I ran across another meme on Facebook that allowed me to ignore the half written drafts I have waiting impatiently for me to finish them.
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From the Meme:
"For a small amount of perspective during these crazy times, imagine you were an American born in 1900. When you are 14, World War I starts, and ends on your 18th birthday with 22 million people killed. Later in the year, a Spanish Flu epidemic hits the planet and runs until you are 20. Fifty million people die from it in those two years. Yes, 50 million.
When you're 29, the Great Depression begins. Unemployment hits 25%, global GDP drops 27%. That runs until you are 33. The country nearly collapses along with the world economy. When you turn 39, World War II starts. You aren’t even over the hill yet.
When you're 41, the United States is fully pulled into WWII. Between your 39th and 45th birthday, 75 million people perish in the war and the Holocaust kills six million. At 52, the Korean War starts and five million perish.
At 64 the Vietnam War begins, and it doesn’t end for many years. Four million people die in that conflict. Approaching your 62nd birthday you have the Cuban Missile Crisis, a tipping point in the Cold War. Life on our planet, as we know it, could well have ended. Great leaders prevented that from happening.
As you turn 75, the Vietnam War finally ends. Think of everyone on the planet born in 1900. How do you survive all of that? A kid in 1985 didn’t think their 85 year old grandparent understood how hard school was. Yet those grandparents (and now great grandparents) survived through everything listed above.
Perspective is an amazing art. Let’s try and keep things in perspective. Let’s be smart, help each other out, and we will get through all of this. In the history of the world, there has never been a storm that lasted. This too, shall pass."
My comment with a small bit of editing:
"My father was born in 1905. He lived the life the meme describes. He spent his adult life in the Army Air Corp and later, as WWll began to wind down, he was the 619th person inducted into the US Air Force that was separated from under the Army's umbrella. He witnessed and participated in much of what went down back in the day. He learned to fly in open cockpit planes and finished his career over 30 years later with a short flight in a F -100 Super Sabre. His generation saw a lot. But then, so does every generation.
Now let's look at the Boomer generation of which I am a member. It has been a tumultuous ride for us also if we chose to pay attention.
In my lifetime, America has spent almost all of it tied up in useless military conflicts which were not direct threats to our country. I have witnessed what I thought were great strides forward in the struggle to finally have a country of equals where the promise of the Constitution might be more than just empty words. But those strides are now being dismantled and it looks like if I live long enough, I will see us crash in the dust of our own hubris and we will be back in the hole we were in over a hundred years ago."
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It seems the only thing we can count on is Change that repeats itself.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ................................
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To find an appropriate tune for this post, I typed in the Google space, "Blues tune about history repeating". The first song to pop up was not a Blues tune. It waas the perfect song; a jazzy tune by a great singer I had forgotten about.
I first noticed Shirley Bassey for her opening credit song "Goldfinger" in that James Bond movie of the same name. That was in 1964. She recorded the song below in 1997-98. She has had a long, long career. Including this song because it fits is not my main reaason. Shirley deserves her props. Her sixty plus year career and her pipes seem as strong as they were in 1964. Awesome singer.
Here is Shirley Basseyand the Propellor Heads with a jazzy tune, "History Repeating". What a great song. Play it loud.
Yesterday, I spotted this meme on my Facebook feed. It heralds a great personal accomplishment for two women and a step up for women everywhere. Their 1916 slog across America was not only challenging as a motorcycle trek, the riders' gender caused them to be targeted because they flaunted social norms of the times.
Their trip was one of many early accomplishments in the fight for women's equal rights. It has taken over a hundred years, but the ladies have proven what we already have known for thousands of years, that women are as capable as men.
Then Jerry Falwell and other evangelical preachers fired up the Pro Birthers and the Christian Nationalists. It was during Reagan's first run for office they managed to wrap their talons around Right Wing agendas throughout the Bible Belt. Now our country is regressing back to the times we have struggled so hard to get away from.
It is great that women now have the freedom to wear what they want. They have never looked better in my opinion.. Sadly though, if they live in or visit the wrong states, their bodies become the properties of the State. Uterine Slavery is alive and well and legal in 12 states today. It is no coincidence that the states with the highest per capita populations of Christians have the most repressive laws regarding women's rights.
The claim that the Pro Birthers are Pro Life is Bullshit. There is no wiggle room in the term "Pro Life". Being for Capital Punishment and claiming the Pro Life moniker is the worst kind of hypocrisy. Endorsing candidates who take away food from the hungry, housing from the poor, and the rights of the disenfranchised are not "Pro Life" qualities. Their "Pro Life" claim is nothing but a form of repression, an attempt to control and keep a lid on the growth of women as fiull participants in our democratic process.
Like most of the Right, many Christians have no problem with their leaders' blatant hypocrisy. The reason is, their religion is based on a book written by dishonest men. It excuses Repression, Slavery, Hypocrisy, Lying, and Deictful Action. And possibly worst of all, Christian Nationalists tend to champion the extremists in thier sects and allow them to set their course.
If I could change one thing, I would hope that any Pro-Choice believer would not continue to call the lying Pro Birthers other than what they are........ "Anti-Choice" or maybe even better, call them "Forced Birthers", because that is what they are.
Welcome back to the "Good Ole Days".
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As the A-I generated craze begins its conquest of our culture, I find it interesting that it has been able to secure so much support in such a short time. A good many folks like me were caught off guard maybe, but for the most part, America and the World seem to be okay with computers taking over the chore of creating, monitoring and running our reality.
I suspect any music generated by a band named "Toad Bone" is computer generated music. It is too slick and there is no information out there as to whether it is a group of humans making the music or a computer. This lack of transparency pisses me off. I have to say that I have enjoyed some of the AI tunes I have listened to. And I now realize that some that I thought were the work of real humans were not.
This kind of sneaky bullshit coming from the Tech World should make all of us nervous.
Anyway here is Toad Bone with, "She's Got Lightening in Her Eyes". Don't get too excited. A computer created this.
I listened to a Blues tune the other day. "You Gotta be Tough to Grow Old", by Old Old Joe dovetails well with what I perceive as the lifestyle I find myself in today.
