Wrath Against That Quiet Night

 Do Not in Noisome Wrath Resist That Quiet Night

When comes the time for evening's quiet repose,

Maturity must show respect for those who pray

For endless life, against the dying day.

But life's own wearying burdens plainly tell

The quality of the life to be foregone — 

Should not contend, but now go on alone.

Thoughtful souls, who see their plight,

Know forlorn hope, and sad regret, 

And grant that what life gives is what you get.

Strong men, who hopefully watched ten

 Thousand suns rise, and faced each challenge anew,

Depart calmly: "I did what I had to do!"

Sad men, tired of strife, enlightened by age

Might yet resist what fate decrees,

And cry out in anger 'gainst the failing breeze.

But here, my sisters, with familiar anguish

Let me go, willingly, 

Silently, peacefully, quietly

Into that quiet night.

Mickey Basden,  2017

Why I Remember

 

I Remember

  a vMULTI- POET CONSENSUS

The pavement stones resound, as I totter o'er the ground

    With my cane.

If I should live to be the last leaf upon the tree,

    Let them smile, as I do now.

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing,

   And out of it, I know not Whither.

The best laid schemes 

    Lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I  —

    I took the one less traveled by,

For each age is a dream that is dying,

  Or one that is coming to birth

I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, put out my hand, 

        And touched the face of God.

I kiss the lips of Silence;  in the end.

   I come again unto the breast of Night.

I …  Remember ...

… And turn down an empty glass.

WHO’S CHANGING?

 WHO’S CHANGING?

Oh, No, Not Me!!

The sky is just as blue as it was when I was young. The gentle breezes of Spring and Autumn are just as soothing. A good steak, when I can manage one, remains a gustatory delight, as of old.

The haunting cry of the first flight of October geese still thrills, and the blown rain of Winter evokes the same longing for hearth and home that I felt in the 1950s.

So it certainly is not I. The changes must be apart from this old warrior.

But all around me are unpleasant innovations.

Why are the voices of the women heard on radio and TV so nasal and whiney? When I was in school, the teachers admonished us to speak in full voice, and to avoid “talking through your nose.” The trend seems now reversed.

All the channels on TV, which is my normal diversion when resting, have a background  “music” consisting of growling, noxious, grating electric guitar sounds —  often with a constant, annoying drum beat, insisting that the listener adopt an attitude of frantic attention —  which by its very presence interferes with the attempt to understand what is spoken. 

I remember when the dialogue in movies was accompanied by soft, soothing violin music – or blessed silence – thereby permitting me to hear clearly the lines of the speakers and actors. Now, due to the overwhelming volume of the background music – or noise – I frequently give up, and change channels in disgust. And often finally, in surrender to the unreasonable noise, simply turn off the TV.

Have I changed so much that I am no longer appropriate to the world around me?  Am I the only senior citizen who finds the Brave New World too intimidating?

The young women are, if anything, more beautiful; but to my perception they attain that beauty later in their life. Now, girls of eighteen are immature, not quite ripe. It takes another three or four years for them to blossom into full beauty. And they try desperately to disguise their beauty by adorning themselves with tattoos, metal studs inserted in various parts of their anatomy, and ugly clothing. I long for the conservative prettiness of years past.

I see beauty in the ladies of my own age. True, their years are showing, and some are in fact becoming faded. Even decrepit. But the youthful beauty persists, requiring only the perceptive eye of a connoisseur to appreciate it, by looking beyond the sags and wrinkles, to the beauty that is eternal. Similar is the ability to recognize the tune of a free-style improvisation of a popular old song by a Dixieland jazz band. The melody is almost hidden, but the recognizable “skeleton” of the song comes through. And the improvisations, cleverly overlaid atop the original structure, serve to improve the experience. 

Ah, the beauty of old wine! 

Where Did You Get Laid

 Where  Did You Get Laid?

A question for the egg ...

My adventures in the kitchen began in the 1940’s.

Simple things, as befit a child — like making toast for jelly. And scrambling an egg. Or sometimes, frying the egg, and having fried eggs with toast.

Often, what began as an attempt to fry eggs became preparation of scrambled eggs. If I clumsily broke the yolk while turning the egg, I then stirred it to make scrambled egg.

With practice — and a proper spatula — I became adept at turning the flipping eggs.

I also enjoyed flipping pancakes, and reveled in tossing them higher than really necessary, just to watch them turning in the air. Me and the skillet and the egg turner became well acquainted, through the decades — the fifties through the  noughties saw me expanding my cooking techniques.

Then, in the second decade of the twenty-first century I hit a wall. Suddenly I absolutely could not turn an egg in the skillet without damaging it. The beautiful over easy fried eggs that I remembered simply were no more.

I sought thinner spatulas. I tried different skillets. Although I abhor them I even bought one of the coated non-stick griddles.

Still the eggs come apart when I try to turn them.

I studied the process … and observe that the egg, freed from the eggshell onto the eager pan does not pool, in a thick, viscous puddle of egg white surrounding the yolk, as I recalled them doing in years past. The egg white seems watery, and spreads out as if fleeing the company of the yolk. And the errant egg white cooks into a thin, transparent membrane that is suitable only for discarding.

I am reluctant to present the appearance of a conspiracy theorist. But I am stumped.

Bumfuzzled. Dismagaligumfricated.

And with a sad, resigned awareness I accept that much of the merchandise that we so eagerly consume is imported from far and distant lands  —  and is in many ways inferior to what we have enjoyed in the past. 

In an earlier essay I counted the number of eggs frying in my skillet — and concluded that nowadays chickens and eggs are smaller.

Today it is confirmed.

I put eggs from a new carton — the package marked Grade A Large — into the 3 quart stew pot, to boil them. Anticipating deviled eggs. Yum!

To my surprise, the pot that last month could hold only nine eggs, snuggled around the bottom, now has room for the entire DOZEN eggs!

I wonder  — are the eggs for my kitchen laid in China?

