Trump — Harris debate

 

My comment re Trump — Harris debate:

Trump won the debate —

    Harris won the media coverage!

Wind along the Waste

"I came like Water and like Wind I go.
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing,
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing."

  ...  I sure as Hell don't know where I'm going when I leave!

Apologies to  FitzGerald

The Island

 

Galveston — late 40's, early 50's.  We — my parents, sisters and I — lived at 4201 (upstairs over Klater's drug store on avenue S). I attended Davy Crockett Elementary in the 4^th and 5^th grades.

My playground was the beach — specifically at 39^th street.  

I traveled by any of a variety of routes — along Avenue S to 39th,  or on 42nd Street to Avenue T — or by some variation thereof, to the end of 39th Street and the beach.

From our residence at 3912 Avenue S it was a straight shot to the seawall, and I traveled it often. There I could descend the concrete stairs to the beach, where I could enjoy a variety of entertaining activities. 

Often I had the beach to myself.  But I was not always alone.  Don Gernand often joined me. There's a picture of him at the 39th street groin in my album. 

Or I could swim in the surf, in defiance of  Mom's admonition to “stay out of the water.”   After all, I needed to learn to swim.  And I did.

 Occasionally I might fish, using a hand line, as I had learned from Pop.

I might search for shells in the abundant distribution of molluscs,  on the beach from a profusion that is today unbelievable. 

I would sometimes play the dangerous game of running across the granite boulders piled randomly at the base of the sea wall, jumping from one to another  In retrospect I realize that was dangerous — and foolish.  And expensive.  For one day I fell, landing on my butt — and crushing the eyeglasses in their case in my back pocket. I showed the glasses to Mom, fully expecting severe rebuke — even punishment —  but she lovingly replaced them, with nary an angry word.

I enjoyed running along the concrete base of the groin toward the sea wall and running up the curved surface, as far as I could. For a long time I could not get past the nearly straight up upper reaches of the wall.  Years of trying and I finally reached the top and pulled myself up to the sidewalk. That was a significant accomplishment.

It was while we lived at 3912 that I got a bicycle.  It became my transportation, to and from the beach —  and over much of the island.  I remember riding it to the ferry landing, and riding the ferry across to Bolivar Point. 

Look at the map, and see how far it was from 39th, along Seawall Boulevard, to the road to the ferry, and to the ferry landing.

On the ferry my bike was beside me while I stood in the bow of the vessel watching the porpoise playfully swimming, diving and racing just ahead of the boat.

On the other side I went ashore, and went as far as the rusty old lighthouse.

There were two ferries, alternating their trips across and back.  I would board the second ferry to return to the island, and today it seems impressive that I rode my bike from 3912 to the ferry, across and back home again along the seawall.

My travel along Seawall Boulevard was limited to that area northeast from 39th Street.  For there was a barricade across Seawall Boulevard at 39th.   A barbed wire embellished row of rip-rap — broken scraps of concrete, perhaps from demolished walls — lay piled across the roadway and the sidewalk to a depth of perhaps 3 feet —  to block travel from 39th onward along the fort. A barbed wire fence crawled down the seawall, and out into the surf for a distance of perhaps 50 yards. 

“The fort” refers of course to Fort Crockett, an active military installation during WWII. Adjacent to 39th Street was one of the artillery installations — a location of big guns arrayed to be able to engage any enemy craft that may appear in the adjacent Gulf waters.  The guns were no longer in place, and the large mound that had contained them remained as a fascinating remnant that demanded exploration.  And I did.

One day as I rode my bike to the beach I encountered a crew removing the barrier across the roadway.

I leaned on my bicycle, next to the stairs to the beach, and watched while the final remains of the barrier were loaded and hauled away.

What would you have done?  Well, I did.  I got on my bike and rode along the now accessible stretch of Seawall Boulevard heretofore denied to me. At 45th Street I turned around and rode homeward. The newfound freedom seems now insignificant, but at that time I relished the ability to extend my range.

