Unidentified Flying

Much ado over the mysterious objects recently observed flitting about in our atmosphere.

Some there are, another said, who tell of … the certainty that any living being in that elusive craft would be squashed by the tremendous G-forces generated by the fantastic maneuvers that are observed.

Maybe that’s what killed the aliens found in the crashed craft at Roswell in 1947.

If so, that might have been the impetus that led to the development of AI manned drones.

Why should they risk the lives of living pilots when an advanced robot could explore and report back to the Mother ship?

Much like the oceanographers who explore the Mariana Trench via robot submarines from the comfort and safety of their floating lab.

Even advanced technology advances in fits and spurts.

Magic Swing, p.3

 FLOATING ORB

I SAT IN THE PORCH SWING WITH MY MORNING COFFEE IN HAND, ON A PLEASANT MORNING IN LATE SUMMER 2004. THERE WAS NO WIND.

I SAW, FLYING ACROSS FROM THE DIRECTION OF THE ROAD, A BLACK ORB ABOUT THE SIZE OF A TENNIS BALL. DEFINITELY NOT A BIRD. TOO SLOW. NO UNDULATING FLIGHT. JUST A SMOOTH MOVEMENT THROUGH THE AIR, ABOUT THREE FEET ABOVE THE GROUND.

WHEN I FIRST SAW IT, IT WAS ABOUT FORTY FEET AWAY. ITS PATH WOULD CARRY IT LEFT TO RIGHT, ACROSS MY FIELD OF VIEW. AT ITS NEAREST POSITION IT WAS NO MORE THAN TWENTY FEET AWAY FROM ME.

TWENTY-FOUR MEASURED FEET FROM MY POSITION IT STRUCK THE TOP WOODEN RAIL OF THE FENCE. SORTA GLUED ITSELF TO THE ROUND SURFACE, DISTORTING ITS OWN SPHERICAL SHAPE TO CONFORM TO THE SURFACE OF THE RAIL. IT PAUSED ABOUT TWO SECONDS, THEN AROSE AND IN ITS ORIGINAL SPHERICAL SHAPE RESUMED ITS SILENT FLIGHT, CONTINUING IN THE SAME DIRECTION.

I WATCHED, NOTING THE SMOOTH STRAIGHT LINE PROGRESS THROUGH THE STILL AIR. IT CONTINUED ACROSS THE YARD, DISAPPEARED BEHIND SOME TREES, AND WAS GONE.

I SAT IN AMAZED SILENCE, REPLAYING IN MY MIND THE VISION OF WHAT I HAD SEEN.

IT WAS SPHERICAL, EXCEPT FOR THE DISTORTION WHEN IT HIT THE FENCE.  COLOR? DARK, PROBABLY BLACK. DULL, NOT SHINY.  SOUND? ABSOLUTELY NO SOUND.  SPEED? MY BEST CALCULATED ESTIMATE, ABOUT FOUR OR FIVE FEET PER SECOND, COMPARED TO A BIRD'S FLIGHT OF ABOUT THIRTY FEET PER SECOND.

I WAS SIXTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD, WEARING GLASSES LESS THAN A YEAR OLD, IN GOOD HEALTH, RESTED, SANE, AND SOBER. NO DRUGS. NO EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS. ABOVE AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE. NOT GIVEN TO SEEING APPARITIONS OR UNIDENTIFIED OBJECTS.

WAS IT AN UNEARTHLY VISITOR – AN ALIEN?

YOU TELL ME. I DON'T KNOW.

I WROTE THIS WITHIN A FEW DAYS AFTER THE EVENT, TO ENSURE AN ACCURATE ACCOUNT. I HAVE REVIEWED IT OVER THE YEARS, AND FIND NO REASON TO RETRACT OR CHANGE ANYTHING. I HAVE NOT PUBLISHED IT BECAUSE OF THE EXPECTED INEVITABLE DISPARAGING COMMENTARY.

BUT TODAY, HERE 'TIS !

A Thin Dime

 

During 1948 - 1951 we lived at 3912 Avenue S in Galveston.

The Evans Grocery was on 39th Street at about Avenue N — and that's a wild guess. It was not close to Broadway, and it was some distance from the location of the Davy Crockett Elementary school.

Pop was working as a longshoreman. Hard physical work. Required a lot of alcohol to soothe the aches and pains. He certainly had nothing left for the grocery shopping.

