Christian. So why blame every Muslim in the world for this sick stupid act? People seem to be hard-wired to hate anyone different from us. Different race, different religion, different language, different sexuality and even different sex. How the hell we ever got this far is beyond me. Probably extinction will be the ultimate answer for the “human” problem.

Photo: http://media.www.trumanindex.com/media/storage/paper607/news/2005/01/27/Indepth/Muslims.Jews.Hindus.Find.Ways.To.Pray.In.Kirksville-842625.shtml

Being Black is Dangerous

This is a comment on the death penalty. I started out years ago supporting it believing in the safety of the criminal justice system. Over the years I have seen over and over innocent men, almost all black, being incarcerated and then years later exonerated. We don't know how many innocent people have been executed or how many remain behind bars. We do know that hundreds have been railroaded and victimized because they were black and therefore easier to convict. What a travesty.

Imagine being innocent of a murder and being convicted and incarcerated. I have to call that torture. In America. Torture. Legal.

Would it be better to be innocent and executed? Ahh. That I don't know. In this country executions often take 15, 2o or more years to be carried out. That surely is torture as well.

America has the highest rate of incarceration (1) in the world and the US is currently fifth in the world for executions (2). What the hell is going on here? Blacks are far more likely to get the death penalty than whites. Why? I think I know the answer to that but my opinion is informed by emotion and many but diffuse sources.

What to do? Get rid of the death penalty. Period. It costs more to execute people than incarcerate them. And a fringe benefit would be the survival of innocents and hopefully the ultimate exoneration of them. Better yet why not a system that doesn't allow the conviction of innocents. Currently prosecutors cannot be themselves prosecuted for wrongful prosecution. Now don't go off half-cocked here. If honest mistakes are made in the prosecution of an innocent there should be no penalty for the prosecutor. That tastes bad but I can understand it. Today a case was discussed on NPR that outlined the purposeful framing of, you got it, black men. Police and prosecutors were in on the frame, got convictions and moved on with their lives. Two men spent 25 years in prison before being exonerated by the "discovery"of evidence hidden by the police and prosecutor that absolutely showed that they were framed. The supreme court is now going to decide if the prosecutors and police can be sued for this. Sued? Charge the bastards and jail them. Immunity for framing? Crap.

1 http://www.csmonitor.com/2003/0818/p02s01-usju.html
2 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capital_punishment
3 http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/race-death-row-inmates-executed-1976
4 http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120069519
Photo: www.deadanarchists.org/Pentecost/murder.html

Iroquois Brothers?

Probably. They claimed Iroquois ancestry and have features that are consistent with this claim. Their eyes are typical of some groups of Native Americans and they along with their sisters have the "look" of native Americans. There are some stories told by these brothers that ring true. They told that the family had a deep association with the Owl, and that Owl was their spirit guide. In fact when the older brother was dying in a rural hospital a great horned owl sat for 2 days in a tree outside his window, and the morning after he died an owl visited his brother's house and his sisters house, both many blocks from the hospital. Owl sat outside the houses for a time, and then left. This had never happened before, and never happened again.
The younger brother told the tale of Bird. Bird favors those that honor him by leaving a feather directly in their path. To honor Bird one must pick up the feather and wear it somewhere prominent so it can be seen and admired by any who looks at it. This in turn pleases Bird and brings his good luck to the wearer.
Their father was a healer with special skills using certain plants. He could cure some conditions easily, but died without passing on any of his knowledge, gained he said, from his father.
The brothers had three sisters, two with distinctive Native American traits and one without them. The middle sister claimed that she could hear "the high winds" and very accurately predict the weather by hearing how fast they blew and by what directions they moved. Now we know that the high winds she heard are the upper atmosphere steering currents that move much of the weather around the globe. She heard them as a child and throughout her life. Experts will tell you that humans cannot hear the jet stream, but she could. Another clue to her aboriginal roots. She is on the right in the photo below the brothers picture.
These siblings are my ancestors. The oldest, the man with the cowboy hat was my father and the rest my aunts and uncle. Their names in order of age from oldest to youngest are Hal, Ray, Greta, YuYu and Effie. They are all dead now, hopefully joined in some place peaceful and quiet. But if not, they at least lead good lives and kept true to their roots.