Me, and my bike loved the Island.  Thomas Wolfe notwithstanding, I frequently have fantasies of returning to Galveston — permanently.

Death of a Singer

“A certain tenor, of impressive reputation, died of an apparent pulmonary embolism at age 38. No autopsy was performed.”

Rumors suggest that the actual cause of death was an Italian pillow.

It is said that he was singing at a gathering for a group of powerful Italians — (read Mafioso)

The Don was so impressed that he asked the tenor to sing at his daughter's wedding.

The singer casually acceded.

Unfortunately he was so inebriated that his “contract” did not register in his foggy mind.

The wedding came. The singer did not. The Don, who had been bragging to his associates of the star's pending performance at his daughter's nuptials, was embarrassed. He ordered a hit.

End of story …

Anybody familiar with this narrative?

A Lot of BULL!

  Network News is reporting that a bull at an Oregon Rodeo jumped the fence from the arena into the stands . . .There was a report of multiple injuries to spectators.

'Twarn't the first time . . .

In 1951 - 52 I lived with my parents in Corpus Christi. I attended tenth grade at Ray High School — where I played French Horn in the band.

In March 1952 the band attended the Houston Fat Stock Show, and marched in the celebratory parade.

(God, how I hated marching with the horn. The French horn mouthpiece is small, and while marching it seemed to spend more time migrating between my nose and my chin than on my lips.

In my senior year of high school — in Angleton — the sympathetic band director provided a cornet for me to play while marching. Bless you, Frank Stiles!)

In free time, between marches in Houston in 1972, I attended the rodeo. Attendance was sparse and I had no problem finding a seat close to the arena. In a bull riding event the bull performed its predictable feat of throwing the rider. The cowboy clowns flocked to the downed rider, and the bull was free to approach the stands.

The agitated Brahma¹ bull took out its frustration by jumping up from the arena floor into the stands. Fans scattered, and the bull exited through the pedestrian entrance. There were no reported injuries — but the bull declined comment.

I remained a fascinated observer, and I can still recall the image of the bull majestically entering the stands.

1The Brahma is an American breed of hybrid beef cattle that was bred in the United States from 1885 from cattle originating in India

Weather or not . . .

  Words that come unbidden to mind include paranormal . ..supernatural . . . 

ridiculous . . .

The first instance I observed while following a national weather forecaster's analysis of storm progress . . . 

“. . . moving along I-35 . . ”  he intoned.

 I have traveled I-35 —  from Laredo to DFW.  But I was impelled to call up a map, to compare that stretch of asphalt and concrete to the aforementioned weather pattern.

“Mere coincidence” I muttered.

Then on another day there was the string of dangerous weather that seemed to be travel along I-10 as it wandered west to east across Texas.

“Strange” I thought.  “Almost as if it consciously followed the highway.”

And now . . . 

“I understand thee not, and yet I see thee still. . .  art thou but

an image of the mind, a false creation,

Proceeding from the storm-oppressed brain.?”

For as I gaze at the weather channel screen I see an array of Texas counties that are under a weather alert  . .  .  and marked by brilliant coloration . . .  in a line, west to east . . . and lying along Highway 59 . . . .

 Merely hallucinatory, or perhaps supernatural?  

“. . . and yet I see thee still. . . “

Goat's Foot Morning Glory

 

 

                 Railroad Vine, Ipomoea pes-caprae  

from an internet soirce:

“The Railroad Vine blooms during the summer and fall months. Its habitat is widespread and abundant throughout beach sands and dune ridges.  The large mats produced by this morning glory make it an important species in dune stabilization.”

In 1946 Galveston my parents and I were all enthusiastic about learning what we could about all the strange (to us) things we encountered on the beach.  We all made frequent visits to the Rosenberg Library to research our finds.

One of the unique finds on the beach was the seed of Entada gigas. 

Mom's research indicated that it was the seed of the “Goat's Foot Morning Glory.”

