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.
We used to call the store in the image "Brown's Market". It was located maybe 3/4 mile from my house on Roosevelt Street, off of Old Georgetown Road.
I spent a lot of pocket change there buying cokes, candy, and chips. When I became a summer working "man" at the age of 14, I often bought my lunch there. Old Man Brown's wife would start making sandwiches around 5:00 AM to fill an old coke cooler.
All the sandwiches were on white bread and wrapped in wax paper. There were ham sandwiches for 40 cents, ham and cheese sandwiches for 45 cents. Baloney sandwiches were cheaper at 30 cents and with cheese for 35 cents. All were generously slathered with Mayonnaise. If you wanted something else, please move along, because someone else was always waiting in line for their ham or baloney sandwiches. Trades people jammed up the small parking lot until 8 or 9:00 AM every weekday morning. I usually packed 3 baloney and cheese sandwiches with a coke for under $1.50.
I crammed a lot of growing up into those few years in Bethesda. The carefree slow days of my pre-teens changed when I officially became a teenager. Life picked up the pace at which it came at me.
I rebelled. I hated everything, possibly myself the most. I was sure I was a loser. All in all, a predictable turn of events coming out of puberty. I know now it wasn't just me, it was likely every teen who was confused by changes in their bodies, their brains, their outlooks.
In the here and now I struggle to remember why I was such a punk. I got into fights, began drinking and drugging and generally was a huge pain in the ass for my parents. I was an angry, angry young man then and yeah, I was lucky to have survived my time in Bethesda.
Between all the angst and self doubt of those Teen years, I did manage to squeeze in some awesome times that can only happen in the period of turmoil between kid life and teen life. Being almost adult sized with a child's outlook, well, that was a recipe for stupidity that was too enticing and fun to turn away from.
I began sneaking out at night with a couple of friends when I was in 9th grade. The attraction at first was riding the Washington Post newspaper truck bumper as it delivered bundles of the day's news all over Bethesda and Chevy Chase. We were kings of the world as we stood on the rear bumpers of those trucks. Of course we were often found out by the driver who always seemed to catch us when we were at the furthest point away from our homes near Suburban Hospital. An hour of fun often resulted in a hour walk home as our reward.
My sneaking out days ended the night I was caught by the cops and whisked away to the local cop shop near the center of town. I tried to act the tough guy by refusing to tell them who I was. The cop parked me in the drunk tank with an obviously drunk homosexual. The guy was harmless, but he did have some fun at my expense. A half hour or so of that and my tough guy schtick evaporated. I gave up my name , address and phone number as the cops there laughed their asses off. They were not trying to scare me straight. They were just into having a laugh.
The cops called my parents around 1:30 AM I guess. My dad told them he would swing by sometime later that morning to pick my sorry ass up. He showed up around 11:00 AM. The cops told me he wasn't coming. Again, I am sure they were just yukking it up at my expense.
Oddly, my ole man didn't say a word on the way home. Nor did he say anything when he opened the garage door and pointed to the wheel barrow full of yard tools. I knew without being told, every weed ridden flower bed in the yard was going to be serviced without any help from him.
It didn't end there. I washed and waxed both cars and then he loaned me out to the old lady next door to serve as her slave for the foreseeable future. Throughout this ordeal, he might have said a few words, but none that were not commands or criticism. It went on like this for a couple of weeks.
Then we had "the talk"; the talk I had been dreading. As it turned out, it was not so bad. I never snuck out again though. I also did not calm down. I ended up being booted out of the Montgomery County School system. I ended up going to Charlotte Hall Military Academy my last 3 years of high school, while my parents moved to Maine.
In retrospect it seemed to me it was an White upper middle class way of kicking me out of the house. At the time I did not really think about it. They had done the same thing to my brothers. Regardless, I held no animosity towards my parents then or now. I created the situation by my self destructive behavior. I needed their tough love and they were more than happy to supply it.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .............................
