Who do you Think You Are?

 

"Considerate la vostra semenza:
fatti non foste a viver come bruti,
ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza."

Dante Alighieri 

Google translation:

Consider your origin:

You were not born to live like brutes,

but to follow virtue and knowledge.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translation:

Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang;

Ye were not made to live like unto brutes,

But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.

Canto XXVI, 118 - 120

my response:

Regard your destiny;

You were not created to simply exist,

Oozing through the slime of worldly mediocrity,

But to rise above the inane, and achieve greatness –

Even be it solely in the eyes of those who love you.

Mickey Basden 9/20/13

Canine Carousals

 

A creeping council of crepuscular coyotes casually convened to converse

 collectively, calling countless cousins , consistent with confirmed customs of

 their clan …

Blogical warfare

 

There has been a massive influx of illegal immigrants into the Republic of Pseudostan, on the shores of the Blonde Sea. (Near the Black Sea, but shores of a different color.).

It is acknowledged that about 80% of them are infected with viral Goovid, which is highly contagious, and has a high mortality rate.

The regent of this nation has been accused of being negligent in protecting the borders.

Some have suggested that the surge of infected aliens is a form of biological warfare.

If that is so, is the Ruler’s policy rightly considered treason?

Magic Swing , p.1

 It is often the case that only in retrospective reflection is the magic of a particular experience apparent.

So, with the porch swing.

To casual inspection it seemed an ordinary porch swing. I had no reason to suspect its supernatural existence as I succumbed to its gentle oscillations while I sipped my morning coffee. This was to be my daily routine, in all weather, for the three years I enjoyed my “White Rock Ranch.”

My beloved Ruth, who spent a lot of time there, appended the “White Rock” after we splashed decorative white gravel across several of the flower beds she helped me arrange.

“Ranch” in tribute to the rural setting of my estate – all of its 1.1 acres, within which my small one room house was sited.

I heard coyotes every night. I loved their serenade. I was visited by bobcats. I never saw one, but I often saw their tracks and sign, all around the property. Wetbacks in their cross-country traverse of the South Texas wilderness in search of a better life walked the fenceline directly in front of me. They didn’t bother me, and I watched silently as they passed.

In my memory the White Rock Ranch was, in toto, a lovely experience, which I now regret having abandoned. Experiences in that extraordinary, exceptional porch swing ranged from the mundane to the magical.

Dulcinea. 

 She was undocumented. She made no pretense to rights of citizenship. But she adopted me, so I fed her, and talked to her. I asked her name, and she willingly informed me. Her fur was soft and fuzzy, uniformly gray in color, without the stripes of a common tabby. She assumed an air of royalty.

On a warm summer evening I sat in the swing, nursing a bourbon and coke. Dulcinea appeared in the dusk, and walked in the yard alongside the porch in the direction of the driveway. She stopped and assumed the pose of a bird dog pointing a covey of quail. I spoke to her. She ignored me, remaining frozen on point. Strange. Usually when I spoke her name she would turn to smile at me and vocalize an acknowledgement. I took my flashlight from my belt and illuminated her – and the object of her attention. A rattlesnake, about eighteen inches long, coiled, head erect and looking directly into the cat’s hypnotic gaze.

I trust that you can accept that I was not unreasonable in wearing my revolver when outside my dwelling. The ambience of my location spoke clearly of the wisdom of preparedness.

In South Texas I had experience with numerous rattlesnakes, so I carried in my pocket some shot shells. Which by their design and function turn my revolver into a small shotgun. Perfect for small snakes. I asked Dulcinea if she would please move away from the snake so that I could shoot it without hitting her. When she moved away I shot the snake.

I immediately resolved to cease walking barefoot in the luxurious Bermuda grass at night.

It is my intention that this will be the first in a series of “Magic Swing” posts.

Rx For Automobiles

 

Look to the present to see into the future.

I watch the commercials on TV. Not that I enjoy them — it’s just impossible to avoid them.

It is obvious that Big Pharma — with or without the collusion of the front line doctors who see the patients — has transferred the task — or should I say, the privilege of prescribing their medication … to the patients, who are not too subtly guided in selecting their prescription by assertive suggestion.

The ongoing persistence of this strategy confirms its success.

And if it works in California, it will work in Kansas. Like a highly contagious viral infection the technique will be propagated into other marketing domains.

Soon, with wisdom and insight provided by marketing psychologists I will take my automobile to the dealer’s garage armed with prescient certainty of the very specific part that must be replaced to restore my car to its proper function.

Although my sedan’s engine requires the coordinated functionality of the air handling system, along with the fuel delivery system — which is in its complexity comprised of fuel tank, pump, filter, distribution, atomization — and all this in preparation for the precisely calibrated ignition system to process the twelve volt D.C. electrical supply to be magically transformed into timed high voltage pulses — just to make the wheels go ‘round … which involves a complicated assemblage of gears and shafts to deliver the engine’s power …

All these interacting parts are equally indispensable. Yet thanks to the magic of television I will be able to take my car into the dealer’s shop and inform the mechanic exactly which part he should replace!

And for this omniscient power we are indebted to Big Pharma!

Never Too Old

There have been in my short and young life words and phrases which somehow were not explained or defined to/for me. I ever attempted to devine from context the meaning or intent of any mysterious reference. Some of these challenges remain, even unto my ninth decade – and it is with deep gratitude that I have been privileged to search the Internet for solutions.

A glaring example is “Manifest destiny.”  I first encountered this in 1954. 

 In my college History course the teacher challenged the class for justification of the 

expansion of the United States westward to the Pacific.

