$ 3.50

  My opinion is respected far and near, so much so that along with $3.50 it can get you a cup of black coffee at almost any coffee shop in Kansas City. So said, I think of New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day as two, separate holidays. Imagine a big airport with a long runway. A jumbo jet at the end of the runway, full of passengers and their baggage has been waiting for clearance to take off. Out in the holding pattern a small Commuter jet with only the pilot onboard is waiting for permission to land. They both get the OK, begin their checklist and focus on opposite ends of the same runway. The outbound pilot sees his way clear but Jumbo is heavy and takeoff will take the full length of the runway. The Commuter jet has been closing in on the very spot where the Jumbo starts to throttle forward. 
Near the far end of the runway the Jumbo is ready to rotate nose up and rise up. Over a mile behind at the near end of the runway the Commuter has flared, settling down to touchdown. Imagine: for one or two seconds, in the same moment the tires of both planes are touching opposite ends of the same runway. One lifts off as the other throttles back into its rollout. The obvious point is the close proximity in Place & Time but also the absolute divergence in their stories. One is at its conclusion, the end of its story while the other takes possession, turns the page and shifts from reflection to anticipation. It is seamless and we embrace the anxious question mark with open arms.
Interpreting the metaphor is easy. Today, December 31 is the Jumbo jet with a weighty backstory that touches every sensibility. But its time has expired, not even an epilogue. For a split second the two calendar years interface. At the stroke of midnight we start counting again, turning over new pages and beseeching the powers that be for good if not better days. I have an open house to go to this evening. Good food and good company will be abundant. Sooner or later people will find their coats and head for the door; going to another party or maybe bedtime. In any case, get up early or sleep late, the wakeup will find us already invested in the new year. So there are two days that lean on each other so profoundly that neither can prevail without the other. Reflecting on 2024 I can say there were some days I slept later and slow to rise but always, every day from 1 to 366 (LeapYear) every wakeup I was grateful and happy when my feet hit the floor. 
Two different holidays, the first is a grateful farewell and resolute acceptance while a few hours later the waking up marks a new beginning; continue the same old story but it’s a new day, a new year and think of it as an opportunity. New Year’s Day, I think it will be a good year if I look for the best in the people I meet. That should be good for a cup of coffee anywhere.

SOME WIGGLE-ROOM

In the run-up to Christmas I left things where they landed and my house looks like the loading dock at the thrift store. So now we’re in the twilight zone between closing one door and opening the next. Still, I can’t put off until spring the overdue clean up. Otherwise the trash truck might start with the barrel at the curb and not know where to stop collecting. I should start with the garage as I want to park inside this winter and today’s weather may be damp but it’s well above freezing. That feels like a prompt to make a resolution.
New Year resolutions; I try not to do that. I don’t want to give up when I fall short and don’t want the failure to loom over me for the rest of the year. Making resolutions for a new day might give me some wiggle-room. I touting the same axiom so much I have taken some ownership with it: “Failure is a necessary step on the learning curve and If you never fail then you haven’t done much.” There are several ways to hedge against the weight of failure. I can lower my expectations or set a deadline. Tomorrow is a new day and a new beginning if I think of it that way. Buddha told us; “Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful. There is no path to happiness. Happiness is the path.”  I like the idea that happiness is the chosen path (or the journey) rather than a destination. 
I’ve been making New Day resolutions for a long time. If it doesn’t bear fruit here is no sting of defeat, just let it go and move on. Maybe it comes with age but then I’ve never been a perfectionist. Excellence can be overrated. Sometimes excellence might not be good enough; at least we didn’t die. So be thankful. My trash barrel is half full and they pick up tomorrow. My resolution for today is to make it full with wanna-be treasures that have outlived their purpose and move them to the curb before bedtime rolls around. Have a Happy New Day. 

BY THE THOUSANDS

Murmuration; This time of year when food is getting hard to find, birds form up in large groups. There is safety in numbers and their search for food can find every morsel wherever they land. Blackbirds, (Grackles and starlings) by the thousands or many thousands, they are famous for that collective behavior. It is not uncommon to see them perched together on power lines, shoulder to shoulder. Last week I was driving on the interstate where a high voltage transmission line crossed the highway. The sun was still low in the east but I couldn’t help but notice those blackbirds perched on every cable like soldiers in formation that stretched as far as I could see. I was hoping to see some close order, tight formation flying but they weren’t ready yet. 