FRAUD!!!!! FAKE!!!!

Thanks to my nephew Dan for getting me on this track. The link in not obvious. In 1969 I walked into my first real class of 90 students as a full time teacher. I had spent the better part of 10 years in college preparing and had studied on the cutting edge of many areas of biology. Still, I knew in my bones that I was unprepared and just one question away from being revealed as a fraud. Throughout my full time teaching career which spanned nearly 40 years the fear of discovery was never far below the surface. "If they only know how little I really know......"

This phenomenon is called the "fraud hypothesis" and is present in almost everyone at some level. Research over the years indicates that many people perceive themselves as barely prepared for the task and "If only I had a little more time I could get really ready." Seems to be a normal human trait. The reality is that "they" don't care how little or how much you know as long as you know what they want or need to know and can guide their learning it.

I had a professor in college many years ago who was also my mentor and friend. I once told him that I had let both of us down by not doing enough. He told me that when we evaluate ourselves we factor in all the things we know we didn't do, or did badly, or repeated to get right, but when someone else does it they only see the outcome. And he was pleased with the outcome. Basically he told me to get over it and get on with it. I did. Sort of.

Years later when I taught my first anatomy and physiology class I thought "God, if they only knew how little I really know about this they would walk." I had prepared exhaustively for every concept and knew as much as was humanly possible, but still, but still someone might figure out the fraud. Once again I pulled it off.

Another thing this wise man taught me was to say "I don't know" when you don't. My students will affirm that I do that regularly. Hey, you can't know everything, and if you think you do, you really are a fraud.

Photo: www.investitec.com/fraud_investigation.htm

Hate Crimes and the Law

Why do we need a separate law for every hate crime? I don't really get it. Before today it wasn't a federal crime to hate a person because of their sexual orientation. In the past,the Civil Rights Act was used to prosecute some who openly "hated" GLBT by doing violence . Now there is a specific statute that makes hatred of these and others a federal crime. Good. I think people that do these things should be prosecuted. By "these things" I mean openly act against someone because they are part of a group identified as deserving hate by someone. Take Matthew and Sean and James for example. Minding their own business when they were singled out for punishment for being gay. All were killed. Matthew was tortured first. James was dragged to death behind a pickup. Sean was beaten to death.

The part I don't get is this: Why do we need to list the categories of people you can't openly hate? Why can't we just have laws that protect us all from acts of hatred? Couldn't we define the acts that constitute hatred and then go after anyone that committed those acts?

I suspect that the hate crimes history has it's beginnings with religious hatred and racial hatred. But it doesn't make sense to me to be convicted "hate crime purp" for beating up a Jew and calling her a "dirty Jew", while beating up a Dodger fan and calling her a "Dirty Dodger fan" isn't . Or is it? Help me out here people.

Today the President will sign the Defense Appropriations bill which includes the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act. Look at the kind of crap that was used to try to kill the act:

"Vision America President Dr. Rick Scarborough commented: "We are urging Senators to join DeMint (R, SC) in filibustering this pernicious -- one might almost say 'toxic' -- legislation. As Values Voter leaders, we are saying this vicious assault on the Church and the First Amendment must not and will not be allowed to succeed." "

So, the true haters are unveiled.