Silence. Nobody seemed to know.

With characteristic eagerness to seem erudite I exploded with the phrase Manifest destiny.

I had absolutely no concept of its meaning – but I had recently heard it, and intuitively assumed its relevance. The teacher simply nodded and pointed to me in affirmation, then continued with the lecture. I was fortunate that I was not asked to explain the concept.

The incident imprinted in my consciousness, and has remained a mystery until now ... the year 2021.

Today, in my ongoing search for knowledge and understanding, I was led to review some Kipling, and thence to “Manifest destiny.”[1]

At long last have I at least a vague understanding of the meaning.

“Never too old ...”

[1] "The White Man's Burden" (1899), by Rudyard Kipling, is a poem about the Philippine–American ... and manifest destiny of the early 19th century.

 

The Flux of Language

 

• Isolation separates sick people with a contagious disease from people who are not sick.

• Quarantine separates and restricts the movement of people who were exposed to a contagious disease to see if they become sick.

Quarantine and Isolation - CDC

So says the ultimate authority – a Government agency !

But the two definitions are exactly reversed.

During the 1940’s it was not uncommon to see, in walking around my small hometown of Sheffield, a sign posted in front of a home that proclaimed in BIG letters:

QUARANTINE

It was understood that someone in that house was afflicted with an infectious disease – and that there was to be no approach to that house.

I would appeal, if I had means of contacting them, to The Gods of the Copybook Heading – perhaps I might there learn how such atrocities occur !

Too Young ??

 

I am a dinosaur. A relic. A fossil.

Society is striding forward, into the future.

I lag behind. Indifferent – no, not indifferent, for that implies a lack of caring – and my deficiency is not absence of concern. Simply a need for education.

I do not understand the elements of society’s progress.

I was young once. Then, as I entered the mainstream of society I found myself with children who were, in their turn, young.

And in the encompassed years, beginning in 1940, I observed and participated in a routine that seemed, at the time, reasonable and practicable:

Children at the age of six entered the educational system in the first grade.

The parental duties having been initially fulfilled, the young future adults had received guidance and preliminary indoctrination that prepared them for entry into the public school system.

Today I am informed that children of 3, 4, and 5 years are to begin school.

I am aghast. To my perception that is unreasonable.

I see problems. I understand the implied question. But I don’t have any hint of an answer.

Perhaps it would be acceptable to remove the year old toddlers from the parental home and enroll them in a collective pool of subjects for indoctrination …??

Google presents this:

Most preschools start accepting kids around the age of 2.5 to 3 years old, but since every child is different, this isn't a magic number. Preschool readiness really depends more on developmental factors than chronological age.

“Developmental readiness” at 30 months?  Are you kidding?

Somebody, please, help me ...

A BLOGGER’S NOTES -- MUSINGS OF THE NIGHT

 A notable component of the evolution I encounter on a daily basis, commonly referred to as “aging”, is the variability of my sleeping habits.

Whereas it was normal for me to sleep from 10 pm until 6 am, I now sleep in assorted disconnected intervals, sometimes a hour of sleep and then 2 hours of sitting up — watching TV, reading, writing, or simply meditating. Then followed occasionally by a solid four hours of delightful repose — and OH, what dreams may come!

I keep a stenographer’s note pad beside me — that I may record the wild imaginings of my fruitful mind. Else mental meanderings of great moment are lost forever! When I feel able to do so, I open the Word processor on my computer, and struggle to develop the germinating ideas that percolate in the wee hours.

I am impelled to impose my weird ideas on those innocents who are good enough to read what I publish. And I occasionally feel a slight twinge of guilt, at the arrogance of my thoughts — you who read me are unwilling victims of my desire to be heard ...

You are

“Helpless to resist the notes I write...

For I compose the musings of the night!”

My humble apologies to Andrew Lloyd Webber

The Old Lawman

A poem by Mickey Basden (With a respectful nod to Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

Still he passes here today 

As he stumbles on his way,

Walking slow.

You can hear his slippers slide

As he whispers far and wide:

“On I go!”

He proudly says that in his youth —

And humbly swears that it’s the truth,

He was good.

Now he struggles to get by,

And you know he’d like to fly

If he could.

It’s plainly hard for him to walk,

And sometimes when he tries to talk

It’s just a moan.

He often looks around in fear,

His trusty pistol always near.

He lives alone.

Happy pictures on the wall

Bring mem’ries of his cooling fall —

And too, his lusty spring.

The summers that he early loved

Have lately been unkindly shoved

Aside for winter’s fling.

The daily papers often told

Of exploits brave, extremely bold,

Against the foe.

He led a team of stalwart men,

The like you’ll never see again —

Don’t you know.

But now his muscled arms grow thin,

The beard is white upon his chin;

He grows old.

No more the frantic clarion call

Upon his eager ears will fall.

His story’s told.

You know it surely isn’t kind —

Although I know he wouldn’t mind —

To grin and stare.

His shuffling gait, his skinny legs,

For just a little pity begs,

To show you care.

And if you ever live to be

As feeble and as old as he,

Hanging on;

May you find a kindly soul

To help you ‘til you reach your goal,

All alone. 

Tall Girls in the Wind

Three tall girls face away from the wind, slender willowy shapes yielding slightly to the forces of the pulsating Wind from the North .

Wind blown hair atop bending trunks, held tight to the North side, streams southward, reaching forth;

Obedient to the gusts’ demands, shows direction of the wind – for what it’s worth.