Blackbirds in the act of formation flying is called a ‘Murmuration’. That swarming, swooping concentration of birds, all following one leader; one can’t help but stop what you are doing and watch as they climb and swerve and fall away like a self propelled cloud. We’ve all seen PBS specials on sea life where huge schools of small fish swim so close together they must be touching, changing direction every few seconds. The birds do it in the air, all the wing flapping and course corrections and nobody crashes. Instinct doesn’t wait for a vote, like Yoda said in the movie Star Wars, “Do or do not!” When so many blackbirds “Do!” I get slack-jawed and marvel. 

I live in a social culture where we think about everything. When that low profile instinct that still works for us, when it chimes in we tend to believe we were thinking about it to begin with. We take thinking to extremes. When we think about our thoughts or about what others may be thinking it has a name; ‘Metacognition’. That’s how we negotiate; “Will they sell it for less than they are asking; and if not, will I buy it anyway?” We think a lot but even at that, we act on feelings before we can think. When one feels the Fight-or-Flight emotion they have defaulted to the animal at the core of our being.

Once upon a time in a far-away land like Ohio or Pennsylvania, where the Unitarian Church had stain glass windows; a little stain but mostly frosted glass. You couldn’t see outside still it let lots of light in. My hosts and I were either thinking about the sermon or something else, maybe navel gazing, I don’t remember but something extraordinary happened. All at once both the sky and stain glass windows grew dark and a muffled, rustling sound grew louder and louder. The minister spoke louder but the distraction was too much and everybody stared in awe at the windows. The din of noise was surreal, unrelenting and you could see the shadows of birds, fluttering against the windows, trying to avoid mid-air collisions and crashes.

From beginning to end, the murmuration that had swooped down on us lasted maybe 20 seconds but the effect was too much to simply resume the sermon. She changed the subject to ‘Murmurations’, reflecting a good knowledge of the phenomenon and what we might take from our experience that morning. I thought, how much would I have to pay for that experience if someone were selling tickets? The possibility of being there, aware in that moment; I am always prepared to stop what I’m doing and give myself to it. If I’m driving then the conditions dictate how much license I can afford to take with my life and others on the road but I will squeeze it for all I can get. 

I am convinced that humans are animals, mammals with extraordinary adaptations and attributes that allow us to think about thinking and about what others are thinking about us. We have stumbled our way forward with language, creative insight and never before patterns of social interaction: Civilization. When I pay attention to nature telling its story with sandhill cranes lifting off the water or standing in the shadow of an 1,800 year-old California Redwood, or by the precision and beauty of murmurations, I feel small. Even with my big brain and bright ideas, the stories I tell and the memories I treasure, I am just a fiber in the thread of life, a fleeting glimmer in nature’s scheme and that’s enough. 