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I am going to pick the music for this post by throwing a virtual dart at a playlist I have buried in my computer. We will see what I pick. ............ Well, well, well. One of my favorite Steely Dan tunes off their "Pretzel Logic" album. Here is "East St. Louis Toodle Oo". Enjoy.
Pastor Andrews managed to bury the memory of his encounter with
Fred Jenkins at Hannaford’s the previous week. That is, he thought he had. As
soon as he sat down to write next Sunday’s sermon, he could not do it. Their
conversation was blocking him from creating the customary Righteous Indignation his flock had come to expect. His rigid Old Testament beliefs had been rocked to their core.
The pastor sat motionless for a spell. Fred Jenkins’ question
pitting the contrary notions of God’s Will against the concept of Free Will combined
with the Infallibility of God; well sir, that pushed Pastor Jenkins into a
minor spiritual breakdown.
Several minutes of silence later, the good pastor came to a
realization. He could use the right words to feed his flock the necessary
weekly ration of righteousness and fealty to God. But he was having trouble understanding
the conflicts his own words stirred up inside himself, never mind what they might be
doing to the congregation.
If a Heathen he considered clueless about God could mess
with his head so easily, he needed to reevaluate his own self importance. Jacob felt a need for a
deeper understanding of God’s goals and how he, as a man of God, could help his
Lord in Heaven attain those goals. Pastor Andrews understood before he could shepherd
his congregation now, he had to resolve this new conflict in his own mind first.
The moments of silent reflection calmed him. The Pastor could feel
the anxiety ease and drain away with each breath. He got up from the kitchen
table, found the ceremonial wine, poured another glassful and sat back down.
Taking a another moment of calm, he considered what it might take to mesh these
contradictions logically into his long held Old Testament views of his
relationship with God.
Pastor Andrews picked up his pen and wrote the date of next
Sunday’s services at the top of the yellow legal pad in front of him. Again he
sat silent for a moment. He then wrote down in Italics, “God’s Will versus Free
Will”.
He stared at the blank page. His wife Sylvie came into the
kitchen.
“How’s the sermon going?”
“I’m stuck.”
Sylvie’s eyebrows lifted. Her husband never had a problem coming
up with the Hell and Damnation his Old Testament sermons were full of.
“What is the problem?”
Jacob looked up at her.
“How many glasses of wine have you had Jacob? You know how you get
when you get into, what is it you call it, the Devil’s Brew?”
“Calm down Sylvie, only my second glass. ……… The problem? I am not
sure what the problem is yet. But earlier today I had my beliefs and faith
challenged and it unsettled me.”
“Well, what and who challenged you?’ Sylvie sat down across the
table from her husband.
Pastor Andrews looked at his wife. He loved his wife. He did not
respect her though; what with her being a woman and all. Women should not
question their men. The first words out of her mouth should have been, “Oh dear
Jacob, how can I help?” Instead, she asked what the problem was. Without
thinking, he blurted:
“Being female, I am sure you would not be able to help me resolve
the deeper conflicting concepts of God’s Plan.”
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. She hated when he brought up the “Females
are Chattel” schtick. But she kept her calm.
“Such as………?”
Pastor Jacob looked again at his wife. He immediately knew he had
stepped over a well established line in their relationship. She knew how he
felt what a women’s place was. And he knew what she thought that place should
be. Long ago, in order to reduce future conflict and possible physical harm to
the good pastor, Jacob had finally learned to keep his mouth shut about women
and their place for over a decade. His true opinion, he saved for those rare days
when he was yukking it up in a backroom with the sextons. The look on his
wife’s face told him one more word in that direction and …… He stopped thinking
about what might come next.
“Uh, well…. Such as the idea of God’s Will in relation to the notion
that God has also granted us Free Will.”
Sylvie’s glare did not diminish. Through tightened lips, she hissed:
“Well, being but a child bearing domestic and all, anything I say
will surely fall on deaf ears. Sounds like your problem, not mine. Personally I
have no problem with either.”
“You are not bothered at all by the obvious contradiction between
the two? And on top of the, …….. what does it say about God’s Infallibility?”
Sylvie smiled.