At age 73, I know I won't survive getting old. None of us do. I also know it was I who created the situations and most health issues with my previous life choices and career paths. I will say, I did last 25 years longer than some of my high school peers thought I would.
I have come to terms with how uncomfortable growing old is. Now I just shake my head when I remember how surprised I was in the first place. Over the years, I had more than a few cases of aging play out in front of me. I chose to shrug off my certain future of dealing with many of the same ailments and indignities that come with getting older.
Denial runs strong in the Human Race. We love ignoring the unpleasantness we know we are probably headed for down the road. It is part and parcel of the idea to live for today and fuck tomorrow. I have been a lifelong adherent to that notion, that's for sure. Now I am beginning to reap the rewards for my careless disregard for sane living.
I pushed many limits. Crossed many also. That I am here today writing something resembling coherent thought still surprises me every time I do it. And therein lies the secret I guess; the secret of being content and accepting the results of what I sowed so many years ago. I have no complaints. Any extra time I get now is icing on my cake.
You gotta be tough to grow old or lucky or maybe blessed. It seems that successfully growing old takes some tolerance and backbone........ Maybe more than I can muster................. We'll see.
I am a Pats fan. I have been since the Baltimore Colts slithered out of town in the middle of the night to re-settle in the Hoosier state. That was in 1984. Being a frustrated fan was rewarded eventually with one of the best dynasties ever in the NFL. Brady and Belichick created the most exciting football moments of my lifetime.
But fortunes can change and the Pats fell on hard times during the last 6 years. After 19 straight winning seasons, they have not had a winning season since 2019.
They did what NFL teams do, drafted players, hired new coaches. None of their efforts seemed to take hold.......... Until last year when they drafted Drake Maye. He was expected to turn things around. His rookie start was a tad bumpy, but anyone watching him last year could see the potential.
This year the Pats brought in a new coach, an ex-player from long ago. An old offensive play caller was rehired, and money was spent chasing down the best combination of talent they could find.
I don't want to get ahead of myself here, but after a rocky start, the Pats look to be coming together into a solid ball team on both sides of the ball. If they keep up the momentum and intensity of the last two games, they could do very well this season. Drake Maye and the Offense are moving the ball and actually scoring when they hit the Red Zone. The defense is complimenting the good play of the offense by solid performances against the run backed up by an excellent pass defense.
Of course after 6 years of mediocre football, the fanbase was less enthused than when the Pats were always considered as Super Bowl contenders. Now they are so considered, as so many of the comments online are mentioning the Super Bowl, MVP's, and watch out, the Pats are back rhetoric.
I have tried to be a voice of reason. I remember the bad old days. The days before Brady and Belichick when the fans first hope was to not have a losing season. My comments were and still are not infused with the cocky attitude many fans now are too quick to embrace.
After the Pats' win over Buffalo last Sunday night in Buffalo to bring the Pats over the break even point at 3 and 2, a fan commented about how the Pats were surefire Super Bowl contenders now and Drake Maye was going to be the MVP this season. He then asked:
Could this be the rise of a new Patriot Dynasty?
I responded that of course it could be. Anything was possible, don't start counting chickens yet.
The next day, on my Facebook notification list, Drake Maye issued me a heart response to my comment. I often do not recheck the posts if all there is are some emoji likes, dislikes, loves, etc. But this was Drake Maye. I had to check it out. And yeah, the profile picture was Drake.
I have been roaming around Facebook for 15 years at least. I know fake personalities are found everywhere. But please excuse me because for just a moment there, I was sure Drake Maye loved me.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ............................................
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Not sure why, but I feel twisted this morning. That is, I feel like offering music that not only has nothing to do with the post, it is being posted because I just like the song and especially the video. Here is Broken Peach and their cover of "Tainted Love". Full screen gives the best impression. Second lady from the right is my favorite. I'd be her groupie, but alas, I don't speak Spanish worth a fuck.
As soon as I was able to read around age 4, my family began brow beating grammar basics into my wee brain. Some of them stuck. But anyone who has read what I write now, knows many of those basic rules of grammar are nowhere to be found. My flaunting of the rules is often purposeful, a kind of "in your face, Grammar Man" rebellion
Everyone should have adequate writing skills. We should all be able to write a note, a memo, or a letter that is easily understood. Sadly, too many folks lack even those grammar basics. I have always wondered why. It's a mystery to me, like wondering how some people cannot swim or drive a car.
But then, the grammar challenged may not have had a family of Grammar Nazis to deal with like I did as a kid. Around age 7 or so, the tolerant kindly corrections suggested by parents began to turn ugly. I was supposed to have it down. From then on, I lived in fear of having my speech and written words constantly under their harsh scrutiny.
My oldest brother ; my 13 years older brother was the worst. He specifically took offense at my use of "irregardless", which at the time I considered a perfectly good word. He was not tactful nor kind. He often smacked the back of my head when I used it because he knew I was often using it just to piss him off.
In my early teens, making Joe lose his shit over anything made my day. "Irregardless" was one the sure fire weapons I would pull out of my "Piss Off Joe Quiver". The other good one was bringing up the tennis match he lost to my father who kicked his ass at age 58 or so. Joe broke his tennis racket in frustration after the match. I was one happy buckaroo that day.
So what is it about a word/not a word like "irregardless" that rubs so many Grammar Enthusiasts the wrong way? I will only use it now as a way to needle, poke or prod. Once I understood the bad math of the word and many like it, I have attempted to erase them from unconsciously using them.
It's all about the double negatives Americans love so much. Double Negatives do make folks sound ignorant at times. I prefer to think of the use of Double Negatives as the folksy, come on by sometime and set a spell way of communicatin. I ain't gots no problem with others using "irregardless" in their speech. But don expect me to not grin just a little when I hear them.
Ya'll Keep it steady now, ya hear?
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I hired a young man at my bike shop some years ago. He was definitely a gifted wrench twister. He was a first generation American whose mom was the daughter of Vietnamese refugees who fled Vietnam after the war. He had some tough moments at school, what with him looking so foreign and all. He took the mean remarks well, letting them slide. He eventually worked his way into some kind of acceptance and finished his school days driving a beat up Dodge pick up with an American flag stuck in the bed waving proud and loud. His red neck held its own with any local yokel around, even if he didn't look like them.