 

Wester egg hunt

 Trying to locate a reference article that had caught my attention several years ago.  Couldn't find it in my files, so I searched the internet.  I searched using various configurations of wording that might title the review.  Google did not find it.

Tried the BING  search engine—  thinking that maybe a different search engine might have better luck.

No bang from BING.

Tried YAHOO.

Yahoo simmered and sputtered.  Then it delivered the desired article.  

Yippee!  Wow!!  Hurray!

Good to know that looking in another direction is worth trying.

Life is Good!

 

Life is Good!

It's about three o'clock in the morning. My collection of photographs brings sad happiness. Memories. She was beautiful … I survive in my cozy nook by meditating and relaxing. In my hygge.

It's about chocolate.

It is about alcohol; it's about sinful pleasures ... I enjoy a cup of coffee, with a slug of chocolate syrup and a shot of vodka.

It's about coziness and comfort that engender a feeling of contentment and well being.

My TV provides music, and visual diversion …

Willie Nelson, brought to me by YouTube, sings of lost loves …

I share his happy sadness. Stardust.

Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald immerse me in the ecstasy of their new love. Such is the intensity of their blending that my eyes water...  Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life. 

I am content.

And happy.

Life is Good!

Capital Solution

 Late last night a group of Democratic leaders met to discuss the immigration problem, and particularly the Republican tactic of bussing unqualified persons, not even registered to vote, to DC, and NYC, and Chicago.

The consensus was the recommendation that immigrants, in numbers proportional to each recipient state's population, be bussed from the border of Mexico to the capital city of each of the fifty states. 

Ice cream at midnight

 Some while back I thought it desirable to read some of “The Great Writers” ...

The "Classics."  

So in 2016 I bought an assortment of books, and set for myself a schedule.

I planned to read at least one — maybe two, each year.

...plans … gang aft agley  …

The pristine books lean in virginal splendor on my shelf.

I continually rebuke myself … 

“You should READ...”

But in fairness I note that mine eys have seen their glory … they now submit to the ravages of approaching old age. 

I'm only 85 —  I should be able to do better . . . I should read before I grow old. 

Who'm I fooling?  I'm already too old.

But I have made a compensating discovery.

YouTube is an acceptable alternate source of knowledge.

While I don't find anyone to read to me from Plato, I am able to hear the commentaries of men of great perception and intelligence.

Jordan Peterson.  Victor Davis Hanson.  And others.

Their insightful analysis provides understanding that has eluded this old man's failing brain.

It is perhaps a manifestation of the theme of my blog post “Midnight Snack.”

But I shall feast on a bowl of ice cream with cookies in the form of philosophical dissertations on society and politics. 

Nutrition serves the brain as well as the body.

Defense for a Jogger

 

When I was boating I always had with me a life preserver to protect my life.

Isn't there something that a solitary woman jogger could carry with her to provide protection?

ALCOHOL DEPENDENCE

 ALCOHOL DEPENDENCE

A friend recently confided a concern about becoming dependent on alcohol. 

I, too, am concerned about becoming dependent. The specter of alcoholism is particularly fearsome because of a family member's alcoholism.

Naw, I’m not concerned about it – I am already dependent. But that’s not the same as being an alcoholic.

To me, in my case, being dependent means relying on whiskey to provide relief from pain – either physical or psychological.

“Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget ...” 

          The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

I usually have a shot of bourbon in my morning coffee, due to waking up with Arthr1, and frequently I have no more until the next day. Sometimes I will have another late in the day.  

And sometimes I get kinda blue …thinking about my beloved Lady, my parents, my son, or my life-long hunting buddy... all departed … and I will find surcease in a couple of shots of vodka.

I have observed that there is a unique, unpleasant physical sensation of pressure in my head that accompanies the “blues”, and a drink – or two – will relieve the pressure and restore my usual carefree indifference to my situation.

That is dependence.

Alcoholism is – well, like the SCOTUS justice said about pornography, “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.” (I always wondered at the extent of his “seeing it…”)

Alcoholism, by my definition, is the ongoing, excessive use of alcohol, to the extent that it negatively impacts a person’s relations with those around him, or his function in society.

So I try to avoid more than a couple of drinks in any one day. And I avoid driving for several hours if I’ve had any – even one.

Let’s lift our glasses high !! 

Alien Snakes

 Some time back I  bought a small ranch in south Texas.  Lots of snakes. Killing ‘em when I met ‘em. Hanging their carcasses on the fence.

Visit from an old friend, from my college days.

I hold him in great respect, for he is more intelligent than I — and certainly more in tune with nature.

Indignant that I should wantonly kill so many of God’s creatures, he implored me to quit killing the snakes.

“But some of them are poisonous — dangerous.” I replied.

“Then learn to identify the poisonous snakes, and spare the non-poisonous.” He was insistent.

Did. Learned to identify the ubiquitous rattlesnakes, copperheads under the oak trees, water moccasins down by the tank, and the rare and beautiful coral snake.

Removed them from my ranch, welcomed all others.

Made my friend happy.

Until recently. 

I learned that many people with more money than sense were buying poisonous exotic ( read foreign) snakes, imported by pet stores, and unfortunately — and presumably unintentionally — releasing them.

And the snakes adapt. And propagate. And some are dead ringers for some of our non-poisonous snakes.

A specific example: there is a native Texas snake, species unknown to me, a slender green snake, about a foot long, harmless  ... in 1950 I had one which entertained me by crawling into and out of my shirt.   

That was okay until it made an appearance while I was in the kitchen, standing near my Mother. Well, all three of us survived. But I didn’t take the snake into the house again.

Now I have information (isn’t the internet wonderful?) that a certain exotic, identical in appearance to my playmate of years long since, has been released and established itself in the wild, —  is propagating across the Gulf coast ... and is deadly poisonous!

The snakes were imported by a dealer in Florida, and eagerly purchased by lunatics who value the possession of a deadly snake. 

