20 - 20 HINDSIGHT

 Two incidents in the hunting field:

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

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

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

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

And an incident in the city:

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

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

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

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

Reminiscence

 

It is often the case that some insignificant element of my day-to-day activities reminds me of events in my childhood.

Tonight —

I just put a cake in the oven.

When I make that statement the usual response is to ask me “Duncan Hines, or Betty Crocker?”

My reply is “Neither —  it was Hershey’s Cocoa, flour, sugar, butter, milk, and eggs.”

Tonight, as I was vigorously beating the assembled cake mixture, my memory wandered back to a day in 1944 when Mom was guiding me in the art of cake making. She demonstrated for me the technique of beating, and handed me the cake bowl and the spoon. She told me to beat the mixture 100 times. I was informed that the beating instilled air, so that the cake would not be flat.

At about the count of fifty, my arm tired  —  and I swapped hands to continue beating with my left hand.

“No, no, no!” Mom shouted —  “if you beat it backwards you’ll beat the air right back out of it!”

She had learned that from her mother. Who knows how many generations have held that belief?

I didn’t question it.

But I have never forgotten ..

Sugar and heart attacks

 Disclaimer: Please take note that this dissertation does not offer medical advice. I am not medically trained, and I am not qualified to give medical advice. This essay is purely a discussion of my personal experience, and is presented as entertainment Consult your doctor for any medical advice you may need.

“One if by land, and two if by sea —

And I on the opposite shore will be . . .

Ready to ride and spread the alarm . . .”

And so it seems established that the urge to spread warnings of imminent danger is founded in our heritage . . .

And accompanying that is the desire to share awareness of cures and solutions.

Being of a somewhat analytical bent I fancy that I have on numerous occasions devised or discovered causes and cures that seem to escape the attention of others. This is written to share a personal experience.

When I was a teenager many of my contemporaries chewed gum. I did for a time . . . I favored Juicy Fruit...

But somehow I found greater pleasure in sucking on a Life Saver.

Pop related that his dentist referred to them as “Tooth Rotters.”

I seemed addicted to them. Always had a roll in my pocket, and a mint in my mouth.

Perhaps that may have contributed . . .

The antibiotic regimen that is  followed by patients of dentists is well understood — a loading dose of 500 mg of Amoxil four hours before a dental procedure that is deemed risky, and 250 mg every hour for the next four hours preceding the dental procedure.

That is the standard prophylaxis, to prevent bacterial incursion through the teeth, into the circulatory system, which might then initiate a myocardial infection.

Bacteria into the teeth, then to the blood, then from the blood to the heart . . .

It has taken me a long time to perceive and accept that ingesting sugar can stimulate the colonization of bacteria in my teeth -- recognizable by the unique pain in the teeth. And demonstrated by vigorously rinsing --”swishing” — a 40% ethyl alcohol solution to sterilize the teeth and eliminate the pain.

( I found a 40% ethanol solution in a bottle on my shelf labeled “Vodka.” )

Avoiding sugar in my diet spares me the pain of the infection that sugar induces into my teeth.  Which, should I falter and consume significant amounts of sugar, produces the infection and its uniquely identifiable pain.

If bacteria in the dentist's office can induce bacterial myocardia, then bacteria from my sweet tooth can certainly create the same sequence of cause and effect.

And in the distant perspective of 60 plus years I am speculating that I may have, by yielding to my craving for sugar, induced the pericarditis that stopped my heart in 1955.    ⁱ (footnote)

As I said in the opening phrases of this triviality, I am bent in a most peculiar way.

My training and experience in troubleshooting the complexities of a malfunctioning main frame computer equip me for the pursuit along abstract lines of logical inquiry, to reach a meaningful conclusion and solve a problem.

The subject matter may vary, but the techniques are mutually applicable.

Sugar consumption may be responsible for many “Heart attacks” — heart failure due to bacterial colonization transmitted through the circulating blood to a susceptible heart.

I know it. But nobody else knows it.

“Doctors are men who prescribe medicines of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, in human beings of whom they know nothing.”

Voltaire

“...there is no new thing under the sun “

Ecclesiastes; 9

i  While attending Del Mar College I went to my nine o;clock organic chemistry class with a slight chest pain. Sitting in class, I suddenly experienced a vigorous cardiac irregularity, which soon yielded to a total cessation of all heartbeat.

Frustration

 That's the name of the game.

I am trying to fill up a bucket that has a hole in the bottom 

It is an old bucket.  It is rusty and as a result there are numerous holes. Allow me to clarify a metaphorical allegory This old body is a bucket.

It's been sitting out in the wind and the rain for many years, and it's getting rusty.  Numerous holes are forming. So that now the water runs out as fast as it's poured in.

I'm trying to fill the bucket to that line at the top, which has associated with it the legend  “Understanding.” 

I am attracted and intrigued by a podcast conversation between Jordan Peterson and Victor Davis Hansen.

I find that they talk faster than I can listen. So I turn on Closed Captions, so that I can read to verify what I think I'm hearing. 

I find their commentary very relevant, penetrating and meaningful — and I find my consciousness is wandering.  

My mentality is rusting. The holes are growing.  And my bucket of comprehension is leaking. It suggests that the bucket is beyond redemption, and the attempt to fill it is futile

A Bounteous Flock of Beautiful Friends

 

Black Bellied Whistling Duck

In 2003 through 2006 I had a small (VERY small) “ranch” south of Alice. There I enjoyed bird watching, and compiled what was for me a significant list of identified bird sightings.