I always hoped he would find his own path. When I retired and sold the bike shop, I lost touch with him. I heard later he had joined the Marines. And that is all I know. But hope springs eternal. Maybe leaving the our little patch here where he grew up will hopefully free up some of the many horizons waiting for him to check out.
Good luck Kenny.
What brought Kenny up is a Bluegrass artist I just discovered. Her name is Mona MacAedyn. She too is a first generation offspring of Vietnam Refugees. Her song, "Vietnam" tells the story. Enjoy.
I have enjoyed living life as a crooked tree. ..... Like Molly Tuttle's song, "Crooked Tree", I long ago learned to embrace my quirks, my minor faults, and most importantly, the loose dog ways I developed as a child. I was never meant to be that disciplined often grumpy worker bee, whose rigid spine and puckered asshole prevented smiles or tears from ever entering his heart. No, I have never been one to be a robot.
I have laughed and cried my way through the last 73 years. I have won, I have failed. All the while, once I was finished licking my wounds, I moved on; often moving on to a new something entirely different from what or where I was before. With each disappointment or joyful moment, my character changed. Sometimes the change was palpable immediately. More often than not, it was a slow accumulation of small changes before I noticed I was headed down a new path. Regardless, I went willingly for better or worse.
Each new change twisted my tree a little more. As the number of twists and turns added up, I found it easier to recover my equilibrium even though my branches may have indicated otherwise. Any bad times I had, I now view with a mix of melancholy and reverence. For it was those moments that really created who I am today.
I think my early nomadic life as a military brat helped me develop a high tolerance and yes, even a keen interest in change. My tree growing in different directions provided me with an interesting life. Along with a serious dose of good luck, I survived the worst of my bad decisions. Timely luck allowed me the time to appreciate how much dumb luck has to do with a life.
This brings to mind why Molly Tuttle might have written "Crooked Tree". One read through of the lyrics and it seems likely that she, like all of us, had challenges in her life that helped form who she is today. Rather fight the negativity found in her past, she embraced those moments and it appears she is not allowing them to permanently define who she was today. When I glance back into my life, I realize that I didn't either.
Don't let the stupidity and anger of others ruin your day. Smile, chuckle, do anything but give them the satisfaction that their assholery affected you in any way. ..........................
I know, I know, ....................Easier said than done.
Later ...........................................
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I did not give Molly her due when I first started listening to her music a few years back. Then I watched the video below and was awed. She is a very very talented musician and lyricist. She picks just like the big dogs in the tall grass and the lyrics of "Crooked Tree" prove her composing chops.
I have been a registered Democrat at least 45 years now. I became one because I considered the Democrats as the lesser of the two evils that were running our severely corrupted two party political system. And I was certainly not going to vote for Ronald Reagan. He was "Evil Incarnate". I witnessed the hate and discontent he had stirred up in California as Governor.
I knew the two party system was rigged through a collusion between the Democrats and the Republicans. No matter their public differences, both of them would work together behind the scene, in the dark of their respective smoky rooms to keep the two party way of life intact.
The madness of a multi party government meant the Democrats and the Republicans would have to make room for more hogs at the public trough. This was a non starter. Self Interest and Greed were best served when fewer hogs had access.
The two party system wasn't perfect. No political system has stayed perfect once the idea leaves the pages of conception and is tossed out into the Real World to see if it works. Our great constitutional republic had flaws, but there were fewer flaws than the others had. That was how both sides sold it to the public anyway. Not perfect, but it beat any other alternative out there.
Somehow, the country stumbled along with a majority of Americans convinced they were existing in the best political situation in the world. Both parties worked hard to bury the simmering discontent found on the edges of their respective groups.
The image was of a government running well through collegial civil disagreements between two parties who both insisted their crew loved America best. The reality was quite different and has been since the beginning. Both parties are first and foremost, in it for themselves and the interests they serve. All the lip service, all the do-nothing, all the skimming, all the nepotism come before any real concern for the people. Token positive adjustments to the greater good kept the worst of the whiners at bay.
Top priority for both was Power. How to get it and how to hold onto it once they had it. For years, the rules set down by our founders in the Constitution determined how the power was delegated. The one redress sold to the People as a cure all, attempted to convince them they had the real power. This power enshrined in the original rule book were called elections.
Elections have turned out to be an illusion, a scam; the People have never had any real power. We just think we do. We are corralled, gelded and lead by our noses where they want us to head. We are trail broken, on automatic, predictable and usually easy to handle.
It is only because the two parties were content sharing power with each other that this pendulum swinging Bullshit worked. This historic cooperation has broken down, hit a major snag, and is shitting the bed hard now. The Right has been taken over by its fringe and no longer want to share power with the Democrats and the people supporting them.
The Right has declared war on it's own country. It's their way or the highway. It is what they have always wanted, always worked for behind the scenes in the stinking alleys behind their lying smiling eyes.
No longer is there some sense of proportion to the Right's main goal; Power. All they had to do was throw the occasional bone, talk out of both sides of their mouths and smile as they wave at the fools who elected them. Every once in awhile, they would switch from majority party to minority party and everyone got along in the end. There was balance. Not anymore.
And now, here is my problem. I had convinced myself those 40 or so years ago that while the Dems and the GOP were but two sides of the same coin, the Dems actually moved the country forward while still picking our pockets. The GOP has never wanted to serve the interests of the many. They had their little clique of rich Capitalists with their loyal to a fault rank and file who worshipped the ground they pissed on. They had no interest in moving us all up. Their efforts could now be aimed at the small group they belonged to.
I was having a real problem justifying my continued membership in the Democratic Party. Go Independent Mike, fuck those pearl clutching, why can't we all just get along pansies from the Left. If they can't stand up to the hob nailed thugs of the Right........ well Fuckem.
As angry as I am at my own party, I will stick it out. They are the ones I brought to the dance 45 years ago. Bailing on them now just wouldn't feel right. Besides, more now than ever before, the Democrats are definitely the lesser of two evils. The stark contrast makes it a no brainer.
I know it is harder than ever, but try your best to "Keep it 'tween the Ditches" .....................