A verdant clump of hair upon a scarf of brown – dead fronds, hair of yesteryear,

Hang resplendent, mute testimony, telling of passing glory that once was dear.

Cold wind, insistent breath, marching from more frigid climes,

Swept across plains and hills, slamming to the coast, at times

It combs the hair of palm trees, or slows to ring the bells of chimes;

Turns resolutely to the Gulf. Temps plunge with breath of winter.

The advent of the Norther, denying more warmth, must enter

With the seasons ice and snow, before relenting to allow

A timid welcome spring to come around and follow

Into our circular appreciation of the seasons.

It is a beautiful day.

TURNING STAR

 

IN 1964 NCR SENT ME TO A NINE MONTH SCHOOL IN DENVER. WE RENTED A SMALL HOUSE ON S. UNIVERSITY BLVD.

WHILE I WAS THERE I BOUGHT A SET OF WEIGHTS, AND WORKED OUT DAILY.

ONE SUMMER NIGHT, AFTER A SET OF BENCH PRESSES IN THE FRONT YARD I LAY RESTING, GAZING UP AT A CLEAR NIGHT SKY. I SAW WHAT I FIRST THOUGHT WAS A SHOOTING STAR.   MOVING NORTH TO SOUTH ACROSS MY FIELD OF VISION, IT PASSED DIRECTLY OVERHEAD AT HIGH SPEED.

THEN, AT AN ELEVATION OF ABOUT 45 ABOVE THE SOUTHERN HORIZON, IT ABRUPTLY CHANGED DIRECTION. IT TURNED LEFT, BUT NOT A CURVING TURN - A SHARPLY ANGLED 45˚ TURN. NO METEOR, OR CRAFT OF MAN’S DEVICE COULD EXECUTE SUCH A TURN.   AND THERE WAS NO COLLISION TO DEFLECT THE TRAJECTORY.  IT JUST MADE AN IMPOSSIBLE TURN.

YOU TELL ME. I DON’T KNOW.

Orange Fireball

  

recent headlines:

Sunday’s meteor that blazed across the Texas sky

213 reports were submitted to the American Meteor Society of a fireball in the sky Sunday night. Published: Jul. 26, 2021

A witness description:

It was a bright glowing orange circle that was on its way down, like falling, like an orange full moon. …. I have seen shooting stars and this object moved slower.

Details released by The American Meteor Society:

• The fiery streak lasted about 4 seconds

• This was likely NOT part of (a) Meteor Shower because it was…. “going too slow”

• The “slow” speed suggests it was a small piece of an asteroid

******

The news report (above) reminds me of a sighting of mine in 1944:

It was summer.. About an hour into the soft darkness of full night. I was walking north, along the sidewalk in front of my house in Sheffield, Alabama.

For some reason – I didn’t hear anything, but I seemed to sense something – I looked up.

There, almost directly above me, was a large orange fireball, traveling northward through the cloudless, dark night sky.

This fiery object made no noise. There was no trailing tail of flame. Just the glowing orange of a ball of fire.

Color? a little more distinctly orange than the sun.

Brilliance? equal to a bright full moon.

How big was it? How do I describe the size of an object in the sky? With no immediately adjacent reference to compare it to, it becomes a matter of degrees of arc subtended by…, aw, heck, it was about as big as a tennis ball held at arms length.

How high was it? Same problem , no reference … but regarding the remembered image, I’d guess it was high. Is that vague enough?

It was moving fast, and lasted about a second – its travel covered about the distance of three or four times its own diameter. Could I suggest forty degrees of arc?

Then it simply vanished.

Gone.

No flash, no smoke, no embers, no falling debris. And no noise.

The image of that ball of fire remains ever with me, and I ponder occasionally … and will ever wonder.

You tell me — I don’t know.

Visit to a Galveston Brothel

 From 1962 through 1965 I worked for the National Cash Register Company in Galveston as a cash register serviceman. One of the routine chores for me was to install a new ribbon on a merchant’s cash register. The charge for this was the cost of the ribbon plus the hourly rate charge of $15.  One day – I think it may have been in 1963 – I was assigned a call to install a new ribbon on a cash register at one of the notorious establishments on Galveston ‘s notorious  Postoffice Street. No name was give for the destination – just the street address. It could have been something like “2710 Postoffice Street.”   

I knew what business was conducted there.

I drove to the location, found 2710, walked up to the front door and knocked. The door was locked, and nobody responded. I stood there, knocking repeatedly, and feeling frustrated and puzzled.

A man walking along the sidewalk took pity, and explained to me:

“Ain’t nobody gonna answer – that doe’s been locked fo’ years. You gots to go ‘roun back.”

(You will note that this was in the “colored” part of town – where residents and most businesses were Black.)

I thanked the gentleman, and drove around to the alley. 

(The city blocks in Galveston are divided by an alley, running parallel to the letter-named Avenues, providing access to the rear of every property for various services, and to provide access to garages and apartments – many of which faced the alley).

My immediate challenge was to identify the door that belonged to the address I was given. There were no street numbers on the many doors to the alley.

I selected one that was half hidden under a stairway to the second floor. I knocked, and a sliding panel at eye level opened and a face asked “Yes?”

“Is this 2710?”

“What do you want at nine in the morning?”

“I’m from NCR. I’m here to put a ribbon an a cash register.”

The panel closed, and the door opened. The bartender led me to the deserted bar-room, where the register sat behind the bar.

“There it is.”

The register was a Class 100, the least of NCR’s product line. Installing a new ribbon required only opening the printer door, lifting out the old ribbon and placing the new one on the spindles. It would reasonably take about thirty seconds.