IF I LIVE LONG ENOUGH

  I woke up today fresh off a four-day road trip. I had been dreaming; I never remember my dreams but I can tell if they’re good or bad and this one was not bad. My first conscious experience was listening to my feet as they celebrated in the warm pocket at the far end of my sleeping bag. It takes me about 20 minutes to ambulate or stagger or shuffle about; whatever it is that I do to reach the fully dressed, vertical state. In all that time I get familiar reminders that my body is still under my control but certainly there are other forces competing for that distinction. From arthritis in my fingers to rogue toenails that make putting on socks a snag-by-snag challenge, I conclude that I am fit to face the day. 
There are two pill regimes, morning and bedtime. Morning pills are all dietary supplements but different shapes and sizes and if you’re not careful they can send you to the floor in search of escaped vitamins and remedies like magnesium, lutein and turmeric. Waiting for coffee to make is peaceful and I start thinking about things, whatever comes to mind and that can be anything. They say that things happen in three’s and maybe so; recently I’ve been targeted with the argument, “Age, it’s just a number.” In every case the person was late 60’s or early 70’s and my reaction was a subdued, “How would they know?” But we tend to qualify the condition with a number and one’s quality of life, physical condition and overall security certainly do rise above the number itself. 
George Burns original quote drew distinction between aging and bing old, the one is unescapable while the other can be managed by maximizing what it is that you can do. The ‘. . .just a number’ slur could be shorthand for being all you can be. After discovering the Mark Twain quote I like to pair them for a broader, deeper meaning. He said, “Don’t complain about old age. It is a privilege denied to many.” So I take him at his word. I an well into old age but I see it as a privilege rather than a limiting factor. Other cultures have treasured their old people for their experience and wisdom and nurturing but my culture is not one of those. Be sure here, if I am complaining it is about the culture, not the old age.
My best friend in high school was a year behind me. When I graduated in ‘57 he dropped out and joined the Navy. The next time we saw each other was three years later when his ship the Cruiser USS Saint Paul docked in Naha, Okinawa. I was stationed with the Army’s 2/503 Airborne just up the road. He couldn’t get shore leave but I was able to go aboard and hang out with him for several hours. By the time I was discharged Earnest Howard was already home, married his high school sweetheart and working through an electrician apprenticeship. We lost touch when I went off to college but in my 2nd year I learned he had died from a drug/alcohol overdose. 
In 1984 my best friend was a Vietnam veteran and former high school wrestler. I taught biology and coached wrestling at a small-town high school in Southwest Michigan; he was my volunteer assistant wrestling coach. Our families were a match, our wives were great friends, both of us with three sons along with the wrestling connection. He had been in so many fire fights he couldn’t guess how many North Vietnamese & Viet Cong guerrilla fighters he had killed. He had a favorite expression when someone suffered difficulty or bad luck: “Better him than me.” One night he woke up with chest pains and they took him to the emergency room. They ran tests and couldn’t find anything wrong so they released him and sent him home. My best friend Ray Friel didn’t wake up the next morning, dead at 39 from a massive heart attack. We were all crushed. Since then for the next 40 years I have never, ever spoken or mouthed his words, “Better him than me.” other than to tell the reason why. 
Twelve years later in ’96 we had moved away to Missouri, my kids were grown and moved on, a marriage had lost its way and died on the vine and I returned to Michigan to complete my teaching career and retire there. I had a best friend from twenty years before and our families had never lost that magic. He was a pharmacist, our wives were best friends and their two girls were surrogate sisters with my daughter. We considered ourselves “Outlaws” rather than In-laws: family by choice rather than by the ring. John Ridgley had been fighting a losing battle with colon cancer for a couple of years. I was barely settled into my new job teaching physical science (an overlapping introduction to both chemistry & physics). John was under hospice care at home when the nurse told them his time was near. My phone rang in the wee hours, I took a personal day but he passed just before I could get there. I kept busy clearing ice from the sidewalk and steps, moving things that needed to be moved as people arrived with food and condolences. I never went into his room. I didn’t need that for closure, didn’t want to remember him that way. 
John was fixed in the gap between youth and old age but there was a lot of career cut short and grandchildren he would never meet. That was nearly 30 years ago. My three best friends had been denied the privilege of old age. In those 30 years I have lived, literally, lived another lifetime, full of joys and disappointments, triumphs and failures. Still I do not take any of it for granted. All I am doing is taking comfort in the privilege that has been denied to so many. I have not only watched my grandchildren grow up but also played a small part in their stories. In my Dad’s later years he often remarked; “The worst part about long life is that you lose all of your friends.” and I am beginning to see that pattern unfold. I doubt anyone will ever hear me say, “Old age, it’s just a number.” I would rather be identified with; “Be all you can be.” and you do that from moment to moment, in the present. The past is carved in stone and the future is simply beyond our grasp. This moment is the only time you can do anything.” I think it common for people of all ages to fear the idea of mortality. How we deal with mortality is an altogether different issue, better left for another day. But yes! I am an old man, growing older by the day. If I live long enough and good health and benefits prevail I can leave this place someday the same way I got here, with someone feeding me and changing my diapers. 