And so she told me that is what it was.  Is.

Recent internet inquiries provide a contradictory identification.(See top picture, above)

All we had to study was the seed  No vines grew on the Galveston beachfront that we frequented.

We moved from Galveston to Corpus Christi in 1951.  

New town  

New house. 

New schools.  

Also new to our family/household was the 1947 Ford station wagon that Pop bought.  (Prior to that we did not have an automobile)

Our house was just a short distance from Padre Island Drive.  Weekends the six of us piled into the station wagon and cruised along the two lanes of PID. 

(Remember, this was 1951 — before expressways)

 A stop at the toll gate, paid our dollar, and onward to the beach. Our chosen access took us to the beach at the location of Bob Hall Pier.  Turning right we traveled  along the water's edge in a southwesterly direction until we arrived at an area not crowded by other beach-goers.

We eagerly began our day of exploration — first along the water's edge, seeking the occasional shell. Then into the dunes.

Then, in the early 1950's the sand dunes were twenty feet or more in height.

In the lower areas between the mountain-like dunes we observed luxurious growths of vegetation.

Because of the similarities of leaf shape to morning glories that we grew around our house in Alabama we reasonably assigned the name “Goat's Foot Morning Glory” to the vines we encountered.

And just as reasonably assumed that these vines bore the brown seed pod that we first encountered on the beach in Galveston.

I searched valiantly among the sprawling growths of the vines in the dunes, and never found any of the seed pods.  It seems that the seed pods grow on distant shores, and are carried by Gulf currents to the Texas coast.

The beaches, both at Galveston and Padre Island are the source of many delightful memories.  I'd return to Galveston, but I have learned that “You can't go home again!”

Who is your Favorite

 “Who is your favorite composer?”

To which I respond with the question “Have you ever eaten in a restaurant?”

The puzzled response to that may be “What the f ...What's that got to do with your choice of composer?”

I try to gently lead to an understanding . . .

“At the restaurant you were given a menu.  You studied the items offered and made a selection.  If you returned to the same restaurant at a later date you again made a selection — probably not the same one chosen on your previous visit.  So it is with music — when I choose to listen to classical music, I can choose Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Puccini — or one of many others I enjoy.

In the popular music genre I think of Crosby, Sinatra, Doris Day, Dinah Shore — and many others.  Too many to list.”

The point is, choosing one favorite is not reasonable.  A better question would be “What kind of music do you enjoy?”

What to Believe

 One knows not what to believe.

Authoritative and highly placed sources in our government instructed us to rush to get the Covid vaccine, which was described as “safe and effective.” 

And to wear masks against the Covid.  Further, to isolate — to the extent of staying away from our place of employment  Or school.  And church.

Now, after a couple of years of re-examination we are confronted by a different group of authoritative and reliable sources informing us that the whole Covid thing was a hoax.  Estimates are presented that millions of people died as a result of taking the vaccine. Which is now described as “unsafe and ineffective.”

More subtly, an alleged effect of the Covid vaccine is to alter the very structure and function of our brains.

That last assertion hits me right between the eyes.

For I see it as a possible explanation of the chronic dizziness and brain fog that has become a constant for me.

Doctors that I've consulted are not able to diagnose, and certainly are unable to successfully treat, the problems.

What to believe?

Hell, “what to do” is more pressing!

If my dizziness is the result/effect of taking the vaccine —  and experiencing an alteration in my very brain — I'm screwed.

As a doctor once told me, “Just learn to live with it — that's your new you.”

The Ancient One

 Old Mickey lived 88 years.   

He counted them, holding back tears...

     For what good is living,

     When no gal will give in

To no man what's 88 years?

With apologies to George and Ira Gershwin

Readiness

 There was a time when I frequently traveled from my residence in Texas to destinations in Ohio, Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, or California.  I enjoyed the journey along the open highways, flying in complete freedom, nearly airborne. Comfortable and secure in my almost new truck.