I won’t comment on that mentality — but it certainly is regrettable that the snake is now loose in the United States. A utility worker in Florida was bitten by one, with serious result.

About 20 years ago a COBRA escaped into the wild in Alabama. Not recovered.

How many other exotics are out there —  and may be indistinguishable from our native non-poisonous varieties?

So now, I’m back to killing any snake that I encounter on my ranch.

 Certainly we should, as the Donald suggests, prohibit the importation of foreign snakes. 

But there remains a concern for those already in our country.  And until there is a valid LITMUS TEST to identify those that are dangerous, all snakes must be regarded as potentially dangerous. 

Fishing Truths

An Ol' Timer Galveston fisherman's Words of Wisdom:

“When the wind's from the East the fish bite the least . . . 

When the wind's from the West the fish bite the best !!“

"Live shrimp will catch more specs ... but a silver spoon with a yellow bucktail is a lot more fun . . ."

And an addendum from a reader:

    And my favorite from my wise fishing partner...'You can't catch a fish if your hook's not in the water!'

Thanks, Debbie

Words of Wisdom redux

 

 Words of Wisdom was a blog post on my site on November 10, 2021.

It is repeated here in compliance with my stated intent to share nominations by my readers of worthy expressions of wisdom and philosophy . . .

Of which there is a decided paucity. The comment appended to the post reveals the only response. Thank you, Debbie.

In any population there are characteristics which manifest across a spectrum.

One of these properties is wisdom. It is distributed by an indifferent nature in a wide range of capabilities. Some functioning groups assume an air of superiority that is not always justified. A particular profession is noted as presuming to be “just a little lower than the angels.” Vocal critics may challenge that self-aggrandisement.

Authors — those who wrote books intended to be consumed by the general public — display a span of competence. Some unabashedly borrow from the intellect of others.

Novels that I have read which put forth a gem of wisdom include “The Heart of Danger” by Howard Pease:

“Go straight to the heart of danger, for there you will find safety.” (Chinese Proverb)

Another is the Basuto proverb presented in “Something of Value” by Robert Ruark.

“If a man does away with his traditional way of living and throws away his good customs, he had better first make certain that he has something of value to replace them.”

These enduring axioms have lived in my soul for decades.

Invitation to my readers: if you can provide a preface of worth from a book you've read, please quote it in the comments. I will list submissions in a future blog.

Comments:

Debbie said…

I love this one quote, "Writing lets us live life twice -- once physically and once interpretively." by Alan J. Wright

November 10, 2021

Malted Nostalgia

 

In those long ago, almost forgotten days before Dairy Queen we found our debauch at the soda fountain in the corner drug store.

While the favored definition of “soda fountain” in current reference material points to the array of faucets that dispense various flavors of carbonated beverages, sixty or seventy years ago the term referred to the counter lined with swivel stools that occupied one side of the drugstore.

In the contextually accurate movie “The Music Man” we see Professor Howard Hill and Marian the Librarian seated at the soda fountain counter in the “pubic emporium” enjoying their beverages.

We, the young people in our neighborhood, ordered such favorites as cherry Coke, chocolate malts and vanilla milkshakes.

The Cokes cost a nickel, and the milkshakes were twenty-nine cents. The malts carried a premium price of thirty-nine cents.

Yesterday I was out and about in the mid-afternoon heat, and chose to treat my self to a chocolate malt.

Haven't enjoyed one for many years.

I anticipated an increase in the cost, in comparison to the long ago price. I was prepared to maybe pay as much as a dollar or two. I gave the clerk a five dollar bill, and took my change . . . thirty-six cents.

The malt was delicious. The memories were awesome. The lesson in economics was intimidating. And dismaying.

MIDNIGHT SNACK

 I grow older. My joints creak. My water is weak, and my eyes are dim. I hear faint footsteps behind me —  remote, soft and mysterious. I feel a chill wind at my back, and I sense the presence of a shadowy, hooded being who waits, patiently, as the fisherman who knows no haste, secure in knowing that the fish will soon come to him.

So that while I push myself to study, in haste to satisfy the hunger for knowledge, I ask myself, “Why do you bother? Would it not make more sense to relax?  Soul, ...  take thine ease,  knowing and accepting the imminent closure? All the knowledge that you today so eagerly seek will be lost, will go for naught.” 

Yet I must continue my quest. I have a stack of books that await my eager perusal. They are filled with wisdom from many who have gone before, and my regret is that I waited so long to sip from this precious spring.

My intellectual curiosity is a strange thing. It compels me – always has – to seek the how, and the why. The more I know, the more I must learn. Each new vista, standing atop the shoulders of much older and wiser men, inspires curiosity anew, leads me to greater urgency, and increased awareness of my own low worth. For so often have I read in the latest new book the expert’s revelation of the secrets and details of some obscure, arcane principle I had attempted, in my own feeble way, to understand and explain.

I desire pardon, to have the record of my greatest offense —  ignorance —  expunged from my record. Not for the sake of having others look and find no indictment, but for my own pride and satisfaction in creating a useful and admirable body of work. My efforts will never be published, and much of it is soon dated by the changing tides of research and world events, and therefore worthless. But there is delight and gratification in the vindication, the validation of insights —  obvious to me —  which seem to have escaped others. 

I remember the first time I read True Believer, by Eric Hoffer.  I was stricken with a sense of awe, for he placed in cogent phrase the things which had been ever before me, and were yet not seen. What miraculous construction gave his eyes the power to extract meaning, where mine saw only a blank? And wondrous the motivation that drove him to put in writing the explanation so needed, so eagerly consumed, so graciously accepted.

That I might serve to but a fraction of the attainment of Hoffer would be the only necessary justification of my efforts. I must persevere. I could as well sit at the table and decline to eat, saying that it would go for nothing, because day is done and the night is upon us. If I can enjoy but one more meal, I shall eat heartily. And if my outflow of expression illumes but one furrowed brow, it will not have been in vain.