HUNKERED DOWN

  I am hunkered down for the second night at a Super 8 motel in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Cold weather camping in my van is absolutely in my skillset but I’m taking the easy way out this time. I still hate the idea of throwing way-too-much money at a second rate motel chain just to sleep warm and dry in one of their 3rd rate rooms. If the price seems too good to be true then think again; there is nothing all that good about it. Either the staff are under paid malcontents or nothing in the room works like it should. Room number 125 is on the first floor which is good and it is safe, warm and dry. There is only one working electrical outlet in the room but they did find an extension cord I can plug into the bathroom outlet. Part of my travel kit is a portable power station that can power my CPAP machine for three nights before need a recharge. Actually, I would have been just as well served by carrying it in from the van. The truth is that I love being out here on the road regardless of where I sleep. I sleep in a zero degree rated sleeping bag regardless. In this case it’s on top of the undisturbed covers of the bed and to that extent I am in my own little niche. But enough about second rate motels. 
I spent the afternoon, evening and next morning in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Since the 1870’s he town’s mineral springs have attracted all kinds of travelers to the healing spring waters. Today it is an incredibly well preserved, charming tourist destination. Be advised, the town is carved into a mountain side and any place you want to check out is a challenging climb up a steep hill. Streets are narrow, no place to park except at meters or in small lots at $5 for 3 hours. Even at that I was taken aback with the crowded space and vertical challenge. The motel on Friday night was, where else, at the top of a steep hill. I want to come back in the summer and stay at one of the classic old hotels in the middle of town that have valet parking. All I need is a companion to be good company on an easy roadtrip. 
Saturday afternoon it wasn’t too long a drive, winding along ridge-tops and twisty, curvy ups and downs. When things leveled out we were on the boundary with Fayetteville. The University of Arkansas is there. I have friends who sent their kids to U of A. The school has a good academic rating and affordable fees; and they don’t charge out of state fees. 
My reason for overnighting here was to visit the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship here. The difference between a church and a fellowship is simply numbers and the ability to employ a full time minister. Still, this morning there must have been twenty members show up for the adult discussion group at 10:00 and sixty or more for the service. I was impressed with the group. University town, Unitarian church, I’m not surprised with the well read, highly educated nature of thee congregation. 
Walking in the door a lady saw me standing in the lobby and challenged me: “You are a visitor?” She welcomed me and we sat together, she and her husband, a retired law professor at U of A. He was 89 and she must have been about the same. The church has a tradition for Thanksgiving Sunday; everyone brings bread and the room is set with tables rather than rows of chairs. Then toward the end they call attention to how important grain and bread in particular has been for the human experience. They placed sliced bread and rolls in baskets on the tables along with shot glasses and pitchers of cider. Then we took several pieces of bread, added a dash of cream cheese or jelly and took communion in the name of all humankind. We talked across the table, communed with bread and cider and it was way-cool. 
They invited me to lunch with them at the Senior Center where they live and I took them up after all, it would have been rude to refuse under the circumstance and by then we had struck a common chord. Nancy and Mort had both been widowed, him twice and they had been together for nearly twenty years. Reflecting on the idea of getting out of town on the long holiday weekend, I should do this more often. 
I’ll be back on the road tomorrow, up I-49. It’s about 3 hours and that’s perfect. I just discovered last week that my car radio is set up for Sirius radio. I didn’t pay for a subscription but it’s there and it works. I wouldn’t be surprised if a former owner is still getting billed for the service. So I can drive and listen to blues or classic rock or easy listening or Top 40 anytime, just about anywhere. For now anyway, life is pretty good. 

MORE THAN JUST A NUMBER

  By definition a Hero is a person who is admired for their courage, their achievements or for other noble qualities. Noble qualities would be high moral principles and greatness of character. My list of heroes has been amended and updated as I have moved through the seasons of my life and by now it is top heavy with accomplished writers, scholars and scientists. When I need a shot of clear-eyed skepticism and unforgiving truth I turn to Samuel Clemens (1835 - 1910). His quotes range from moral benchmarks to keen observations on the human experience. He was unapologetic, a skeptic of the 1st Order and I thrive in his shadow. He is a hero by means of both his literary achievements and of noble character.
I keep discovering or rediscovering Mark Twain quotes that are both profound and empowering. Today I came across these two. The one on ‘Majority’ is not new to me, just put away where I could not find it. “Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.” I take that to mean, it may not require a change of position but he makes clear his suspicions about herd mentality. Certainly he would have us rethink where it is that we stand and how we got there. The glimpse of wisdom on aging is new to me. “Do not complain about growing old, it is a privilege denied to many.” 
George Burns is credited with; “Age, it’s just a number.” As I understand it, Burns didn’t actually say that but he got the credit. What he said was; “You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old”. Along the way someone took liberty with his insight and turned it into a clever punch-line. Burns made a distinction between inevitable physical decline and exercising a keen, informed presence at any age. I used to throw the (just a number) thing out in conversation but that was when I was a young 75. A decade later I concede that 85 is more than just a number, it’s a privilege that many have been denied. To deny that one’s sphere is shrinking may stroke a proud ego but it doesn’t hit the pause button. At 85 living in the moment is a sound investment. The axiom has never been more relevant: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” Today, in the moment, it’s the only day I will ever be able to my hands on. The "Present" requires gratitude and respect; I try to spend it on something noble, something that would please my mother.
Samuel Clemens is not alone at the top of my list. Carl Sagan and Sylvia Earle are right up there, champions of making science relevant to the layperson without dumbing it down. Helen Keller and Kurt Vonnegut reveal human nature with both its grand possibility and dark side as well. I lean on all of them when I feel the need.
Thanksgiving will be here in a few days. It is a time for both humility and gratitude. I have given up on the God that sanctions wars and racism and greedy bastards who abuse the planet, who take and put nothing back, profiting from human suffering. So my humble ’Thank-you’ will go out into the universe unaddressed. Before 1492 the true native tribes of North America believed, if you want to know what the creator expects of us then pay attention to how creation works. Take some, leave some, we’re all in this together. Thank you! Thank you for the plants and animals that replicate and regenerate their own kind so there is enough for us to eat and drink and sustain. If caution is the better part of valor (and I believe it is) then I would also think that humility is the better part of gratitude. “Mitakuye Oyasin, We are all related!”