The minimum service charge was $15.

Many merchants bristled in anger at a $15 charge for less than a minute’s work. So I made a show of cleaning around the type wheels of the printer, and trying to make it look like I could justify the exorbitant fee.

“Bill” – from his name-tag – was working nearby. In casual conversation I asked him “How much do the girls charge a man to take him upstairs?”

“A dollar a minute.”

I immediately slammed the printer lid shut and handed him a bill for $16.50.

In a local bank a book-keeping machine that NCR maintained required work, and there was no one available in our office to handle the chore. So NCR sent an expert from the Houston office to do the work. Somehow I was assigned the responsibility of escorting the out-of- towner to unfamiliar locations.

When his day’s work was done the expert turned to me for help finding his supper. I took him to Hill’s seafood restaurant – NCR was picking up all tabs – and afterwards to Omar’s. This was a small barroom run by a lady who dressed in belly-dancer costumes to serve drinks to the gentlemen who danced to the music of the juke box. We sat at the bar and ordered drinks. He sipped his Scotch, and I drank a bourbon and coke. He inquired about the “houses” on Postoffice Street. He said he’d like to visit one.

Having just two days previously made a service call in one, I knew the way.

At the under-stairs door I knocked. The panel slid open. The face was cautious. We looked like Law!

(All NCR servicemen wore white shirts and neckties)

I told the doorkeeper that I worked for the National Cash Register Company. He asked me for the name of my manager. I told him, and he let us in. I regarded it as “cool” that my boss was well known at a brothel, and his name got me admitted !

We were seated at a table beside the dance floor, and the waiter took our drink order.

The drinks were delivered by a beautiful young woman. She asked if she could provide any other service. Our NCR expert left me at the table to sip my bourbon and Coke, while he sought stress relief upstairs in the expert hands of the gorgeous practitioner.

Another young woman approached my table and offered. I declined, explaining that I was just baby sitting an out of towner. She understood, and accepted my offer to buy her drinks and share some trivial conversation.

In a half hour my “out of town expert” returned, content, and we left.

So I have twice been in a Postoffice Street brothel in Galveston. And emerged unscathed both times.

THE BIG FISHERMAN

 

This picture of the Galveston ship channel was taken in December 2014.

I responded to the irresistible “Pull” of Galvezemories¹ and took a trip to celebrate my 78^th birthday.

I appreciate and respect the advice given to me by my good friend Dale Lockwood — “There is value in solitude.”

But value be damned — my existence is lonely.

And nostalgic reminiscence, centered on Galveston, seemed on that day of December 27^th, 2014 to offer solace. So I got into my truck …

When I crossed the causeway onto the island I felt like I was returning home. When I reached 61^st Street, coming into town on Broadway, I naturally turned toward the Beach.

As I crossed the bisection of Offat’s Bayou — East Bayou on the left, West Bayou on the right — I remembered the many times that John and I bought bait at one of the live bait stands along the west side of the road. A quart of live bugs for a dollar.

How many shrimp in a quart? I don’t know – now, or then. But there seemed to be enough. We seldom ran out — and if we did we’d simply switch to working artificials. Many times when John and I ended our early morning quest for the speckled trout that we so eagerly sought, there would be enough live shrimp left to take home for table fare.

When I got home and emptied the remaining shrimp into the kitchen sink to prepare them for the skillet, at least one of them always did an athletic cartwheel, straight up into the air — to a height level with my eyes.

And my five year old daughter Elizabeth, watching in fascination, always screamed in fright at the spectacle.

We fished hard, John and me. At least twice a week, sometimes more, we’d have a line in the water somewhere.

The beachfront, working spoons in the surf — especially alongside the groins, where the deep erosion produced by the currents provided the cline the fish favored.

If the specs were not responding, then we’d move out away from the groin and throw our silver spoons into the surf, seeking and finding schools of ladyfish. While not table fare, they were a delight to catch. Invariably, within a few seconds of taking the hook, they would begin an acrobatic aerial display that would be worthy of any tarpon.

One Sunday morning we were enjoying the ladyfish in the surf, when I hooked one that didn’t jump.

“I notice he’s not jumping” John said.

“Yeah, I know…”

And I pulled in the only spec of the day — a nice one of about three pounds.

Other times we’d wade the flats of West Galveston Bay. Except for the occasional flounder, I don’t recall much success there.

While there, one morning, I ate the second of the two raw oysters that I ever ate in my life.

The first had been at home in 1952 when Pop was enjoying a mess of oysters. He invited me to try one — and I declined. He offered me fifty cents to eat one. I did — but I didn’t enjoy it.

On that morning a dozen years later, with John in West Bay, I did it on a dare. I watched him reach down into the shallow reef we were fishing to take an oyster, which he proudly opened and ate from the shell. He offered me one. I declined.

He dared me. I accepted the challenge.

And remembered why I found no pleasure in the earlier experience.

After we built our boat, we worked the Spanish mackerel that schooled off the beach just beyond the outermost row of breakers.

While it took some effort to get our little boat through the waves to get beyond the last breaker, once we were in the smooth water we could guide the boat in circles to work our bait through the schools of the tasty mackerel.

The only tarpon that I ever hooked followed my silver spoon as I worked it along the bottom. We were anchored near the outer end of the jetty, just twenty yards out toward the ship channel from the rocks. We fished, from our boat, in the deep clear water alongside the ship channel. The water was about twenty feet deep.

I watched the tarpon come out of the depths of the ship channel, to overtake and inhale my spoon. I could see it clearly.