Mitchell     Jan 23,2011                                            

Arrogance of Power

 

Mere consumers seeking services from/by the powerful — ordinary citizens eager to pay for the privilege of becoming a customer, tenant or patient, are required to sign an agreement binding them to provisions that are arbitrary, and egregiously favorable to the company or doctor, and to the significant disadvantage of the consumer.

for example:

“We have the right to assume that any letter we send to you is received”

“If we place a notice on the door of your apartment we have the right to assume that you have received it.”

The two above provisions suggest that a company may impose legal requirements and obligations without actually notifying the client. Or even trying to. They may simply assert the document was sent — and that's that.

“You agree to accept any treatment or medication that we propose for you.”

This stipulation by a medical provider is in violation of the accepted principle of a patient's right to refuse any treatment.

“In the event of a dispute between the parties of this contract you agree to arbitration in lieu of legal proceedings n a court of law.”

This imposes on the consumer a process which is regarded by some as a device to force the victim – uh, the client — to meekly submit to the will and power of the mighty.

“Arbitration clauses ... require parties to waive their rights to a jury trial. ... opponents of arbitration condemn the clauses for limited appeal options, allowing large corporations to effectively silence claims through 'private justice.' "

                                                                                                From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

My personal reaction to these impositions is an impotent fury. I have not consulted a doctor for years. And if I sign an agreement containing such as the above it is with reluctance — recognizing that my choice is to abandon all hope as I enter there.

“All hope abandon ye who enter here.” From Dante Alighieri's allegorical epic poem 'Divine Comedy'

BEWARE

 “In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.”

from Eisenhower's Farewell Address, 1961; oft paraphrased as 

“Beware the military-industrial complex.”

Updated by Victor Davis Hanson:

“ … Beware the military-industrial, intelligence, and investigative complex.”

from Victor Davis Hanson Diagnoses The Dying Citizen

@ timestamp 28:22/49:13

Nov 3, 2021

Confession

 I have sinned.

As I read these three  words I have just now written I recognize that they are simplistically naive and redundant

For when have I ever NOT sinned?

Which demands that I decide WHAT CONSTITUTES SINNING? in context of my declaration.

So I turn to Google. There I am immersed in lengthy discussion and definition.

Didn't really learn anything new.

So I return to my confession.

No, no — not that kind of confession. I am not Catholic.  Not even religious.

My sin of the moment is a violation of a self-imposed rule — that I must avoid, or at least limit  the consumption of sugar.  Because it has noticeable harmful effects on my physical well being.

So I forego the delight of cookies and cake.  But, oh, how I love chocolate!

Like an old song that keeps playing in my mind, my consciousness is infected by a craving.  A remorseless demanding, longing  . . . for Oreo cookies.

After long, interminable restraint I yielded.  I bought a package, wrapped in blue, and set about to satiate my longing.

I placed the Oreos on my dining table, and lustfully gazed in delicious anticipation at the illustration on the package. Carefully, with a sharp knife, I slit the wrapper, and opened it like an eager husband undressing his bride. I gazed upon the three rows of brown, crispy cream filled sandwiches, inviting me, tempting me …

I shall eat but one.

It will eat only one .

I will not eat more than one.

And when I was done I realized that the row of Oreos which I so quickly consumed had contained fifteen cookies.

Amen.

Fill your Soul with Joy

Question posed by another blogger, who is an entertaining writer and a marvelous student of nature:

“And so I wonder, what do you do to fill your soul with joy?”

 I find joy while in my hygge . . .  sipping a cup of coffee with cream, sugar, and vodka . . .

  Rereading poems such as 

   The Raven

     Daffodils

      The Last Leaf

       The Cloud

       ...(from One Hundred and One Famous Poems, a volume given to me in 1949  by my father) . . . 

        The Old Lawman

                (written by an old man in his retirement years . . . )

 .  . . while listening to Beethoven or Tchaikovsky . . . 

                . . . and the sibilant sighing and the awesome aroma of the romantic rain . . .      especially effective if there's a steady rain and my window's open.

It's inspirational!

Rejoice

 

Don't grieve because she's gone — rejoice that she came.

Don't decry your wrinkled crepe skin and your skinny arms and legs — be glad that you're walking and breathing.

Grieve not that you lost your son — enjoy the happy memories rather than the sad regrets.

And if the road is near to its end remember the good times. It has been a great life.

Galveston Mem'ries

I have previously explained how I wait for spontaneous inspiration from the mysterious realm of . . . ??   I have no idea from whence comes my ingenious vision . . .  I simply accept the sudden brilliant, creative, or timely idea.  It may be a revelation, a solution for a nagging problem — or to an unanswerable question.

The aha moment demands immediate translation, from thought to written declamation.  The arrogance of the belief that one's thoughts are worth sharing guides me to, first, a soliloquy — testing the concept, trying it on for size — anticipating the response from presumed readers. 

 I have on occasion tumbled a momentous collage of revelations in the rotating drum of the dryer of my mind, convinced that I had the stupendous formulation of insight and explanation that the world awaits —  only to completely forget — so that when I prepare to commit to writing, I absolutely cannot recall that topic of such great importance.

I then calmly recommend to myself an attitude of tolerance —  of the fallibility of an aging mind.  I calmly let go the metaphorical bludgeon that I threatened to use to destroy, in a fit of rage, everything in sight.

Calm acceptance is what is needed. And I manage to achieve it.  But the resentment —  directed inward — remains.

Only rarely do I, at this time, pour an ounce — carefully measured in a shot glass, for only an alcoholic would drink directly from the bottle — to acquire the chemical suppression of the unwanted emotion.

I abhor the morning TV shows with an array of talkative women addressing the issues of the day, and solving the problems of the world. 

Somehow on this particular morning I listened, and found in the running commentary of Today With Hoda & Jenna a hint of an idea.

