WANDERER

 

I HEAR THE HIGHWAY CALLING ME WHILE SOFT WINDS RULE THE NIGHT;

THE ASPHALT'S WARM AND GENTLE, AND THE STARS AND MOON ARE LIGHT.

THE YELLOW STRIPES ALONG THE ROAD WOULD GUIDE ME TO THE WEST,

WHILE MORNING SUN ENCHANTS ME, AND SAYS THAT EAST IS BEST.

THE NORTHER BLOWS AND CHILLS THE LAND, ITS HARSH WINDS CALL ME FORTH.

THE CONCRETE'S COLD, FORLORN AND HARD   IT LEADS ME TO THE NORTH.

THE FREEZING WIND BERATES THE CHOICE, AND BLOWS FROM WINTER'S MOUTH;

IT WHISTLES AND IT WHEEZES, AND IMPLORES ME TO GO SOUTH.

SPRINGTIME FLOWERS IGNITE THE ROADS, THEIR BLOOMS DELIGHT MY WAY.

WHILE SOME SAY GO, EXPLORE THE WORLD, THE OTHERS BEG ME STAY.

FOR I AM JUST A WANDERER, STILL YEARNING TO BE FREE.

BUT I'LL STAY HOME AND DREAM WITH YOU, IF YOU'LL STAY HOME WITH ME.

Reckoning

 

From this life of strife and pain.

Let me go, nor come again;

Glad did I toast, not drunk in vain __
Then turned me down an empty glass,

            — For my friend ..

Pour out MY glass, and speak this phrase :

"Spread here his ashes, let us gaze ....
Tho' scattered wide, it's near he lays.".
Then turn for me an empty glass,

            — for MY end ..

wmb 20201113

PAMELA

 

A SOFT BREEZE WANDERED THROUGH YOUR HAIR

AS WE ENJOYED THE EVENING SKY.

A SMILE LIT UP YOUR FACE SO FAIR

AND SPOKE OF LOVE THAT NE'ER WILL DIE.

I TAKE YOUR HAND AND YOU RESPOND

BY LEANING GENTLY INTO ME.

THE LOVE I FEEL IS FAR BEYOND

A MORTALS LOVE WAS MEANT TO BE.

IF ONLY MEN THROUGHOUT THE LAND

COULD KNOW THE LOVE YOU GIVE TO ME,

A HUNDRED MILLION MEN WOULD STAND

AND SAY, "MY LOVE, I'M GLAD TO BE."

My Life

 

When that weekend comes around

It’s for sure, that I’ll be down ...

“Cause the lonely life

It ain't no good life —

but it's my life.

Listen to Miss Ronstadt sing,

Hear the words, how sad they ring.

You pay attention, then you cry,

For the days all long gone by.

Ever’body’s rememb’rin’

Times that cain’t come agin…

Being ‘lone ’s not a happy life;

It’s all I got — an’ it’s my life.

I hear that life is just a dream —

I sometimes have to wake to scream,

I must go on without a wife …

A sad life … a lonely life ... but its’ my life.

Mickey Basden

2018

Mickey in Song

 

To all the girls I’ve loved before,

Who traveled in and out my door

…. I’m glad they came along …I dedicate this song …

To all the girls I loved before…..

… as sung by Willie Nelson

***

Whether I’m right – or whether I’m wrong

Whether I find a place in this world or never belong…

I Gotta be me …

What else can I be but what I am?

I want to live, not merely survive.

I won’t give up this dream of life that keeps me alive.

I Gotta be me …

The dream that I see makes me what I am.

I’ll go it alone – that’s how it must be.

I can’t be right for somebody else if I’m not right for me.

I gotta be free …

Daring to try, to do it or die ..

I gotta be me …

… as sung by Sammy Davis Jr

***

For what is man, what has he got?

If not himself, then he has not.

The record shows I took the blows

And did it my way!

Regrets, I’ve had a few -

But then again too few to mention …

I did what I had to do,

And saw it through without exemption

To think I’ve done all that

And may I say, not in a shy way -

I did it my way…

… as sung by Frank Sinatra

And all seem relevant to me !

The Craven

 "Ghostly, grinning aged Craven, mumbling distant tales of yore"

Once upon a midnight lonely

I sat here, and I had only

Books and television shows

To push away my nightly woes.

Oh, I must get rid of those.

Mine eyes grow dim — I can't use them

To read my books, so close at hand.

They'd ease my frantic brain's demand.

You know how blurred my vision is — I'm sure you understand.