“ No, Jacob, I am not bothered; nor should you be
either. Your flock are simple folk with uncomplicated minds. They are just
trying to get by. They come to church not so much because they believe, but
because you offer some of them hope and entertainment. But most of
all, they come because they get to rub shoulders every week with friends, relatives
and enemies. Church is a social gathering first and foremost. …..You can’t
possibly think you make a difference, can you?............. You are just the
ringmaster. Get over yourself. ........... Write your usual drivel and move
on.”
Once again Sylvie smiled and moved to leave the kitchen.
"Don't stay up all night."
Jacob was silent. He glared at his wife's back and watched her walk down the narrow hallway of their trailer. The pastor looked
down at the empty sheet of paper. A moment passed before he began writing. When he was done and drained hours later, 31 crumpled balls of lined yellow paper laid haphazardly around the now empty legal pad. Jacob stood up, stretched and awkwardly stumbled out of the kitchen to join his wife in bed. ( @ 1000 words)
Hopefully another installment sooner than later ..................
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Music for this post was a struggle. I had the tune chosen, but I wanted to use a cover. As it turns out, I decided Depeche Mode's original version of "Personal Jesus" suited me best. I almost used Broken Peach's version. I'll sneak in some Broken Peach at some point.
All of the various groups that use other than economic status to identify themselves have already lost the battle between them who have and them who don't have. Putting racial identity, religious, ethnic, or sexual identity first ensures the war of the classes will not tilt in the favor of the majority any time soon. All those differences are exactly what the deep pocketed class want us to focus on. We worry about the stupid shit while they exploit the shit out of us.
Instead, if we broke down all our interests into economic needs, we might have a snowball's chance in Hell of turning some tides. We could call the folks who consistently live at or below the the poverty line, the Poor Coalition. The folks who belong to the middle class, the Middle Coalition. The Upper Middle class, the Upper middle Coalition and anyone living over that , the Exploitation Class.
Regardless of any disparaging labeling, my point is we need to stop allowing distraction issues from widening the divides between us. Once we start insisting that all boats get the help to rise with the tide, then we can work on the irritating and other serious inequalities like Race, Gender Identities, and Religion.
No matter what color we are, no matter what religion we embrace, no matter how we identify gender sexual wise; if we are living in poverty we are all in the same stinking pond. Would it not make more sense to offer a united front instead of the fractured paths, our puppet masters have put us on?
Just a thought that came to mind with my first cup of coffee this morning.
Since I am in a hurry this morning ................ Well, I don't actually hurry anymore. I just shuffle quickly now ....... Anyway, here is one of more beautiful and poignant songs I keep coming back to when I need some musical empathy. Lately, I seem to need more than ever before.
Today I am posting twice in the same day only because a benchmark of sorts has finally landed.
It has taken me almost 21 years, but sometime today, my millionth visitor stopped by my blog. It caught me by surprise. I figured it would happen in November or December of this year. Apparently more whoever's or whatever's are noticing "Lost in the BoZone". It's odd, but traffic increased from averaging 200 or so visits a day to around 3000 visits a day in the last 6weeks when I wasn't even posting.
Now that I am posting again, will my daily average fall back to my previous norm? It will be an embarrassing smack in the mouth if it does. People checking to make sure I am not posting new nonsense could hurt some feelings here on Sam Page Road.
I know many blogs, websites and social media pages have reached their first million visits at the speed of light compared to my 21 year slog. Considering the interactions of the Internet, a million visits is nothing, not really. I take some pride though, that I hung in long enough to see my words touch that many people or searches.
I also posted 1907 posts in those 21 years. I cannot speak to the quality of the posts. I can say though I had a blast writing them and I definitely picked up my writing game over the years. Given my tendency to be verbose at times, 1907 posts mean quite a few words. At a conservative estimate of 500 words per post, those 1907 posts end up containing at the least, 953,500 words.
Don't worry, tomorrow or the next time I post, it will be back to the usual dribble and nonsense.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
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I chose this fine tune from "The Raconteurs", featuring Ricky Skaggs. It is titled "Old Enough".
