Keith

Anyone who has read anything I have written knows I just love the sound of my own voice. At the drop of a hat, I can write 1000 words and end up with nothing of any worth.

But I sit silent now, speechess, muted, and stunned into silence as I try to make sense of a great friend's passing.We had so many good times, I cannot find any that stand out over the others. The petty squabbles we had over the 30 plus years we were friends, I counted on one hand. No, make that less than on one hand; maybe as low as one or two. 

Anyway, Keith is gone now. Though I was aware of his health issues, I denied the possibility of his passing as a moment that would occur sooner than later. I guess if we keep moving like nothing has changed, it keeps the worry level down. But in the end, the price of burying that worry can turn really ugly.

I will miss Keith. I will miss his tendency to smile first, look angry way later. It was bikes that first connected us. I will miss even more now, the bike rides we shared over the span of our 30 plus year friendship. 

So, I finish with one short tale of a ride we shared at some quarry in Vermont or was it northern New Hampshire?

We were riding on single track that flowed among and around large exposed sections of ledge and quarry cuts. Often, there was not much room between the trail and some kind of drop off, usually not too high. I was 100 feet behind Keith as he entered a hairpin turn that flowed around a huge section of exposed ledge. As we passed each other, Keith on one side, me on the other; he smiles, raises his hand, waves at me, and immediately disappears, gone like he was never there.

I hurried around the turn. He wasn't on the trail anymore. Because of the pucker on each side of the singletrack, all I saw was crushed pucker brush where "the car went off the cliff". I remember a sick feeling as I pulled up at the departure point. Instead of looking down and seeing Keith laying in a heap many feet down, sprawled, broken and sad, he was sitting up and looking at me from maybe10 feet down a short slope.

"Where's my Bike? ....... Find my bike."

I knew in that moment, he was okay. And I started in on him, busting his chops about his chump way of riding. 

He was a better friend than I deserved I am sure. 

R.I.P good friend, R.I.P.

___________________

The one area Keith and I had endless discussions regarding music while we killed time traveling to and from a ride location near or far away. Your band sucks, mine doesn't....... 

Keith was adamant The Doors sucked. He said their music was boring and that Jim Morrison got too much credit. He was just a malcontent the chicks were all in love with. I disagreed vehemently. The Doors were and still are on my top 5 Classic Rock list. Mostly though, we agreed on our favorites, even if they may be on different levels on our individual lists. Three artists / bands we definitely agreed on was David Bowie, Neil Young and Queen. In keeping with our mutual passion for all thing Bicycle, please enjoy by turning up to WOW, "Bicycle Race", by Queen.

Jim

In my opinion, the term "Hero" is often over used, abused and misused. The term can relate to a single occurrence or a chain of heroic consistencies. There are "Heroes" and then there are heroes; the difference between the two being, not one of degrees, but a difference of relevance. 

That is why I think sports figures, celebrities, and other folks of notoriety should never be called heroes. Unless of course they did something heroic other than just winning a game, showing up in a movie, or running for office. Sadly though, they seem to be the folks who garnish all the heroic attention.

A hero to me is someone who does not consider what they have done or are doing as heroic. They were there when someone or something needed them. A hero does not seek backslapping atta boys, they don't grandstand. 

Jim Driscoll, a local resident of Acton, Maine, was such a man. A friend to many, he touched a lot of lives with his dedication to doing good. He served on the Acton school board and was a selectman here for some years.

I will remember him most for his work as Animal Control Officer in the years before he became ill. I have never seen a man so focused on the needs of animals and reuniting them with their owners. He spent countless hours scouring the town for lost and hurt critters.

Jim made Acton, Maine a much better place to live with his selfless dedication to our town. To me, he was the best kind of Hero. 

You are missed Jim.

______________________________

I feel an instrumental is most appropriate for this post. Jim was not a flashy man. And neither is this fine Jazz/Blues tune from Bill Evans. It is called "Real Heroes". Enjoy. 

Mickey Mouse

 "Leave it to Beaver", episode 16 of Season 5, brought up a painful at the time memory. 

(NOTE - I was going to explain why I even know about Episode 16 of season 5 of "Leave it to Beaver". Once I considered it, I feel no explanation is needed. I watched it sipping coffee day before yesterday and this post is the result.) 

In the episode, Beaver is tasked with wearing a bunny costume for some kind of play, pageant, whatever. He was mortified that his peers would see him wearing it as they had much better costumes to wear like lions, zebras, leopards. Before he even put it on , his buds were calling him "Cotton Tail" and making jokes about hopping here, hopping there. .............  

Maybe I need to back up and set the stage, create the premise, state my reason for a post titled "Mickey Mouse". I haven't mentioned it, but this post will also dovetail nicely into our current ghosts and goblins season.

My family settled at 5302 Augusta Street the summer before I attended 2nd grade at Wood Acres Elementary School in Bethesda, Maryland. There were kids everywhere in the neighborhood. I settled on forming a bond with the two biggest troublemakers on the block, Jimmy and Chuckie. Chuckie lived across the street from me; Jimmy lived a few houses down on my side of the street. We got into all sorts of stupid kid crap that still lives in my mind as one of the best kid years of my life. We were inseparable that summer.

When school started, my life changed. Jimmy and Chuckie were going into 3rd grade. I was going into 2nd grade. There was an immediate unspoken break up between us that first month of school. They were bad ass 3rd graders. I was still a little kid because well, only little kids go to 2nd grade.

As usual, I blew it off as I had become well versed in being shunned having moved 7 or 8 times already in my short to that point life. But it still hurt every time I saw them. And we saw each other every day. Geographical proximity insisted on it.

It was maybe the first week of October or so before the two of them agreed to let me walk to and from school with them. They made it clear though, once we entered the school, I would be ignored until we walked home in the afternoon. I was happy. I was sure I was back in the crew then.

I did not know that Wood Acres Elementary took Halloween seriously enough to sponsor a goblin and spook parade for all the kids at the school. We were all asked to wear our Halloween costumes to school on the Friday before Halloween which I think was early in the next week. I was very excited. That meant I would have a chance to wear my new Mickey Mouse costume one extra time besides on Halloween. Yeah, it was going to be a lot of fun and I was sure I would have the best costume there. I loved that costume.