As tarpon go my tarpon wasn’t a big fish, probably about twenty or thirty pounds — but the thrill of watching it take the bait, and the fight that followed is memorable. I had the fish close to the boat — it was probably about twenty feet away, and near the surface when it spit out the spoon and swam away. I was disappointed — but what a thrill !

And a lasting memory.

But sometimes we liked to wade out from the jetty, within a half mile of the seawall, to stand in waist deep water and fish out toward the channel.

In the 2014 photograph of the channel, with ships anchored in the distance, there is a dark line running parallel to the channel about three quarters of the way from the rocks of the jetty to the horizon. That marks the drop-off to the channel. John and I would wade out to approach that drop-off, and fish toward the depths of the channel.

Problem was that just alongside the jetty there was a deep gut, all along the rocks, which I was just able to wade across — with my chin held high.

John was rather heavy, but quite a bit shorter than me. I called him “the big fisherman.” The water in that gut was well over his head.

No problem — we worked out the “buddy system”.

I took his hand and supported him, and while I walked across the bottom of the gut he floated across.

Yeah, we fished a lot. Good memories. I expect to live to a ripe old age — purely because of the old adage, oft repeated among fishermen — that the time spent fishing does not count against your allocated life span.

1 The relevant word is neologism.

Galveston Memories

Galveston, oh, Galveston — I can feel your sea winds blowing ...

In 1949 I stood, often and long — on the seawall at 39^th street — gazing out over the rolling surf. Breathing the clean air, massaged by the gentle breeze that caressed my bare arms. Seagulls floating, mysteriously, gliding without wingbeat, parallel to the shoreline, patrolling the edge of the water.

Traffic behind me on Seawall Boulevard was a matter of indifference.. The occasional tourist strolling along the sidewalk was ignored.

My world consisted solely of the wind, the water, the birds and my immersion in the marvelous universe of the Gulf beach.

After an indefinite time, when my soul had been restored, I turned and walked the three blocks to my home near the corner of 39th Street and Avenue S.

I waved to the operator of the Magnolia gas station on the southwest corner, and promised him that I would return to help him later that afternoon. With no compensation other than the joy of experience I pumped gas, wiped windshields, aired tires, checked “under the hood,” swept the driveway — generally taking care of the customers.

Homework. Drudgery. Mere routine, valueless to me, but demonstrating to my teacher at Lovenberg Junior High School that her teaching was not in vain. Closing the books, I got the mower — the PUSH mower — out of the garage. Fifteen minutes of chasing it around the yard, and Pop would be satisfied when he got home. He liked his yard neat. Me, too.

I got my bugle — a Christmas gift from Mom — and went into the garage to practice. The music book that came with the instrument had all the bugle calls that anyone could want. With the musical knowledge and skill imparted by my band director at Lovenberg, I had no problem mastering the music of the bugle. I practiced “To the Colors”, so that I could play it at the flag presentation ceremony at the next Boy Scout meeting.

To The Colors. Used to render honors to the flag and the nation. The bugle is used when no band is available to render honors. To the Colors commands all the same courtesies as the National Anthem.

Mom called me, and sent me to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. For this I went to the neighborhood grocery, run by Mr. Bertolino. In the next block, at 3818 Avenue S, his was the preferred grocer for small orders.

His was the store I went to with the beer bottles I scavenged from the trash where workers were cleaning out the closed bar on 39^th street. He willingly paid me two cents apiece for the bottles — and I made several trips over the course of two days, redeeming the deposit for five or more bottles at a time. On the second day he said “Hey, this is found money for you — and I’m not getting anything for it. So from now on I’ll just give you one cent for each bottle. You’ll still make money, and I get something for my trouble.”

Seemed reasonable. So with the next batch of “found money” beer bottles I went to the other store, Rosenbaum's, around the corner on 39th.

For the family's weekly grocery shopping, I went to the Evan’s Supermarket, on 39^th Street  —  I think it was at about Avenue M.  How can I remember? It’s been a long time.

But I remember shopping there. I filled my cart with items on the list prepared by Mom. And supplemented the load with choice items from the damaged goods and marked-down assortment in the SALE baskets placed around the store. It was a challenge to deduce the contents of canned goods with the label missing. There were times when I bought canned dog food, thinking it to be vegetables for our table.

Outside the store, I loaded the groceries into the canvas newspaper bag draped on the upturned handlebars of my bicycle. If the load was not too heavy, I’d ride the bike home with the week’s groceries. If the load was so heavy that it interfered with control while riding the bike I pushed it home. Still easier than carrying a double arm full of groceries.

Along the way I passed Davy Crockett Elementary, where I had attended 4^th and 5^th grades while we lived over Klater’s drug Store at 42^nd Street. Memories remain of the horrible Texas City disaster of 1947, which jolted Mrs. Wade’s 5^th grade class out into the morning sunlight.

On one memorable occasion I bought a load of groceries, and lacking the services of my faithful steed — my bicycle was undergoing repair — I was faced with the prospect of a long walk home with two arms heavily loaded with groceries. Choosing what I thought would be the less painful alternative, I walked across the street and caught a city bus — which deposited me just two blocks from home.

I was smugly pleased with my resourcefulness — until Pop got home. He rebuked me, thoroughly, for wasting a dime for bus fare.

I quickly returned to the garage, and completed the repair on my bicycle.

The bike’s New Departure coaster brake was seizing, and needed cleaning, adjusting, and lubricating. Intimidating, as I initially regarded the problem. Simple enough, when I disassembled it and learned how it worked. The experience of maintaining and repairing my bicycle, there in the garage of our house on Avenue S, was the beginning of a lifelong effort — with notable success — of maintaining and repairing just about anything. I still have some of the tools I used in my early efforts.