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My musical choice for this post has no connection to the post itself. I was listening to a mix some google bytes created for my pleasure; you know, a set compiled from music I had previously listened to.
An over the top quality cover of "Hit the Road Jack" by The Sweet Sisters came on. I liked it so much, I played it again and watched it this time. Damn, those ladies are not just good singers, they are so easy to watch. Wow. I am guessing they grow hardwood wherever they play. The video part is excellent.
I think most people, well, maybe most, maybe not........ Most people I would think, try to find some ray of hope or anything that can lift their spirits from the sad places they sometimes find themselves in. There's no unhappier place right now than the United States of America. In my lifetime, I have never seen such chronically intense unhappiness; not even back in the struggle for Civil Rights and Stop the Vietnam War days.
Uncertainty about the future seems to seep into every social media interaction. Everything has become politicized, contested, sometimes violently. Until Charli Kirk's death, I was willing to admit neither the Right nor the Left were guiltless for the hateful tone of our current times. The Right's across the board knee jerk reaction immediately after Charlie was shot tells me the Right doesn't want cooperation, bipartisanship, or share any of their toys with the rest of us. They want more Hate. They want more Chaos. They no longer care if they destroy the country as we know it. All they want is to "Own the Libs".
Well, the MAGA crowd can go Fuck themselves. I am now more than ever, hoping to one day, see the Right utterly defeated.
That's all I have today. Saying anything more might get me fired...... Oh yeah, I forgot for a moment, I'm retired now.
Later ...............................
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Rage Against the Machine may just be my favorite Angry Band. They are not a Ballad band, a Pop Band; they are an angry band. This live version of "Killing in the Name Of" is 32 years old. As anyone with a brain can tell, nothing has changed for the better since then. Matter of fact, life is harder, crazier, and the horizon does not hold as much hope as it use to.
This meme crossed my Facebook feed this morning. It might seem irrelevant now, what with many younger folks having no familiarity with the act of cracking a book open and reading it. The problem is, anal retentive assholes all over the world have been trying to stop Humanity from reading since before the Dark Ages.
The pursuit of Science was banned and those who dared to challenge the powers that were, often ended up with one end of a stick up their butt and the other end of that stick planted deep next to some byway out of town. Or they were burned, castrated, drawn and quartered or one of the many other go to tortures and horrifying deaths conceived for folks who disrespected their gods or leaders.
Various religious groups in the beginning and later in unison with government cooperation worked to restrict or vanquish any considerations of literacy and free thought. Now, the assault on literacy appears to be gaining momentum again. An ignorant population that depends completely on the information fed them by Religious and or Government overlords is a population under control. Control information, you control your world.
Let a bunch of liberal free thinkers run amok among the drooling masses, and it won't be long before Leadership and their policies will be successfully challenged and control is lost. Where are you then in your expensive robes and other trappings of power? The salt of the earth population you have been oppressing hangs you head down from the closest overpass.
So, I get it. A government will do whatever it deems necessary to defend itself from real or perceived threats to its survival. Regardless how much control an oppressor may have, the pendulum eventually swings back the other way. It seems to be an unavoidable cycle that has plagued Mankind since we were shitting in Mammoth fur shorts.
This inherent Human failing offers us little comfort here and now. It also offers up a glimmer of hope, a hint of a sliver lining forming in some current cloud somewhere sometime in our futures. Someday, clear heads will return to steer our ship and the pendulum will swing back the other way.
Until that time or Hell freezes over, I plan to continue to keep on reading, questioning, and more importantly, I will continue voicing what is on my mind, what I care about, what you might put your mind to caring about, and hopefully maybe open a mind or two.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ..................................
Literate open minded humans are the bane of Authoritarians and Theocrats.
This is one of the many reasons smart people do not like Trump.
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Musical choice for today's post has been delayed. Instead of taste testing tunes while I wrote down these words, I punched up a 3 hour long Productive Jazz playlist. An hour or so into the list, I finished the post. Those productive jazz lists are indeed nice to write by. Some are better than others. I am currently favoring any with "Penguins" in the title.
A few minutes of checking a songs to attach to this post, I came across a band and a song I have history with. In October of 1976, I was hired by SHOWCO to haul their equipment for various musical acts. My first tour was with The Who. They opened every show with "Won't Get Fooled Again". The first time I stood behind one of the speaker stacks and heard the sound of 60-70,000 fans screaming in unison, well, I still remember those shivers.
"And always remember, Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by those moments that take our breath away."
- George Carlin
"You go first."
"No, you go."
They looked at each other trying to figure out which one of them was serious.
Mark and Dill stood on the fifth floor looking down to the ground. They had invaded a new building under construction on the NIH grounds in Bethesda, Maryland. They had watched it evolve from a park-like grove of oak trees into a vacant lot from which tons of dirt were removed to form a basement. From there they noticed a steady progression of concrete floors being poured at ground level and then one at a time, lifted up I-beam columns to eventually become the eight story monolith they stood in that day.
The building had no windows or outside walls yet; just ten stories of floors open to the wind and rain. On one side there was a single hand hoist hanging off the eight story roof. After some discussion, the two boys agreed the temporary crane was for hoisting up material or tools, maybe both.
These troublemakers had no interest in what specific medical research this building would be dedicated to. Their only interest was squeezing all the fun possible out of it before it became a concrete and glass tower sitting where, a few months ago, a grove of old oaks had spread their branches.
Dill shoved Mark like he was going to push him off the fifth floor Mark freaked and shoved Dill back:
"And you wonder why we call you Dill. You really are a dildo. ......... Not funny dude, not funny."
Mark grabbed the loop of the hoist rope. He looked down and shook it. It rippled up and down its length. He looked up to the big pulley it dangled from. He yanked hard and was pleased that it felt so solid.
Dill could tell Mark was conjuring up some fun, most likely dangerous fun. He knew that look. He watched Mark studying the rope and then studying the big pile of stand below them and then back to studying the rope.
Mark turned to Dill:
"Dare you to swing on this rope over to that sand pile and jump. I bet it'd be like the swing down at Glen Echo; Just like landing in the Potomac."