I had no clue about how cruel my 3rd grader buddies could be. I found out as soon as we gathered as we always did in front of my house to begin the heel scuffing drudgery of walking the mile or so to school. And no, the only hill was barely uphill and it only lasted maybe 100 yards.

I will always remember running down the steps in my spiffy Mickey Mouse outfit to meet Jimmy and Chuckie. As soon as they noticed me, they started laughing. Not just snickering or tittering, they were out loud laughing hard enough, my ears felt like they were on fire by the time I reached street level. 

The laughing stopped. I cannot remember who spoke first, but the first words I heard were, "Look, it's Minnie Mouse. So Minnie, where is Mickey?"

I was crushed. My future manhood had been called into question. I replied by asking something about why weren't they wearing costumes.

"Only babies wear Halloween costumes", one of them said.

The embarrassment of that moment lives with me still. My face became very warm, I could feel tears beginning to well and what really pissed me off was if I cried, then I was being a baby. So, to hide my anguish, I knocked Jimmy on his ass and went after Chuckie who tossed me in the bushes near the curb. I tore my brand new Mickey Mouse costume. When I saw it, the tears could not be stopped. I began balling.

Crying in front of the tough guys of 3rd grade only amplified the reciprocal taunts, teases and torments. All the way to school they were on me.  "Look at Minnie, she sure cries easily." "Do you want a Kleenex little girl";  shit like that all the way to school. And all the way to school I was crying. But at least I managed to remove the Mickey Mousse costume, toss it to the curb and then stomp on the mask.

The results, or should I call it the epilog of this tale set the memories of the moment in stone. My so called friends continued their teasing for what I considered  to be an inappropriate amount of time. My mom was really pissed I ruined the store bought costume I had brow beaten her into buying for me. She made me fetch it out of our bushes  so she could try to repair it. The mask was totaled. And oddly, my dad suddenly became Beaver's Dad as he helped me navigate the stress of that learning moment. It was a growing up moment that helped me learn to find perspective about how arbitrary and unfair Life could be. An early life lesson that helped to thicken my skin for the future.

And it was an early, if not my first realization that most disappointments are not the end of the World. Jimmy, Chuckie and I were hard core buddies again well before Thanksgiving. But then sometime after  Christmas, my family suddenly relocated to a brand new house 4 or 5 miles away to Ogden Court. But that's a whole different story.

Later .......................................

________________________________

The "Mickey Mouse Club Song" is the only logical choice for my musical treat today. I was not a card carrying member , but I would have been had I known it might be possible. Without any more fanfare, here it is. If you are old enough, I hope it makes you smile. If you are young enough, I still hope it makes you smile. 

For Doug

I went MIA for a few days on Facebook recently. When I decided to check back in, there were over 50 notifications for me to pay attention to. I have ignored Facebook before for brief periods, but never have I had as many notifications to sift through when I came back. 

Rather than punch the "Marked as Read" button and move on, I took the time to read any comment from anyone I was not ignoring and also a few that indicated likes, loves, or hates. One of the comments I came across was from a friend of more than a few years. We are still friends on Facebook, but I wonder if that will last through the election. 

Seems Doug ( I won't use his last name because well, I am not a total asshole)....... Yeah, I think Doug may be a closeted Trumper solely based on the only indicator I have; his semi-regular criticisms of my often acerbic political views on the total insanity that is the Right now days. 

I shared a post by a fellow Mainer who calls himself the "Downeast Cowboy".  The post was regarding the "Coles Transportation Museum" up country in Bangor. His posts are always interesting and positive about Maine and the people who live here. So Doug took the time to focus on this share rather than his usual choice of one of my political opinions. He wrote:

"Finally something other than your wacked political views"

I have come to appreciate the fact that the planet is leaving me behind. I'm old and getter even older every day. But come on now, how did a Center-Left view become so un-Mainstream to now be called "wacked" in such a short period of time. 20 years ago, I was was often being virtually hanged in absentia for not being a true blue card carrying Libtard. 

I know hovering around what used to be the Center of American Politics is a thankless position. But now because of the stupidity on the Right, suddenly, according to Doug, I have "wacked" political views. Since I have no real clue other than his criticisms of my politics to go on, I can only make assumptions as to which side of the fence he hangs.

When someone does not have the balls to stand up and take a stand rather than just fling troll darts around, I have less respect for that person than before. And I certainly do not give a fuck what a troll, friend or not, thinks.

Hmm ............. Seems I do give something of a fuck what Doug thinks, just not enough of a fuck to allow his trolled  criticisms to adjust my viewpoints.

So Doug, if you bother to read this after I send you the link, man up Dude and tell me what you think; not just that you think my politics are wacked. Where are your politics? You afraid to share them? 

Well ..........................................?

______________________________

I only agonized a moment or two,

Over what song to play for you.

Punched up "Talking Blues" and

Listened to a few more than a few

Before I settled on this one tune

For you to view .............. Enjoy!

The Man in the Tree Re-Visited

A seven year old image I posted on Facebook crossed my page a few days ago. No need to describe it. You can see it right there on the left. The accidental visage that appeared on this trunk gave him his name, "The Man in the Tree". It took 30 plus years for him to reveal himself to me, but he finally did.

A man of few words, our conversations were decidedly one sided; his response usually just a branch swaying or a hiss as he used the wind to convey his feelings. Regardless, he and I have had more than a few conversations over the years. His steady calm demeanor have more than a few times helped me to calm myself, regain some perspective as I shed anxiety over any current stupidity I might have been experiencing. A relief valve I guess. Yes, a relief valve.

I first met the future Man in the Tree when he was just a two inch sapling in the late 1960's. No one knew exactly what species he was as the previous owner of the house had planted him shortly before they decided to sell the house. Based on the flowers that would eventually grace our dooryard, we called it a Weeping Cherry.

The image to the right is one of the last decent flowerings the Old Man put out. Not sure, but I think it was maybe from the same year the above image was taken.

Being of a fruit variety, the tree has always had issues with some rot. It was only in the last decade the rot began to cause limbs to fall and bark to fall off, leaving deep cavities that seemed to go right to its core. And last year an invasive climbing vine found it and really did some damage.

I plan to attempt to clean it up with a dim hope of saving it. If nothing else, I am going to attempt to propagate some of the many suckers it produces every year.

