The Man in the Tree

I first met the Man in the Tree ten or so  years ago. I was standing in front of the garage adoring my 28 year old John Deere 445 lawn tractor. 

"Hey asshole."

 The deep gravelly voice made me jump. I turned around and no one was there.

"What was that?"

"Yeah, I'm talking to you standing there with your commemorative Iowa Tractor Fair John Deere hat parked on your noggin. ..... So, do you have a belt buckle to match?"

I was unnerved.  My skin crawled. I could feel my heartbeat pick up its pace.  I walked over to the side of the garage and peeked around the corner.  Nothing there.  

"Where and who the Hell are you?'

"Behind you jerk wad."

I turned around and stared.  Nothing there but shrubs, a house and .......... what a minute, did I just see the bark move on the Weeping Cherry?

"Yeah, I live in this tree.  Been here at least the last 50 laps around the Sun."

I couldn't speak.  My mouth fell open.  Why I never noticed him before was.........  I watched his bark flex and bend as he began his story.

Turns out his name was Charlie. I asked him why it was Charlie, but he ignored my question. Charlie had been living in that tree in my dooryard since he was a sapling.

"How come you never spoke up before?"

His bark crinkled just right to make it look like he was glaring at me.

"Tree People don't waste their time talking to Humans because frankly, we think you all are a bunch of assholes.....  Destructive and selfish assholes at that."

My heart had slowed down; I had collected myself. I was able to respond in a normal voice.

" I can't argue with you there Charlie. We are indeed assholes who have treated you and your kind horribly. .... I'd say we were ignorant and didn't understand the damage we were doing. But I can't. Enough of us know full well we humans are collectively a bunch of self centered thoughtless parasites who think the bounty the planet offers is limitless and who cares if it isn't anyway, we gonna get ours, screw everyone else."

The bark over Charlie's eyes settled some into a softer and kinder countenance as he realized he had found a sympathetic ear. Several minutes went by before he responded. Turns out most trees weigh everything they say carefully, giving each word enough time and consider to make the point they want to make with as few words as possible. They hate being caught with a root in their mouth. But not Charlie. Charlie just could not keep his trap shut. ...... 

"Among my peers, I am still considered a kid. The other trees still call me a brainless punk who cannot or will not keep his trap shut. And even though I knew it was never a good idea to get trapped into a conversation with a stupid Human, after 50 years, I just could not bite my tongue any longer. I am tired of being a tree suffering in silence."

"So you wait until you've got one root in the grave to speak up, huh?" 

Before he could answer, I added, "Between the rot and the Pileated Woodpeckers, it looks like you ain't long for this world, Charlie." 

The bark over his eyes shifted again as he crinkled his brow and wondered if  he had been insulted or not. A dead branch broke free and just missed my head. I realized then I had touched a nerve.

"Well, not all you humans can have conversations with trees. All of you used to be able to back in the day. Now only a select few are allowed into our conversations."

I accepted that I could talk to trees because well, one was talking to me and I had not consumed any hallucinogens for more than a few years, so I asked, "Back in the day?"

"Yeah, according to the big Maple across from our dooryard, you Humans bred out your natural connections to the planet around 100,000 years ago when notions like property, tribalism, and greed infiltrated your minds. It took awhile, but here you are finally evolved into flaming assholes who consume way more than you put back. There is not a plant on the planet that likes you.  Hell, you can't even get along with yourselves."

Charlie went completely silent at that point and did not speak to me again for several weeks. The morning after the last of his blossoms had disappeared, he caught me throwing some demo in the trailer I take to the dump. He picked up right where we left off as if no time had passed since we last spoke.

Out of thin air I hear, "And you know what the real crime here is? You humans are in the driver's seat. There is a good chance your fate is our fate. And I gotta tell you, trees are not holding out much hope for a positive outcome."

I turned and looked Charlie in the one eye that was in permanent squint. 

"Me neither Charlie. Me neither."

______________________

Again only one song came to mind when I finished writing this. Here is Joni Mitchell singing "Big Yellow Taxi" at an outdoor festival in Great Britain in 1970. 

PS - I began this post ten years ago and dropped it not even half way in. It's a done deal now. Not sure how I feel about it.

The Weeping Cherry is not what it is officially called. My dad planted it in 1967 and he called it a Weeping Cherry. My next door neighbor who is more of a plant person told me once what it really was. I immediately forgot what she said. It will always be a Weeping Cherry to me.

No Roaches Monday - Smokin or Otherwise

I looked in the basement, the garage, and my office. There were no roaches to be found.  This is Monday ferchrisakes.  How am I to make it through the day without at least one roach to smoke?  That's what happens when a lifelong habit becomes just another SSDD activity that has no thought invested or planning laid out because I have taken said activity for granted all these years.