Some were unique occurrences, a “one time only” event. But I didn’t list them unless, with bird book in hand and ten power binoculars in play, I could make a positive identification.

Other were frequent recurring visitors.

Such it was with the Black Bellied Whistling Duck.

The first sighting was a solitary individual, who walked across my property as if it felt at home, giving ample opportunity for certain identification.

Then there were two.

And one glorious day they slowly and majestically paraded their new family of eight across my driveway, walking single file, one adult in front, the other following the line of ducklings.

I continued to enjoy their visits while I remained on my “ranch”.

After I moved into town I occasionally saw one of these ducks perched on telephone lines!

I’ve never seen any other duck sitting on a wire — and I’ve seen a few ducks.

When they utter their unique vocalization, from their vantage point on the high telephone wire, would that be a long distance call?

Texas Cuckoo

One hot summer morning in 1988 my wife and I drove to the Pedernales State Park east of Johnson City in Central Texas. We watched for wildlife along the road leading into the park, and were rewarded with our first sighting of a punk rock roadrunner.

Roadrunners are fairly common in Texas, and I have seen many. But the sight we saw that day will long be remembered. The cuckoo sat beneath a small thorn bush just across the ditch alongside the road, and stared at us as we marveled at him. He stood and erected his crest, and amazed us with the revealed brilliant orange coloration. When he folded it he appeared as any road runner, stately in his gangly pride, with contrasting black, white and brown. But when he erected that crest the luminescent orange was magnificent!

Bird calls

When I told Stan that I had heard a roadrunner cooing, he was skeptical. “In my half century in the South Texas brush I have seen a bunch of roadrunners, and I never heard them coo.”

Well, I understood his dubiosity, but I know what I heard. I was looking right at the bird when it cooed, saw its movements when making the sound, and heard it clearly. Similar to what a pigeon does, but at a lower pitch.

I saw that bird frequently while I sat in the porch swing at my “ranch” (A one room house on a large one acre tract). The elegant fowl pursued its life in the mesquite thicket between my house and the highway, and occasionally I heard it cooing. One day, in an exuberant state of Dr. Doolittle optimism, I attempted to duplicate the sound I heard.

Frankly, I had no expectation of the same success I remember in calling a quail.

To my amazed gratification, the roadrunner replied. More than that, it began moving in my direction. I called again, probably five times in all. With each exchange, the bird moved a little closer. A few halting steps each time it answered, then a pause to assess.  It moved in the open, along my driveway, approaching my position in the porch swing. Finally it became too nervous, and half ran, half flew back to the safety of the thicket.

Some years before, while sitting alone in my car at the skeet range of the Victoria Gun Club, I heard the familiar covey call of the brown bombers — and in response to my call a big cock quail walked to and around the car. He stopped beside the car door, cocked his head and looked up at me...

FOWL OF A FEATHER

Occasionally I was honored by the passing of a flight of wild geese. Canadian honkers. Beautiful. It was always a thrill to watch a flight of the big black and white birds honk their way past in an early morning fog.

One morning while I sat in my swing, reading and relaxing, I heard a flight of geese approaching. I put my book down to watch them, and I was pleased to see about twelve or fifteen geese approaching from the South, low over the trees.

But wait – there’s something strange!

They were flying in their typical V-formation. But they were low, zigging and zagging in a way never seen before.

As I watched, fascinated, they approached, generally headed toward me. And finally they were close enough to see that the leader was smaller … could it be a … ?… yes, it was!

A mallard drake – green head distinctive – was leading the flight of geese. He seemed to be trying to elude them, but they matched his every turn, across my pasture and beyond the trees.

Sparrow Hawk

I have a new companion. No, let me choose another word  —  a new neighbor. His awareness of me is much less than my appreciation of him. He watches me in cautious speculation whenever I am too close – but otherwise he is intent on his own pursuits, and remains blithely unaware of my gaze.

This small Sparrow Hawk sits in silent, patient watchfulness on the power line along the highway, straight out from my kitchen window.  I stand in quiet admiration, observing his occasional plunge to the grass below, extracting an insect or small animal for a hasty meal. He carries it with him to his perch, eating on the mount, and then resumes the hunt. 

As I sat in my porch swing, alternating my gaze from him to a red-bellied woodpecker in the mesquite across the driveway, the hawk spied an item of interest in the driveway in front of me. Swooping in colorful rufous display he swept up a tidbit too small for me to see at thirty feet – and yet he had discerned it from over thirty meters.

As I carried the garbage can to the road behind my house for pickup by the obliging county truck my ubiquitous sparrow hawk flew in acrobatic abandon not twenty feet from me, chasing a very frightened curved-bill thrasher, which protested noisily as it dove to safety in the brush pile alongside the road.  The small hawk abandoned the chase, but the thrasher was so frightened that it refused to leave its refuge in the thorny limbs. It eyed me warily, but clung tenaciously to the security it had found, even though I approached within ten feet.

The sparrow hawk has been resident here for about a month. Where, I wonder, did it abide previously? And how long will it bless me with its entertaining presence?

No matter – I will enjoy it so long as it graces my neighborhood, and then I will look anew to another neighbor. Spring approaches, and with it the return of the scissortails, with their noisy chittering and graceful aerial ballet. Life is a tableau of continuing, changing delights. And I enjoy them all.