Mom was experiencing serious medical problems with her varicose veins. Simply walking was for her a challenge.

That left to me the weekly shopping.

I had joined Pop when he WAS able to take care of buying groceries, and I learned how to make proper selections

Mom prepared for me a list, and gave me money to buy our necessities. No instructions necessary. I knew what to do.

She would list "Mayo" and I knew to get Salad Dressing. Looked the same, and tasted okay. The jar of mayonnaise cost 69 cents. Same size jar of salad dressing was 29 cents.

Butter? That meant the less expensive margarine. And I knew how to select the cheaper cans of vegetables. I was a competent, thrifty shopper. Mom never had any complaints when she unpacked the groceries I brought home.

Usually I rode my bicycle to get the groceries. On the upturned handlebars was the large canvas bag that held rolled up newspapers, when I helped Jimmy Weaver make his daily deliveries. That newspaper bag was perfect for the average grocery order that I brought home. Sometimes the weight of the groceries was so great that riding and steering the bike was difficult. Then, I simply walked the bike home.

One day in 1949 I made a grocery shopping trip without my bike. It was upside down in the garage, in midst of some serious disassembly and repair.

With the canvas bag over my shoulder I trundled off to the store.

A rather large order filled the bag to near overflowing. And it was HEAVY.

I struggled, carrying it for a couple of blocks. Had to set it down and rest.

As I stood in a state of anguish, unable to carry my load, I espied a bus coming down 39^th. It would turn from 39^th Street onto Avenue R, reasonably close to home.

I flagged the bus, got on and dropped the fare in the receptacle. Ten cents. One thin dime. From the change returned from the payment for groceries.

I rode in luxurious comfort along 39^th Street to my disembark at Avenue R.   I struggled to the alley that ran behind our house, and went in through the back gate.

I proudly explained to Mom what had done, how I solved the problem of a difficult transport of the too heavy load. She mentioned it to Pop when he got home from his day's labor.

Pop exploded. He resented that I had WASTED a whole dime to simply avoid walking a short distance.

He did not physically punish me. I was frightened, that he might. He spared me that. But the pain of his rebuke was severe.

The mere fact that I recall it after 72 years is an indication of its impact on my tender psyche.

I should have been tougher.

Yeah, and Mickey Rooney should have been taller.

A New Species

 

An article in the March 2019 Smithsonian magazine presented a detailed description of the multiplicity of fishes of a variety of species living in a complex intermingled assemblage in a lake in Africa. The fish are notable for their similarity, and for having evolved quickly from a common ancestor to the present day variations which compel assignment to various species.

A noted ichthyologist studying the fish in Lake Malawi has “discovered” more than 60 new cichlid species. The Lake Malawi cichlid species number over 295 — and counting.

Care is taken to identify new species on the basis of mating selection, as well as morphological features. Making careful distinction between various blue zebra-striped cichlids, taxonomists have assigned them to thirteen different species.

Upon re-reading the Smithsonian article I am given to understand that the assignment to a new and different species may be based on behavioral distinction, disregarding morphological similarities.

Emboldened by the precedent established by this policy, I am pleased to announce the identification of a new bird species. Throughout my residence in the Gulf coast area of south Texas I have been entertained by the antics of the Cattle egret, Bubulcus ibis. This beautiful white bird feeds with enthusiasm in the grass behind grazing cows, feasting on insects stirred up by their feeding activities. 

Some fifty-plus years after first observing the cattle egret, I am privileged to identify a new species. Although the morphology is virtually identical to the cattle egret of years past, the change in feeding habits justifies — as in the assertion of new species of Cichlid — assigning new speciation.

I will stand aside and let the credentialed scientists assign the formal (Binomial nomenclature ) name, but without hesitation I can supply the appropriate common name: Tractor egret — this based on my ongoing observation of the birds following behind a tractor- towed mower which was cutting the weeds in the grassy meadow adjacent to my residence. I imagine the tractor stirs up greater numbers of insects unlike those the cattle stir up, so the diet is probably different in the new egret species. Also the birds that tolerate the noise of the tractor must have evolved different nervous systems. There must be all sorts of differences that lead to the speciation I have identified.

Do you think I can publish?

A Fast Read

 

I can read a Mickey Spillane novel in a day.

I read a single episode in which I feel the fear, the heroics, the triumph, the gratification in one pass. No re-reading, no studying, no meditation. Just breeze right through it.