I just changed my cover photo on my Facebook page to the image above. This interesting rendition of our US flag is located at the entrance of a junkyard on old Rte 16 in Rochester, New Hampshire. It has been there for several or more years at the least. I have passed it many, many times as it is on our route to our favorite grocery store about 40 minutes from our home here on Sam Page Road in Acton.
I know nothing of the statement the artist might be trying to make. That it turned up here in the Trump era, I could jump to all kinds of conclusions. But since I never saw a Trump sign within close proximity, I hesitate to conclude it is a voicing a vote of confidence for the Orange shit stain. But so what if it is. The ultimate meaning of any piece of art is in the eye of the beholder. What does it mean to them? What feelings, if any, does it dig up?
It has elicited many differing trains of thought for me over the years.
I really appreciate its ingenuity and artistic medium. It is majestic and grand and makes no apologies. And what a great use of something not many of us ever really think about. A junked car is an eyesore, something to be taken to ....... yeah, a junkyard. This sculpture; for it is indeed a sculpture; this sculpture has well over a thousand words tucked into every crinkle, dent and mangled fender.
The 100 plus year love affair with the automobile here in America has resulted in too many to count cars, trucks and other conveyances used in artistic expressions of all kinds. My favorite is one I watched grow during my years as an over the road trucker. Outside Amarillo, Texas in 1974, some artists bought a strip of land alongside I-40. They named it "Cadillac Ranch" and proceeded too plant Cadillacs, nose down, in the dirt. They inserted one a year for a total of the 10 years.
My first view, there were three in the ground. The last time I passed by there were 6 or 7. They stopped at 10 because the display was an homage to not only Cadillac, but to the Cadillacs that had sported fins. And though this display of junkers is my favorite, I am quickly being won over by the one I pass on the way to the grocery store.
I debated whether or not I should pass on what meanings I draw from the flag sculpture. I decided to not taint the message any one reading this might take from it.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
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When I ran across this video, I knew I had to post it; never mind it's amateurish result. I was at this concert 2 days ago at the Left Bank venue in Laconia, New Hampshire with BA, and the kids. We had great seats and the sound system was excellent. Great time. But then any time with my kid and her Marine is fine with me.
Tedeski Trucks Band headlined with Whiskey Mires performing front band duties. Sadly this video does not cover the whole 10 to 15 minute version. So I am going to also offer the original "Spanish Moon" as performed by Little Feat back the 1970s. Little Feat was and still is maybe my favorite band of all time I never saw in concert. .... Oh well, I can still listen to their music and that is a lot to be thankful for.
Damn. Take a break from Facebook for a short while and when I come back, there's a Gajillion notifications, chat heads ups, and a sizable number of friend requests for me to deal with. Okay, okay, it wasn't a Gajillion notifications ......... Well, maybe it was. "Gajillion" is not an official word. I can't find it in any dictionary on my selves. But it is listed online as;
"An informal and hyperbolic term for an unspecified number....."
So there. The AI wizards have embraced it. Time to get on the band wagon. So yeah, I had a Gajillion notifications waiting for me to deal with.
I got busy and cleaned up the mess. Now I sit here with nothing to say because of course all the crap I was chewing on over the last 6 weeks while I was elsewhere is MIA now. It's like all of a sudden I am on the stage at the podium and about to speechify. I stand there numb as a box of rocks with a blank mind, not even the faintest idea of what to say.
Thankfully, I am not really on a stage standing mute while an audience of Gajillion begin to twist and squirm in their seats. I am at home self flagellating, totally unembarrassed because I know getting back into writing is a process that often needs me to just start writing, whether or not it makes sense, has a point, or is of the slightest interest to anyone, anywhere the Internet goes.
With all that in mind, I will cease the inanities and silly shit and walk away from the podium.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................
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I re-discovered a song from my youth. It was a hit during my Teen Club days in the 1960s. Only now, I listened to it with 73 year old ears, not the young ears of a kid not sure what was good music and what was bad.