Pianos

I don't know why, but I had a longing for a piano. In 1957, while living with my parents at 1614 10^th Street in Corpus Christi, I got Mom to accompany me to a piano store way out on Ayers. A cooperative salesman demonstrated several used pianos, and made me a price, to include delivery, on an old but serviceable spinet.

For $125 I owned a piano.

In retrospect I must admire Pop for his tolerance — for I did all this without his permission — all the while ignoring his reaction to my Horn playing at 4329 Kostoryz.

I enjoyed the piano, but I abandoned it without regret when I married Marty and moved out.

PIANO #2

A few years flew by, and in 1960 I was living in Austin with my second wife Doris.

We visited her biological father's sister at her home north of Austin. There I discovered an old piano, very rough in both appearance and functionality. It was sitting out, exposed to the rain, and really looked bad. And played worse.

It was mine for the asking.

Doris' Aunt's two sons were strong, healthy teenagers — and her husband, Vince Rush, was a very healthy, functional sixty year old. Who owned a pickup truck.

We moved the sad old piano to the living room of my apartment at 306-1/2 W. 42^nd Street in north Austin.

Vince was born in 1900. At the time described above I was twenty-four. I regarded Vince as an old man. Today, as I write this I am eighty -six — and I look back with sad longing for what I was, and for what I could do, when I was sixty.

I addressed the cosmetic issues on the piano. Quantities of “plastic wood” were used to reform the rounded-off corners, and sandpaper and black high gloss enamel transformed the appearance.

In that period I was attending the University of Texas, and welcoming my daughter Elizabeth to our existence.

School by day, and working part time at various jobs — including full-charge bookkeeper for a small manufacturing firm (Toungate and Coates, mfg of fiberglass cooling towers), and then as a printer's assistant on a huge four color printing press at the Steck Printing plant.   I found occasional part time work in helping two brothers who owned a used furniture store, where I bought furniture for our apartment, when they delivered furniture.

Through them I contacted a piano repairman — a somewhat elderly colored man who came to my apartment, deftly removed the “works” from the piano, and returned and reinstalled it a week later, and tuned the piano, for a very nominal fee.

I was proud. I was the owner of a beautiful piano which played like a brand new one. I enjoyed it.

At the end of the spring semester at UT I grew discouraged when I could not find a job — prospective employers refused to invest in a new worker who would certainly quit when the next semester started.

So when Pop came to town, driving his big yellow Ford pickup truck with the cow skull, complete with horns, mounted on the front of the hood — and announced that he (along his wife and daughters) was moving to Tucson, I said “Wait for me — I'm going with you!”

He did, — and I did.

I left that beautiful black piano in the care of the furniture dealer brothers.

PIANO #3

Fast forward, through more moves, new jobs, and two more children for me and Doris. We lived in Alice, Texas, where I worked for NCR. In the living room of our house at 765 Schallert was a beautiful upright piano.

Doris commented on the look of serene ecstasy that showed on my face while I was playing.

Her awareness of my attachment to the piano doubtless figured in her decision to take the piano with her when she left me in late 1966. Movers came in while I was at work and emptied the house. She also emptied my life — taking my three children from me. There began the most agonizingly sad period of my entire life.

PIANO #4

I survived — and in 1969 I married Evelyn. We bought a house at 1907 E. Warren in Victoria in 1973, and in 1975 I bought a NEW piano.

In 1979 I left Evelyn.  And the piano.

PIANO #5

More unwise and regrettable decisions led me through a progression of relocations, through Corpus Christi,  Austin,  Denver, then Birmingham, and a return to Texas in 2003 -- where I settled in Alice.

While living in a house that I bought in 2006 at 1145 E.5^th Street in Alice I bought a used piano in a downtown junk store. Stan Russell and his trailer helped me get the piano home. From 2007 until 2013 I spent hours playing that old piano — styled, incidentally an UPRIGHT GRAND. Rich tone.

Regrettable and unwise decisions found me leaving Alice in 2013 — and I left tha piano when I vacated the house.

Now, when I buy a lottery ticket, I dream of the special treats that I will enjoy should I ever win. I visualize a house with a living room capacious enough to embrace a GRAND PIANO. Such a juvenile longing. But understandable. After all, somewhere, piano number six awaits . . .

Vengeful Anger

 The Plagues of Egypt, described in the book of Exodus, are ten disasters inflicted on Biblical Egypt by the God of Israel in order to convince persuade the Pharaoh to emancipate the enslaved Israelites.

Here in the USA we are having pandemics, extreme heat, tornadoes, lightning, floods, hail, ants, racial strife, LGBTQ activists, WOKE educators, politicians — there is room on the list for more!

In our Godless society we are become aware that The gods must be angry!

What do we have to do to satiate them?

Peace of Mind

  I was once married to a gorgeous girl who was years younger than I.  We lived in Denver, and the metroplex was plagued by assaults on young women.

One favored technique was surreptitious entry into a girl's house or apartment while she was at work, then surprising her and taking advantage when she returned home.

Alarm

I designed, fabricated and installed a system that removed much of the concern.

When she arrived home my wife was greeted at the front door by a pair of lights, one red and one green.  If the green light was “ON” it indicated that the house had not been entered while she was gone.  If the red light was on it indicated that a door or window had been opened during her absence.

When a green light led her to enter, she went into the kitchen and activated a switch that closed the overhead garage door.  And a green light in the kitchen came on when the garage door was closed.