Habits, good and bad, need nourishing environments for them to prosper into habits we can depend on.  A habit has to first, be recognized, then nurtured from passing fancy into the life support tool we want them to become.  Their negative or positive effects on us only important as the importance we assign them.

If I think a habit has gotten out of control, I will most likely choose to stop said habit.  If I have no problem with it, I go on my merry way, happy as if I had a brain.  And yes, sometimes a habit can become so onerous as to raise concerns of those around me.  I would be lying if I said none of my habits irritated others.  

My childhood tendency to always ask "why" about anything caused my parents no end of frustration.  Their frustration only fed my new habit of how to irritate parents because they deserve it.  I found I could punish them to the third or fourth "Because I said so" before I had to duck and cover.  Wonderful game that lost its luster when I learned around age eight, there are too many answers to the question "why".  If I wanted an answer, I more often than not, had to find it for myself.

But I digress, and I did it right out of the blocks.

A post that  has a designated time and place in my communiques to the World should be experienced as the rules I have written demand.  No roaches around?  Guess I will have to roll up a couple joints and smoke em just so I can smoke a roach or two on Smokin Roaches Monday.

Damn.  Two joints may be too tough to take just to make two roaches.  .... Hmm     Oh well, its more about the effort than the result.  Right?

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

Dung Beetles

I guess it was when Moscow Meetch was the hot topic a few months back when I decided that he and Senator Lindsey reminded me of Dung Beetles.

An Ass like Trump needs a few guys with shovels and brooms to stay close to his backside to keep the streets free of the mountain of shit he spreads like so much confetti at a Johnny comes marching home parade.

I was reminded of this by Ray, my online Yooper buddy when he posted something on Facebook about Senator Lindsey and spirit animals.  Suddenly it all clicked.  The Right has become a population enthralled with anything related to shit.

 Some of the shit is old shit brought back to use in false narratives and false comparisons.  And when the old shit is not doing it for them, they make up new shit.  Some of the shit they scoop up as it falls from Trump's butt.  And some, like Senators Lindsey and McConnell, roll Trump's shit into little balls to be savored later when they are alone.  Or maybe they are rolling it up to sell at a future date.  One can count on that I suppose, what with money and its possession being ahead of Country, God and the American Way on the Right side of the aisle.  And to be fair, the Left has its share of money first assholes also.

Sadly, my comparison to the noble Dung Beetle seems unfair.  No, it is unfair.  But there it is.  Life is not fair.  And from what I can tell, Dung Beetles do not care.  They only care how big a pile of shit they can roll into their Dung Beetle lairs.  Trump is a lucky man to have these two covering his backside.  Without them, if he turned around to walk back from where he came, he'd trip and possibly hurt himself as he fell face first into his own shit.

Keep up the good work.  Mitch and Graham, you guys rock.  Just take off your overalls and shoes before you come into my house.

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

Unintentional Fake News

I was reading the Google news feed on my phone this morning and a story about the 30-50 pro assault gun meme popped up.  Apparently a fellow from the South who owns some property asked how was he supposed to shoot 30 -50 feral hogs that run into his yard in 3 to 5 minutes without an assault weapon.  He was inferring the danger to his children.  The article from "Slate" went on to agree he had a point.

Now this is where I do the predictable thing and talk about how his argument is stupid, great, or something in between.  No, I won't do that.  It is the background of this story handed to us as factually based I have a problem with.

Once the purpose of the article was solidly in place, a brief history of feral hogs unfolded, giving us their past and their present and the doom and gloom if their populations are not put in check.

One claim in particular caused me to check its accuracy.  "Now, 48 states have reported the animals’ presence..........." 

I had not heard of any feral hog sightings in Maine, and having actually followed the rise of the feral hog problem in previous years, I understood the problem to be one mostly located in the Sun Belt and not up in the frozen outback states nestled next to Canada.

 I jumped all over it and googled faster than you could say "Google It".  The first article that popped up was from a local paper, "The Portland Press Herald".  They claimed Maine has no feral hog issue as there are no feral hogs that have encroached into Maine. According to the article feral hogs only inhabit 39 states.

Fast forward now to my second Google.  An article in the "Central Maine Sentinel" told the story of a Russian boar killed in Somerset County in the yard of a very surprised farmer.  Officials were sure it was not born in Maine and it did not travel this far from another state.  It was most likely one that had escaped a state licensed game preserve.