I am bringing up the Man in the Tree because like him, I have had a tough few years recently. Though both of us are hanging in there, I seem or might be turning a corner for the better. If I am, I hope to bring the Man in the Tree with me. ...................... We'll see.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................

<><><><><><><><><><><>

I immediately thought of a tune on one of Fleetwood Mac's under appreciated albums, titled "Bare Trees". It came out during the period when they were evolving out of a blues band and into a pop band. Though I loved their music when they played blues, I accepted their inevitable metamorphosis from ugly blues larva into their reimagined Pop Music butterfly. Anyway here is Fleetwood Mac's title track from their their sixth album released in 1972. Here is "Bare Trees".

A Weekend Post

Saturday

For me to write the best I can, I have to treat writing like exercise. More writing usually brings with it better writing fitness. The longer I go without writing, the more barco-lounger lazy I become. Then when the mood finally reappears, it is often like pulling teeth to get back into any groove at all. So this post is more for the exercise than any particular point I might have had in mind when I sat down. A point may happen, but it will be an accident. 

The one rule I have for this post is "No Politics". ............. Yeah right. That might be an impossible dream.

Speaking of some dreams being impossible. How about that Kamala? ........... I knew I shouldn't have set any rules, especially regarding politics. I decided I might as well break the stupid rule early and be done with it.

Now that that is out of the way, I can get on with the exercise.

Went to an excellent restaurant today with my wife, daughter and her man, Mr. Man. The Village Tavern in West Kennebunk is located in the old Cummings Market which has since moved to a new location 200 yards away into a modern day set up more suited to Suburbia, anywhere else other than West Kennebunk, Maine. But the Cummings folks are happy as pigs in shit. Besides the great operation they had as just a mom and pop store, now they have more than few gas pumps and they sit just a wheel turn off the Kennebunk exit on the Maine Turnpike. They are printing more money than ever now.

We were warned to get in line at the Village Tavern early before they opened at 4:00 PM. We were there by quarter to four and lined up maybe 20 diners back from the front of the line. Because we we were early enough, we scored the much desired seating on the long front porch outside. The day was beautiful and the breeze made it perfect.

I always have fun when I spend time with my wife, my kid and her man. They are hands down my favorite people in my life at the moment. Smart, funny, and a liberal sense of humor. We always have a good laugh at least once every time we hook up. I don't even mind when it is at my expense, which it often is.

The menu was not huge. It was not small. It had something for most everyone, even the kids. The prices were not cheap, but we expected that. I have no problem paying the freight at a good restaurant. And let's just say, the Village Tavern turned out to be better than the hype. Just their sides were awesome, never mind the Entrees. A gastronomical pleasure I have not had in a long time. All of us were more than impressed. The service was excellent and even though there was a line outside, we never felt pressure to get up and leave.

A great feed with great company. Life was as good as it gets at the Village Tavern today.

Sunday

Well, it's closing in on noon this beautiful Sunday. 75' F and only 55% humidity. In other words, I need to get outside and do shit. Too nice a day to spend indoors.

I have a hard cover for my pick up bed. It has been taking serious room in my already over stuffed garage for over 6 months now. It is time I stopped walking around it and install the damn thing. Besides, two days ago, I spent an hour scrubbing down the inside of the bed with installing the hard cover in mind.  In the meantime, please enjoy the two Yip-Yips of Sesame fame. My daughter found time to crochet them for me and my wife. Their story is they are from Mars and they hate computers and generally tech of any kind. They might be onto to something.

Wherever you are this gorgeous Sunday, please enjoy yourself .....................

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

As nice as it is today means only one tune will do. Here is "Day dream" by the Lovin Spoonful from back before the dinosaurs in 1966. Enjoy. I advise a loud setting, but you may do as you like, I guess.

Girls at Recess

My wife mentioned a silly video reel she had found on Facebook the other day. Told me to check it out. I did and it was indeed silly. Three adult women  were performing some kind of group exercise. They were obviously friends. I cannot describe it really, but silly it was. The ladies were lost in the silliness of the moment like giggling school girls at recess.

Young or old, I have always enjoyed watching small groups of women enjoying themselves together and laughing without a man or boy anywhere in the vicinity. 

It started for me I guess in grade school when I would watch girls at recess hanging together, giggling and tittering, lost in their own moment. Though I would never admit it then, their laughter always made me feel good or maybe more accurately, made me feel safe. If the girls are laughing, Life at that moment was as it should be. All was right with the world.

When I moved to Florida half way through 3rd grade to live with my father while he worked his new job, we lived in an old farm cottage in a bygone orange grove in Northwest Tampa. The landlady, who lived in the big house adopted me, either by choice or my dad bribed her.

Regardless, I was soon adopted into the old lady gang the landlady ruled over. They took me all over Tampa over the next 4 or 5 months. We went to Lowry Park Zoo a couple of times. Every outing always ended up at a Morrison's Cafeteria, where I could show off my eating cred.

Yeah, those ole ladies might have smelled liked ole ladies, but when they got together, they tittered and giggled like they did at recess 60 years previous.

When the women are laughing, all is right with the World.

Remember that.

Later Gators ..............................

_____________________

Only one tune will work. I have used it before, so I guess it has become an anthem of sorts. Here is "Fat Bottom Girls", by Queen.  While any volume level is optional, I think the optimal volume level is best punched to WOW. ............ Enjoy.

All That I Yam

Nancy, one of my Yooper friends, posted the image to the right on Facebook this morning. I have Internet known Nancy and her husband of many years for I am thinking over 12 years now at least. It may be longer, I don't know nor do I give a shit. 12 years is certainly long enough to have decided whether I like this couple from the upper peninsula of Michigan, even if we have not met face to face. It has also been enough time to verify that the image perfectly matches the image of Nancy and Ray I carry in my mind. If you do not like what they are about, give em a minute to pull down their britches so you can kiss their asses.

Maybe that is why I like them so much. I guess we really do surround ourselves with folks who seem to carry similar attributes as we do or that we perceive we do. 

I never really appreciated that the adult I became depended quite a bit on what I dealt with as a child. Of course I know the time spent as a child can have both positive and negative effects on how that child navigates the world as an adult. But for the most part it seems we point out the big, easy to notice negatives or positives of a childhood as the drivers for the adult that results.