A different way I'll surely find.

Distraction of another kind

To find surcease for Monkey Mind.

So in my desperate situation

I wander through each TV station.

News from every warring nation

Does not entertain ...

It tires my weary brain —

But who to call?

Old movies all — Along the wall

I've boxes filled with DVDs.

Old friends abide, stacked deep inside

Who'll rescue me by playing these:

John Wayne, Astaire and Bogart there;

And pretty girls to win their heart

Are waiting there to play their part.

Band Wagon. Stagecoach. Casablanca.;

Again I'll take from these their art.

They'll sing and dance, and share romance

That blooms and fades just like real life.

The good guy wins; the bad guy fails.

The hero always wins a wife.

John Wayne prevails in all his tales.

Astaire's quick shoes have magic life.

His partners dance as well as he'll —

And backwards, while they're wearing heels!

My raging brain dispels its pain;

Contentment once again will reign

Within my soul

Forevermore!

MICKEY ON OMAR: IN RESPONSE TO The Rubáyáit

                    I pondered long to know what I may be;

I pierced Your veil; I even found the Key.

Now this I know: though You may e’er endure,

Soon surely there will be No More of Me!

If living here on Earth brings naught but pain;

If striving nets you aught, and never gain;

Be glad to quit this race so poorly run -

Why ever wish to Live your Life again?

Some sail, through life, a Ship of bitter pain; Some

Find peace in God; or Wine; or Woman’s love may come

To set them free from Earthly grief.

I choose first, Love;; last, God; else, Rum.

For God, if such there be, did surely sin

In making such as Me that can NOT win

A Race in which the Obstacles are set

To block the very Goals He chose to pen.^1,

If I drink wine it is that It does well

To free me of my mindless fear of Hell;

All Hope of Hea'en drives from my Heart,

And leaves my mind a bless’dly empty Shell.

The Persian poet adjures “Heed not the Morrow;

Or Yesterday, departed hence in Sorrow.”

While Past is not redeemed by sad regret,

Unplanned ‘Morrows leave sad Yesterdays to borrow.

We may have a Year, or two – or ten

To share our new-found love, and then

We, too, must part, if living or if dead;

But all too soon comes unto us the end….

(Note that after exactly ten years, Ruth dismissed me ....)

MickeyBasden

Alice, Texas

July 2003

1^ ...O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour? Romans 9:20-21

Me, Poet Pretender

  I read “How to Write a Poem” in a blog that I follow:

    Only a fool waits for a poem to come to him.

    You have to call for it like a proper blind date,

                 knocking on its door 

    and seeing beauty in whatever opens it.

Well, opinions are like elbows —  ‘most ever’body’s got a couple.

I write when the muse inspires me.  

I have yet to decide “I’m gonna write a poem “  —   and then set about to write. 

 I write to respond to an unbidden urge to express a novel thought.

I write the words that flow... and only when I need a specific word to form a rhyme in the context of a particular concept, or a synonym to contain the thought in the construct of the evolving meter —  only then do I search for words ...

My product is not the revelation of an unknown, or explanation of a mystery —  it is ever a trip through aspects of my own existence.

So it has been also in my excursions into the arena of fiction —  I transcribe the thoughts that are supplied to me ...  by what, or whom?  I have pondered, and cannot say. Some say that

  "...automatic writing or psychography is a ... psychic ability allowing a person to produce written words without consciously writing.   The words purportedly arise from a subconscious, spiritual  or supernatural source."

      

That’s an interesting analysis —  and I have no comment. 

But to me it becomes no less than anathema to be challenged to write a poem based on a particular, supplied word.  

I respect those who can pull this off -- and I enjoy reading their poems,  My comments are only a description of my personal predilections, not a criticism of others --  most  of them certainly more capable, and gifted with a talent that I will never have.

Justification and fulfillment

 I was fearful when Texas made it legal for just about anyone to carry a gun.

There were speculations, by knowledgeable commentators, of increased gun violence — due to the expected proliferation of guns.

It's happening, just as predicted. Seems like every idiot who can get a gun is shooting at somebody.

Too many idiots with guns — I think they should be outlawed...

Beautiful

 "For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.

And therefore to-day is thrilling

With a past day's late fulfilling ..."

 O'Shaughnessy's ODE

Today is October the 8th, 2022.  I near my 86th birthday. 

With a cup in hand, I take my folding chair to my “front porch” —  actually the small area afront my apartment door, an extension from the sidewalk, toward my door, that is shielded from rain by a small roof.