I would leave home with a full tank of gas, having checked all the fluids under the hood — and smug with assurance that I had a properly inflated spare tire.

I had learned a lesson the hard way — having once set out with a spare tire that was under-inflated.

Flat.

And wouldn't you know it, that was the only trip of all that I made, from 1956 through 2002, when I had a flat tire.

Now I check the spare before departure.

Like they taught me in the Boy Scouts, “Be Prepared.”

That routine was followed — in principle — when set up my fishing boat. I made certain that I had on board an adequate number of PFD's. I never had to avail myself of their presence but . . . they were there.  Like a flashlight.    Ever-ready.

I went deer hunting in the Rocky Mountains.

I carried a rifle while scouting afoot — but on occasion I would lay my rifle aside, to tend to necessities.

I knew there were mountain lion and bear in the area — so I always had on my hip a holster with a fully loaded large caliber revolver.

I wonder at the mentality of those who frequent those remote hills with no more personal protection than a bicycle.

Sam McKone

 My name is Mickey Basden. I moved to Victoria Texas in 1969.

In about 1974 I was attending and participating in a pistol shoot at the Victoria Gun Club.  During a lull in the proceedings I was approached by a gentleman who introduced himself — Sam McKone.  I learned that he had been an active competitor in pistol shooting — he won the pistol National Match Gold medal at Camp Perry —  but he had retired his competition guns.  He attended our monthly shoots as a spectator. 

Sam and I became friends. He invited me to his home on Rhodes Road in Victoria. He introduced me to his wife, Nita.  And he proudly showed me the Gold Medal that he won in competition at the Camp Perry National Matches.

He showed me a copy of LIFE magazine with him on the cover, a border patrolman running across the River, revolver in hand, in pursuit of an alien.

In 1975 I went to work as a deputy at the Victoria County Sheriff's Department.

Sam's background in law enforcement enabled him to give me valuable advice as I entered this phase of my life in a new profession.  He taught me the “Sam McKone fast draw.”1

Bill Jordan, another retired Border Patrolman who had achieved a degree of fame visited Sam.  I was privileged to view a slide show, in Sam's home, of photographs of Bill's recent African hunting trip. A projector bulb needed to be placed, and in my truck I drove Bill to town to buy one.  

Could I say that I rode with Bill Jordan ???

I was humbly honored to visit with these two famous BP retirees. 

Sam followed the newspaper coverage of my participation in the monthly pistol shoots at the Victoria Gun Club, and congratulated me for my frequent first place trophies. He said to me

“Mickey, your publicity for winning those pistol shoots is for you as a Deputy Sheriff the best life insurance you can get.”

I remember a letter that he wrote, published in the Victoria newspaper, commenting on local politics:  “Nitty gritty sand and gravel company” — Addressing some questionable dealings involving a city official and a paving contract.

In 1979 I was hired by a company involved in manufacture of equipment for the petroleum industry. My employment as a consulting engineer took me to various out of state locations, and I lost contact with Sam. I regret that.  

I returned to Victoria in 2014. I was unsuccessful in locating Sam.

I remember Sam with fondness and respect. A rare gentleman.

1   Sam's fast draw: About a minute before the shooting starts, put down your coffee cup and carefully remove your gun from the holster...

Scary Similarity

 

Much in the news is the tragedy of the death of a member of the crew involved in making the move “Rust.” A news headline today announced that the person who served as the armorer on the set of the movie has been found guilty of a felony, based on the assertion that she was responsible for bringing live ammo onto the set.

Details are vague — but has she admitted bringing live ammo?? Or is there proof that she did? Both irrelevant.

I don't believe that there is a law against ”bringing live ammo ...”

Any legal culpability rests with the person who fired the gun.

I am reminded of an in-service training course I attended in the 1970's while I was a Deputy Sheriff in Victoria. The course was conducted by a reputable agency, and presented at the training facility at Foster Field, where many law enforcement activities were conducted.