What I am appreciating now as an old codger are the under the radar facets I began turning into character traits that would determine what kind of human I would become as I aged out. The image points up one positive or negative trait that I now see had a major impact on my life going forward.

I changed locations as a child like some folks changed their underwear. I learned early to not be surprised that while we had been where we were now for over a year, it was again time to move on as my family was constantly looking for the grass that was always greener somewhere else.

The result of this nomadic lifestyle was I had to develop techniques for myself that helped me slide into the local elementary school social scene as seamlessly as possible. I figured out quickly that breaking into a well run clique was often more trouble than it was worth. So I became comfortable being the loner, the new kid who would always be the new kid no matter where he went. I got so I actually looked forward to a new town, new people, etc. But along the way I found that I got along better with this never ending list of strangers when I did not care to be part of their little groups. 

Oddly that seemed to make me more popular sooner than if I had hung around waiting to be picked to join. I never really did understand the why of it, and I still don't. But not giving a shit about what people think about me has served me well. And though I am sure I have lost the friendship of acquaintances and companions over the years, I feel it was worth it to not eat myself up with anxiety for not fitting in. I became comfortable in my own skin.

We each find our own way no matter how much we seem to depend on others to help us. There is no right way through Life. It is a personal trip that employs many influences which may depend on a support structure of family and friends or not.  The trick as I see it now, is to never use my childhood negatives as an excuse for the kind of adult I have become. I am a combination of good and bad that brought with them the appropriate experiences I hopefully learned from the first time I experienced them. 

Regardless, as Popeye, that old nautical sage once said:

"I yam what I yam. That is all that I yam."

Keep it'tween the ditches .................................................

_______________________

Musical choice today is a Phil Collins tune I think he wrote for a Animated film by Disney- "On My Way" . Never saw the movie, but the tune seems appropriate.

Bad Ass Woman

NOTICE - Facebook would not allow me to post this on BA's page. Said it might be insulting or some such nonsense. I am guessing it was because of the title. So I changed it. We'll see if that does it.

Changing the title did not work, so its back to the original.

_________________________

My ability to remember exact dates like an old calendar can has taken a hit over the last fifty years. Sometimes even pinning down an exact year can be a challenge. It does not depend on how far back I have to go. It's more about prodding my brain to get off its lazy butt and root out relevant information.

BA and I had been dating since at least February,1980.  And I am pretty sure we had first met in late 1979 when I went with mutual friends to a party at her apartment in the Mt. Washington neighborhood in Baltimore. I made a wonderful impression that night or so I was told the next morning when I woke up on her living room floor. 

But Valentine's Day, 1980 was the day I knew we were a couple. I showed up on her stoop wearing my red long johns with the butt flap up, holding a card and I think a box of chocolates or flowers tucked under my arm. I was a real charmer alright. 

I was smitten, but not yet in love. I had no inclinations of long term commitment. I had just fallen in Lust at that point. It was at a baseball game later in the summer, when I knew this relationship was more than just a casual fling.

It was a weekend O's game in Baltimore in the summer of 1980. I remember my future wife and I were part of a tight group of Balti-moron buds who enjoyed sitting in Section 34, upper decks, Memorial Stadium. We would root for the Birds, drink our smuggled beer and cheer along with Wild Bill Hagy  as he led the cheers.

The Orioles were playing the hated New York Yankees. That meant we were going to pay more attention and not just get sloppy drunk on the flat beer in that huge jug we smuggled in. The damn thing could hold twenty one beers. I have always wondered what happened to that jug. It was awesome.

The game I think was in the early innings when a drunk and rowdy Oriole fan began harassing an elderly couple five or six rows down. I am sure it was only because they were quietly watching the game and proudly wearing their NY Yankee swag. Easy, low risk targets for a loudmouth drunk. As the innings came and went, his verbal attacks became more hateful and more personal. He was definitely over the top. His performance made every O's fan in our area uncomfortable. Yet, nobody did anything or said anything. We all just squirmed in our seats and allowed it to go on. In the meantime, the elderly couple were obviously not happy either.

I noticed BA was not watching the game as much as she was staring at this drunk who was demeaning folks who did not deserve it.  My spidey sense tingled, but I still sat silent. Then she stood up and shouted at the drunk.

"Why don't you sit down and shut up!"

If ever there could be a hush in a crowd at a American League baseball game, there came a hush that fell over part of Section 34 that day. 

The drunk was maybe thirty feet to our left, one row up. He turned towards our row and found BA standing there glaring at him. Me, well I was hunkered down next to her hoping this situation did not escalate. The drunk was with a group probably just as drunk as he was. Of course he shifted his nasty verbal onslaught, aiming his slurring vitriol at my future wife. She was not cowed, swayed, or even seemed to notice his threat of coming over there and taking her out. BA stood firm and said,

"Bring it on asshole." ........ Okay, she may have not said it exactly like that, but what she did say meant that. 

I was really concerned now a fist fight might break out. BA looked at the drunk's group and said something to the effect, 

"Hey, you better get your friend under control." 

In the meantime, it seemed many of the eyes in our area of Section 34 had shifted to BA and the drunk. I quickly decided I had two choices, Chivalrous saving the day type action, or running away like a little bitch. I decided on Chivalry and stood up in a show of support. At that same moment, more than a few fans in Section 34 stood up. Several of them began shouting at the drunk to quiet down. He became mouthier until some of his good buddies finally made him sit down. The elderly New York fans smiled, tipped their hats and went back to watching the game.

I did not know it then, but that had to be the day I fell in love with my future wife. It took me some years of replaying that moment in my head before I caught on. She stood tall in all of her five foot-one, 100 pound  fearlessness and told that asshole to "Bring it on". Her parents definitely were prescient when they gave her a name with the initials BA. She was Bad Ass back then and she is now an even more impressive Bad Ass. 

That was a woman I had to marry. Remembering that day told me why.

So in lieu of flowers, chocolates, and expensive bling for your birthday today my darling dearest, I wrote this little PR piece. Not trying to curry favor. Not trying to smooth out any recent rough spots. Just wanted a story to go with this HAPPY BIRTHDAY Post.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................