So what is my conclusion in all this?  The people who write and deliver the news need to be especially careful now days to frame their stories in a way that does not give the wrong impressions.  In other words, report the facts that are not up for interpretation.  And if the facts are up for interpretation, say that.

Fake news is fake news even when it is unintentional.

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

Secret Progeny

Sometimes, while watching a movie or reading a book, I will stop a moment and wonder how close to reality is this story of fiction I am currently enjoying?  While some tales seem to knock out any hint of being realistic, other stories make you wonder if this could happen in real life.

Well, I have proof now that a good piece of fiction can envision the future in uncanny ways.

I point you to the image in the upper right.  Just what are the odds that twin poster boy Aryan assholes, Donald Trump and Boris Johnson, could become world leaders at the same time?  And that they came with similar messages and identical monkey cage antics?  

The answer is, there are no coincidences.  Their appearance on the world stage was foretold in the novel, "The Boys from Brazil", by Ira Levin.  It was made into a movie two years later that starred Laurence Olivier and Gregory Peck.  

"The Boys From Brazil" was about a Nazi hunter (Olivier) chasing down the notorious Dr. Josef Mengele, well played by Gregory Peck.  Apparently Mengele had, through in vitro fertilization, impregnated 12 women with eggs containing Hilter's sperm.  And in his sick mind, he did what he could to make sure their lives followed exactly Hitler's childhood years.  It was a good movie.  Not great, but I would watch it again.

I believe we are looking at two of the twelve secret progeny of Hitler.  Don't let their goofy bullshit fool you.  These two are dangerous with a big D.

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

A New Book Club

It appears our illustrious President has a more serious and reflective side.  He has decided to start a book club.  I have not seen what fine titles he would be advising us to check out.  I only have my imagination and his actions so far to predict what kind of books he would like us to delve into.

Being a busy President, who has little time to enjoy the finer things like Russian Literature, I am sure he would be pushing titles light on words and loaded with nice images for his faithful followers out there in Single Wide Land.

"The Little Engine That Could" would most assuredly enjoy a top billing as it reminds Donald of his own upbringing..  It tells the story of a little train engine that overcame insurmountable odds to become just like the big engines he envied as a child.

"Where the Wild Things Are" would certainly be included as it mirrors our President's struggles to tame the wild media animals that keep biting at his heels.

"The Phantom Tollbooth" would have to be included of course.  As the teaser states, "Complaining of boredom, Milo travels through a tollbooth to a ridiculous land where Rhyme and Reason are lost."

"Green Eggs and Ham" would finish off the first offerings as nothing tickles Trump's fancy more than something that reminds him of an Egg McMuffin.

Regardless, as I have not yet seen what books the Donald has on his list, I would hope that if these fine titles are not included, they should be.  Of course they might be a tad beyond Trump's intellectual ability.  We might have to wait for him to grow up some more before he can get his mind around the intricate plots and character studies included in these fine books.

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

Ancient History

It appears what I thought I knew about Father's Day was well, absolutely nothing.  Yes, it is sad but true that I haven't a clue why, where, or when Dad's Day came into existence.  Being that I wanted to refrain from political commentary, yet still keep up with a daily post of some kind, I was going to have to find something else to satisfy my most recent writing jones.

After at least thirty seconds of intense consideration, I zeroed in on Father's Day.  I dutifully followed up this serious inquiry with 5 tortuous minutes rifling through Google choices before settling on a website devoted to Father's Day.  If anyone would have the skinny about why Dad has his own day, I was sure it would be them.  After all the site is called "Father's Day.com".

What I found out was eye opening.  It appears Father's Day is much older than anyone thought.  Experts have found in the ruins of a Babylon town, a clay tablet upon which one young man named Elmesu, carved out loving sentiments to his father, owner of a nearby sheep operation.

Sadly though, Elmesu's fondness faded when he found out Dad was going to give the sheep farm to Alrus, second son in the line.  Elmesu was beside himself because of his father's betrayal.  So he took the clay Father's Day tablet he had labored over for three days and three nights, and he bludgeoned his father to death with it in front of the cook fire in the kitchen.

Life was tough back in the day.  Ascension within many family lines depended on bloody takeovers carried out by one generation over the next.  Transition was not always pretty.

_________________________________

Post Script and BTW - Now that it is currently acceptable to use lies instead of facts to support one's take, I have some questions about lines and when they are crossed.  If using Fake News as support, does the Fake News have to be completely fake?  Or is it still Fake News if only part of it is?   I mean, is a half truth, or say a quarter truth any better than a flat out lie?  If so, where is the line?  I am only asking this because it may have some relevance to the above post.

Happy Father's Day - Keep an eye on the sheep.
__________________________________________

Image from this site