Later, when I arrived home and opened the garage door a “ding-dong, ding-dong”  door bell ringer sounded in the kitchen, to announce the opening of the door; and the “door closed” green light changed to a red light, showing the door open.  Then back to green when I closed the door behind my truck.

As we retired for the night a switch on the Alarm Box allowed me to activate the alarm circuit. A green light indicated that all the doors and windows were secure; if anyone opened anything a very loud audible alarm sounded.

Summary: Doors and windows were:

  ...monitored, for security while we were asleep.

 ...monitored while we were away, to provide assurance that it would be safe to re-enter.

 ...the garage doors were monitored — for assurance that they remained closed  — and to announce the opening, even while the alarm system was OFF, when one of us returned home and opened the garage door.

Daytime burglaries

Homes left vacant while the residents were at work were a tempting target for daytime burglars.  They would ring the doorbell, and if there was no response they would break in and ransack the house.

I built a circuit that monitored the circuit that powered the doorbell.  When the doorbell button was pressed and voltage was  applied to ring the bell, a timer in my circuit provided a ten second delay, and then turned the porchlight on.  After short delay the light was turned off

The perception for the visitor was that someone inside had responded to the doorbell, turned on the porchlight, looked through the peephole, and turned away without responding.  That showed that someone was home — just not interested in a visitor.

Light Switches

The light switch on the wall just inside the bedroom door powers an outlet near the bed, and will turn a lamp that I have plugged into the outlet. Then when I want to turn the light off and go to sleep, I have to get up and walk to the switch at the door to turn the light off.

         If I should choose to turn the light off using the switch on the lamp, 

then the switch at the door cannot turn the light on next evening. 

What's a guy to do?

What I did was build a free standing circuit that allows me to control the bedroom light with the switch at the door, OR with my bedside switch — regardless of which switch I had last used.

Some wire, some switches and a few relays, some ingenuity — and a lot more peace of mind.

Gang Violence

 

Angry discussion continues in regard to the gang related violence in major cities, especially Chicago.

Some argue that the solution to the problem is education. Better teachers, more and more modern schools.

But if the “students” don't stay in school, and those who are there are unwilling to make an effort to learn, that too will fail.

“Jobs!” is the cry. “Give the young men the opportunity to earn a decent wage.”

But experience shows us that those we seek to help do not want to work.

What do they want?

Surely you already know the answer to that question.

They want expensive cars. Designer clothes. Beautiful women.

In a word, WEALTH!!!

And that is what they have. Right now.

And how do they get it?

By dealing dope.

And this will continue until some superior, benevolent power institutes a program to eliminate the USE of recreational drugs. And that ain't gonna happen unless the rich gentlemen who are making a fortune bankrolling the drug sales are removed from their position of control and influence.

Drug use will continue.

Drug sales will flourish.

Gang bangers will continue to kill each other, and incidentally – accidentally – kill innocent bystanders.

Buried With Status and Respect

  "A lot can be learned about someone's role in society by the things they're buried with. The presence of  precious objects suggests that the deceased held a high social status.”

Stan, Woody and I attended the viewing of a recently deceased mutual friend.

We stood silent, somberly gazing at the face of one who had once laughed with us.

Woody, who had perhaps of the  three of us been closest to the departed took out his billfold and removed a hundred dollar bill. He gently placed it in the coffin, and made some appropriate remark to indicate that he was showing respect, and the  deep degree of his feeling.

I was moved and felt compelled to follow suit. Placing two fifties next to Woody's hundred, I stepped back, and turned to look at Stan.  He had his checkbook out, writing in it. I could see that it was a check for three hundred dollars.

He placed it in the coffin and picked up the three bills from me and Woody.

Straightening up, he said “Three hundred in, dragging two … Pot's square.”

End to Active Shooters

 

Repost of a blog published ten years ago:

I was asked “Do you have any ideas on how to prevent the horrible shootings ?”

Yes . . .

Start with each child at the age of about three ... Sunday school, church, a good dose of discipline whenever there is a display of disrespect ... instill a sense of civility, of compliance with the Commandments, civil law, and the mores of society ... raise a generation of responsible, decent people ...

Remove the scourge of drug abuse … even if it means putting users in concentration camps …

We must get back to the IMPORTANT basics, The FIVE R’s :

    Reading, ’Riting, ’Rithmetic, Religion and Revolver

... it should not take more than about 75 years to see the improvement in society.

What I'm saying is that it is too late to prevent a succession of recurrences, some worse ... we (society) should have started sixty years ago ... legislation against guns is like passing laws against automobiles because of wrecks caused by drunk driving ...

Zoolingualism

I have commented in previous essays of communications with animals — speaking “tongue-in-cheek” of the time I "asked" a cat in 1966 “What's your name?” and learning that it's name was “Dolly.”

Well, Hello, Dolly! ( A delightful song by Louis Armstrong )

I would like to assume that my readers will not think that I actually had such an actual exchange — it was simply a literary device that related my decision to name the cat.

Similarly, in 2016 I asked the resident goose here at the Landing Apartments, to learn that her name is Samantha.

A neighbor recently informed me that the goose is a male, named Jack. I responded by informing him that I had asked the goose, and learned that HER name is Saman --- well, you get the idea. All in fun.

But in a more serious vein I have sometimes wondered if sometimes, some animals might be silently communicating . . . ?

Here, now, in May of 2023, I find it pleasant to sit in a chair on my “front porch” while enjoying my morning cuppa, and gaze at the world as it exists outside of my apartment.