In the presentation we were showed some specially prepared “blanks” made by replacing the primer in some empty pistol cartridge cases with shotshell primers. Our instructor demonstrated by firing one of these blanks in a Smith and Wesson revolver. It was loud.

Then we were instructed in the drill that each of the class members was to follow:

“When the carload of drug dealers comes flying by, you are to fire the six blanks in the revolver at the occupants of the car”

I was first in line. The instructor positioned me, and told me that the car would come into sight from my right, driving past me … and I was to shoot at the “drug dealers” in the car.

I accepted the fully functional revolver, loaded with blanks, and swung the cylinder open to confirm that each of the six rounds was a blank, displaying the oversize shot-shell primers — then, while I stood ready, I was thinking …

Even in this make-believe play acting scenario there was no Probable Cause to justify shooting at the “criminals”

And I was definitely NOT gonna shoot at them …

I had to play along with the game to get a passing grade on this training course … but when the car came past at a distance of about twenty feet I quickly “fired” all six blanks, aiming about five feet over, and equally far in front of the passing car. If somehow a live round were to be discharged, it would fly harmlessly into the open range-land beyond the road the car would traverse.

Afterwards I stood nearby while the other members of the class each took their turn.

I had to wonder at the motivations of the “experts” who designed and presented this segment of the course.

The recent tragedy on the “Rust” movie set caused me to remember that long ago segment of my training

Orange Washcloth

 My “entertainment center” sits in my living room, conveniently viewed from my bed and from my recliner. My 43” smart TV reposes atop. The shelves are heavily laden — with books. Mostly.

Arrayed around the feet of the TV are a variety of what-nots. Some few are trays of “things” that I load into my pockets when I dress to go out.

Others are mementoes, reminiscent of Mom & Pop.

The two table signs, which they displayed on their table in the flea market to identify Mom & Pop to the customers who wandered by. Others are miscellaneous items associated with their personal existence.

Aluminum ingots, souvenirs of Pop's career with Reynolds Metal Company in the 1940's. Pop's metric folding rule, used when he was fitting pipe. A silver minnow fishing lure, favored by Pop while fishing in the Tennessee river.

And an orange washcloth.

That obviously requires explanation.

In 2002 I was living in Birmingham, while working on a contract job with

Raytheon Engineering. In June I loaded my 24 foot travel trailer, and drove to El Cajon (California) to join others of my family in recognition/celebration of Pop's June 21st birthday.

Ninety years old. Impressive.

On the 21st there was the normal gathering of all present family members to share his company in celebration.

Then my sisters departed, and left me to visit alone with my father. One afternoon we sat in his trailer and talked.

I sat at the breakfast nook bench/table, and he sat in a chair across the room while we talked. Those few minutes remain precious to me.

While we talked I glanced idly to the counter-top adjacent to the dining nook.

Close by was a bright orange wash-cloth.

Curious, I lifted the edge and peeked under.

There I observed Mom's revolver, in Pop's care since Mom died.. I took it in hand and looked it over — it had, and has, for me strong emotional attachment.

A discussion of that gun is covered in another essay that I have previously composed.

I replaced it carefully, just as I found it, and thought little about it — at the time.

In the years since its significance looms larger as time passes.

Some fourteen years later I set up the apartment in which I presently reside. I bought the entertainment center at Goodwill (the source of much of my furnishings).

For reasons that escape me I chose to place an orange wash rag atop the entertainment center, and artfully concealed beneath the cloth a child's toy revolver. In and of itself, and apart from the chosen application, the toy gun is totally insignificant.

But in its implied association it evokes an emotional memory in association of that day in 2002 Pop's trailer, and Mom's revolver, that is very strong.

As I pass it each day I glance at it and remember. With a sweet sadness.

I know that I am not alone in feeling regret that I did not make the effort to spend more time with my parents in their later years.

If only I could do it over again!!

Mickey

Sleepy Dimwit

 I hear complaints like “I wake up at 3 am and can't go back to sleep.”

Why would you want to?