TRACKING THE SUN'S ARC

  As a holiday gift to myself I write a Season’s Greeting, print it on appropriate stationery and send copies to my special people. Not that some people are special and others are not but certainly some are more special than others. When or where I read it I can’t say but reliable research indicates that we (humans) can maintain a limited number of personal relationships, about 100, give or take. It seems maintaining a personal relationship requires a time/energy investment and we can only spread ourselves so thin. My gift to me makes me take time to reflect on my more special people, even if it lasts only long enough to write a short remark, sign my name and stuff the envelope.
This is a good place to discriminate between my special people and others who share my place in time, who do meet the relationship requirement but don’t measure up otherwise. After all, not all relationships bear fruit. I have beaucoup special people and we don’t have to curry the other’s favor. Our backstory includes chapters and verse that circumvent the need for maintenance.
I’ve been working on my Season’s Greetings for 2024. The writing and printing are finished, all the envelopes are stamped and addressed. Later today I will begin the time consuming part, taking my time to remember what makes that person so special, then be thinking of them, make a comment and sign my name. That is the gift. In that moment I realize how wonderful this life has been and what a dreadful place this would have been if not for them and our special connection.
In the past 30 years especially, I have embraced the fall season with all of its holidays as my Holiday Season and I try in my own way to celebrate them all. For as long as humankind has been tracking the sun’s arc and the corresponding seasons, autumn has been a time of anticipation as well as a time of plenty. So they celebrated the bounty of summer and prepared for the long-dark-cold. Thanksgiving fills that breach now. Christians would have it be a religious observance but gratitude and dependance on natures whims don’t need a god to appreciate our place in the natural order. 
The oldest, longest observed holiday across human history is celebrated just a few weeks later. Winter Solstice might slip by unnoticed with all the hype on Christmas. The sun’s arc had been sinking lower in the south since early summer and the winter-cold was in close pursuit. Prehistoric cultures watched closely. The time of harvest plenty was long past and they needed evidence if not a harbinger of better things to come. When the sun’s arc stops sinking and begins to climb again it signals the return to longer, warmer days and shorter nights. It was a time to take courage and endure but better times were on the way. Solstice falls around December 20 or 21 since before we had a calendar. Its close proximity to Christmas is no coincidence. In the churches zeal to convert pagans they positioned the birth of Christ to coincide with Solstice. Reframing the holiday under false pretense to draw pagans into the church was devious but it worked. The biblical account had Jesus born when sheep were in the field, when Romans paId taxes in the cities of their birth. That would be in the spring. The Papacy knew that but was much more concerned with converting pagans than historical accuracy. I still celebrate Christmas but not the ‘Prince of peace’ story. I like the music, the tradition of exchanging gifts and in its own way the warm feelings that announce the onset of bitter cold. 
With my family scattered I will break bread with a few friends on Thanksgiving day but it’s a long, four day weekend and I am trying to hatch a plan for a roadtrip. My thinking now is to spend the Friday, Saturday & Sunday in NW Arkansas, exploring those tourist towns without the tourists. I’ll take my camera and see what unfolds. If that doesn’t pan out, I’m still thinking, still going over the maps. 

IN REAL TIME

I just finished watching a six part Netflix series that chronicled the life and times of Alexander The Great (356 BCE - 323 BCE). Long story-short; from the Greek kingdom of Macedonia Alexander was thrust into a precarious position. He could seize the throne and go far away to prove himself in battle or try to hold down the home front and be murdered like his father before him. Alex was already a fierce warrior at 20 years, lacking experience but not the insight and cunning that would prove his metal. Always outnumbered, he led his army against the Persians, conquering what is now Turkey, then Egypt where they made him a god and he built a city worthy of his name, Alexandrea, at the mouth of the Nile. The Persian King, Darius III thought him of little consequence until the upstart from Macedon sent the Persian armies in full retreat several times and was approaching Babylon. Darius then led his full army in person to regain his pride and reputation. Seriously, these were real people, not made up characters in a Tom Clancy novel.

If Alexander led an army of 60,000 then Darius had an army of 150,000. But Alex wanted to defeat Darius in battle to secure his own place in history. Always a step ahead of the Persians, Alexander was a natural tactician. He maneuvered the puzzle pieces, dictated the time and place of every battle and used every advantage to rout the Persians. Darius fled with a small contingent and was killed by his own generals for his cowardice. Alexander came through Babylon’s front gate and took over as the new king of Persia (Iraq). In the next few years he took his army as far east as India, laying waste to whoever didn’t surrender.