The question was presented “Do you remember the first time you held hands?”

That would seem a trivial concept  But strangely it summoned a memory of Galveston, and conflict and confusion.

Galveston.  Winter, 1946 – 47.  Sidewalk along Avenue S, west from 42nd Street.

Yes, Virginia, there is another 42nd Street. Loaded with childhood memories. Seven blocks to the beach at 39th Street. The seawall, the surf. Seashells. Seagulls. Groins, extending hundreds of feet into the Gulf.  Graveled streets intersecting paved Avenues. Rostrum of saw-fish, displayed on so many garages that they were not worth a second glance. Five cent Coca-Colas in six ounce bottles. Cap pistols. Yo-yos.  Baby giant firecrackers, for just a nickle at Klater's Drug Store. The Rabbi Henry Cohen, resplendent in black  … hanging out …  decorating and patrolling the sidewalk around the drug store, greeting passersby. 

                            The Rabbi Henry Cohen in front of Klater's

A girl next door, with raven black hair.   “A Rose Must Remain” playing ad nauseam on the radio. Roller skates.  

Ah, yes —  roller skates — under the figurative Christmas Tree.  Figurative, because a Christmas Tree was a privilege reserved for the affluent —  not for poor people.  In our apartment over the drug store I and the older of my two sisters each got a gift “from Santa.”  My youngest sister was almost two, but too young to expect a gift.

My 1946 bounty was a pair of skates. Screw down clamps that gripped the sole of the shoe to hold the skate securely to the foot. A leather strap around the ankle. 

Steel wheels with ball bearings — providing the next best thing to flying!

Having mastered the balance required, on that cold overcast day I flew along the sidewalk to 43rd Street, and back again.  And repeat. 

Suddenly I was not alone.  A neighbor, a girl of twelve, joined me.  She skated alongside me.  And she HELD MY HAND! 

When I was much older I learned and appreciated the meaning of holding hands with a girl — and enjoyed that fulfillment even into my ninth decade of life. But at the age of eight it was merely a curiosity. A novel experience. A strange sensation.  I distinctly recall the confusion I felt.  No sense of either revulsion or pleasure.  I did not resist, or object to her holding my hand.  If that was what she wished, it was okay with me.  But it sure did feel funny. 

And it feels funny to have the topic of verbosity such as this emerge from one of those morning TV shows. 

But I accept bounty from any source. 

Things I did I shoulda didn't

 

Things I  shouldn't have did

1. Sleeping on the ground in rattlesnake country.

At a place west from Three Rivers, north about half way to Jourdanton on Hwy 16 I encountered some huge rattlers:

• 1972 a six footer plus, on trip with Bob Emisson.

• another, about six feet — Stan milked the eggs.

(You can read details of these in my “Rattlesnakes I Have Known.”)

And just up the road, near Uvalde, I spread my sleeping bag on the ground beside the fire and slept soundly all night, on a 1967 hunting trip w/ Stan Russell, Bill Johnston, Cecil Polvado, and Andy Quillan

2. Running alongside a pig to kill it. It had run into the road in front of Stan's truck the night we were returning from a lease near Freer. The hog was injured, but not dead. Turning and spinning around in the road, I perceived that it was a traffic hazard. I chose to terminate it, for the sake of safety to oncoming traffic. I walked toward it, and it ran toward the far side of the road. I ran beside it, nearly touching it, with my leg near its body. It was a large pig — a hog, about 12” across its shoulders, two feet high, and four feet long. A big animal. Knowing now of the tusks they carry, and the damage that they can inflict I regard it as foolish to have run so close alongside it. I was lucky that it didn't turn and hook me — either when I approached, or when I reached down with my forty-four, held in my left hand, nearly touching the pig's shoulder, and shot it in the middle of its back.

3. Swimming out in the bay along the jetty. At night. I knew that the Bob Hall Pier shark fishermen chose to put their baited rigs out at night because that is when the sharks are feeding!

Summer night. Calm, warm water. I fearlessly swam alongside the jetty on North Beach out to the area where the water was about eight feet deep.

Luminescent organisms saturated the water, and illuminated my every splash and kick. I was fascinated, and entertained. And lucky. For there well may have been sharks in the water.

I had watched a 13 foot Great White swim across the beach from the 39^th street groin to the 37^th street groin in three foot deep water.

 And I saw a fisherman pull in a three foot bull shark, fishing near the shore from the 61st Street pier, in water eight inches deep. Sharks go where they can. In water deep enough for them to swim.

From the perspective of age, experience, and acquired knowledge I shudder at the memory of some of my exploits. And I am grateful for the guardian angels that rode on my shoulders.

Which VAX is safe?

When the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines were first offered for vax agin Covid, this old man declined, protesting that “my DNA has been in our family for a long time...”

Suggesting my fear that the mRNA product just MIGHT screw up my jeans.  Uh, genes.  Whatever.

I endured the ongoing rebuke of the experts. They proclaimed that such incursion was impossible  —  providing an intimidating detailed explanation of the mechanism by which the mRNA vaccine is utilized in our tender bodies.

This presentation was intended to reassure, and to denigrate doubters like me.

I persisted —  waiting until the J&J vaccine was introduced.  Only THEN did this old man submit to the needle.  Frequent ongoing statements by EXPERTS continued to attempt to convey that the mRNA vax was safe —  and that the J&J was inferior.

 Now comes this:

Findings conflict with CDC’s claim that vaccine never enters nucleus

WND News Center

Contrary to the CDC’s claim that the mRNA COVID-19 vaccines do not “change or interact with your DNA in any way,” a new Swedish study finds Pfizer’s shot goes into liver cells and converts to DNA. It’s the first time that researchers have shown in vitro – or inside a petri dish – how an mRNA vaccine is converted into DNA on a human liver cell line, It’s precisely what health experts and fact-checkers said for more than a year could not occur. Dr. Peter McCullough, an internist, cardiologist and epidemiologist who is one of the leading critics of the COVID vaccines, said the findings have “enormous implications of permanent chromosomal change” that could drive a “whole new genre of chronic disease.”