If I asked you “Why do you take a nap?” you might reply,”Well, dimwit, because I'm sleepy!”

Which I take to mean that your body is telling you that it needs to sleep —  right?

And you accept that, and respond by napping.

Then perhaps you can understand that if you awake and don't feel like you can go back to sleep, your body is telling you that it doesn't need to sleep.

Then why should you not accept that ? ? ?

Dimwit!

Regulation

An allegory is a complete narrative that seems to be about one thing, but is actually about another

Well, I must be chasing rabbits …. am I going down the rabbit hole? 

Here I go, off on a tangent, pursuing another topic that ensnares my wandering attention.

Recent court cases relate to interests commanding almost universal attention. They shift my focus.  I can't resist

There is much ado regarding constitutional guarantees of freedom. I note that there is no specific guarantee of my freedom to hold and express weird opinions.  And yet I dare to do so.  

Someday someone who finds my simplistic musings offensive may try to make it illegal for me to publish.  Not to hold such trivial beliefs — but to express them in the public  venue, where they may represent a danger to society.

I am concerned — it comes to my attention that Jay Leno has an extensive collection of automobiles.  Around 180 by actual count.

Why would anybody need that many?  Is he qualified to drive them all?

Probably some of them have gas tanks holding more than ten gallons of gas, and perhaps capable of speeds in excess of a hundred miles per hour. 

I suggest a need for government regulation. A permit to purchase a vehicle.

Absent any constraint I may tomorrow set out to buy an automobile — or two — every day.  And you have no way of knowing whether I am qualified to have even one.

Assume that I am limited by my choice, or circumstance, to one shabby old sedan --  am I allowed to drive it?  Free of any governmental requirement for proof of competence?

In 1952 I obtained a Texas driver's license. In 1960 I got one in Arizona.

1990 found me in Colorado.  Another driver's license.

In 1998 I relocated to Alabama — and used their driver's license until I returned to Texas in 2003. 

 2013 found me in Utah. Another driver's license.  And then I returned to Texas in 2014, and my Texas driver's license.  Can you spell peripatetic?  I had to look it up.

How many different state DL's have I had? The point is that I recognize governmental authority, and the requirement for meeting relevant qualifications to be permitted to drive on the streets and highways.

It is not necessary to explain that the reason for such licensing is the rather obvious fact that an automobile represents a potential danger — if it is driven by someone lacking fundamental knowledge, and who is not aware of and in compliance with rules of safety. 

My history indicates my acceptance of regulation.

All of this recitation of my history of different licenses is meaningless. But a simple substitution in the discussion of guns for automobiles  — with the implicit correlation of a license to carry (a gun) for a license to drive illustrates my contention that “Constitutional carry — (or permitless carry)” is unwise.

Next thing you know, they'll be allowing cars without drivers on our streets!

Ridiculous.

Vanishing shells

 

I was transported to Galveston in 1945.

I attended Davy Crockett Elementary School, San Houston Elementary, and Lovenberg Junior High.

When not encumbered by attendance to these institutions I traversed the six blocks from my home to the beach at 39th Street.  I fished.  I played in the surf and taught myself to swim. 

More important I began a fabulous shell collection.

Piles pf “jingle shells” — small pelecypods — were common, up to several feet in length and a foot in height.  (the piles, not the individual shells).

It was common to pick up lightning whelks of six to eight inches — so common that if a shell had a chip broken out of the lip I discarded it.  Moon shells were abundant.  Angel wings, delicate beings that they are, were usually broken; a perfect shell was rare.  Rarer still, a connected pair.  The assortment goes on —  too numerous to list. I accumulated a fabulous collection.

Mollusca, classes Gastropoda and Bivalvia.  (the latter, in the ancient times of my collecting was referred to as Pelecypoda.)

Unfortunately, the truth is demonstrated of that old axiom that “three moves are a s good as a fire.”  For somewhere in my frequent changes of locations I lost my shell collection. Much regret.