______________________________

Music for this one ............... Hmm. Well, I found a couple of tunes that seemed appropriate. 

The first one was kinda poppy for my tastes, but after two run through's, I decided I liked it. An added plus is, I think BA will like it. 

Enjoy Meghan Trainor's "Badass Woman".

The second one is a John Prine tune, "In Spite of Ourselves" . The sentiment is spot on I think.

________

Can Spiders Hear You Scream?

I was punching out the beginning of a hopefully wry and funny post about Donald Trump, his licensed products, and how stupid his minions are for buying into his scams. Then my wife came into the office. She was all done up in her ready to go to work attire. She had her CPA satchels and bags hanging off both shoulders. And best of all, she had that serious "you asshole" look on her face.

"Just to let you know; another one of your eight legged friends is in the bathroom. He only lived because I saw him between the shower curtains while I was showering. When I was ready too hunt him down, he was gone. Get him out or he dies the next time I see him."

"Uh, if I am correct, most spiders we see are female." I grinned. 

All I got was a terse, " That's as it should be. Might be a good idea for humans also ..... Get it out, I have to go. See you later." She turned and left the office.

Hey, a man has to find his fun where he can. 

There are two areas of the house that my darling wife will not tolerate spiders; the kitchen and the bathroom. I would say she is not exactly afraid of them. She just hates them. And she will pull out all the stops to kill one. I, on the other hand, love the little bastards. Over the years I have cherished their existence in any home I have lived in. I did and still do what I can to protect them from the evil humans who would do them harm.

As I was on the hunt to find this animal who had had the audacity to break the morning calm and bathroom routine of my darling significant other, I wondered if Spiders could hear. I remembered someone telling me they couldn't. They did not have ears. I vowed to embark on a ten second trip through google-land once I had the offending spider in custody.

It was a very short hunt. Spiders look like they should be blessed with intelligence, what with all the eyes, the awesome set of mandibles and other scary rigging. Sadly, they are all show and no go. Slaves to instinct and tradition, they are single minded to a fault. If a spider decides that existing between two shower curtains is cool, that is where you will most likely find them next time you look. And this particular type of brown spider I have learned loves living in and around sinks. A bath tub is just a big sink. Our little criminal must have thought she had hit the jackpot. 

I spent more time finding a glass and stiff piece of paper than the time it took to trap my little friend. I took a moment for a mug shot in case she fails in her effort to learn to live in the wild and reappears in the future. I also spoke to her about how stupid it was to test my wife. You don't win when engaging my life partner in battle. I even showed the little bastard my scars. (Okay, Okay, that was bullshit, but the spider couldn't tell. She didn't know a scar from a pimple ferchrisakes) She did seem impressed. I think I saw her blink.

Once Ms. spider was safely behind glass, I took her down to the garage and released her into the Wild. It is a jungle down there. And there is a sink to cozy up to. But she better be careful. That sink has been occupied by one of her kind forever.

Back in my office, tuckered and tired from that exhausting safari to rid my home of a dangerous predator, I was feeling heroic when I googled;

"Do spiders have ears?"

It turns out spiders do not have ears. But they can hear just fine. The listen by feeling sound vibrations through the infinite number of hairs that cover their bodies. Pretty clever set up I think. 

So yes, spiders can hear you scream. But don't be a nancy. Talk to them nice. They might just not eat you that night.

Keep it tween the ditches ..................................................

BTW - I emailed my wife a confirmation pic of the spider under arrest. A man has take his fun where he finds it.

___________________________

I need a tune that represents spiders. This should be interesting. ....... 

Actually finding a good tune was not too much of an issue. There are too many tunes with "spiders" in their title. I had to check quite a few until I found Rainne and her song, "Spiders". The video is kind of cool too.

An Epilog or a Memorian Maybe - Take Your Pick

A few days ago I found out a best friend from my youth passed away back in 2018. He spent his last days in hospice and died of some kind of cancer. I had not physically interacted with him in over forty years. And in that forty years we had only one conversation over the phone in 2010. I wrote about our conversation in a blog post, "The Phone Call".  It shines some light on the complicated relationship we had with each other as young men.

In the 1960's and 70's we shared the six or seven years in a life young boys spend floundering their way to almost adulthood. Neither Jim nor I made this transition easy on anyone, including ourselves. We were the troublemakers and bad influences our friends' parents warned their children about. I remember resenting it then, but I will own it now. We asked for trouble, we found trouble and sadly some of our dumb ass friends got caught up in our madness. We each had our own reasons for being so angry, but angry teenagers we were.

The adventures we cooked up, the teen aged drinking, the drugging that we participated in, and the shared unwillingness of both of us to sit up straight and fly right ended with the two of us being sent to Charlotte Hall Military School in southern Maryland. Jim went a year before I did. When the Montgomery County school system booted me out, I petitioned my parents to send me to the same school Jim was going to. I figured I would have at least one friend.

We weren't total losers. We just couldn't stop pushing the boundaries we felt trapped in. We got involved in stupidity that today I just shake my head at and wonder how we did not kill ourselves. We got away with so much and still ended up living full lives. Well Jim dying at age 67 may not be considered a "full life"to most folks, but let me just say that anyone who really knew him knows he was lucky to have lasted that long, which then begs the question, how is it I am still breathing? 

So I am wondering why I am so focused on a friendship that lasted barely a decade fifty plus years ago that ended with a serious bad taste in both our mouths. I guess I am not so much sad at Jim's passing, but maybe more that I wish I had done more to mend the rift between us. I probably will not miss him in the future, but I sure will miss the friendship we had and then ruined.

Rest in Peace old friend. Be kinder to yourself wherever you are now.

_______________________

   I found this tune the night I found out Jim had passed. Coincidence? Who cares? If the tune fits, play it.   "Too Old to Die Young" - Brother Dege

Conquering Hero

A music video posted by a FB friend found its way to my feed yesterday. I had not heard of the group Ferocious Dog before. They are a very talented band from across the pond. Very socially conscious; most of the tunes I followed up with concerned every day souls in crisis or bewilderment with the world they lived in.

The tune my friend posted was "Broken Soldier". Immediately my memory bank kicked in and I was thinking of a friend I had met during my hard drug days in the early 1970s. His experience as a Vietnam vet I wrote about in a short composition in my blog back around ten years ago. 