This is a single excerpt from one of the many such articles.  A search on  

“New study from Sweden suggests, Pfizer mRNA does indeed integrate into our DNA”

will return a plethora of similar articles. Followed by indignant protestations and refutations.  My perception is that there may be some attempts to persuade us by gross distortion and outright lies. I don't know who to trust.  Do You???

On the Head of a Pin

I awake. . .

It is two o'clock in the afternoon of Tuesday, March the eighth of the year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty two.

Which may be, in the final analysis, a meaningless assignment of precise designation of specificity for the moment in an endless and infinite stream of moments.

As my emerging consciousness grasps the reality of my circumstance I find that the YouTube video that I was viewing when I fell asleep at dawn has yielded to a successor, in which learned scholars debate the relative worth of the prognostications of a long gone scientist named Darwin in comparison and contrast to a cultist belief that the current state of biological development is surely the result of the decisions and desires of an intellectual entity with absolute, infinite and purposeful intent.

After a lengthy and somewhat circular discussion around the search for a “Prime Mover” with a side topic regarding the incomprehensible nature of the force we call Gravity the speaker opened the floor to questions from the audience.

A gentleman whose faded hair proved his aged state rambled about philosophers named Aristotle and Socrates, then dismissed them as irrelevant. He then plucked a pin from his tunic —  and regarded it as significant to the discussion at hand. He wondered aloud whether it had been crafted by hand in the plodding efforts of an individual who made them one at a time, or if it was the product of a mechanized facility which produced them by the thousands — and then suspiciously speculated that the source might have been in a far off land, across the seas, where a strange language deified communications with present company … then held he it high and regarded its head.

“I wonder how many angels ...”

A minion of the presenters of the lecture snatched the microphone from the old man, and restored order to the proceedings.

Yet his point had been made . . .  for in the end, what was the benefit of the verbose investigation into the reality of being, when outside in the real world there were those lacking shelter, in need of medical care, and in some cases hungry for their daily bread?

There arises an awareness of priorities and importance.

Are we losing focus?

Wears WHAT ?

"Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy; But not expressed in fancy - rich, not gaudy. For the apparel oft proclaims the man."

William Shakespeare, 'Hamlet,' Act I, Scene iii 

So, tell me — what, then, proclaims the dress of one who wears blue jeans and a suit coat ? ?

Hygge

 Fear of the Covid Pandemic compels isolation. Hygge renders isolation tolerable.

I survive in my cozy nook by meditating and relaxing. In my hygge.

“ … hygge is about chocolate, it is about alcohol, it is about sinful pleasures ... a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well being.” 

 In my apartment I have created for myself an atmosphere of hygge. I work at making my abode pleasingly comfortable.

Admittedly my attention to housekeeping lags … but I manage. My physical limitations have reduced my efforts … but I still vacuum regularly. Twice a year. In the Fall I vacuum the open areas — but in the Spring I move the furniture, to vacuum under everything.

My hygge nook is centered on my recliner, facing my TV (which provides both music, and visual diversion), with the requisite textile ambiance of quilts and pillows on my nearby bed.

I have a salt lamp — a gift from a dear friend, long gone. Its soft orange glow  provides a mood, an atmosphere, that is relaxing.

Beside me is my morning cuppa, a tradition of mine for many years. It usually is coffee with cream — frequently augmented with either chocolate syrup, or a shot of vodka. Or both. On random occasions I”ll have a cup of Earl Grey. Sans sugar or other contaminants.

The aroma of my slow cooker, working all morning to create for me the pot roast that will feed me for several days, evokes memories of life in my parents' home, and Mom's cooking. Nostalgia is an essential component of my hygge. Therefore the photos on the walls, and the mementoes scattered about.

I have my books. Many that I have read, and re-read. And a whole row of new books waiting to be read — when I get around to getting new glasses.

Music completes the scene. I am grateful for YouTube. It augments my personal collection of music, providing such otherwise inaccessible selections as Vivaldi's Oboe concerti that are now back-grounding my morning.

The weather outside is cold and miserable — but beautiful. Every day is beautiful, because it begins in and flows from my hygge and into the totality of my existence.

I am content.

Football Commercials

 

Throughout the 2021 – 2022 season I watched a few of the NFL games. Tampa Bay, and the Cowboys.

In the context of this commentary, I would describe the TV coverage as “football with some commercials.”

Along comes the Superbowl. I sat down to enjoy some good football.

Before the end of the first half, I turned away and watched a movie.

Because what I observed was “commercials with some football.”

I understand the “Why” of the increase in the number of commercials — but I don't have to endure ...

College admission based on race?

 Definitely!  

Any competitor who can race 40 yards in 5 seconds should be admitted ...

Washington and Lee

 

Q: Why was the statue of Robert E Lee taken down?

A: Because he was seen as emblematic of the institution of slavery.

Q: Did George Washington own slaves?  Yes!

... George Washington inherited enslaved people at the early age of eleven. ... As a young adult, Washington purchased at least eight more enslaved people ...

https://www.google.com/search?=did+george+washington+own+slaves%3F&oq=did+george+

washington+own+slaves%3F&aqs=chrome..69i57.13155j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

Greater Q: When is the Washington Monument coming down?

A: hmmmmmm !!!

To Vax or Not to Vax

 

The fundamental question seems to be simply

“Does Government have the right/duty to impose vaccinations for dangerous disease?”

I lack the intellect to present a meaningful answer.

Nor would I know whether to cut the baby in half . . .

But with regard to the vaccine question I will note that universal immunization may be the salvation of humanity — and that universal freedom to decline the vaccination may result in massive die-offs, and possibly the extinction of our species.

The logical analysis seems to revolve around this:

Which is the greater risk — taking the vaccine to acquire immunity, or refusing the inoculation and risking a fatal infection?