I was away from Galveston for several years — but the sand in my shoes was irresistible. I came home in 1962.

As soon as my suitcase was empty I hurried to MY beach.

“My beach” refers to the strip of sand beneath 39th Street.

To the uninitiated the beach is monotonously alike from the East end of Broadway to the inviting stretch past 61st Street.  Where the seawall ended, and the pavement of Seawall Boulevard took a precipitous dive from the top of the seawall to the sand of West Beach.

If you don't remember the seawall ending there, you are just too young.

I found my beach waiting patiently.  It greeted me kindly, and with tolerance for the tears of nostalgia that interfered with my vision.  Briefly.

For I had a lot of catching up to do.

Off with my shoes, to wade in the shallow edge of the surf.

Standing, staring silently out to the horizon — as distant as ever.

Checking the tide tables, I made a point of returning at low tide.

To hunt for shells.

I was frustrated,  Disappointed, and in subsequent trips to the beach I confirmed my sad initial impressions. 

There were no shells.

Not that they were scarce, or that the shells I found were damaged.

THERE WERE NO SHELLS.

Over the next three years I fished eagerly and intensively all around the island.

I waded into the surf, and found specs, redfish and flounder.  I waded into West bay and found oysters, but no fish.

In a home-made wooden boat I explored fishing in the ship channel; and in the open Gulf just beyond the surf; in West Bay; around the concrete ship; along the backside of Pelican Island; and even to San Luis pass at the west end of the island.

I have a host of good memories, of impressive stringers of fish  And some memorable encounters with sharks.

Some skin divers who explored the waters around Gulf oil rigs have “laid down the law,” and told their families to stay out of the water. 

“Swimming is for swimming pools.”

My own experience echoes that sentiment. I have seen sharks big enough to be dangerous in the beachfront surf where the water was just a foot deep.

I look back on my various entries into the beach waters, and realize that I was lucky.

But the scarcity of shells was an ongoing reality.

A few, occasionally, but the memory of the beach findings of the 1940's lingers. 

Now I read in the periodical “Galveston Monthly Magazine”  the plaintive query “Unraveling the Mystery of the Disappearing Seashells ... Galveston Beachcombers Wonder: Where Have the Treasures Gone?”

Where, indeed?

GRIEF

GRIEF

 The disclosure that follows was written with the expectation that it would be placed in the directory on my computer titled “Not For Publication.”  After much thought I decided to publish it to my blog . . . 

            Grief.

A common experience for everyone.

Family members die; friends die —  and we grieve.  

And each of us experiences, and expresses that emotion in our own way.

When my son Willie died my oldest daughter phoned me at work to inform me.  I hung up the phone, got up, walked to the parking lot, and drove home to my apartment in Austin. I went in and sat in a chair in the living room.  And sat.

And sat. 

I did not cry.

Pop's voice, from many years past, echoed in my mind: 

“Don't cry, Boy. Men don't cry.”

Willie died in 1989.

At some time shortly thereafter my youngest daughter phoned me, and rebuked me for not showing grief.

“After all, he was your son!”

I didn't respond.  But I wondered how she presumed to know how much emotion I felt —  or displayed. 

I don't remember where she was located at the time, but it was far away, in another state.

There was no reason for me to try to assure her, but I was grieving — in my own way.  In silence.

In 1992 —  many miles farther down the road of my life — as I sat in a chair in my living room in Denver, I thought about Willie.

And I cried. I bawled. I sobbed.  Loudly.  In solitude.  I let it all out.  I cried uncontrollably.

Sorry, Pop — but this time I gotta cry . . .

Mom died in 2000.  I was working in Birmingham. I sat, and remembered the years, 1940 to 1945, when I was with my family in Sheffield, Alabama, in Mom's loving presence.

In 2000 I grieved.

But I did not cry.

 In 2010 my sister Millie called to inform me that Pop died. I lived in Alice at that time.  I sat in my recliner.  And I  heard his voice . . .