And since I have recently become smitten with poetry again and the possibility of creating some that was not terrible, I turned my short post into a short poem after I heard this tune. 

It is so sad that fifty years later, we are still dealing with critically damaged souls after we sent them to wars that made on sense. Anyway, here are my thoughts after listening to Ferocious Dog's tune about the same problem. 

                                                       "Conquering Hero"

His eyes were full of the evil he had seen.

His mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down.

Memories caught in his craw

Woke him sweating cold in the dread of his nights

Leaving him staring

Into his darkness till Dawn’s early light

 

His innocence pooled bloody on too many battle grounds.

Scarred and broken he was sent back

To a homeland that would never understand.

 

Well meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats

Did what they could.

As it was with so many others,

It did not work out.

 

Feeling forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons,

 He sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin.

Trying to forget his role in the pre-meditated chaos

Of Men killing Men in faraway lands.

 

One day he gave up, double hit China White, laid down, and he died

Before his curtain closed, with one final sigh,

Our conquering hero had found his restful reprieve.

The bleak stories and nightmares at last nodded goodbye.

 RIP Pat.

 War sucks. Enough said.

Later .........................................................

_________________________________________

Auld Lang Syne

So I hope everyone had a Happy New Year. I certainly did. My wife and I spent it with my daughter Lis and her man at their condo in Plymouth, NH playing the Mad Magazine card game. No craziness, no running naked through her neighborhood; nary a decibel above 75 was heard outside the condo.

The reality of my last ten or so New Year's Eve celebrations is it has become a struggle to stay awake to watch the ball drop. And truth be told, I have not been successful a number of times in recent years. But last night I managed to last until; oh, must have been at least ten minutes after the toast at midnight before we all wrapped up our last game and went to our respective beds. 

I have always had a somewhat jaded view of New Years. I never considered it held more promise for the future that followed it. Just a convenient two days made available for us to be loose dogs for a night. As long as no one was hurt, the fallout was usually minimal. I say usually. 

There was that one time I tried to sleep in a tree, uh, well, I woke up the next morning laying on the bundled roots at the base of that tree and it took my back a couple of weeks to work out the kinks. Witnesses to my stupidity said I almost made it the fifteen feet to the first branch, but for some unknown reason I let go and landed hard. As I was still breathing, they left me there and moved the party back in the house. 

When I was young and numb, my whole focus was on the party. Thinking about changing anything or promising to mend my hedonist ways had no place in my life. It was a party night that afforded me a whole twenty four hours of recovery time so I could show up at work on the Second bright eyed and bushy tailed. 

At some point early in my marriage, the parties became more intimate with less people and I rarely stayed up long enough to watch the sun come up on the 1st. When Lis was old enough to sit still in a movie theater, the next twenty or so New Year's Eves were spent at the movies. It became a wonderful family tradition that kept the adults responsible and out of trouble.

When My wife and I settled into the empty nest routine over a decade ago, the family tradition became just a reason to get together and enjoy each other's company. And it is odd. While I partied hardy with the best of them back in the day, the new year's celebration I covet the most are the more recent ones. Sharing the evening with friends and/or family is so much more important to me now than anything I did when I was younger. Because now, I know there is a finite number of new years to come.

Hope 2022 brings what you wish for and that if nothing else, it is a year you can look back on fondly.

Keep it 'tween the ditches, 

_____________________________________________

Naturally, no tribute to the new year would be complete without Guy Lombardo and the Royal Candians' rendition of  "Auld Lang Syne". This song always made my mom cry.

Puke Salad - Revisited

I am amazed at the ingenuity humans use to combine simple mundane ingredients, cook them and then serve them as gastronomical wonders that please tongues everywhere. How many failed recipes did Humanity have to suffer through to find the ones that separated food from just a survival tool into the dishes we have loved to get fat on?

Other than the folks who cannot get past the look of this wonderful dish, I have never met anyone who did not enjoy it. So, because of the interest shown in my wife's Puke Salad, I offer up the recipe she got from her first mother in law. It is so simple, it smacks as a recipe found on the back of a Jello box. So I doubt it has noble roots going back hundreds of generations or anything. But I bet it sticks around for the next hundred generations .............. If we last that long.

Enjoy. And while you are at it,

Keep it 'tween the ditches .............................................

HO !

It looks like we are going to squeak through with a White Christmas. That 7" storm we received a few days ago was followed a couple of days later by freezing rain and now we have maybe 3 inches of the white stuff under ice to look out at and try to fool ourselves it is another normal Christmas in Maine.

Regardless, my family and I are going to celebrate the Holidays as we have for the last many years and yes, it will be much better than last Christmas. So I am counting my blessings with hopes that everyone will pause to count theirs. The blessings are out there. We just need to take the time and effort to push them to the front.

HO !   ...............................

________________________________

***  In the interest of full disclosure - Technically, the pictured Outhouse is not mine. However, I did follow its construction closely as my neighbor Duncan built it. I offered him appropriate verbal encouragement. I also used it once or twice just to say I did and to give it my meaningless stamp of approval. Finally, under extremely difficult footing conditions, I bravely ventured out and took that picture after the infamous Ice Storm of 08'. 

Nothing In - Everything Out

This morning I  broke my newly created rule only days after creating it. I ordered myself to not allow a bad day to ruin my Sunday. While this has not become a bad day in the life, it seemed headed there after an hour of socializing on social media. 

Hmm................................

Now ain't that odd. A worldwide group of Internet communities called "social media" turns many of us into a Gloomy Gus, everyone else is an asshole participant. Civility is often only skin deep on many pages and sites. Why I forget this so often, I do not know. I still insist on deluding myself everyone on the planet wants to have a nice day. Regularly I rediscover the many people who revel in and celebrate being in an ugly mood, a judgmental mood, or just a plain ole mean mood. And like this AM, I often get sucked into the vortex. 

Most days I think a more accurate name for Facebook and its kindred spirit social media buds would be "Anti-Social Media".

Today though I snapped out of it, grabbed a fresh cup of coffee, sparked up a doob,and pumped the music up to Wow. I closed my eyes and focused on sweeping my mind clean; leaving Nothing inside and driving Everything out. Five songs into the Rolling Stones album, "Let it Bleed" I opened my eyes.  