Photos:lefteyeonthemedia.wordpress.com/.../

unfinishedlivesblog.com/.../special-comments/

blog.gayrightswatch.com/2007/05/

The True Haters Unveiled

Today the President will sign the Defense Appropriations bill which includes the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act. Look at the kind of crap that was used to try to kill the act:

"Vision America President Dr. Rick Scarborough commented: "We are urging Senators to join DeMint (R, SC) in filibustering this pernicious -- one might almost say 'toxic' -- legislation. As Values Voter leaders, we are saying this vicious assault on the Church and the First Amendment must not and will not be allowed to succeed." " (Ha you asshole, it passed.)
So, the true haters are unveiled.

One more reason to keep the religions of the world out of the political arena. Defining killing a gay man or woman as a "vicious assault on the Church and the First Amendment " is about as twisted as you can get. And seriously in conflict with the teachings of Jesus. Look it up Christians.

We can all be thankful that enough Representatives and Senators had the balls or ovaries to pass this legislation. Too bad it had to be added to a "must pass" appropriations act. Better late than never, better done than not.

Photo: blogs.pitch.com/plog/2008/08/god_hates_everyo...
Quote: http://www.christiannewswire.com/news/7861710682.html

Moral or Ethical Dilemma?

I have lately been bothered by the unending amount of bad news from world science, political and economic sources that are pessimistic in the extreme. Mixed in are also some "good news" items as well, but you have to dig to find them. Sample scenario: You have a friend that is terminally ill with a disorder that is known to get worse with mental anguish. Your friend doesn't know that the illness will kill her. If you don't tell her that she will die soon she will not have any chance to do the many things that dying people want to and should do, but if you do tell her you will cause her to die much sooner. Do you let her go on into a future that holds only death with no closure, or do you tell her, precipitate her death, but she spends her last time knowing what is coming and getting ready?

I agonize over the bad news because of the tendency of people like me to ring the danger bell of the world coming apart. But do we do anyone a favor by doing this?

I was at a wedding this past weekend and the families were joyful (as they should be) and looking forward to yet another batch of grandchildren. I wanted to scream out " more grandchildren will increase the population pressure, worsen the world and doom the kids to much misery in their lifetimes", but I didn't. But they will.

For a person like me, not knowing what is the right path is unnerving. Maybe the best thing to do is nothing at all. Let the dice roll and the numbers fall. I think that silence will kill me but then again something will sooner or later anyway.

Photo from: www.tetherdcow.com/?cat=38

My Old Friend George

Found at last!! My old friend George Kistner. We had some crazy times in high school. He had a late 40s Chevy convertible that we used to bomb around in until it blew the engine. Thank god for auto shop. I loved to have dinner with his family, all big people, because the food was good and plentiful and everyone was joyful. I lost track of George in the early 60s when he was working as a chemist for a company that made coatings for labels, so the label wouldn't come off easily. I remember one particular challenge was to fine a coating that Mr. Clean wouldn't remove!! I haven't actually gotten in touch yet, just got the email about finding him an hour ago, but I am really looking forward to contact. See ya soon George, and I bet you didn't forget this teasing call: "George! George Kistner my A**!" We all love you boy.

Car photo: www.flickr.com/photos/80643375@N00/2669287270/

The Future, The Truth and Hope

One of those days when the future looms large for some reason. And it's not a pretty future either. Henry Pollack has just published a book called "A World Without Ice", and documents in very graphic terms what will, read that again, WILL be happening in the next decades centuries and mellenia when, read that WHEN most or all of the ice on the planet will be gone. No room left for platitudes or prayers. Disaster is around the corner and moving inexorably towards us. The world will be facing massive population displacement as the seas unstoppably encroach on the land. Famine, disease, war. Not a pretty picture. And we are the cause. Too many of us using too much of the earth to sustain us. With the population still growing the possibility of turning around the juggernaut diminishes with each birth. What are we to do? Well, that's the question isn't it? If the dynamics for the melting of the ice are already operating and can't be reversed, what indeed. I think the answer is "nothing". We can do nothing meaningful at this point to do more than slow things down a little. Doesn't mean we shouldn't try though. Just around the corner with the beast may be the cure as well. I wouldn't bet on it. No harm in hoping. I am certain that the world that will emerge from the chaos to come will be a well balanced and hospitable one. Probably eventually semi-stone age if there are any of us left. And we will be spared the future disaster of global population overgrowth because there won't be enough fossil fuel left to fuel another industrial revolution. So the next time we cycle we may actually be in a better place. In balance with nature, not destroying it. Now that is hopeful is it not?