There I ensconce myself, and sit to eagerly greet the morning sun. For it is a conquest of my fate to be so visited. Of those who shared my life here in Victoria during my ten years of living and working here, but a handful, to my awareness, remain.

"For each day is a day that is given, 

And one that is gratefully ta'en.

  

Against the end of life so thrilling, 

Nor worth a pence or shilling …"

wmb  Oct 2022

I am rebuked by the neighbor's dogs, restrained by their leash, out and about for their morning stroll and evacuation. I am surveyed and assessed by the collection of six resident ducks, wandering from the shores of their pond.  Deciding that I am more threat than promise, they retreat to the safety of their water. 

A breeze, 65º. refreshing, mild, gently caresses my cheek. Spotty cloud cover partially obscures the sun. Its warmth is variable, but welcome and satisfying. 

As was the coffee. The uncovered bottom inside my cup informs me that 'tis time . . . to repair to my recliner, and check the morning news.  I despair of any but ongoing aggravation, contentiousness and threats in the headlines.  But I must ...

It is a beautiful day!

Flavor of the Seasons

 I early learned to anticipate the arrival of Fall. The formal calendar date of the equinox means nothing to me. Rather I look forward to the first Norther. I will stand, facing and inhaling the cool dry air that has ridden from Canada just for my pleasure. 

Soon I will hear the first high, distant cry of the first flight of geese.  I feel a keen interest in the appearance of these mighty travelers. There is a  fundamental reaction, a visceral response to something ancient in our lineage, an uplifting of the soul that needs no explanation to those who know it – and which cannot be explained to those who do not.

Northers come in flavors. Some tiptoe in gently, almost timid in the way they  displace the humid South Texas heat with cool dry air that makes life bearable, and joyous. Others blast their way in like an unwelcome SWAT team breaking down a door. And unlike SWAT teams, which are monotonously black in their garb, Northers may wrap themselves in dark gray, angry clouds – or may adorn with delicate blue clear skies, decorated at times with high ice clouds that echo the sun.

The beauty of the changing seasons restores my soul.

Why I Write

 WHY I WRITE

“Better to write for yourself and have no public,

than to write for the public and have no self.”

         Cyril Connolly, critic and editor (1903-1974)

One man that I know decided he wanted to be a writer; therefore did he sit at his desk with paper and pen and try to think of something to write.

In contrast I felt that I had something to share, something to say, something to tell other people — and therefore did I take up pen and paper and proceed to write ...

                              Billy Mitchell, 2017

From the blog of my friend Debbie:

“... I think perhaps another reason, as all blog writers can relate to, is knowing that not many people are actually reading your posts.  But then I look at old posts and realize that I'm really writing this for me.”

                                                 DH

“So long as I remain alive and well, I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the Earth, and to take pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information.” 

                                 George Orwell, "Why I Write" 

The thing that drove him (Dickens) forward into a form of art for which he was not really suited was simply the fact that he was a moralist, the consciousness of ‘having something to say’. He is always preaching a sermon, and that is the final secret of his inventiveness. For you can only create if you can care.

                            George Orwell,  "Charles Dickens" (1939)

Whataskier

 

When I arrived in Denver in the winter of 1964 I was asked “Do you ski?”

“Yeah – on melted snow!”

In 1955 I was enrolled in a Phys Ed class at Del Mar College in Corpus Christi.

Redickle-ous.

I enrolled in college to learn those arcane things that drive science and industry – and here I am in a PE class!

Oh, well — they didn’t ask me, and they were running things — so I complied with their absurd requirements.

The new highway from Portland to the Nueces Bay Causeway was built on a narrow elevated strip of sand dredged from a borrow pit between the newly constructed roadbed and the old Highway 35 — now named Sunset Drive.

The hole in the ground that was created was therefore long and narrow, and created what became known as Sunset Lake.

Its profile made it a natural for waterskiing   Conveniently located, sheltered from the wind-driven waves in the bay, it was long enough for the tow boat to pull a skier at speed ...

My Del Mar PE class met at Sunset Lake, The first day found a group of about six of us, plus the instructor gathered at a serviceable wooden pier, where the instructor, arriving early, had tied up a sixteen foot outboard motor boat. 

The class began with a lecture on water safety.

“Can all of you swim?”

General assent.

“Good. Then you know how to tread water.”

Sure

“Okay, then we’ll all go out to the middle of the lake, where it’s deepest, and you must all tread water for five minutes.”