Nothing had conquered Everything and my Sunday was back on track. _________________________________

The first time I heard "Let It Bleed" was in 1969. We were breaking into a recently purchased bag of pot in Snake's basement. The album was playing on one of those four foot long Motorola stereos so popular in the 1960s. His grandparents had bought a new stereo and they let Snake claim the old one for his basement retreat. The speakers only lasted for a month or so once Snake took charge of the furniture sized boom box. That was okay though. I hooked up some speakers my dad gave me and it sounded even better.

So here is a taste of that great album ................... "Midnight Rambler"

Enjoy.

Picking the best tune on this album was impossible.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .............................................

Friendship

Blog Fodder is a blogging friend I have had for over a decade. We have never met face to face.  He is not a friend from my youth, my bike shop, or a neighbor in my hood.  He is a persona who claims to live in Ukraine and is from Canada originally.  He also claims to be an expert on all things bovine related.  He’s one of the guys who wrote the book so to speak.

Allen is his supposed real name. After a decade of swapping thoughts, ideas and laughs with him, I believe he is real.  But more than that, I do not care if he is or isn’t. He and I have formed a connection that transcends physical verification. We have become friends and from my point of view, the best of friends.

So Blog Fodder posted a piece on his blog about the notion of who is a friend and how do we categorize them. Good friends? Best friends? Fair weather friends? And where do we separate friends from the massive numbers of assholes we have dealt with over the years.

The notion of friendship can become an evil pit of never ending frustration as I try to find convenient cubby holes for the many friends I have had over the last 69 years.

There are my first friends. My playground best buds. My pinky swear allegiance friends for life.  My drug friends. My college friends. There have been so many friends float in and out of my life, I sit here in a daze trying to put the ones who manage to float to the top in perspective.

What about the friends I always got in trouble with? The friends who always helped me avoid trouble?  This whole notion of breaking down friends and friendships Is overwhelming……….. (Take a breath Mike……. Settle down asshole, and break it down so it makes sense in that void you charitably call your mind).

The first thing I guess I know about friendship is that it is a fluid thing. A good friendship has many challenges that stresses the commitment and still ends up a solid relationship.  The fluid part is the constant weeding process of friendships that do not stand up to those stresses. We have friends for life, but at the same time have many different “best friends” who share our trip from the cradle to the grave either briefly or are there for the duration.

I would call the friends who have hung in for life as my true best friends.  Of those, I have few left it seems.  Now as an old fart, many friends that I thought gone and forgotten have found me again and we picked up right where we left off.  So for me, at the top of the “Best Friend” list is one who can stand the test of time. The next friend in the “Best” category is one who had a major impact on my life at and during a certain period of my life.

But because I ultimately want to bake things down to simple notions my mind can actually comfortably handle;

A good friend is someone I think of and smile at the same time.

A bad friend does not exist.  Bad friends are just the assholes we have to sort out while we plod our way to the horizon.

Keep it ‘tween the ditches ……………………………………..

____________________________________

Image by "One Line"

Tall Lois

Early in fourth grade I was relegated to front row status because of my inability to sit up and fly right while parked in the back row.  I didn't mind the move to the front row.  I could see the blackboard better.  After several weeks of broadcasting my displeasure over the punitive move to the front, I unexpectedly admitted to the teacher that I could see the black board better. That move was directly responsible for my life long love/hate relationship with eyeware.

The move also meant Lois sat three rows behind me now.  I could no longer show her my affection with the variety of kicks to her desk or annoying her with the random poke.  She always turned around, pursed her lips and glared. Her response told me she felt the same about me.

When I think of the priorities used for liking a yucky girl back then, I smile. Though the rules of  attraction would change when puberty kicked in, my attraction in fourth grade was solely based on Lois' abilities in the games we played at recess and her bad ass attitude when confronted by an intimdating boy.  She never backed down.  It was love.  And it was mutual. Of that I was sure.

Fast forward to the 5th grade.  I was older, more mature, and I had actually gained an inch or so in height.  I was becoming a man and full of myself as a member of the upper class of Dale Mabry School in Tampa, Florida. I entered my new classroom, chest puffed out and ready to take on any comer.

Lois walked into the classroom with her circle of young hens, all tittering, smiling and being goofy girls. I was shocked, astounded, poleaxed.  This was not the Lois I had grunted goodby to last June.  This Lois had become a giant.  She towered over her peers. She towered over me.  Her compact and normal kid body from fourth grade was now a skinny tree with twigs for limbs.  I had to tip my head back some to look her in the eye.  When she looked down at me, I knew the flame that had burned so brightly back in June was now snuffed out.  She pushed me aside and found a seat.

I was crushed. The one kid who had owned space in my mind over the summer just blew me off.

My pain was short lived when Johnny Cox threw his shoulder into me as he passed. "How's it hangin Four Eyes?"

 "Like a bugle, wanna blow it?" My half hearted almost wispered response stopped him in his tracks.  He looked at me, looked at Lois settling into her new desk and shook his head. 

Johnny had been the only friend who knew of my crush on Tall Lois, which he began calling her from that day on.  She hated it and took him on more than a few times because of his incessant teasing.

Fifth grade had officially gotten off to a rough start for me.  The day ended as it began with me walking home after making a year long enemy of my new teacher and royally pissing off Tall Lois when I punched her in the arm and ran away.

I spent serious time that year ridin the pine in the principal's office.  My relationship with my teacher, Mrs Mahoney, was acrimonious and hate filled.  Early on while being detained after class, she whispered in my ear that every year she finds (picks) the class troublemaker and that this year I was it.  She was evil personified.  Because I felt challenged, I attempted to rise to the depths of her expectations.  I fought her at every turn.  Fifth grade could not have ended fast enough for me.

Not all my Fifth grade memories were bad though. Every other Friday we would march down to the Music room and dance. I think I was the only boy who eagerly looked forward to dance class.  

Dance class was not so much about the dancing. It was more about covertly steering this ungainly and wild group of kids towards the civil and polite world of adults.  We were segregated according to sex.  Boys with sweaty hands looking at their feet on one wall. Girls lined up across the empty floor doing the same.