And if refusal by a significant percentage of society threatens an overwhelming scourge of fatal infection, does SOCIETY have the right to require compliance?

To quote Alfred P Dooittle:

“I put it to ya … an' I leave it to ya.”

from “My Fair Lady”

Sirhan Sirhan

 

RFK assassin Sirhan Sirhan will remain in prison — and well he should.

That he is an extreme danger to society is demonstrated by the reported facts that he

• Shot RFK in the back of the head while they faced each other from twenty feet.

  and

• he managed to get off 13 shots, without reloading, from an 8 shot revolver.

Westminster Postponed

 "Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show postponed due to Covid."

Saddens me. I enjoy viewing the various breeds, and while some really don't look, to me, like a dog, I enjoy seeing the familiar and beloved.

Having nothing to distract in the morning television, my mind took to wandering — and pondering.

Why, I wondered, should a particular dog, of a particular breed, be judged as superior to another? Are they not of the same species? And thereby entitled to equality of assessment?

My personal dislike for the toy dogs should not prejudice me in any respect. And yet it does. The pointers, which are my favorites, have marginal superiority in my view over other hunting species.  But some other varieties are relegated to positions of disdain, or outright disgust. Purely on the basis of their appearance.

Seems unfair. If this were to be submitted to judicial review, methinks 'twould be decided in favor of a principal of absolute equality – at least of opportunity. To be judged on the content of their charac — that is, based on their capability to provide their owner with the affection that all crave.

copied from the Internet:

The Original Bambi: The Story of a Life in the Forest, by Felix Salten, in its new translation by Jack Zipes, will be published on 18 January by Princeton Press

By writing a story about animals and wildlife, Salten could get past the negative preconceptions and prejudices many of his readers held about Jews and other minorities: “It enabled him to talk about the persecution of the Jews as freely as he wanted to.” Without being didactic, he could encourage the reader to feel more empathy towards oppressed groups – and Bambi could openly question the cruelty of their oppressors. “Many other writers, like George Orwell, chose animals too because you’re freer to tackle problems that might make your readers bristle. And you don’t want them to bristle, you want them to say, at the end: this is a tragedy.”

Legal Ease

 I am not involved in The Law.

     Legislatures make The Law.

     Judges interpret The Law.

     Attorneys argue The Law.

     Cops enforce The Law.

I sit in abject fearful submission to the whims of all of them. They, and their legalese¹ have the power to destroy.

Dare I comment? Well. You know me … daring to go where wise men do not tread.

Today I read of a jury's decision to find guilt on charges of malice murder, felony murder, aggravated assault, false imprisonment and criminal attempt to commit a felony.

The U.S. Supreme Court has a rule that juries must consider lesser included offenses in capital murder cases. This law’s idea is that imposing the death penalty is unconstitutional when juries are not allowed to consider lesser included offenses.

The 1980 case that created this rule involved an Alabama law that prohibited judges from giving juries the option of convicting on lesser included offenses when the death penalty was applied. Before the Supreme Court ruling, Alabama juries in these situations had to either impose the death penalty or acquit the defendant.

That Supreme Court holding plainly states “... must consider lesser included offenses.”

To my uneducated but opinionated way of thinking that does NOT mean “must also find … guilty of lesser included offenses.”

Seems to me that the practice of convicting on the maximum charge and also on the lesser charges violates the proscription against double jeopardy. (means that if a person is ... convicted ... cannot be punished again for that (same) criminal act.)

1 the formal and technical language of legal documents that is often hard to understand.

A Memo from a friend

The following was sent to me by a long-time friend and hunting companion shortly before he died:

 I had a reputation across South Texas as the pre-eminent stock maker. Choosing good wood, finishing it to perfection with 20 LPI checkering. The pride of ownership of a rifle with a Bill Johansen stock brought me many customers.

I bought, per the customer's preference, an action, a barrel, and wood for the stock. And combined them to create a functional work of art.

Most chose a Douglas barrel. Some opted for a Shilen, while a smaller minority asked for a Hart.

I helped the customer decide which action to use. Some insisted on a military surplus, such as a Mauser or the '03A3, for sentimental reasons. I used more Remington actions than any other to build rifles.

I mounted the customer's choice of scope. Seems like most wanted a high power variable. The more experienced chose a fixed power. A few even refused to install a scope.

Strange are the motivations of rifle shooters.

The set up of the barrel and action was routine and straight forward. I passed on the cost of the hardware with only a small markup.

I made my profit on the stocks.

Some of my customers had me sight in the gun. The more gun-savvy shot in their own.

 

It was mid-August when they first entered my shop behind my home in Alice. 

 Suits. At first I thought that they were BATF. But they were unaffiliated.

They declined to disclose any association. But they got my attention by handing me a thousand dollars in fifty dollar bills, just for thirty minutes of my time.

They explained to me what they wanted: A rifle built on or like an M-14.  Semi auto, twenty round mags, four power Weaver or Leupold scope, chambered for the Italian military 6mm.

I had a few questions. They answered all that were technical in nature, but adamantly refused to discuss purpose.

I deliberately quoted an unreasonably high price, so that I'd have room to negotiate. To my surprise they accepted my price.

They designated a date for delivery — that is for pickup by their people: October 15, 1963. No delay. And they would be inquiring for progress reports every two weeks.

“Would that be acceptable?”

Well, it would be cutting into my seasonal rush for deer hunters. But at the price they agreed to, I would manage.

More: They provided a box of commercially loaded 6mm ammo. And a surplus Italian military rifle.

"Can you remove the barrel from this surplus rifle, and use it on the gun you assemble?"

I assured them that it was doable, but would diminish the value and appearance of the finished gun.

They reassured me, "Not a problem."

“You wll wear gloves to handle the rifle and ammo. No fingerprints. As you assemble the weapon you are making, you will wipe every part as you assemble the gun — no fingerprints. Is that clear?”