Dill snatched the rope from Mark and began examining the rope and surroundings just as Mark had:
" Just like jumping in the Potomac huh? .......... I don't know. Somehow sand don't seem the same as water."
Dill shook the rope and yanked on it some more:
"I'd do it, but not this high......... How 'bout the third floor? We can decide after if we want to go higher." A plan was set. The two of them went down to the third floor.
Conversation delayed any real action on the boys' parts. This wasn't just a home street puddle jump dare on their bikes. They both knew this challenge was next level Dare shit. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Time to put up or shut up. Dares were serious business to 13 year old boys. They knew this and finally Mark grabbed hold of the rope and started backing up deeper into the building.
Dill stepped in front of him.
"You sure about this? Third floor seems higher than I thought."
"Get out of my way."
Dill looked at Mark. He could see the resolve in Mark's eyes. He shrugged and stepped to the side.
Mark double checked his grip on the rope, took a deep breath and started running for the edge. Just as he lifted off the floor, he screamed. The scream started out as a brave scream that abruptly became more of a screech. Mark's eyes began to bulge. It wasn't the triumphant scream of a tough guy. It was the scream of a child deciding in mid flight he had possibly made a mistake.
Dill had followed Mark to the edge and watched him launch. His butt puckered hard as he saw Mark swing out past the sand pile, reach the peak of its arc and begin to swing back. As Mark passed over the sand pile on his return trip, he realized not letting go might be worse than the alternative. He released the rope and plummeted down onto the sand pile near its bottom and collapsed.
Dill didn't move. Mark didn't move. Dill was sure there was an ambulance in their future. Mark was in a crumpled seated position. His head, bent over almost touching the sand pile.
Dill stood on the edge of the third floor. He wanted to panic. He wanted to run away. In the meantime, he just stood and looked at his friend, who was not moving. ..... Mark lifted his head and looked up at Dill. He threw his arms up in victory, began hooting and hollering as he extricated himself from the sand. Dill exhaled. It was only then he realized he had been holding his breath.
The relative safety of this stunt had been established. Dill and Mark must have swung out on that rope a dozen times each, always trying to time their fall to hit the peak of the sand pile. Their shoes filled with sand. The cuffs of their jeans filled with sand. They had sand in their mouths, their ears and up their noses. None of that mattered............ Using that hoist rope for a swing was indeed just like jumping into the Potomac River and the most fun they could remember having for awhile.
Full of sand and tired from the activity, they decided to have one last swing. Only this time, they would do it together, the two of them at the same time. By now their confidence levels were through the roof. They were sure they had this covered.
Without hesitation they took one last swing from the third floor.
Later they decided that they had done the construction crew a favor, maybe even saved a life. That's what they told themselves after they both fell onto the sand pile instead of jumping onto it. Almost immediately after launch, before they could let go, the rope suddenly went slack and they fell onto the low side of the sand pile. A second or two later as they sat in a daze, the whole hoist framework came down, landing about 6 feet away from them.
Dill wanted to run away immediately. Mark wanted to know why the frame had come down. He checked the frame and it looked like the big bolts that had been used to attach the frame to the concrete had failed and pulled out. All the way home, Mark thought about the near miss. Finally he decided the hoist was not meant to be a swing and the swinging weight of he and Dill had worked the bolts hard, side to side, until that final swing with twice the body weight caused the whole frame, pulley and rope come crashing down.
Mark was unscathed. Dill twisted his ankle. And, for the next week or so, both of them were finding sand in body crevices they didn't even know they had
At Mark's house the two of them said their goodbyes and promised each other no one would be told. That promise lasted almost a week.
1075 words
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I have wanted to write about this moment in my past for a long time. Every time I approached doing it, I shelved it. And I don't know why. Anyway, here it is, finally written down. Not sure how I feel about the effort yet.
The events are true. I changed the names and created the dialog.
Later Gators ...................................
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Oops. I punched up one the 3 hour Jazz playlists instead of listening to find a song that might dovetail well with the story. .............. I first heard this song on the first Kingston Trio Album I bought in the early 1960s. The other Trio albums I had were hand me downs from one of my brothers. They both helped create my first serious music collection. "Time to Think" was released by The Kingston Trio in 1963. I loved that album. I am pretty sure I still have it.
Here is The Kingston Trio's version of "Seasons in the Sun", a French song translated by the late great Rod McKuen.
My love / hate relationship with Facebook continues. Today though, I am a happy Facebook follower. Tomorrow, who knows? I often find inspirations for my writing in the many swamps and coves of the FB world.
Yesterday, D, a fellow Facebook user, highlighted the novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M Pirsig. It is a book he places on his top five favorite reading list. I have been following D off and on for years and I have noticed his 'Top Five" list seems to have more room than the title of the list would indicate. Regardless, when he puts a read on that list, I know it is one of his favorites.
The title jogged memories of my days as an over the road truck driver.
I spent many days and nights pounding the super slabs and wrestling with brain dead four wheelers. The moments of madness, mayhem and fun were broken up by long periods of mind numbing boredom. Often, days or weeks of continuous tedium would pass between the moments worth writing about and the moments no one remembers.
As it turns out now, there are more worthy moments to extract from the hole in my head I call my memory. Ever since I began writing tales from my past, it has become easier to remember the moments that were over shadowed by the first string memories.To beat back the boredom of the road, I packed a few books to take with me. Sometimes a Great Notion, by Ken Kesey, A Boy and His Dog, by Harlan Ellison, Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance are ones that come to mind. There were more: just can't remember them. I would read them in lieu of the engrossing pleasure of watching my laundry wash and spin dry. I would often sit at the lunch counter in a Truck stop and read as I consumed the greasy fare that was my food source those many years. Waiting to unload, waiting on a broker to find a load for me ............. pretty much any dead time not driving, I would read.
When I was hauling Rock N Roll tours, I would often perform small favors for the roadies who traveled in more cramped circumstances than I did. I think it was the 2nd Kinks tour I was on that I agreed to provide a groupie a ride for her new roadie boyfriend who found her at one of the concerts. I had the room, he didn't. Not a problem.The Zen book was in the sleeper next to the bag I called my library. Having it in my sleeper helped me get laid I think. The groupie, whose name I forget now, picked the book up and mentioned how odd it was to find it in a Big Rig. I remember being a bit miffed. I responded that it was odd a groupie like her would even notice. Now that both of us had satisfied the other where we stood regarding our impressions of each other, that leg of the tour passed pretty much in silence. By the third gig she was in my truck, I was no longer hauling her for the roadie. They had broken up; not sure why. I didn't care.