I watch the birds, gaze upon the lake, enjoy the gentle breeze, and meditate . . .

I find it pleasant — relaxing — “positively ... therapeutic,” if I may quote Louis.

Somewhat akin to the sessions I experienced sitting in the porch swing at my “White Rock Ranch.”

Recently, relaxing on my porch I observed some nutria, grazing in the grass along the sidewalk beside the lake.

Several crawled along the sidewalk — except for one, that remained, hunkered down, motionless . . .

Is that really a nutria? Perhaps … maybe … it might be a turtle . . . ??

It extended its head. Stretching to to gaze about, revealing that it WAS in fact a turtle. Slowly it extended its legs and began crawling, up onto the grass of the lawn, and in my direction. Stopping occasionally to stretch its head high, to look ahead to choose its path, it moved about half way across the lawn toward me.

It paused, turning to the left, stretching its head to the utmost, seeming to study me …

There is no articulable justification to support the idea that it was even conscious of my existence . . . but that thought crept slowly into my consciousness.

And then I remembered . . .

About five years ago as I gazed from my kitchen window I saw a turtle crawling slowly across the road. Cars slowed, swerved, just barely missing the lumbering animal.

Impulsively I put down my cup and rushed out to rescue the turtle — arrogantly stopping traffic while I retrieved it from the middle of the road.

I carried it to the edge of the lake and placed it gently, in safety, where it could enter the water.

I was glad that none of my friends observed my action — I would find it difficult to justify. Just a quirk of my character, a respect I feel for life in any form . . .

I thought no more about it — until, here, 5 years later a turtle was crawling toward me, and gazing intently, seemed to recognize me, and remember . . .

Having moved close enough to see me clearly, satisfied that it had identified me, it mentally conveyed its gratitude, turned and moved back toward the lake.

I am glad that no one could follow my thoughts — it would be impossible to justify the thought that a turtle could . . .

That I would even think that such . . .

Ridiculous!

I'll not mention this to anyone. Ever.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The operating system time stamp on the article written above was at 2:34 PM. What follows below occurred about 3:35 PM.

In the kitchen, making a glass of tea, and I felt a compulsion to gaze out the window — toward the area below the dam. There I observed something that I could not immediately identify. Binoculars made it seem much closer, and I recognized the turtle.

Stuck below the dam, unable to climb the vertical walls to return to the lake. He wandered fitfully back and forth, futilely wishing for a miracle.

Well . . .

I pulled on my rubber boots, some vinyl gloves and descended to the drainage below the dam. As I approached the turtle, he withdrew into his shell — and I heard him say “You, again!”

I carried him across the dam and eased him into the lake. Wordlessly he slipped beneath the surface and disappeared.

Bubbles contained the thought: “Thanks!”

I'll never tell anyone!!!!

Stormy Skies

SKYWATCHER

 Tuesday, May 9, 2023

SKYWATCHER

I have ever watched the skies.

In Galveston's 1940's I observed the fascinating incursion of winter's "blue northers" that brought cold, windy awareness of the season.

The eponymous dark clouds were shading to blue-gray, and with their color carried along the sweet odor of the refineries of Texas City, from across the bay to the north.

The delicate pink of sunrise over the Gulf, viewed from the early morning Seawall, defies comparison — and caresses the senses throughout the slow ascent of the morning sun.

And in Austin in 1960 the tumultuous clouds of the summer thunderstorms were frankly gray, with no apology for their color or angry roiling. And I studied with bated breath the occasional green tinged skies that warned of possible tornadoes.

But I have waited until today, some sixty-three years later, to view ORANGE clouds.

At dawn, in the western sky, when the promising sunrise should have painted the skies a luscious pink, a novel display from some secret palette flooded the entire western sky's morning clouds with a distinct orange.

I stared with disbelieving obsession while the orange increased its brilliance — and then quickly faded to a pedestrian gray.

I remained but a minute, then turned away, with a memory that shall ever remain. 

 

 

Comet Tail Induced Insanity

 MAY 5, 2023 / 4:33 PM / CBS NEWS:

“You could catch a glimpse of the Eta Aquarids meteor shower if moonlight doesn't interfere on Saturday when it is expected to peak, according to the American Meteor Society. The Eta Aquarids meteor shower peaks each year during early May as Earth passes through the debris trail from Halley's Comet”

And without presenting a detailed list of recent aberrant behavior across all segments of our society, I will note the significance of the coincidence.

WE ARE LIVING THROUGH THE DEMONSTRATED PROOF OF THE THEORY THAT BEHAVIOR HERE ON EARTH IS AFFECTED BY PASSING THROUGH THE DEBRIS FIELD OF A COMET.

Another interesting bit of speculation suggests that the unusual weather patterns wreaking havoc this year might be another derivative effect; particles of comet dust deposited in the upper layers of the earth's atmosphere could impact weather patterns in ways unfamiliar to meteorologists.

SNAKES

There is a snake hereabouts called the Indigo snake. Not a native snake. I'm told the King ranch imported them from India years ago to help hold the rattler in check. Them indigo snakes eat rattlers, and they seem to've reduced the population considerable.

Late last Saturday I was walking along the south-west property line, and I come up on the damndest sight I ever seen.

One of them indigos, about three feet long, 'uz trying to swaller, tail first, a rattler just as big as he wuz. Now, the rattler didn't go fer that none 'tall,, an' he wuz kickin' 'n fussin' somut fierce. Finally the rattler got his head back to th' tail of the indigo an' started swallerin' him. It was quite a contest, to see which 'un 'ould swaller the other.