Ferried to the center of the lake, we jumped out of the boat and faced the instructor, with her stopwatch.

I looked around at the others, and observed their efforts at keeping themselves afloat.  The water was precisely  six feet deep. I was six feet five inches tall. 

I stood there, casually watching the instructor watching me, until the requisite time had passed.

Then, pronounced “safe”, we began our ski training.

In spite of our inexperience there was only one accident.

One of the girls got her tow rope wrapped around her ankle  —  and then fell off her skis.

Luckily,  she was not injured.  

But she did set a new record for the hundred yard douche.

WHATNOTS

What are all those things you display on the shelves and tables in your living room?

Whatnots,  knickknacks,  souvenirs,  mementoes,  keepsakes. 

When my gaze settles on one of those “things” my mind wanders to the person, place or time of association.

 A happy, sad  recollection summons the memory of someone beloved but gone.

WINTER

 

WHEN THE WIND's 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 HUSBAND AND WIFE.

    WALKING HAND IN HAND FOR THE REST OF OUR LIFE

        THOUGH THE WORLD WITH PROBLEMS IS RIFE.

August 17, 2021

WISDOM OF THE AGED

I was about ten. Already gifted with that arrogant egocentric egotism which usually afflicts teenagers, I listened patiently when Grandpa Smith regarded the gusting winds and driving rain pummeling Sheffield and pronounced “It’s a cyclone.”

Having learned that cyclones occur in tropical waters, in the Pacific Ocean, and not in northern Alabama I felt the smugness and conceit of superior knowledge. No way a cyclone could get that far inland.

As I sit here now in my eighth decade I am one of millions of television viewers watching coverage of Hurricane Fay, now downgraded to a tropical storm. It swept across Florida, then turned west  to soak southern Alabama and Mississippi. And I heard one of the television weathermen refer to the storm, as it moved north, as a cyclone.

Can you guess where the northern-most spiral bands of the cyclone’s circulation are .... ??

In northern Alabama, dumping rain on Sheffield.

I guess I’m learning late in life that I didn’t learn much early in life. Like the old German woman said, “We grow too soon old and too late smart.”

Woes of Society

 

Woes of Society

I choose to avoid the network news — the daily reportage of shootings, political chicanery, racial antagonism, and deceit and hypocrisy by those who should be guiding and leading us ... it's just too much for me to bear.

I discuss it with my confidants, and opine that a mass, pervasive insanity afflicts society. What I am seeing certainly isn't what I would regard as normal.

When I was a teenager, frequently reading another science fiction novel each day, I read one that described a mysterious cloud in the solar system which sometimes engulfed the Earth — and caused a strange world-wide insanity.

 

Comes now a news article of interest:

Our Planet Is Travelling Through The Debris of Ancient Supernovae

MICHELLE STARR

21 APRIL 2021

Radioactive dust deep beneath the ocean waves suggests that Earth is moving through a massive cloud left behind by an exploded star.

Continuously, for the last 33,000 years, space has been seeding Earth with a rare isotope of iron forged in supernovae.

It's not the first time that the isotope, known as iron-60, has dusted our planet. But it does contribute to a growing body of evidence that such dusting is ongoing - we are still moving through an interstellar cloud of dust that could have originated from a supernova millions of years ago.

Iron-60 has been the focus of several studies over the years. It has a half-life of 2.6 million years, which means it completely decays after 15 million years - so any samples found here on Earth must have been deposited from elsewhere, since there's no way any iron-60 could have survived from the formation of the planet 4.6 billion years ago.

And deposits have been found. Nuclear physicist Anton Wallner of the Australian National University previously dated seabed deposits back to 2.6 million and 6 million years ago, suggesting that debris from supernovae had rained down on our planet at these times.

But there's more recent evidence of this stardust - much more recent.

It's been found in the Antarctic snow; according to the evidence, it had to have fallen in the last 20 years.

And, a few years ago, scientists announced that iron-60 had been detected in the space around Earth, measured over a 17-year period by NASA's space-based Advanced Composition Explorer.

In 2020, Wallner found more of the stuff, in five samples of deep-sea sediments from two locations dating back to 33,000 years ago. And the amounts of iron-60 in the samples are pretty consistent over the entire time period. But this finding actually poses more questions than it answers.

Earth, you see, is currently moving through a region called the Local Interstellar Cloud, made up of gas, dust and plasma.