She may not have wanted to hang with the roadie anymore, but she wanted to stay with the truck. I was okay with it. She was good company actually. Smart and funny. After a pleasantly awkward moment at a truck stop, I was hauling her around for me. That roadie was okay with it. That kind of shit happened all the time. I found it encouraging that there were chicks hanging back stage who were more than just their reputations, trading sex for access. I enjoyed our time together, but she and I both knew it was not to last. We had differing agendas. Once we hit Massachusetts, she split. Told me she had friends going to Boston College. It was time for a visit.
"Thanks for the ride...... Had a great time ........... see ya."
And so another memory comes to an end. And though this one is definitely a second stringer, I am happy I dredged it up. Digging deep for what I have been stashing in my head these past 73 years is part of my fight to remain lucid and aware until my bitter end.
Keep on keepin on .......................
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I had a song picked out for this post when I was half way into writing it. The lyric "Money for Nothing and Your Chicks for Free" repeated itself as I finished this post up. I thought about the trickle down effect of that line in the real time backstage activities. How many women, how many outrageous situations did we, who labored to make the stage magic happen, benefit from the cast offs and ignored treats that always loitered backstage. The fringe benefits and lifestyle I experienced while hauling Rock n Roll is not even close to the life I lived before or since.
Here is Dire Straits and their hit, "Money for Nothing".
I was exposed to the basics of writing in Grade School. By the time I left High School, I had a working knowledge of the nuts and bolts found in the discipline. It took years of intermittent scribbling before I began to notice I was becoming a better writer than I used to be.
I started a blog, "Lost in the BoZone" in 2004. At the time I considered the blog a passing fancy. After 20 years, it is apparent it not just something I just did for awhile. I am committed now. I give my attention to my blog all the credit for the major strides in improving my writing. Through the act of repetition, words began to come easier and often fell together in line just as I imagined they could.
I call writing a discipline because, if I have learned one thing, having a modicum of discipline and tenacity is what helped me find a voice that could on occasion. make some sense.
But that was not the question, was it?
How to write well hints are in short supply in my brain. I have come a long way since those clumsy essays, book reports, and the rambling bullshit I used in my blue book tests. If I couldn't dazzle them with my knowledge, I would beat them down with my bullshit.
There are a Gajillion Internet hook ups to find so called experts. For a small or not so small fee, they will turn you into the Stephen King you always wished, hoped, prayed you could be.
( Um, I have to interrupt this ever so fascinating opinion forming before your very eyes, but just the other day, I wanted to use the word "Gajillion" in a post. I have been trying to rein in my free range writing style so to produce a more acceptable, often boring style of writing that might please 7th grade English teacher, Ms Stanton. So. I punched up "Gajillion" and there on the screen, Gajillion was now an accepted almost real word which one definition claimed - "means more than a few". ....... So, there you have it. ...... In your face Ms Stanton. ............... Never mind...... Now, back to the points of the post I hope)
Earlier this AM, I watched Maggie go through her after breakfast rituals. She peed in one area, then moved deeper into the pucker to poop and finally it was time to check out the compost pile. Maggie is nothing if not predictable. As I sat on the compost bench out back, I caught a few tokes, sipped coffee, watched Maggie and thought about Writing Well.
The idea of "Writing Well" is a fuzzy question with a fuzzy answer. Writing Well is really two things. There is the accepted grammatical conditions some might consider the barometer of good writing. But Grammatically correct writing only gets you in the ballpark. Good writing, in my opinion, is when someone reads something you wrote says, "Wow, that was awesome".
When many people read your writing; I guess that is what all of us who struggle along as so much pack fodder yearn for. I do not consider commercial success as a writer in this scenario. Much of what is printed is not "Well Written". It is "Adequately Written".
I have to conclude then that the idea of "Writing Well" is in the eye of the person writing, while at the same time, also in the eyes of those who read those written words. I have no clue as to how well written my words are. I am fairly sure I am average and that's okay. I definitely write for my own satisfaction first and foremost. That some folks might find my words occasionally interesting is but icing on my cake.
I cannot advise anyone how to write like Steinbeck, Asimov or Mark Twain. What I do know is, anyone willing to be tenacious, patient, and self critical; they will most likely become better writers. So, stick with it.
To all who have visited me here these past 20 plus years............. Thank You.
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The musical choice today will not have any purposeful connection to the post. I am going to begin listening to ............... Wait!
The first song I played will most likely blow anything I might have had in mind out of the water. Here is, uh, not sure if this is the band or the tune, but here is "Penguins Groove in the Dark". It is the longest piece of music I have ever included with a blog post. The claim is, this 3 hour playlist of Jazz will increase "Creative Focus & Productivity".
All I know is, I am jumping in my chair, tapping my feet and listening to the sweet sounds of horns, drums and pianos, all rockin hard to burn down the joint. ......... My dad would love this.
Just excellent! What a great find! ...........You are welcome.
My first effort at impressing the ladies was in First Grade. It was 1958 while I attended the elementary school on Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii. My brothers were much older than I and were experts at impressing the ladies. Damn, they even liked those pesky females.
I noticed they were constantly utilizing the magical properties of a popular hair grease called Brylcreem, . They would often stand in front of the bathroom mirror primping and preening before they headed out for their night fun. Their grooming rituals always ended with a dab of Brylcreem on the front line hairs of their flat tops in an effort to accentuate the overall effect of the flat top they wanted everyone to notice. They wanted everyone to know that they were hip, they were with it, they were not square.
I had been impressed with the Brylcreem commercials at the time. They had a catchy jingle, and a catchy slogan, "A Little Dab Will do Ya". Apparently girls went gaga over guys who used Brylcreem.
I had no real interest in impressing the girls at the age of six. As a matter of fact, I was an avowed girl hater at the time. They were weird and scary. Sadly though, the need to impress the ladies comes with the male gender. It is embedded in our genes and we have to at least try once or twice to impress before we give up and move into our parents basement for the rest of our lives.