The thought that a such a young man could lead his army so far, live off the land for so long and prevail is hard to fathom. Ironically, Alexander The Great died mysteriously in Babylon at the age of 32. He had run out of places to conquer. His concerns about surviving in his homeland, Macedonia seem moot as he never returned. I cannot get my head around that time factor, so many fighters on the move, relentless, up close, swords and spears. It took half a year to reposition troops for the next battle.

In the 2nd Iraq war in 2003, it took about 12 hours for 45 stealth fighters and bombers stationed in Missouri to fly the 7,000 miles and render Saddam Hussein’s radar and control centers useless. Saddam Hussein had boasted waging the mother of all wars as Darrius had done sone 2300 years before, both on the same landscape. Coalition troops found Hussein hiding in a spider hole and his demise was as pitiful as Darrius’ had been so long ago.

        Everything happens faster now. It took Alexander a decade to change the world. Babylon was a great city in what is now central Iraq but all that is left there is desert and ruins and anthropologists, digging and sorting artifacts. But Alexandria is still a great city, his city, where the Nile River spills into the Mediterranean Sea. I have trouble trying to imagine what he was like in person. I doubt I would want him for a friend as he was certainly preoccupied with an army to lead or lands yet to conquer. In Egypt he was a god after all and I don’t really put much stock in gods. I doubt, after the first victories in that first year that he wanted for anything. I’m just an old survivor who doesn’t want for anything that I truly need and and I don’t know how to improve on that. I enjoy an electric toothbrush and toothpaste made special for sensitive teeth and I doubt Alexander ever ate a BLT. Still, I can have a BLT whenever I feel like it. I don’t need to be feared or lead an army. Alexander The Great lived out a great story but I wouldn’t want that for myself, just like I didn’t want to wage war in Baghdad against Saddam Hussein. Watching that stuff on Netflix or YouTube is both enlightening and interesting enough to satisfy my curiosity. Some things are better experienced vicariously but in real time, I would rather go fishing. 

BOOTS & A PITCHFORK

  Too old to be a preteen and not quite a full fledged teenager it was my job to clean out the stalls in the barn. I had rubber boots, a pitchfork, gloves and a wheelbarrow but sh*t is still sh*t and I couldn’t clean the barn without wading through it. Our milk cow grazed the pasture but took her grain at the feed box in her stall. Cows are Ruminants, cud chewing mammals with a four chambered stomach and it takes lots of grain & grass to meet their nutritional requirement. So they sh*t a lot, everywhere, all the time. My dad milked twice a day and both the milk bucket and his feet were in close proximity to fresh cow poop. In the barn it didn’t dry up as quickly as outside so my job was to minimize the sloppy, smelly stuff in the back half of the stall. We kept straw down so the manure would stay together on the pitchfork. It was a twice a week chore and it didn’t take long to perfect a technique that let cow crap stick to my boots and the tines of the pitchfork but not on me. I rolled the wheelbarrow load outside, spread cow sh*t around and if I got back to the house without any crap on me it was like dodging the bullet. 
The 2024 Presidential election has spent itself and the writing is on the wall. I am not particularly upset with the winner himself but I can’t say the same for his admirers. I understand why the 1% want to protect their investments and how evangelical Christians (Pentecostal) and other like minded believers have clung to a religion that has been transformed into a political action group. The rest of the MAGA crowd can be separated into several profiles but to some degree they all have personalities that gravitate to self obsessed, charismatic leaders and populist bigots. Both would have us believe their quest is to realize a righteous purpose but in the end it’s a power grab with no sense of conscience or consequence.  The whole MAGA empire reminds me of an old story when dairies sold milk directly to customers. The milkman with his dairy truck delivered door to door several times a week. A man’s wife was cheating on him with the milkman and everybody except the man knew it. When friends and neighbors tried to convince the cuckoled husband of his wife’s infidelity he went straight into denial saying “No, no, and anyway, I love all the free ice cream.” 
I’ve spoken here before to what I see as extreme conservatives who are wandering in search of something even more extreme. If you go to the urban dictionary the noun, “Trumpfuckery” is defined as; “Anything involving racist, misogynistic, hateful speech and actions masquerading as patriotism.” I think the expression is spot on, not to fault Trump. How he got to be what he is was not his decision, rather a complicated process of some bad DNA, inherited fortune, timing, predatory role models and opportunity to exploit others; how could he have turned out any other way? On the other hand it is disappointing that the majority of voting Americans are smitten with a self-righteous, self-obsessed, authoritarian and the path they would have us go.
Amazing the way these two stories resemble each other. We survived four years with a narcissist demagogue at the helm. Then a four year break and here we go again. I get the feeling as long as his cuckoled followers are feasting on the free ice cream I’ll have to keep my boots and pitchfork on standby. 