Here is the Zombies with their hit , "She's not there". Definitely a much better song than I gave it credit for when I was young and numb.
I am making a token BoZone appearance today, this last day of August, 2025.
I needed a break. I had no plan for how I would waste this break; no rhyme or reason other than the obvious one that Life sucks for more folks than seems reasonable or called for.
It is as if the various tribes and groups that comprise the planet's population feel the need to make others unlike themselves more miserable than themselves in order to find their warm and fuzzy happy place.
In the scheme of the worldwide distribution of hate, discontent, and misery, my recent self indulgent dose of it is but a miniscule drop in a vast ocean of misery borne by the un-famous, the not so rich, the lesser lowly folks who make up 90 percent of the world's population. I am indeed much more blessed than most, yet I often don't feel that way.
I have come to the conclusion that the only people who are happy are the assholes who are jumping for joy as they liberally spread their hateful ugliness like it was a blessing on the rest of us.
But today I decided to to take a break from the simmering pot of miserable I seemed to enjoy wallowing in. A reasonable man might conclude I was loving Life in the doldrums, sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and cheering on the misery and discontent being shoved down all our throats by morally bereft, vindictive psychopaths full of imaginary righteous indignation, like we are the problem, not them.
I did not mean to share my dip into the pit where Depression resides. No, I was just going to write a let's get acquainted again post about my dog, Maggie. It would have been just another I love my dog post I am sure; safely non confrontational without any self pity.
Seems I blew it.
So let me quietly go away until such time I can return with either joy or fierce criticisms, whichever one blows my dress up at the time.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................
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My post may have lost track of its point before it began, but at least the musical part of the post can stay on topic. Here is a great song by Charlie Parr. It is called "Dog".
This past weekend, BA, myself and the Kids spent the weekend under the perfect Vermont sun listening to great music and sipping various cool drinks. It was a great weekend ; one to remember for sure.
This was the 10th Annual "Jeezum Crow Music Festival" in Jay, Vermont. It was my 3rd time and now I am looking forward to my 4th in a year.
The 3 festivals could not be more different from each other. My recollection of my first festival is hazy, but seems it was a bluegrass, blues, folksie event well attended by the aging hippie set sprinkled liberally with up and comer new age hippies holding onto a new brood all wearing noise limiting headphones. Charlie Parr was there and I became a fan of Sicard Hollow more because of a misunderstood name on my part. But I remember an overall Country Bluegrass Blues feel.
Last year, my 2nd visit was a definitely Blues and Bluegrass and of course my man, Charlie Parr was there and better than ever. They had stepped up with a much better sound system.
This year we were able to catch all 9 acts, not just most of the ones on Saturday like we did previous years. This year was different seeming to spotlight a more cover band list of acts.
The highlights for me were:
Friday night -Mihali -Reggaeish, Ska; They had a horn or two. Upbeat music. Loved it.
On Saturday - Taj Farrant, a 16 year old blues player who is very, very good. The kid plays way above what his age should have let him. There is a maturity in his play that some Blues players never attain. Awesome set once the excellent Stevie Ray covers were over. He also writes music that points to his older soul.
And then of course Charlie Parr. No one picks or sings quite like Charlie. I cannot think of a musician less interested in being famous than Charlie. I am pretty sure the clothes he had on this past weekend are the same ones he had on last year and the year before that. He drives to his shows by himself in a beater car; sleeps in it, plays his set and leaves. In between he knocks my socks off with his songs and the occasional funny story. "Cheap Wine" still makes me puddle up.
This was our first time staying the weekend. It was the best decision of all. No pressure to leave early for home and we could catch Friday night's acts. I won't miss them next year.
This year we went whole hog. Rented a Vrbo lodge that was perfect. Not fancy and well worn. But it was clean, had plenty of towels, plenty of room and a great kitchen sink. Fell in love with the sink. And we were able to take the pooches. Maggie had a chance to romp and find the good smells.
All in all, a great weekend of music with my favorite people in the World.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................................
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It's gonna be a three fer today.