After I had absorbed one too many Brylcreem commercials, I decided I would test their product to see if their claims on TV were true. I grabbed the half used tube of Brylcreem that my brothers used way too often and took it to school with me. In the few free moments between the blah blah blahs from the teacher, Johnny Freedman and I came up with the "Brylcreem Plan".
At recess, we slathered ..... Uh, when I say slathered, I mean we applied an over the top layer of Brylcreem to our buzz cuts. We then tormented the girls by running after them and repeating, "A Little Dab'll Do ya". At first they didn't understand. well, you know girls right? Not very quick on the uptake.
One of the girls waiting her turn in the hop scotch line finally understood. Just like that, Johnny and I became the prey, not the predators. Many of the recess girls began chasing us and damn if a couple of them didn't catch us. We were tackled, overcome and manhandled by those creepy girls. They were loving it. Johnny and I weren't so sure. ...... Finally, a teacher stepped in and broke up the party.
Johnny and I were reprimanded for creating chaos and a I had to take home the first note of several that would go home with me that year. I remember handing the note to my mom. She read it and looked at me. Touching my hair with a finger, she began laughing and shaking her head. That may have been the most humiliating moment of the whole ordeal. My mom wasn't being predictable and punishing me. She was laughing at me. She made me take a bath and wash my head several times before I was done. I put the tube of Brylcreem back on the counter in the bathroom. It had almost no Brylcreem left in it.
I should have remembered this incident when I was older and attempting to impress the ladies. Sadly, the intervening years found me totally unprepared for that unanswerable question:
"How the Fuck does a guy impress the women if they're not rockin the blue eyed handsome look of a Paul Newman or some other chiseled faced Man-god who has to beat the ladies off with a stick?"
I tried and tried to catch their eye, but usually fell short. It was the women I did not try to impress that found me and for whatever reason decided I beat a blank and a romance was born.
As always, please Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................
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A two-fer video treat today. First up is a Brylcreem commercial from my childhood that may have been at least partly responsible for the recess riot I caused in First grade.
Second video is from a much underrated band from the 1960s. This band was the inspiration for the TV series, "The Partridge Family". They were the real deal though; a family who played their instruments and sang. Here are The Cowsills with their cover of "Hair".
At 3:30 this AM, I ran across a Facebook post by my daughter. She was posting a remembrance of Bobby, my nephew. He died in the dumbest war of all time. The exact date of his death is under a cloud. The Navy has offered up no rhyme or reason for his death. This only leaves his loved ones twisting in the wind as they use their imaginations to conjure up all kinds of awful scenarios.
I was actually notified of Bobby being missing off a navy destroyer on the 18th of September, 2005. The Navy settled on his "official" date of death as 9/12/2005. He had been missing for .... well, no one really knows; or so they said. His death has been shrouded in mystery ever since.
Bobby died as a result of being shipped overseas to help the United States carry out a personal grudge mission for an undeserving President. The war accomplished nothing other than hundreds of thousands dead and over a Trillion dollars pissed down the drain. My nephew's death was a needless waste, as were all the military and civilian deaths and mutilations suffered during Bush the Lessor's, "Operation Iraqi Freedom".
Twenty years is a long time. It is easy to forget most everything from twenty years ago. That is, until someone jogs a memory of loss. That memory comes flooding back in like it happened yesterday. I sit here once again with tears flowing because of Bobby's life being wasted; because of the stupidity of war.
Wherever you are Bobby, I hope you are in a better place than the one you left 20 years ago.
R.I.P. Bobby
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I immediately thought of the British folk/punk band, Ferocious Dog. They have felt the pain of losing someone to the same stupid war I lost my nephew to. Here is a 2024 release, titled, "Blood Soaked Shores". I'd say enjoy, but maybe just listen to it while reading the lyrics.
I love living in Maine. I knew I wanted to live here from that first visit to Aunt Helle and Uncle Herb's "Half Way Up" farm in Acton. It was 1960 I think; uh, maybe 1959. ....... Anyway the wonders my 7 or 8 year old eyes witnessed were life altering.
I was raised in various suburban and city locations to that point in my short life. Over the 5 or 6 weeks I was at "Half Way Up", I hiked in the woods with my uncle; fished and swam in the local lakes and ponds. We saw beavers, otters, deer, a couple of moose frolicking in the swampy end of Horn Pond and I picked up my first Snapping turtle. It was a small one, but hey, I was small then too.
On top of Abbott Mountain in Shapleigh, the next town over, I marveled at what I imagined looked like unbroken wilderness as far as my eyes could see. The landscape has changed some since 1960. Now the woodlands are less unbroken, but the view is still awesome.
Unconnected events in my life conspired to make sure I ended up in Maine. My Uncle Herb developed liver cancer and died in late summer of 1965. My father went to Maine to help his sister deal with the last days and straighten out any affairs after his passing. He decided he liked Maine.
"Hey, it's been at least two years since we moved the last time....... We're moving to Maine now."
I was still in High School in Maryland. Suddenly, I was basically on my own from that point forward. I stayed in Maryland, graduated 3 years later and started college at Towson State, just north of Baltimore. From there, I began working and living in the Baltimore area.
Late summer of 1980, my father died laughing in the kitchen of the house I live in now. His passing set off the final set of events that would usher me out of the selfish and often childish lifestyle I was living and into the adult mode I would live with from then on.
I married my girlfriend, we re-settled in this house and proceeded to live the life we have enjoyed these past 44 years. And I am so very grateful. I cannot imagine what our lives would have been like had we stayed in Maryland. Moving to the state whose unofficial motto is "Life in the Slow Lane" was the second smartest thing I ever did. The smartest was asking my old girlfriend and current spouse to share her life with me. 44 years of wedded, well, calling it bliss might be too strong a word. We have made it this far despite my loose dog ways from time to time testing the bonds we had built.
Ya''ll take care now ...........................
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The image of the "Wiggly Bridge" at the top of the post is an image I poached from a short reel I found on Facebook. I manipulated it into what you see there. Eric Storm, the originator, has posted quite a few reels and images. I only just noticed his fine work recently.