“Don't cry, Boy. Men don't cry.”

I didn't.

But I did grieve.

In my own way.

Alone.

In silence.

In 2012 my good friend Stan Russell died.  

His family brought him to Alice for the funeral service.

I attended, in the same facility where I had sat with Stan at the 2011 funeral service for his wife, Peg.  Then, sitting next to me at her funeral, he sobbed.  I put my arm around him, to comfort him.

Seven months later, at Stan's funeral I sat next to Ruth, my companion in Alice, and very nearly cried 

To avoid a public display of emotion, I left and went home. 

As we walked to the parking lot I commented to Ruth that I was feeling more grief than I felt at the death of my own father.

I grieved.  In my own way. 

Alone. And in silence.

But I did not cry.

Now, in 2023, I reminisce — thinking of the loving relationships with friends and family —  and I grieve.  Silently.

Frequently, my eyes water, but I do not cry.  Or a t least I do not sob.

Pop wouldn't approve...

“Don't cry, Boy.....”

  . 

Forbidden Topics

 

My father spoke to me while I was yet a teenager:

“There are two things you should never discuss with other people ~ religion and politics ~ remember that.”

There is an ever expanding list of forbidden topics.

• Politics

• Religion

• LGTB, and the countless expansions of affirmative ways in which people choose to self-identify...

• Race — including all derivatives of BLM and CRT...

• Gun control — with endless discussions of rights; and what is, or is not an assault weapon.

• Medical matters — the question of the right to make personal medical decisions.

• Personal topics, that would be embarrassing to reveal.

My commentaries frequently transgress these bounds — and are thereby relegated to the bin marked “Not for Publication”

I choose not to publish them in my blog — I fear the certain retribution of the “Cancel Culture”.

I have been counseled that I should — nay, MUST have the backbone to stand up and express my views.

“Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

But that lofty historical arrogance by Farragut at Mobile Bay was backed by superior force. When one is alone, making provocative observations directed to an adversary of greater strength is a rash indiscretion.

As is the disclosure of some sensitive topic of behavior or predilection.

Therefore does my collection of “unpublished” grow — and my voice remains silent.

20 - 20 HINDSIGHT

 Two incidents in the hunting field:

I was hunting in New Mexico, at the base of Mangas Mountain. I was sitting in a position carefully selected for observation of any coyotes responding to my call. I had the wind in my favor. They would be coming down and out of the brushy draw, into the clear area just below me.

I worked the call with the expertise developed in years of experience calling coyotes in South Texas. I put the call in my pocket, and lifted the Browning .270 off my lap to allow me to shift my position — the hard ground was getting uncomfortable. A casual glance over my right shoulder revealed two coyotes gazing intently at me from ten feet away. Behind me. Where they had to have come the wrong way, up wind, across open ground, to approach me where I was sitting out in the open. I was grateful that they had not attacked me. So grateful that I allowed one of them to depart, unharmed.

The other incident was while I was sitting, patiently watching a small pond high up on Luna Mountain, where we had found bear tracks in the soft mud around the water. Stan was similarly positioned about twenty yards to my right. I was fighting to avoid snoozing, when the report of Stan’s .25-06 woke me up. Wide awake, I stood up facing him. He pointed to the crumpled 150 pound bear lying on the ground 20 feet away. That gentle looking ball of fur had been bringing a mouth full of teeth, and four paws with 20 claws right up to my backside.

Mixed feelings, defined: Stan shot MY bear — just before it licked me in the ear.

And an incident in the city:

Working narcotics while I was a deputy sheriff entailed a lot of sitting in my car, watching locations where drug transactions were made.

I felt rather foolish — embarrassed, actually — when a dealer crept up from behind me and appeared suddenly at the window of my car.

No real harm done — he just looked into my eyes, and turned and walked away. He’d made his point — I’d have to try another day, to get anything on him.

The takeaway from these incidents is this: there is a need for a device that monitors my six, to notify me when anyone — man or beast — approaches from the rear.