On the music teacher's cue, the boys were expected to cross the grand expanse and politely ask a girl to dance.  The girls were instructed to not be picky and accept appropriate dance requests. Always dancing with the same partner was frowned upon. That would not be polite. Yeah, that was how it was supposed to work.  Eventually by the fourth or fifth class, the fidgeting and fussing ceased and we actually danced for more than a tune or two. 

Square Dancing was by far our favorite.  I remember being fond of the Bosa Nova until I was teased relentlessly the following week.  Most of all I remember it was during Dance Class my affair with Tall Lois blossomed into something neither she nor I would ever have admitted to any of our same sex buds.

That first class, I zeroed in on Tall Lois right out of the gate.  I followed protocol and asked nicely.  She stared down at me with empty eyes and said, "Okay. Whatever."  And with an eyeroll only a girl can create she thrust out her hand for me to recieve.  

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I took her hand.  Cool! Her hand seemed to be sweating more than mine.  I don't remember that first dance other than it involved much stumbling and awkward hand holding. At the end of the dance Tall Lois leaned down and softly told me she was really pissed I never contacted her over the summer. I remained silent and smiled. And then she smiled.

I still do not have women figured out. Tall Lois taught me some first clumsy lessons regarding the upcoming intramural sport of sex, marriage and all the uncomfortable baggage that is packed in the trunk. Besides my mom, she was the first female to bring me joy and pain for no other reason than she existed.

I never saw Tall Lois after fifth grade.  We moved to Tallahassee so my dad could get into the hotel business.  I did hear from Johnny Cox some months later.  Tall Lois and he had buried the hatchet and now she was his girlfriend. 

"In your face. You're such a loser, Four Eyes. She always liked me better than you.  And besides she is more fun to watch than you ever were."

Keep it "tween the ditches ...................................

_________________________________

Tall Lois was real.  My crush was real. Johnny Cox was real. And Mrs Mahoney? Sadly, she was very real.

Bean and the Elevator

I posted a cartoon on my Facebook page this AM.  A crude joke involving bodily functions and an elevator.  I posted it with no comment.  

I was hard into my second cup of coffee when I remembered a connection between the elevator in the New Dorm at Towson State and Bean, a best friend struck down before his time.  The cartoon I had previously posted became that much funnier and I laughed out loud again as memories of my old friend drifted in from the edges of my mind.

Bean and I attended the same military school in Charlotte Hall, Maryland. He was a senior when I enrolled as a new cadet in my sophomore year.  We did not really become friends until Lacrosse season.  I had never picked up a lacrosse stick and Bean, well, he was an awkward 6'5" stringbean who was not athletically gifted. Neither one of us were on the coach's top ten list.  We were fixtures on the JV team.  We had great fun making snarky remarks about well, everything.  Bean was a very funny guy.  He sure could tell a story.

Bean graduated in 1968 and immediately was filed as gone and soon to be forgotten.  I graduated from Charlotte Hall in 1970. 

Two weeks into my freshman year I was cluelessly wandering around the Student Center at Towson State when I hear "Crum" shouted from across the big room.  Coming towards me in his signature disjointed walk was a hippie version of the Bean I knew in high school.  No amount of hair or tattered hippie attire could hide him. We became very close friends who often saw each other daily even though Bean was a day hop who lived off campus. 

In the Spring of my Freshman year construction began on a new dormitory behind my dorm. It was to be 14 stories and when finished would introduce Co-ed living to Towson State. 

Bean's and my first brush with the New Dorm was while construction was ongoing.  Because college students are really just big children, a construction site is still a big draw.  And we were drawn to it often as a spot to smoke weed and explore stoned.  The view from the top was outstanding.

Our very first exploratory mission started with me discovering what I thought was a huge closet on I think, the 3rd floor.  Baked out of my mind, I said, "Look.  A big closet.  Wonder what this will be?" 

I stepped into it.

I had stepped into the main elevator shaft. Stepping into nothing is a very strange experience, especially when I noted the construction debris coming into focus at the bottom over 40 feet away.  I knew in an instant I was screwed.  Nothing I could do but follow the rules of gravity.  As I quickly approached face down, this is gonna hurt position, a hand grabbed the waist band of my jeans and pulled me to safety.  I am sure Bean saved my life that day.

Fast forward to when I was living in the completed, fully functioning New Dorm.  It was the first dorm Towson erected that was higher than 3 stories.  Mistakes were made.  One was inadequate elevator service.  Daylight hours found the only two elevators constantly in action and students having to wait for sometimes 5 -10 minutes.  The higher you lived, the bigger pain in the ass they were.  So of course on occasion Bean, Toole and I had to make the trip even more difficult when we could.

Since the people on the lower floors were used to dealing with overfilled elevators, we came up with our "Act Full" schtick.  An empty or close to it car would open for us on the 9th floor.  We would stand shoulder to shoulder as if we had been the last bits of human flesh able to be stuffed into this elevator.  "Now act full".  Nobody ever challenged us on the way down. We thought it was hilarious. However, most of the occasional innocent bystanders trapped in the same car with us were not.  I remember one nice looking coed calling us assholes when she walked out.  Oh well, college students are often assholes.  I will own my part in being one from time to time.

And of course I will never forget the time Bean farted in the elevator when it was chock full and he and I were the last people in for a trip to the first floor.  Bean looked down at me, nudged me with his elbow and then let loose with a deafening, lengthy, and odorous fart that slowly expanded to the rear of the elevator car.  It was a slow progression you could follow with your ears as it caused coughs and at least one noticeable gag reflex when it hit the rear wall. It made my eyes water.

So here we are not even to the 8th floor yet and Bean has gone and poisoned us.  I look up at his face and I see a face of beatific calm. He looked at me and winked.

At the 8th floor the door opened to a group in a hurry to get to class.  Several charged the elevator hoping they could muscle their way in.  Suddenly, as if on cue, they stopped like they had hit a wall.  One fella coughed and said, "I'll walk."  Floor after floor to the bottom it was like this.  All the while Bean stood there in innocent wonder looking around for someone else to blame.  As we stepped off he raised his hand and pointed at me and held his nose.  Asshole.

Damn, I miss Bean.  He was one of the greatest friends I ever had.  Sadly his life was taken in a farm accident in 1980.

R.I.P. Bean.  I still miss you.