Book cover from: www.worldwithoutice.com/

Desperation

He stood before the bathroom mirror. His father's straight razor in hand wondering how he got to this place. The only way out was a quick cut and oblivion. He started to move his hand and stopped short: how could the children ever survive the tableau in the bathroom when they came in the morning to pee? What terrible visions would haunt them and what guilt would they falsely bear for his act of cowardice? Slowly the razor dropped.
This story is based on a poem that a friend wrote about his brush with suicide. I thought at the time he shared it that while it was well written and darkly attractive, it held no real meaning for me.
Some years later I was perched on the edge of a very dark place. In hindsight I know it was a depressed and lonely place, a place with all options closed and no way out. Very early one morning I loaded my 44 magnum with a single cartridge and moved quietly to the family room. I sat a while trying to think of any unexplored options, and found none. The path was clear and best for all. With the hammer pulled back and finger on the very sensitive trigger I slowly placed the barrel deep in my mouth. I thought at least that the pain of life would be over with the sudden pain of death.
Then Dick's poem floated in my consciousness and I though "what will my children think when they hear the explosion? What will they find, and how will they survive?" I knew in that instant where my friend had been, and why he stopped. He saved all of us, and no one knew but me.
The next day seemed brighter, and options that weren't there before seemed to be possible. I had often though of that expression "it is always darkest before the dawn" and wondered how you could tell when it was darkest. I know now.

Photo sources: theinvisibleagent.wordpress.com/2009/05/page/3/
world.guns.ru/handguns/hg100-e.htm

My Three Sons

Some of you will remember the old TV series starring Fred MacMurry (who?). Good sitcom with a message at times. I never really thought that I would have my very own 3 sons. But there you go. Three sons that are as different as chalk and cheese. Matt, Hal and John. Matt is a successful academic coming off a career in business. Hal is a successful business man and a rising star in his company, and John is a successful provider of employment for lots of people. They are all good-natured and hard working. They love life and get the most out of it. Between the three there are two wonderful spouses (spice? of life).

One of the many stories in the family relates to F-11. Many years ago I joked that I had an electronic copy of my will, and if any of them pissed me off all I had to do was hit F-11 and they were out of the will. It became a vague threat of "be careful, F-11 is right around the corner". Or just a murmured "F-11". The truth is that I have never had the slightest reason to invoke the F-11 option, and I doubt if I ever will. These guys are all that anyone could imagine or want.

I keep the option open, though, for old times sake. And you never know. Someday someone may forget an important date, or forget to call ...............

Thoughts on god, or God, or gods, or Gods.

First, before you get angry and dump this essay let me say that I think religion is very important to many people. But not to all people. I recently read a few chapters in a world religions text and noticed that the word god was always written with a capital "G" when used with no specific context or when talking about one of the Abramhamic religions, but when any other religion was discussed the word always had a lower case "g". The authors claim unbiased views of world religions but this very usage implies ascendancy of one god over others.

I have just finished reviewing the religious practices of about 15 or so various cultures and found with one exception that they are all male centered. Apparently god only talks to men. (The exception was Christian Science, founded by a woman to whom god talked,but still based on one of the male centered religions.)I find this very interesting since at least half the humans in the world are female. Now, before you go off on Isis or some other god of the ancient world realize that I am not claiming that there were no female gods. The pantheon of gods collectively has female gods. And I don't know all of them or their status, but I am willing to bet that few or none are the "top" god in what ever culture they are ruling at the moment.