BRIGHT ORANGE

 After we moved from Alabama to Galveston in 1945 Pop would occasionally take us for an evening stroll on the beach. Mom walking, holding Connie by the hand, Pop carrying Mary Sue, and me tagging along or running in front. From our apartment over Klater’s drug store, we walked along 42nd Street south to Avenue T. Then east to the Lovenberg Junior High School campus, which we walked across to the intersection of 39th Street and the beachfront. We’d descend to the sand on the stairs at 39th, and explore the beach between 39th and 37th.

At low tide, we examined the flora and fauna, the marine life adhering to the nether parts of the groins, and dug for shells on the sand which was uncovered by the receding water.

We found ear shells, olive shells, whelk, jingle shells, sea beans and more. We saw jellyfish and Portuguese Men O’War, a few dead fish, and sometimes a skate egg pouch.

The five of us were all children in a new wonderland. Pop enjoyed sneaking coins from his pocket and dribbling them onto the sand along the water’s edge, for his kids to find.

Then, as dusk threatened to rob us of our playground, he would herd his small group homeward. Usually I would lag behind, reluctant to so soon abandon the disclosures of nature so mystifyingly revealed.

On one such occasion we were on the beach near 37th Street. Mom, Pop and the two girls were leaving; they were already atop the seawall and heading toward 39th Street. I approached from the low tide’s murmuring caress along the darkening sand toward the granite rip-rap which protected the seawall. There in a small tidal pool was – life!

I walked forward, to better see.

Pop whistled, to summon me to join the entourage. I crouched, to compensate for my poor vision, for my glasses were safe at home.

The mysterious life form was at one end of the pool, which was crystal clear and about four inches deep by a foot wide and three feet long. It was bright orange – today we would call it fluorescent orange - , about three inches long, and of the proportions of a standard goldfish. The thing reacted to my presence, and shot to the opposite end of the pool.

Pop called out softly, “Come on Abe.”

I moved closer, to examine the phenomenon. It flashed back to the other end of the pool. I still could not identify it. My eyes were just too weak.

If I could just get another step closer!

“ABE!!”

The imperious roar commanded. I responded, and left behind, to wonder about forever, the bright orange mystery trapped in the tidal pool.

This is clear in my memory: the small fish-like life form moved in a manner since familiar to me in the various aquarium fishes enjoyed in many homes, including my own. I have watched them swim casually, and I have seen them flee in panic, rushing from one end to the other of their aquarium’s confinement.

Whatever that thing was in the late afternoon Galveston beach tidal pool, it was easily twice as fast as any “goldfish” I’ve ever seen. And in the 65 years since, I’ve spent may hours on the beaches, and fishing in small boats around the islands of the Texas coast. And I ain’t never seen nothing like I saw that evening.

You tell me — I don’t know.

Luddite

 

Luddite: a person opposed to new technology, or ways of working.

(DEROGATORY) – "a small-minded Luddite, resisting progress"

Well, now let me remember – it was in 1960 that I bought my first pickup truck. Half ton, long bed, three on the tree.

I like that combination, and have migrated through several newer trucks of the same configuration.

Recently considered trading in my current truck on a newer one.

Visited a dealer. Drove my old truck home and affectionately patted it on the hood after I parked it.

New models scare me. Apart from the outrageous price, the technology has run away from me.

It seems that the designers of the newest airplanes have taken over the design of new trucks.

With a lifetime of maintaining and repairing my vehicles, I raised the hood on a new truck and gazed – with wonderment – at the maze of confusion that is involved in propelling the vehicle.

And sitting behind the steering wheel I was intimidated – among other things, by the dash mounted television screen that dominates the driver’s field of vision. I await news coverage of the lawsuit ensuing from the collision that results when a driver is distracted by whatever show comes on.

Rather than spend $50,000 for an earthbound aircraft I shall search for and buy a decent 1975 model Chevrolet pickup with three on the tree -- and pay a good mechanic to install a new motor and rebuild the brakes and suspension.

My dismay at the evolution of automotive technology is matched by my frustration with my new computer. I have been driving a computer since 1985. I am comfortable with them. I have adapted to the newness of each succeeding new model, migrating from DOS though versions of Windows.

But never have I found a challenge to equal that of the newest.

Not only new hardware, with all of its oriental design of novel capabilities of questionable practicality – but complicated by the crazy nuances of Windows 10.

Would that I could buy a new computer with windows 7…. that I could turn on and drive, the way I could drive my old stick shift pickup.

Strange, that I should see a parallel between a truck and a computer – but the analysis, and conclusion, is that there are too many “improvements” that might better have been left on the cutting room floor.

And if that ain’t enough – I have, in addition, the privilege of getting acquainted with a new phone…

New, in the sense that I just upgraded from a 2014 model phone to a 2016 model.

But again, I long for the simplicity of a three speed manual transmission. Too many hidden features on this newer phone, many of them needing to be disabled. And responsible for performance problems if ignored.

I often reminisce, longing for the simplicity of days long gone.

While not quite a Luddite, I do remember the “good old days.”

GALVESTON MIRACLE

Smelly Seaweed

 I am a year or more behind in my reading. Trying to catch up, but it’s a strain.

Reading the January/February 2020 issue of Discover magazine. an article titled Smells Like Sargassum interested me. That is to say, interested me more than the others.

For in 1945 I moved with my parents to Galveston. The beach was soon this boy’s playground. I explored the many and varied facets of that wonderful kingdom.