If this cloud was created by exploding stars, then it's reasonable to expect that it's dusting Earth with a very faint rain of iron-60. This is what the Antarctic detection suggested; and this is what Wallner and his team were seeking to validate by examining the ocean sediments.

But if the Local Interstellar Cloud is the source of the iron-60, there should have been a sharp increase when the Solar System entered the cloud - which, according to the team's data, is likely to have occurred within the last 33,000 years. At the very least, the oldest sample should have had significantly lower levels of iron-60, yet it did not.

It's possible, the researchers note in their paper, that the Local Interstellar Cloud and the supernova debris are coincident, rather than one structure, with the debris remaining in the interstellar medium from supernovae that took place millions of years ago. That would suggest that the Local Interstellar Cloud is not a faint supernova remnant.

"There are recent papers that suggest iron-60 trapped in dust particles might bounce around in the interstellar medium,"Wallner said last year.

"So the iron-60 could originate from even older supernovae explosions, and what we measure is some kind of echo."

The best way to find out, the researchers note, is to look for more iron-60, covering the gap between 40,000 years ago and around a million years ago.

If the iron-60 abundance grows greater farther back in time, that would suggest ancient supernovae.

However, a greater abundance more recently would suggest that the Local Interstellar Cloud is the source of the iron-60.

This recent scientific report validates the fiction that I read so long ago. And suggests that my comment of "pervasive insanity" might be literally correct. 

WOMEN’S WISDOM

  Myself when young did eagerly frequent

Great Doctor and Lawyer  and heard much argument …

… here I must divert from the quotation of my friend Omar to reveal a secret long and carefully guarded:  I was once an avid reader of Cosmopolitan.

Yes, the WOMEN’S magazine. Perhaps more carefully read in my thirties and forties than Playboy.

The pictures were nearly equal in their stimulating qualities, and the articles – especially the letters from the readers – were much more informative.

And so I became aware of the superior intellect of womankind, as opposed to mere men,  and learned a great respect for their willingness to share their exceptional knowledge.

For example, I read one letter complaining of a man’s proclivity for falling asleep immediately after completing the act of sex.

“There is absolutely no biological reason for a man to sleep at this time. It is simply another way of showing maledom’s disrespect for his female companion.”

I was struck by the anger, and the certainty of this declamation.

because …

I myself when young did …

…forgive me, Omar …

… did often at the delicious completion of the sex act have a strong need to sleep.

Not always. And I have been unable to correlate the need to sleep to any of the many variables attached to the situation.

But sometimes, with an urgency approaching that of a narcoleptic, I was compelled to sleep – with no regard for situation or circumstances. To the extent that there was a perception of a physical pressure in the brain, which could be dissipated only by sleep.

Never did I sleep more than just a few minutes – perhaps five at the most – but the need was urgent and certainly biological.

Another forum of great value for the understanding of life in general and more particularly, women, is the TV show “The View”.

Today I heard one of the panelists express the wisdom that “… it is not necessary for a woman to have an orgasm in order to conceive – but the man must …!”

The simple, and obvious refudiation is this: 

A man, particularly one in a state of high arousal, may eject a small amount of potent seminal emission well before orgasm. 

And, yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus …. Just wait nine months for your gift!

WORDSMITH

 WORDSMITH

I read an article in our local newspaper decrying the improper use of words, usually do to the simularity of the intended word to the one that was used. Its not uncommon for their to be some confusion, since some of the words are spelled a lot a like, By common usage their is a blurred definition for any word that makes it's meaning uncertain. 

Ruth offered to loan me her dictionary, but I deferred. I don't want you to think I'm trying to infer to you that I am so smart I don't need one, but I have one of my own hear at home.

The usage of some words is changing. Its a normal evolution, and is examplified by reading the "English" that was used by Chaucer in "The Canterbury Tales".

To some of us the common usages that are seen in newspapers and herd on television great on the nerves, because of the emphasis that was placed on learning the proper meaning and use of the English language in our schooling.

I want to convince you to help me compile a list of the words most often used incorrectly. More importantly I'd like you to count the words in this short essay that are used wrongly; either in form, inflection or word choice. If I can persuade you that there rite I’ll be surprised.

I don't know what affect this will have on you. It doesn't effect me to right it. An heresy testimony is inadmissible, anyway. 

And if you contradict the beliefs of my Sunday church sermon I will regard it as heresay, and you as a hearetic.