When both of 'em had about half the other'n swallered, they stopped fer a while. Guess they'uz tired, 'n needed to rest.

Then they started agin. Workin' their jaws, the way they do, swallerin' a inch at a time. Next thing I knowed, they was about six inches of the rattler hanging out of the indigo’s mouth, an' 'bout six or seven inches of the indigo sticking out of the rattler. They wuz bent around in a tiny circle, I didn't think they could bend that tight, but they kept on aworking.

'Bout that time a Mexican Eagle swooped down, looking to see if there wuz a meal. He saw me an' pulled up afore he got to the ground, and I watched him climb' back up to soar around, huntin'. I looked back down at the snakes, an' the indigo's head wuz sticking out of the rattler's mouth, and vice versy. 'n then there'uz a little puff of dust an' they both disappeared!!!

Caveat Emptor

 Searching for a house to buy. Explored a listing on the internet. Looked good. From the text description it would be pretty much ready to move in.

The outside appearance was immaculate. Appeared to have a new coat of paint; beautiful lush green yard …

So I saddled up and rode to view it.

Two words come to mind.

PaintShop. The software that allows a fat old man to appear young and fit.

And FRAUD.

I'd have bought the house shown in the pictures, at the asking price. But the house I saw would command a reduction in price of at least fifty percent.

The paint was scaling and peeling off — the house needed a pressure wash and a complete paint job.

Views shown by the Internet listing of the interior revealed pristine floors. Reality was damaged, warped, cracked — in need of complete renewal.

The misrepresented yard before the house was in reality devoid of grass, sparsely populated with scraggly weeds, exposing a lot of bare dirt.

If it ain't agin the law, it oughta be.

Caveat emptor ! Indeed ...

Indeed.

Wisdom

 In moments of silent introspection I am compelled to assess the reasons some find me so annoying.

Preeminent , it seems, is my haughty dispensation¹ of advice. To anyone. About anything.

So it follows, as the night the day, that I must take umbrage when an acquaintance instructs me in the manner of my existence.

I've been told that I'm a “know it all,” to which I arrogantly asserted “Well, I do!”

Please understand, I am humbly aware of my lack of education, and I am constantly amazed at the breadth of my ignorance. One thing I know, is that I don't know it all.

My "Well, I do" was merely an attempt to irritate my friend.

Worked.

Socrates Quotes

“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.”

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”

I presume to know SOME things — mostly unimportant trivialities. But when I see a friend about to eat a poisonous mushroom I am compelled to speak.

“Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!”

Only yesterday an acquaintance recommended that I read a media article headed “Ways you can protect yourself against an STI.”

I had to look it up. I didn't know the meaning of the acronym “STI.”

“Well? Are you going to read it?”

I respectfully declined.

The insistence was almost overpowering.

Lighting a metaphorical cigarette, I paused, then revealed my qualifications:

“You are looking at a man who lived most of his life on the Texas Gulf Coast, enjoying all the splendors that the shoreline can provide. And in the 1960's I published a technique for avoiding shark attacks.”

“And?”

“It was widely accepted. Those who adopted and practiced it unnaminously praised it.”

    Predictably I was rebuked for the use of a non-word. I ignored it.

"Well?”

“What?”

“What is the technique to avoid a shark attack?”

I paused and lit another imaginary cigarette. Continuing,

“It is a two stage procedure. First, one must studiously inquire of the habits of the various species of shark.”

“So?”

“Well, then the technique reveals itself, for it is self-evident.”

I arose and walked to the door, to depart for my residence.

The intense, urgent, insistent demand followed me:

“But what is it? How do you do it?”

I borrowed from my experience in a marching band to adopt a staccato rhythm, timing each word with a step through the door:

“Stay ...

   out …

      of …

         the …

            water ...

So be it with STI.           Adios, MF!”

1 Dispensation is the act of dispensing or dealing out; distribution — I hadda look it up!

Equality

 Last Saturday night I went to a dance that promised popular country western

 dance music.

I was greeted at the door by the ticket taker, who collected my entrance fee. He

 asked me if I was carrying a gun.  When I answered “No” he handed me a 

Glock pistol, saying “Here, carry this —  you can check it in when you leave.”

Misdemeanor or Felony?

My first day on the job as a patrol officer -- I was assigned to a veteran officer. We set out to begin our evening shift on Friday evening.

The lead officer,  my partner, tossed me the keys to the unit. Saying “You drive.”

I drove along the bypass route of Highway 59 through the south side of town. 

A careless driver made an illegal turn right in front of our car.  I hit the siren and turned on the overheard red lights, stopping the car within a block.  I contacted the driver, who turned out to be a gorgeous young woman.  I let her go with a verbal  warning.

Back in the patrol car, I was rebuked by my partner.  It was within the duties of the lead officer who is riding with a rookie to provide guidance in procedures, so I listened respectfully.

His rebuke was not for letting her off —  but for stopping her immediately.

“You should have followed along for a few blocks, to see what else she might do.”

The next night, he was driving when a vehicle sped past our marked unit in a grossly disrespectful  display of arrogance.

I expected an immediate pursuit and stop, but my partner followed at some distance — finally stopping the motorist about four blocks later.

I sat in the unit, watching, mystified, while he wrote ten tickets.

I demanded – no, I requested an explanation.  Respectfully.