Shells were more plentiful then, and I accumulated quite a collection. And at some time during the years a flood of sargassum seaweed piled up on the beach.

We learned that it drifted in from an area in the Atlantic called the Sargasso Sea.

In addition to its obvious odor there was an item of unusual interest. A small fish, bodily conformation similar to the angel fish that I caught with a tiny piece of shrimp on a very small hook. In contrast to the angelfish’s black and white stripes, the smaller Sargassum fish was decorated with a yellow background marked with a brown pattern that provided perfect camoflauge in the sargassum grass.

But most interesting was that this cute little fellow WALKED on his pectoral fins, through and across the seaweed.

I presumptuously referred to it as the Sargassum fish – for that seems a logical appellation. But in truth, I can’t remember the proper name – even though my father took the time to consult references at the Rosenberg Library and learn what it is called.

I took pride in those distant times in knowing its name. Today I feel dismay that I cannot remember.

C’est la vie. C’est la vie de nombreuses années.

The article suggests – asserts, that the Sargassum seaweed belt was first noticed in 2011.

I don’t mean to be picky, and I hope that I’m not regarded as pedantic – but I must protest that this noisome abundance was plentiful on the Galveston beaches before 1950. And the origin of the yellow mess was known.

And after my migration to Corpus Christi in 1951 I discovered the ubiquitous annoyance on the beaches of Padre Island, and throughout the 1950’s.

But I am grateful for the discussion – memories of years gone by ...