I experience the fear of the victim – a busty blonde, assaulted by a cliché thug … I participate in the anger and indignation of the hero (Mike Hammer), and revel in his brave intervention, and subsequent triumph over evil.

After the assailant is vanquished I delight in the girl’s gratitude, in the much needed bourbon on the rocks in a dark bar, with soft music … the inevitable invitation, the slow quiet stroll – holding hands – to her apartment …

And I thrill in the gluttonous satisfaction of my – uh, that is, of the hero’s reward.

One read through the chapter is enough to feel her softness, my hardness, to submit to the delicious intoxication of her sweaty perfume … to succumb to the obliviousness of exhaustion, the thorough satisfaction, the requisite sleep … the delicious awakening to soft murmurings of gratitude and endearment.

One read. Enough. Reading it again provides no additional insight, no further gratification. No reason to try to relive the experience. One read. Enough.

On the other hand …

I slowly read through a chapter in Lakoff’s “The Political Mind”. Then I stop, and ask myself, “What did you just read?” I re-read the chapter, and gain more understanding. And then again, and find that for clarification I must review the preceding chapter … and then plunge ahead to the next chapter, to delve into the nuances of the concepts that he is so fluently expressing.

It takes an effort.

I have to really work at it to understand what he is saying to me. And it is not a matter of vocabulary, for I know most of the language he presents. It is, rather, that the concepts are so foreign that I have difficulty “wrapping my brain around it.”

This is not such a shock. I am aware that in the hierarchy of intelligence, I am some distance from the top.

(Note that with respect to intelleck I am in the top ninety-five percent of my class.)

For example, I tried to read some of Noam Chomsky’s writing. I gave up. It is to me absolutely incomprehensible.

I tried to rationalize by telling myself that a competent writer always writes to the level of his audience. It is one thing to write for a junior high school text, another to write for an advanced academy of scholarly specialists.

“He is just not talking to me,” I opined. True enough. "But to whom is he writing to?"(sic)

I have since learned that some scholars find his output frustratingly incomprehensible.

Therefore the simple principle, that I must select from those who write to my level.

But the fruit I would pick grows just a little higher off the ground. Therefore must I reach, beyond my grasp.

And re-read. And study. And ponder.

...

..

.

And then suddenly I have a grasp of a principle that has ever eluded me, but which now provides insight, an understanding of myself that is … well, astounding!

Magic Swing, p 2

 BOLD DOVE

It was early December. Shortly after sunrise the temperature was in the low fifties.

I made a cup of coffee and sat in the porch swing, taking in the morning coolness, and soaking up the brilliant sunlight of the awakening day. I idly watched a group of dove milling around in the grass under the nearest bird feeder. They seemed to be searching, but were not eating.

Suddenly, in unison, they took flight – directly toward me. I sat in awe as three of them landed in the tree, just in front of the porch. Two more then landed on the porch rail – and one brazen individual landed on the porch and walked under the swing in which I sat.

I froze, delighted in the communion, wondering at their apparent lack of fear – what moved them to approach so close?

They remained motionless, staring at me, for perhaps thirty or forty seconds, then dismounted to walk through the flower gardens in the yard. Searching, but not finding. Finally I got their message.

I arose and got the bucket of bird seed and walked to the feeders. They were empty. As I refilled them the hungry birds fluttered nearby.

I wondered how many of my friends I'd dare to tell – that the dove had approached me to insist that I put out some more sunflower seed?

Not very many. So I will be discrete, telling only those closest to me, those who are forgiving of my eccentricities, those who will politely listen without telling me that I am deluded.

Maybe it is delusional — but I choose to believe it anyway.

WINTER

WHEN THE NORTH WIND BLOWS SO HARD THAT THE CRACKS IN THE OLD HOUSE MOAN

    LIKE A TIRED OLD GHOST OF A LOVE LONG GONE,

    MISERABLY WANDERING ALONE.

WE WILL SIT BEFORE THE FIRE, TOASTING MARSHMALLOWS OVER THE COALS.

HOT CHOCOLATE WARMS OUR BODIES AND SOULS;

POPCORN WAITS IN THE BOWLS.

WE WILL ALWAYS BE TOGETHER, FOREVER AS HUSBAND AND WIFE.

    WALKING HAND IN HAND FOR THE REST OF OUR LIFE

    THOUGH THE WORLD WITH PROBLEMS IS RIFE.

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.