“Why did you write so many tickets.”  

He explained that he wrote a ticket for each crosswalk that the driver drove across at an excessive speed while we were following him.  

 “But why?”

He said

               “Well, his name was Donald J Thump.”

Help for the Needy

 News reports show hundreds of people in our nation who are rendered homeless, communities devastated by terrible storms. Our president steps forward and announces that he is going to make available loans to help them rebuild.

I despair of any hope in trying to understand the motivation of our president, who is giving billions and billions of American dollars to Ukraine, and offers loans to our own needful citizens.

Are our citizens less worthy?

The Creation of Groups of Three

 (Havng just re-read "The Cremation of Sam McGee"  by Robert Service)

The Cre-ation of Groups of Three

There are strange things seen on our lovely stream

By those who search its banks …..

 … and the sights that I've found as I gaze all around 

will make my soul give thanks.

There, a flock of six turtles, giving up all their hurdles

While soaking up the sun ….

In two group clustered tight, in the morning sun's light

they were gathered together in threes.

Like biscuits so placed with their sides all embraced, 

touching each in a snug ungreased pan — 

Then they lurched down to drink in the nearby wide sink, 

making ripples — in circles they ran...

As they sank out of sight, for my soul 'twas delight...

though gone, nevermore to be seen;

And I know that they're there, so I give not a care  — 

for their sons and their daughters all live there underwater, and leave me without a closing rhyme.  How mean ...

 

by Billy Mitchell     March 24, 2023

Emotion

I have regarded my condition in recent years with a smug pride. Since I returned to Texas in 2014 I have found a place to live, furnished my quarters adequately, and live a comfortable existence. Comfort, both in regard to physical circumstances and to my mental/emotional existence. I read of older folk having problems — especially those who live alone. And I take pride in my equanimity in my reclusive life style.

Until recently. During the past two or three months I have been unusually emotional.

I begin to mourn. Which I have previously avoided. But I feel sadness that is bothersome and distracting, thinking often of loved ones who are gone. Some of them departed for as long as twenty years. Why, now, do I grieve?

I ponder.

And then it comes to me.

The trigger — that intrusion onto my placid existence. . .

It seems so obvious. I should have recognized it sooner.

Not that it would have mattered. I would still have gone down the same slope.

Actually crying on occasion. Drinking a lot more than I have ever done in the past. Sometimes three drinks in a day.

But I will preservere.

(What seems like a carelessly misspelled word may be a neologism. Not that it matters, but I may be attempting to engineer a portmanteau)

That trigger referred to above would have been the death last November of my friend Carl. It's as if he opened a door that I had assiduously kept closed, secure against the storms of sadness. And through that open door came a flood of suppressed emotions.

I resolve to assert a stoic composure — I will not tolerate such juvenile diversions.

I hear Pop's voice — “Buck up, boy — men don't cry.”

Okay, Pop. 

Me and T-Mobile

 I am having seriously irritating problems with the replacement phone that T-Mobile provided.

When I initially struggled through attempts to get the phone set up I had managed to get it to give me an audible alert  when a Gmail (email) came in, or when I got a text message,

Worked for about a week.  Then didn't.

I couldn't restore it so I contacted T-Mobile.  They guided me to change certain settings, and assured me that “that will fix it!”

Didn't.

Additionally, the phone has a problem charging the battery.  

The receptacle for the tethered cable to charge it will not accept the plug for the charging cable that they sold me for $16.  So I turned to a wireless device that they sold me for $50. It is designed to charge the phone by simply placing it on the charging table. The position of the phone must be precise, to the nearest tenth of a millimeter. Else it turns off the charger after ten seconds.

Tonight I finally got it to function.  Didn't dare reposition the phone until the battery was fully charged.

So when I wanted to access YouTube, I set up the T-Franklin mobile hotspot that T-Mobile sold me for $90.  

Then when the phone was fully charged I wanted to retire the T-Franklin device, and run off of the mobile hotspot in the phone.  

Nope.  No access.  The T-Franklin device had displaced the Samsung phone hotspot, and I would have to reprogram it to connect via the phone.

Sounds easy if you say it fast.

An hour later, and with the help of a double shot of vodka I finally established the connection.

Does Ludditte have one or two T's?

Cause and Effect

 The courts recognize temporal proximity as being highly probative of a causal connection.

In Clark County School Dist. v. Breeden, the United States Supreme Court indicated that close temporal proximity alone may be sufficient to establish a prima facie causal connection.

I don't have a definitive summary of the relevant statistics.  But a casual perusal of the news reports seems to show a sharp increase in the number of shootings in our society. 

One might inquire of a possible cause.  Are there any significant changes in recent years that might be responsible?

Let me think … 

Dow Jones was 36,799 last year. This year it has dipped to 32,930. 

For the winter of 2021-2022 the average maximum temperature was 29.9°F .  For 2022-2023 there is a 22 percent change below average.

Fifteen states now allow permitless concealed carry of handguns. At the start of 2022 only six states allowed it.

The House of Representatives is now under control of the Republicans.

Among others Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Mercury, and Plymouth automobiles have been discontinued.

Gun sales are increasing, probably due to lax carry laws:  2016: 16.7 million;  2021: 19.9 million;  2020:  22.8 million …

Is there any suggestion that any of the changes listed above may be related to the increase in shootings?

Anunnaki's Purse of Gold

 

I have enjoyed several hunting trips to the forests of northern New Mexico. I went there with my good friend Stan. But he's quit smoking¹, and won't be able to accompany me again. So this year I ventured forth alone.