I nodded.

“Acceptable?”

I agreed.

“You will sight in the rifle you create, zeroed at 100 meters, and provide us the target for record. Acceptable group size is to be five shots in 100 mm. You will wrap the rifle in plain wrapping paper for pickup.”

"Okay."

I prepared the weapon as specified, and had it ready for pickup on October 1^st. They paid me in anonymous fifty dollar bills, and took the rifles, with no comment or question.

You are doubtless speculating on the probable use and destination of that gun. Don't think that I haven't gone there, many times. I  thought of contacting authorities; but due to the circus of the Warren commission I decided that the better course was silence.

Now, as I await the final rendition of my accelerating heart's misfunctions I feel a need to share this history. Not that it will accomplish anything, but it may satisfy some curteosities. And at 97 I am beyond the reach of official retribution.

B.J.,  Alice, TX,  Nov15, 2021

Martinis Around

 I watched a clip from an old Sean Connery film. You know, that fellow was actually very good actor? 

 Believable, such that he conveyed emotions from the story he portrayed. He made me feel the grief of his character in times of great emotional duress. And yet I did not feel any unreasonable fear.

Which is to say I was stirred, not shaken.

Words of Wisdom

In any population there are characteristics which manifest across a spectrum.

One of these properties is wisdom. It is distributed by an indifferent nature in a wide range of capabilities. Some functioning groups assume an air of superiority that is not always justified. A particular profession is noted as presuming to be “just a little lower than the angels.” Vocal critics may challenge that self-aggrandisement.

Authors — those who wrote books intended to be consumed by the general public — display a span of competence. Some unabashedly borrow from the intellect of others.

Novels that I have read which put forth a gem of wisdom include “The Heart of Danger” by Howard Pease:

“Go straight to the heart of danger, for there you will find safety.” (Chinese Proverb)

Another is the Basuto proverb presented in “Something of Value” by Robert Ruark.

“If a man does away with his traditional way of living and throws away his good customs, he had better first make certain that he has something of value to replace them.”

These enduring axioms have lived in my soul for decades.

Invitation to my readers: if you can provide a preface of worth from a book you've read, please quote it in the comments. I will list submissions in a future blog. 

Shifting North Pole

 CLIMATE, EARTH SCIENCES, GLACIERHUB BLOG

Melting Glaciers Have Shifted the Earth’s Axis

http://geoscience.wisc.edu/geoscience/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/carlson_2008_nat_geo.pdf

“In the 1990s, the Earth’s axis underwent a major shift. It is normal for the Earth’s axis to move by a few centimeters each year. But, in the 1990s, the direction of polar drift shifted suddenly and the rate of the drift accelerated. The reason for this sudden change was previously unclear, but a team of scientists in Beijing recently published a paper that shows that the main driver of the change in direction of the axial shift was glacier melt caused by global warming.“

That cited publication noted shifts of the axis in centimeter magnitudes. The measurements assessed the response to removal of groundwater that altered the balance of the spinning top that is the earth.

It is noted that fifteen thousand years ago there was a more summer like climate, lush vegetation and a population of large mammals in the area that is now frigid Siberia. And the Laurentide ice sheet covered Canada and a significant portion of the United States. The volume of ice, and its weight is beyond comprehension. The North Pole and the center of earth's rotation lay within the Laurentide.

(It is my understanding that the North Pole, the upper end of the axis of rotation of the earth, determines the location of the Arctic ice mass -- not vice versa.)

When the cataclysmic celestial event at the time of The Younger Dryas melted a large portion of the ice, the resulting imbalance, as the meltwater flowed to the oceans, caused a shift in the location of the axis of spin of the earth. Assuming a new position of stability, the new axis allowed the margin of the Arctic to reposition, covering Siberia with lowered temperatures that changed the nature of Siberia to the frigid waste that it is today.

Magic Swing p.5

 

With my bird book and my ten power binoculars in hand I was able, while seated in the swing on my porch, to make certain identification of the following:

ANHINGA

BLACKBIRD

BOBWHITE

CRESTED CARACARA

NORTHERN CARDINAL

RED-EYED COWBIRD

SANDHILL CRANE

WHOOPING CRANE

AMERICAN CROW

YELLOW BILLED CUCKOO

GROUND DOVE

INCA DOVE

MOURNING DOVE

RINGED TURTLE DOVE

ROCK DOVE

WHITE-WINGED DOVE

BLACK BELLIED WHISTLING DUCK

BALD EAGLE

CATTLE EGRET

PRAIRIE FALCON

BROWN CRESTED FLYCATCHER

SCISSOR-TAIL FLYCATCHER

SNOW GOOSE

GREAT-TAILED GRACKLE

LAUGHING GULL

HARRIS HAWK

GREAT BLUE HERON

BLACK-CHINNED HUMMINGBIRD

BUFF-BELLIED HUMMINGBIRD

RUBY-THROATED HUMMINGBIRD

MAGNIFICENT HUMMINGBIRD

GREEN JAY

AMERICAN KESTREL

KILLDEER

GREEN KINGFISHER

GREAT KISKADEE

WESTERN MEADOWLARK

NORTHERN MOCKINGBIRD

COMMON NIGHTHAWK

BULLOCK'S ORIOLE

HOODED ORIOLE

GREAT HORNED OWL

PYRRHULOXIA

GREATERROADRUNNER

YELLOW-BELLIED SAPSUCKER

LOGGERHEAD SHRIKE

HOUSE SPARROW

LARK SPARROW

EUROPEAN STARLING

CLIFF SWALLOW

CURVED-BILL THRASHER

BLACK CRESTED TITMOUSE

SOLITARY VIREO

TURKEY VULTURE

DOWNY WOODPECKER

GOLDEN-FRONTED WOODPECKER

LADDER-BACKED WOODPECKER

BEWICK'S WREN

CACTUS WREN

PURPLE FINCH

AMAERICAN GOLDFINCH