First up is Mahali - and his song, "Free Ride". I test drove many of his songs. Not a one of them was bad. Enjoy!
Next up is 16 year old Taj Farrant and an awesome cover of "Parisienne Walkways".
This image grabbed my attention. A perfect 1000 word picture. It says so much without so much as a single word describing it other than two words, "The Future".
These are the kind of meme's and online art being created today. This particular image is very telling as it tips its hat to the movie, "Schindler's List" and the little Jewish girl who was in and out of many scenes to finally end up as a victim represented by a scene showing her coat on a pile of clothing after a gas session in the concentration camp.
It is a blatant comparison of a past horror the meme maker sees coming in our future. No one can say this is our future. No one can really say it is not our future. Given the activities of the current administration, this future is more plausible than ever.
A spittle drooling supporter of Trump created a meme on a political Facebook group page I am a member of:
That is how I feel. I am not fearful of what might attack us from outside our borders. We seem to, at the moment, have decent deterrence in place to protect us from foreign invasion. What we don't have in my opinion, is any real effort to stop the threats from within our our borders and from my fellow citizens who support the current despot, wannabe dictator, pretend Hitler, legend in his own mind tyrant.
The USA seems to be tooling up to take our hatred of ourselves to that next level. That is what I am afraid of; afraid of what a neighbor, an out of control cop, a rabid judge,.... In other words I am afraid of my own countrymen and now , my government also.
I never in a million years even considered I would feel this way.
It has been a somber 4th here in southern Maine. Any fanfare and celebration has definitely been understated and not as publicized as usual. My neighbor behind me did not even fire off any fireworks last night, as has been his tradition since he moved in. The only people celebrating seem to be celebrating things like the grand opening of our newest concentration camp down in Florida or celebrating the Big Bucket Of Blubber Bill that punishes those who have little and have no defense from a government that has been exploiting them forever, only now not just exploiting them , they want to punish them for offering resistance by using the rights they still have.
All of America should all hang our heads in shame for what we have allowed to happen.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ....... Especially now.
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I hate our National Anthem. I hate that its lyrics embrace the notion of nobility in War. I really fuckin hate that. War creates a lot of things. It creates heroes that shouldn't have had to be heroes. It creates false feelings of superiority through defeating an enemy. But most of all, it creates dead people. Where's the Nobility in that.
My favorite America tune has always been "America the Beautiful"; a song that celebrates the good and special of what America should be. No one sings or sang it better than Ray Charles.
Here, in all its glory, the best version ever of "America the Beautiful", by Ray Charles. It always makes me tear up......Always. Even when I was a kid.
Well, it is July 3rd, 2025. What is there to say about July 3rd, 2025?
There must be plenty of positives about July 3rd. The problem I am having is trying to remove it from the shadow of it's bigger brother, July 4th.
Independence Day looms large over America at this time of the year. At no time in my lifetime has it seemed larger and more looming than it does this year of the New America, the Corporatist State.
Excepting the Civil War, at no time in our history has this country drifted this far from its roots. The fear of many is that this is just the beginning. I share that fear.
The accumulation of too many self inflicted negatives over the last 50-60 years have come together to form a perfect storm that will alter this country for the foreseeable future and beyond. And while History has shown us that this was a possibility anywhere, anytime and involving anyone, it matters little now. It appears that drastic, life altering changes are on our mutual horizons.
I would love to point to positive changes on our doorstep, but the few that are there will surely be overtaken by the overwhelming ugliness that has seeped into every facet of our lives. Ambivalence has now created Malevolence. Complacency has replaced Protest. Ignorance has replaced Common Sense. Combine all these together under the leadership of an evil sociopath and what you end up with is Donald J. Trump.
So go ahead America and fool yourselves tomorrow that we are still the "Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave". We did this to ourselves and we deserve the result.
Later Gators .............................
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This song "Red", is by my new favorite political songwriter, name of Jesse Welles. His delivery and lyrics remind me of the acoustic Bob Dylan before Bob went electric. Anyway, here's a two-fer today. "Red" is very current about Trump and the shit storm he's created.
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