The Wiggly Bridge was constructed in the 1930's and supposedly named by a Girl Scout troop. It crosses tidal mud flats found in abundance on the seashore in and around York.
Some claim it is the smallest suspension bridge in the world at only 75 feet long. Regardless, it is one of the thousands and thousands of beautiful spots in Maine.
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Since this post is all Maine from beginning to end, I figured I should highlight the "Rustic Overtones", a band that has been entertaining Mainers for going on 32 years now. I first saw them in the late 1990s with my wife and daughter. Since then, I have seen them at least 8 or 9 times. I even had the pleasure of catching their concert that included the PortlandSymphony Orchestra. Talented musicians who play music for the love of it.
Here is "Gas on Skin" - maybe my favorite song of theirs. Enjoy.
Pastor Jacob walked to the pulpit. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and slowly raised his hands high.
"Please Oh Lord, forgive us for we are weak, undeserving congregants who want only to love and serve you. ……God, forgive us our sins and transgressions. Lead us into the light, so we may save our souls. With you to guide us, we will find the true path.”
Jacob paused, opened his eyes and stared intently at his flock.
“For Judgment is real, and you Lord, are a consuming fire. Yet your kindness is what leads us to repentance, because mercy triumphs over judgment."
Jacob stopped. He dropped his hands to the pulpit, gripped the edges hard. Silent moments passed; enough moments for some in his flock to begin fidgeting and looking at each other uneasily. Pastor Andrews finally let his shoulders relax as he exhaled a deep breath. He was uncomfortable and struggling. Everyone in the church could see it. Finally, he found his game face, his face that without a word, told anyone in his presence, here stood a righteous man, a holy man, a man of God who was not afraid of any mortal danger.
"I used to think that ……… think that loving God and following him wherever he lead me would ensure my place in heaven once I had left this mortal coil behind. ……… I was wrong dear friends: wrong on all counts. Following the right path is not so simple as I have led you to believe. I have let you down and dishonored your trust. For that I apologize."
The Pastor paused again and took a moment to find the words he wanted to share next.
“My father was a preacher like me. I learned to love the Bible and God through him and his teachings. My father was a simple man; a life is black or white man. He was positive there were no grey areas or grey moments in anyone’s life. He knew God was always present to guide and pass judgment should we fail to live up to Our Lord's standards.”
Jacob pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was no longer nervous now. Yet the sweat continued to pour down his face and into his collar.
“My wife left me this morning. Packed her bags, grabbed our daughter and headed out. Where? The where I cannot say, for she refused to tell me. Nor did she indicate the why. I should have seen it coming. It had been coming for years. It was my overbearing pride; a pride so audacious in its mistaken certainty of my infallible righteousness.”
Jacob paused again. This time he used that handkerchief to wipe his eyes. His tears began to mingle with the sweat of his brow. His eyes started to sting and then the sobbing began. Long and deep, his sobs resonated throughout the nave. They were so loud, slight echoes resulted. His parishioners became very unsettled. Several stood up as if to leave. Pastor Andrews saw them. He held up his hands and waved them back to their respective pews.
“I am so sorry folks. Please, this moment of weakness and outburst is over. I did not mean to unload my personal problems in such a way. …… Let me get back to the point I have wanted to make when I first stepped up to the pulpit this morning. It won’t take long.”
He took a brief moment to collect himself.
“As most, if not all of you know, I have not been a tolerant man when it comes to what I deem is un-Christian-like behavior. I have been harshly judgmental of those folks who do not fit into my idea of how a Christian should behave. I have damned them, condemned them, and chastised them mercilessly. ….. And to what end? What do I, as a man of God have to show for all my righteous indignation? Have I brought any of them into our fold? Have I convinced them with my anger to become good Christians? …….. No, I have not.”
Jacob looked out over the filled to capacity nave. The usual disinterested parishioners who slept with their heads back or forward while their open mouths elicited either spittle or soft snores ; and others who spoke in whispers and giggled at them were not in attendance. For once Jacob had everyone’s attention at one time.
“Last week I attempted to shame some heathens into coming to church. After conversations with several I became convinced that not all heathens are evil, sinful Devil worshipers. Heathens are like Christians at their core. Turns out the idea of being Faithful and not Faithful to the Lord in Heaven is a very thin line that separates them. Good and Evil has nothing to do with it. Good and Evil exists in both camps. Faith in God does not.
That heathens may not see the Lord as we do does not make them bad people. ……. If I am to spread the word of God to everyone, I have to realize that good and evil exists everywhere; in every nook and cranny of this planet. Sometimes good people do bad things. Sometimes evil people do good things. The trick for me is how do I reach all of them?”
Another break. Jacob wiped his face, his brow and slowly folded the handkerchief and placed it carefully in the top pocket of his suit.
“At this time I do not have an answer to how I reach people without alienating most of them. I am a true believer and would love everyone to be one. I know now that will never happen. But if I expect to be worthy of God’s love, I need to find a better approach. ….. To that end, I am stepping down as your pastor so that I can take the time to become a better messenger of God’s Plan. I wish all of you the best and may the lord keep you and yours safe. ……Amen.”
Pastor Jacob Andrews then turned on his heels, stepped down from the Altar and exited through the side door. He had not noticed Buddy Dilkins sitting in the last pew. ( @1050 words)
< ~ ~ >
I cannot describe clearly how this story has evolved. I started out writing a simple flash fiction piece about a confrontation between a local fire and brimstone preacher and a crew of Local Yokel Good Ole Boys. Where it has landed now over 3800 words later is as much as a surprise to me as anyone who might be reading it for the first time.
I am told I should have a plan in order to write well. I have no plan. Maybe the words I just wrote support that notion that a plan may have helped........ Maybe not. Regardless, I write for myself first and foremost. And I like where this story is headed. I cannot wait to see what comes next.
Yes, I am going to add another part at least. A part that may or may not tie up the story by coming full circle........ We'll see.
Meanwhile, strive to Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................
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The musical choice for Part Five I found while listening to a playlist I created several years ago. In some ways I feel it is appropriate. Here is "Raise a Little Hell" - Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band.
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