Dance Like EVERYONE Is Watching

In 1955, while attending Del Mar College I was required to take a Physical Education Course in my sophomore year. I had hated PE in high school, and I discussed the problem with my good friend Dale Lockwood. He suggested the Dance Class, which would satisfy the PE requirement. There we learned the waltz, rhumba, and tango — and a few others. Typical elementary dance lessons, following footprints on the floor. My skill was rather limited, and I needed practice and experience to become proficient — but it was a beginning. After that I did no dancing until 1966. After Doris divorced me, I lived in a garage apartment in Alice. One afternoon my friend Dale Lockwood drove from Corpus Christi in his new car, to collect me and take me back to CC to go dancing. A friend of Sonny’s date became my companion for the evening. We danced at a club on Ayers near Golihar. There, we sat at a table with several other couples, including Dale's sister and her date. My date soon had me doing the schottische. Jo Ann was pleased that I did so well, so quickly. I also danced with the other ladies at the table, and really enjoyed it. Sonny observed that Jo Ann and I seemed to be getting along very well, so he handed me the keys to his car, and suggested that I take my date home with me. “His sister would get him home.” When we left the dance and got into Dale's car, Jo Ann asked me where we were going. I said “To my place.” We danced all night long. I remember, while visiting Dale in Houston sometime in the early 1970’s, his current girlfriend showed up at his house. She wanted him to take her dancing. And she had a friend in tow. So the four of us went to a dance hall in the Houston port area. “Let’s take two vehicles.” The reason soon became apparent — Sonny and his date soon left to go find another form of entertainment. I modestly warned my companion that I was not a very good dancer. She was a versatile dancer, and had no problem following my unconventional lead. We were negotiating a crowded dance floor, when suddenly I looked up from my partner’s face to see that the dance floor was empty — except for one other couple, and us. I was astonished to see that the rest of the dancers were aligned around the floor, applauding the two couples who danced. I observed that the other couple was doing some very fancy routines — right out of the movies. I felt intimidated, and led my partner to our table. To my surprise, she complemented my dancing. “It’s always the ones who say they can’t dance who really know how.” There followed here a hiatus of thirty years, with no dancing. After I hooked up with Ruth in 2003 I had the pleasure of attending dances with her in a variety of formats. Mickey Davidson, married to Ruth’s cousin Joyce, hosted an annual party/dance at Moravian Hall on his birthday. At the first of these that I attended I tried to dance. Not having been on a dance floor for thirty years, I was awkward to say the least. Ruth was patient, and gently helped me around the floor. She was an excellent dancer, and guided my fumbling efforts. She also introduced me to her large group of friends and relatives. She danced with all of the men, and I was given to understand that I would dance with the wife of the man Ruth was dancing with. It was thus that I met Celeste. She was a very accomplished dancer – she led with a lock-step pattern of dance that was a continuous repetition of the same three steps. I confess, I had a hard time following her. In retrospect, I realize I should not have tried to lead. If I had learned and adopted the routine of her choice we would have done okay. She made it plain that I did not dance well. “You need to learn how to dance.” Slowly, in a progression of dance parties with Ruth, I began to learn where to put my feet. I did pretty good with the waltz, having learned while in college the one-two-three step progression. With Ruth I did quite well. With others, not so much. Most of the ladies had no interest in following my lead. So I was reluctant to “let it all out” whenever I danced with a new partner. Ruth’s very good friend Gerri was a member of the Revelaire’s Dance Club, which held monthly dances, with a live band, at Sokol Hall in Corpus Christi. The motto, emblazoned on each of the monthly invitations, was “Dance Like No One Is Watching.” Ruth and I attended, first as Gerri’s guest, then as club members. As we drove to the first of these dances Ruth explained to me that Gerri didn’t dance in the conventional fashion, but limited her style to a partner who stood and held her hand while she turned and circled around him. Therefore, Ruth suggested, I should probably not dance with Gerri. So I didn’t. Gerri sat out most of the dances, and it was a long time before I saw her dancing in the conventional style, arms around her partner. Eventually I realized that Ruth was concerned that because of my ineptitude, I would not be a good dance partner for Gerri. But after a couple of years I began to find my “sea legs”.I danced fairly well with a lot of different partners. I was flattered to be told by Gerri “Mickey, you are an excellent dancer.” At a meeting of the Revelaire’s Club officers I was introduced to the Club Treasurer. He acknowledged me by saying “Oh, yes, you’re the guy all the ladies want to dance with.” Another night, another dance, to live band music at Sokol Hall: The band was just returning to the stage, after a break. Ruth and I sat at our table, sipping our drinks. A young lady known to me only as the club secretary walked across the empty dance floor in our direction. Ruth said “She’s coming to dance with you…” I arose and walked to meet her. As we met she extended her arms, as to dance. I silently took her into my arms, and as the band struck up we danced toward the center of the floor. She had no trouble following me, and I held nothing back. I made all the moves that the music dictated. And she was with me every step of the way. Looking past her I saw that the entire dance floor was completely empty. The band was playing for just the two of us. And we danced perfectly, like we'd been together for years. I was aware of all this when she looked up and said "You're good" — and I was so taken aback that I stopped and stepped back from her to stammer "What?" She answered my question by repeating — "You're good." I re-embraced her, and we continued dancing until the band reached the end of the song they were playing. She disengaged, stepped back, and with a final glance up at me she turned away. I watched as she walked across the empty dance floor to her table. I never saw her again. I walked slowly across the empty dance floor to the table I shared with my beloved Ruth. I expected some comment from her, but she said nothing. Sitting at the table at one of the Revelaire’s dances, group discussion turned to the varying styles of dancing demonstrated by the various club members. One lady, a stranger to me (the club membership was over a hundred) made comments about the similarity of style of “... all the dancers, except for one guy who thinks he is Fred Astaire.” The comment went right over my head. Later, I reflected on it, and could not think of anyone who exhibited Astaire’s style of dancing. Years later, alone in my apartment watching movies on TV, I enjoyed Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse “Dancing in the Dark”, in the movie “Band Wagon”. I was struck by Astaire’s manner of varying his dance rhythm to conform to changes in the tempo of the music. And I suddenly realized that I instinctively do the same. And nobody else at the Revelaire’s dances ....... There, the usual style is the repetitious, unvarying progression of steps around the floor, leaving an invisible footprint trail just like the printed "footprint on the floor" instructions for learning to dance. It hit me – that long ago comment at the table at the Revelaire’s dance about Fred Astaire and style was directed at ME! I early found the endless repetition of the same set pattern of steps unacceptably boring – and I intuitively evolved a technique of following the music, with a slow entrée during the introduction to a phrase, then a rapid segue, often spinning and turning, to enter the main segment of the melody. I maintained a strict adherence to the rhythm of the music – maybe intuitive, perhaps learned in my years of playing in various bands and orchestras. My steps were like a parade of quarter notes, following the director’s baton, with an occasional half note, sometimes nuanced by the subtle arrogance of triplets ... then swirling and spinning my partner with eighth notes, to momentarily separate, then to reunite, celebrating our togetherness with a whole note. Ruth had no trouble following my technique — once she had decided to allow me to lead I was restrained when dancing with any other, "new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade." Few could follow me in my strange diversions of rhythm and style. But I am aware that the others around the dance floor watched me. In my memories, several particular occasions remain vividly pleasant. One was at a Revelaire’s Club dance at Sokol Hall in Corpus Christi. Ruth and I waltzed, dancing a circle around the outside of the large dance floor . . . to the magic of the band’s performance of the classic “Always.” There were no embellishments, no spinning of my partner out and away from me. No fancy steps. Just the delicious, whirling, turning, box step waltz, embracing my partner. We were perfectly in tune. Our mutual performance was impeccable. Another ... was at a VIP Dinner/dance at the Ortiz Center. We were seated next to the dance floor. The band opened with the introduction to Stardust. Ruth and I arose immediately, to dance from our table, across the carpet toward the dance floor. During the introduction I led Ruth in a slow, turning stroll toward the edge of the floor, with pauses at the end of each phrase. As we reached and climbed the sloping ascent to the dance floor the band slowed, then picked up the tempo and swung into “Sometimes I wonder why I spend each lonely night . . .” We whirled and turned grandly, then settled into a pattern of variable flowing steps that followed the beautiful progression of the tempo of the music. It was delightful. At a later Cotillion dance at the Alice Country Club, Ruth and I danced to a country western tune, name forgotten, that allowed us to move together while embracing tightly. It was more like making love than dancing. When the dance was over, Ruth clung to me and said “That was the most lovingly delightful dance we have ever shared.” Slowly, she released me and took my hand to lead me to our table. At the last dance I attended with Ruth, a 2013 Cotillion Dance at the Alice Country Club, the band leader lowered his baton, descended to the dance floor, and approached as Ruth and I danced by. I stopped when it became apparent that he was approaching us. His words to me will ever remain in my memory: “You, sir, are an outstandingly good dancer.” My regret is that I was so taken aback that I did not respond, as I should have:  “Ruth deserves all the credit. She helped me learn, and she does everything I do – and does it backwards.” Instead I simply mumbled my gratitude for his compliment. I wish I could recall the music we were dancing to. Please hear me – Never did I aspire to emulate Fred Astaire. His routines are much too complex, and require a much higher level of skill than I could ever hope to attain. My manner of dancing was completely my own. I never consciously thought about any other dancer's style while trying to develop and improve my own. But I enjoyed it. Even though very few could follow me. I miss it ...