CHLE RELLENOS OR CARNITAS

I voted early last week, got there an hour before they opened and still stood in line for two and a half hours. When I finished the line was twice as long as when I began which meant lots of folks were looking at a four or five hour wait. Today I’m getting text messages every ten minutes to vote for someone or something but I am out of ammunition. I get one vote and it has been spent. 

I have the same dismal expectation as in 2020. At the time I didn’t see how the good guys could win but they did. My friend’s optimism proved more reliable than my skepticism. It’s hard to feel confident about anything in this climate but my coffee group is more optimistic and I take some hope in that. Changing the subject: I haven’t done anything in the wood shop for nearly a year. If discretion really is the better part of valor then maybe I’m better as well. As I accumulate more years I loose something in the process, like coordination, keen sight not to mention physical strength. I still have all of my fingers and thumbs and I really like them but all it would take to change hat would be a little slip or miscue. So I’m not making serious sawdust in my basement nowadays. But I belong to the Kansas City Woodworkers Guild and we have a a modern, professional wood shop that I can use nearly every day. It’s about a forty minute drive but I don’t have to sharpen or adjust any tools, just be safe, get some oversight if I need some expert assistance and clean up when I’m finished. I got motivated the other night when I couldn’t fall back asleep after a middle of the night wakeup; I want to get back into the sawdust game. 

Back before Covid I made a tabletop from Spalted Maple, 24”x52” and an inch and a half thick. But I never got around to making the frame and legs. After the pandemic subsided I acquired several awesome Cherry boards; 7’ long, 2 1/2” thick and 8” to 12” wide. After a long spell in the dark basement I now have plans for them. With just a hint of twist and warp, they will straighten out flat after just a few passes through the joiner and planer. I drove 40 minutes in the rain today, got some good help from the foreman for the day and did the blocking out on a set of four tapered legs for my table. From the radial arm saw to the ban saw to the joiner and finish on the planer; tomorrow or the day after I’ll go back and pick up where I left off, learning how to ‘Taper’ the legs. I understand the process but need to get the sequence and angles exactly as they should be. 

‘Frieze’ is the proper name for the skirt or apron that connects the legs and supports the table top. It will be more sawing with the same tools, just thinner boards. The trick is to connect them at all four corners and attach the legs so there is no wobble but I’ll get help on that. I haven’t felt this good about sawdust in a long time. If nothing else it keeps my mind from tanking over election crap. Tomorrow is election day, no more campaign rhetoric just Trump making noise, “They cheated” if he loses or “I can’t wait to punish my enemies.” if he wins. He actually believes his own fiction. I’ll leave the radio turned off and listen to music on my smart phone.  Making sawdust today was better than I expected. I knew I would come back around to it but the basement has become a dangerous place and the drive downtown is a (PITA). It’s like the more often you make a drive the it gets easier. Besides, the Guild moved from its old location to a better building with more/better parking which are nice but the kicker is; it is just a couple of blocks from the best Mexican restaurant in Kansas City. So if I go early and break for lunch it’s either Chile Rellenos or Carnitas.  