On one of my excursions during the first week of my stay on the foot of Mangas Mountain I drove onto a side road running south off of Highway 93.

I left the road to explore a meadow on its east side.

I walked into a stand of trees to the south, and approached a gorge without a bottom. Of course, it had a bottom. But it sure was a long way down.

Across the narrow gorge was a steep vertical cliff. Barren and rocky, no vegetation at all. And there, maybe thirty feet down on the cliff face, was a cave staring at me. The opening was approximately circular, and probably about ten feet in diameter. For some reason it fascinated me.

After some debate I decided to explore that cave.

I returned to the road and drove south, and found a way to access the area, on the south side of the gorge, near the cave. Looking back to the north, I aligned myself with a clump of trees on the north side of the gorge, that I had selected for reference. That guided me to the irregular rock formation on the south side that I had observed directly above the cave.

Using climbing gear I lowered myself to the cave.

The floor was flat, level and uncluttered, I swung in and unhooked my rope. Securing it took some doing, for the walls and floor of the cave were smooth and bare. I took off my gear, and switched on my headlamp. Finally I found a crack into which I wedged some gear with the rope attached.

There was a sharp curve in the cave, less than twenty yards in.

I approached it cautiously, reminding myself that there might be another entrance to this cave, and there could be an animal in residence.

The area beyond the turn was a high domed, spacious room. It was so large that my headlamp seemed feebly inadequate.

I searched for animal tracks in the dusty floor, but there were none.

I did find a clutter of strange fabric. As if discarded clothing, but a fabric unlike any I've ever seen. I found, half buried in the floor of the cave, a leather purse. Approximately four inches square, with carry handles attached. A metallic container inside held a residue of a very fine gold colored dust. Later a jeweler tested the dust, and confirmed that it was pure gold.

In past two years I have been reading about the Anunnaki who arrived on earth in ancient times. They are pictured in numerous carved representations carrying a small square purse which they held by its handles.

And it is interesting that they had great interest in mining gold here in earth.

The Anunnaki are a group of deities of the ancient Sumerians, Akkadians, Assyrians and Babylonians. They are ancient alien gods from Nibiru, a hypothetical Neptune-sized planet that supposdly orbits our Sun in a highly elongated orbit far beyond Pluto.

I feel that I have discovered the purpose of the ubiquitous purses, displayed in so many images in sites on several continents -- carvings representing the Anunnaki.

What if their biological chemistry required some small percentage of gold ?

Perhaps while they are here on earth they have a physical need for gold, much as I might need oxygen if I traveled to a distant planet. The purses so pervasively carried might hold the gold they need.

I have heard of a medical application of gold here on earth — the popular form is “monoatomic gold.” My first reaction to this is to remember the snake oil I used to buy for a dime a bottle, back in the 1860's . . . (see Outlaw Josey Wales)

Then I encountered A Preliminary Study of the Effect of Ingestion of Gold on Blood Chemistry by Dinesh C. Sharma.

That article does not conclude that there is any beneficial medical effect from ingesting gold, but it at least gives it a serious consideration.

Who knows? On the planet Nibiru, gold may be like vitamin B12 is here, for me.

Imagine their frantic searches for gold on Nibiru if suddenly there was not an adequate supply on hand . . . and their local Walmart didn't have any in stock, nor any expectation of receiving any.

Here on earth, people jump onto their car and run to Walmart when there is an urgent need. The inhabitants of Nibiru may pile into their spaceship and cruise to the nearest — My goodness, what if that's US ?

There are legendary accounts of aliens infiltrating Earth, and mining for gold — in South Africa, by some accounts. Interactions with humans are said to have included visiting its women, and altering the genes of humans to create an army of laborers to work in their gold mines. Perhaps the visits to earth's women were an adjunct to their efforts in genetic manipulation.

Steven King, where are you? We need a new movie — “I'm Proud to be a Gold Miner's Daughter” . .

1  Stan said that he would quit smoking when he quit breathing. He did.

Maturity

 It has been said, by a learned philosopher, that “life is a journey to uncover one's self, one's identity.”¹

It is interesting to hear the voices of wisdom by my betters. I seek to learn from them. I am inspired by the rambling expressions and opinions of learned philosophers.

But I don't always agree with them.

With respectful regard for the wisdom of the quote in the first line of this essay — I have noted in myself an ongoing, accelerating evolution in my mentality and perception of reality. And with the conceit and arrogance of one who has accumulated a few knocks, bumps and scars I dare to disagree.

I would revise the quote thusly:

“ . . . life is a journey to mold and develop one's self, one's identity.”

1  Walt Whitman's poem “I Celebrate Myself” is actually about how Whitman celebrates himself. The poem is about finding your identity,

Snooty Purple Bird

 I have been hit with that phrase again --”purple prose” — to insinuate that I affect a pretentious ostentatiousness, to presume to a grandiose manner.

I wrote about a crow that come into my room thru a open window.

"He hopped right in, with lots of flapping his wings, like he thought he owned the place.  Didn't slow down none — acted proud, kinda like them snooty high society couples you see on TV … an he flue up to a high shelf, an he set right down on an old statue I've got up there of a Greek goddess.

An then he jus set there …"

If'n I wanted it t'be purple I'da copied Poe:

"...with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more."

        

                                                                Pallas

Anybody that'd read that kind of stuff — no tellin' how he'll write!