Wrong End of the Snake

WRONG END OF THE SNAKE

IN AGE THERE IS WISDOM

May 06, 2018

It was springtime. I was five years old. The morning was yet cool, but not so cool that I couldn’t play in my short pants and a short sleeved shirt. Father was sitting on the porch, sipping an unknown (to me) libation from a Mason jar. Watching me while I wandered about the yard, playing with anything that caught my interest. When a small snake crawled out of the weeds in the adjacent empty lot, I was naturally interested. I poked at it with a stick. It responded by curling up and shaking its tail, which seemed to have some kind of rattle on it. The rattle fascinated me. The more I poked at it the madder the snake got, and the tail set up a steady buzz. I finally deduced that the snake was a danger, an enemy, and began to beat it with my stick. Naturally the end of the snake that got my attention was the end making the noise. My Father watched silently, for a while, as I swung the stick in childish impotence at the noisy tail of the snake. 

Finally, he spoke - “Hey, Abe - you’re beating the wrong end of the snake!”

IN AGE THERE IS WISDOM

May 06, 2018

It was springtime. I was five years old. The morning was yet cool, but not so cool that I couldn’t play in my short pants and a short sleeved shirt. Father was sitting on the porch, sipping an unknown (to me) libation from a Mason jar. Watching me while I wandered about the yard, playing with anything that caught my interest. When a small snake crawled out of the weeds in the adjacent empty lot, I was naturally interested. I poked at it with a stick. It responded by curling up and shaking its tail, which seemed to have some kind of rattle on it. The rattle fascinated me. The more I poked at it the madder the snake got, and the tail set up a steady buzz. I finally deduced that the snake was a danger, an enemy, and began to beat it with my stick. Naturally the end of the snake that got my attention was the end making the noise. My Father watched silently, for a while, as I swung the stick in childish impotence at the noisy tail of the snake. 

Finally, he spoke - “Hey, Abe - you’re beating the wrong end of the snake!”

YONDERING

 DONE DOING

I have ever enjoyed yondering. I delighted in the expanse of the open road, and traveled when I could and as I might.

I reveled in the solitude, comfortable behind the wheel of my truck, surveying the passing scenery.

The roads to the West —  U.S. Hwy 290 westward from Austin, melding in time into I-10 —  have beckoned, leading me to Arizona, then I-8 to Yuma, where my parents resided  — and then on to their later location in El Cajon.

And north from El Cajon on I-15 to Utah, where my daughter and her family took root.

I had a tradition of having alongside in my truck a large package of Fig Newtons—  and there was no sense of a need to ration them. 

I enjoyed.

I have variously traveled west to California to visit my parents — from Corpus Christi, from Austin, and from Denver —  all these trips are recalled as wonderful memories, of holiday or vacation journeys.

Training courses at the NCR schools, in Dayton and in Denver, called out my vehicle  to drive from Galveston, Corpus Christi or Alice—  for while I would fly on occasion, I preferred to drive.

From Corpus Christi I relocated in 1959 to Austin to attend the University. I went briefly to Tucson, then drove back to Austin. In 1962 I drove to Galveston to work for NCR; then to Alice in 1966. In 1968 I drove my big black 1964 Cadillac to Denver to attend an NCR training school. In 1969 NCR moved me to Victoria. 

I bought a 1973 Chevrolet pickup.

I left my job as the manager of the Victoria office of NCR in 1977 to work in law enforcement.

In 1979 I left my job as an Investigator with the Victoria County Sheriff’s Department  to go back to Corpus Christi. 

In early 1984 I drove a blue 1983 Chevy Suburban to Ft Worth for a Gearhart-Owens school on oil well tools. I lived and worked in Laredo for that company for four months in the summer of 1984, then back to Corpus Christi.  

I moved in 1987 to Austin, then drove to Denver in 1990. I drove to a new job in Birmingham in 1998,  then back in 2003 to Alice; to Utah in 2013, and finally, in 2014 to Victoria —  where I shall remain. 

All these treks have been made in whatever vehicle I owned —  since 1973  usually in a pickup truck.

From Victoria I have made two brief sojourns — one to Galveston, another to Corpus Christi.  The visit to Galveston in December 2014 was a nostalgia trip in the guise of a birthday treat.  Gratifying —  as a sentimental journey. But I found the traverse to and from Galveston rather tedious.

The later Corpus jaunt was a shopping expedition. Largely a waste of time. And again the road was unusually long for such a short trip, and decidedly unpleasant.

As I sit in my recliner, during my ninth decade, I find my mind wandering along the beckoning highway.

But my body obstinately declines the invitation.

I have decided to accept that I am finally through yondering.

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