This leads me to think that gods were thought up by men as a device to explain the unexplainable. Gods thought up by men. Gods thought up by men. Worth repeating when you think of the obverse. Gods thinking up men. If that is the case where did women come from? Well, it is obvious to me that if god or gods thought up men they also thought up women. Then would one would think that they have equal standing. But no, the gods favor men. Why? Because men are better? Wiser? Stronger? (Got me there, although I had a rib broken by a playful woman that could whip me in a fight any day) For the most part men and women have the same innate capacities and given equal opportunities can achieve equal results. I am not denying that there are probably some tasks that are more naturally suited to one over the other, but these are probably mostly trivial.

No, for me the evidence of most of the religions being male centered is convincing. I believe that men created gods for their own uses and the "monster" got out of the bag. With the evolution of priests (or priest-like stations like shaman for example) most men lost control of their destinies as well as women. I can find no, read that zero, convincing argument or evidence that there is anything ever remotely like a god in the universe, much less one that is male and cares about us.

That said let me return to the beginning: religion is a very good thing for many people. It is a constant source of strength and support. I don't suppose all the evil done in the name of religion is worth mentioning. (Doesn't the image above make you feel better than an angry hairy thunderer flinging lightning bolts. This is the Hindu god, Ram.)

Photo source:www.indianchild.com/hindu_god.htm

My Other Mother

My mother was born in 1903 in Milwaukee. Her father was a German cooper and her mother was a Gypsy. A real Gypsy. Mother had had 3 sisters, all older, and was brought up Catholic. (She left the church when she was 15 because a priest wouldn't let her light a candle for her mother unless she paid for it. She challenged him about only rich people getting to heaven, turned and never went back to a Catholic church again.) They were poor, and as each sister married and moved out the house got less crowded. Her mother dropped on the street in 1910 and died on the spot. Nobody knows why she died. Nobody now knows where she is buried. A little girl was too much for her father, so she was sent to live with her oldest sister, married but childless. Her uncle abused her until she went out on her own at 14. The year was 1917. She got a job with the telephone company and moved in with another operator who became her life-long friend. She was an exotic beauty and soon was modeling for various photographers and artists. She was a flapper, a dancer and a general hell-raiser. She met her husband, my father, in 1921 and was married in 1925. The Roaring 20's. He was a hell-raiser too, so they raised hell together throughout the 20's and 30's and endured the Great Depression with a large group of close friends and a lot of bathtub gin. My father was a graduate electrical engineer and had steady work all through those tough years. She raised hell and had a ball. They tried for children, but she could not keep a pregnancy, so in 1937 they adopted my brother. That did it. Thank you Tom for me.
World War II came along and so did I. My father worked in D.C. during the war years (they had moved from Milwaukee to New York in the 30's) She stayed home coping with 2 boys, rationing and a old friend that desperately wanted her (and never getting her. He was an undertaker and she made my father promise that when she died "he" would never touch her body. I don't know if my father ever knew of the attempted betrayal by his friend).

After the war she spent the next 5 summers living in a surplus army tent at the end of a potato field hauling water a mile from the farm house at the end of the road, using a latrine and getting sprayed several time a summer with pesticide from a bi-plane crop duster. She got a tick bite and contracted what was diagnosed as tick fever, and was never the same again.
Enter my Other Mother.
She went down hill pretty fast after that. We moved into a new neighborhood in 1950 and she had an "nervous breakdown" shortly after that. She took loads of Valium when they came out, and got shock treatments several times in the early 50's. She suffered from a continuous string of physical problems, some "in her mind" to quote the family Doc., and some of an infirm body. She smoked like a chimney, lost weight, got emphysema and died in 1971 of heart failure.
I often wonder what life would have been like if my original mother had survived into my adolescence and adult life. She was such a risk-taker and hell-raiser there is no telling how the family would have been different. But she didn't. I miss them both and love them both for different reasons, and wish them well where ever they may be.