SELFRIGHTEOUS

  If traffic is light and I make all of the stoplights it takes about twenty minutes to get to my coffee group. That time of day I can usually listen to the local NPR station without suffering election rhetoric. This morning the announcer reported on a speech President Biden made yesterday in Arizona. Central to the speech was a profound apology, both personal and official as President for the longstanding shameful practice of removing Native American children from their homes and families to be forcibly assimilated into a white, christian culture. I know the story very well, children were punished harshly for speaking their native language or letting their hair grow long. In recent years that attempt at cultural genocide came full circle with the discovery of unrecorded, unmarked graves at nearly every government Indian school. What’s worse, the government continued to fund those self-righteous entrepreneurs with their gentler but none the less sanctified scheme of ethnic cleansing up into the 1960’s. 
On the radio it was noted that the timing was significant. Arizona is an important swing state with a high percentage of Native Americans. They figured significantly, supporting Biden in 2020. I would not find fault in that detail. If someone does the long overdo right thing with an alternative motive it is still the right thing. The reporter noted that the President’s message was enthusiastically received. I just hope their enthusiasm will be demonstrated at the ballot box again in two weeks. 
Recently in this blog I shared a new-to-me Mark Twain quote, his definition of ‘Conservatism’. It is both clever, timely and can be found in my last post. But that wasn’t his only observation on the subject. I did a little deeper search and found this: “The radical invents the views, but when he has worn them out, the Conservative adopts them.”  Twain’s humor and sarcasm are subtle here but I thrive on it. The word ‘View’ in this context means; ‘a subjective opinion’ and suggests a relatively limited or a narrow idea. I cannot speak for all Progressive thinkers but I gravitate to a bigger picture or ‘World View’, which my critics find disturbing but then they prefer issues that exist in a vacuum. World View refers to a framework of ideas and beliefs that describe and interpret the world’s social reality.
With the campaign winding down I’m glad it will be over soon. I am prepared for either alternative. It is my View the former President should have won in 2020 but he blundered with the Covid pandemic to become his own worst enemy. The Donald Trump story fell in my lap in the early 1990’s while I was on a field trip to Atlantic City, NJ, researching environmental issues and I ran across local articles concerning Trump’s misadventures. I continued digging in that fertile ground until his pattern of ruthless greed had been established. By then he had evolved into a self-obsessed, misogynist, racist business man whose every effort was single purposed on accumulating wealth and power.
When Donald T. became a full fledged narcissist is unclear but his father was a narcissist before him. You can’t have two narcissists under the same roof so Donald was sent off to military school. The over-riding moral truth in that relationship was that cheating is alright but getting caught is not, a distinction that has marked the rest of his life. By the 90’s his guru was Roy Cohn, a New York attorney who helped convict Julius & Ethyl Rosenberg of espionage in the 50’s and consulted for Senator Joseph McCarthy during the Communist witch hunt that soon collapsed under its own weight. Cohn & Trump were a perfect match. Cohn, the aging attorney was a Jewish, closet gay who could not come out and was pissed at the world. Trump was a hard-charging young blood who demonstrated the self obsessed self-worship that Cohn had never been able to harness. The bottom line was, still is; If you cheat enough you will get caught so beat the system at its own game. Hire and reward enough highly skilled, greedy, unscrupled lawyers who can win when they have the means. If not then tie case up with legal paperwork, appeals to postpone, file for continuation, change of venue or manipulate a miss trial. In the end the pursuant either runs out of time or money and drops charges. Cohn was the source of "Never admit anything, if you get caught in a lie, deny-deny-deny" As with legal manipulation, the lie becomes the story even when you know it's a lie. 
My View again: since I learned who he was and how he operated I cannot find a single initiative on his part that did not put his own selfish best interests above any other consideration. Being President did not change that. He is firmly convinced that whatever serves his ego is best for the nation. When his deals are associated with failure, contracts will have been framed in advance to shift responsibility for failure to subcontractors and middle men rather than draw costly penalties and tarnish The Trump name.  
MAGA has nothing to do with American Greatness. In all this time his personality and sense of purpose have not changed from the truculent teenager who was banned from the home to the ultra rich narcissist who is perched again, ready to become President. MAGA is all about what he wants for himself; power and money which are interchangeable. He needs political backing and an easily manipulated base. He can buy that or toss out crumbs to evangelical wannabes and malcontents who suck it up like swill. More than respect, he wants his enemies to fear him. 
I have little or no (Power=Money) and my little vote doesn't amount to p*ss in the wind. My dad was a union man who paid his bills and trusted my mother to maintain balance in our home. I cannot get my head around the idea that the more enemies you have that fear you then the more successful you are. This life has taught me that following the Golden Rule is preferred to destroying your enemies. I learned to fix as best I can whatever it is that I break and move on. What goes around has a way of coming back around and disenchanted malcontents shooting at me from rooftops is not my idea of good Karma. 
I normally don’t dump on politicians or others I disagree with. It doesn’t serve a purpose and I doubt seriously that I move the needle on anyone’s conscience. I don’t know what I’ll do if the old demagogue (look it up if you don’t know) if he wins. He has become even more pathetic than the bumbling old man he accused Joe Biden of being. He looses his way in the middle of speeches and the lies he tells are the same ones he told back in 2020. 
I am glad I don’t have to write this disclaimer again. It has no value other than it made me collect my thoughts and get them down in text. If I get accused of being a bleeding-heart Liberal then so be it. When I can no longer defend myself then this effort may shed some light on me and mine. I am not running for office but I approve of this. 

EASIER TO FOOL PEOPLE

  Mark Twain has been a hero of mine for a long time and for many reasons. His clear-eyed skepticism and mastery with language left a legacy that is as timely and relevant now as when he penned Huckleberry Finn. I dwell on his quotes as seriously as devout Christians do their favorite scriptures. He said, “Politicians are like diapers. They should be changed frequently and for the same reasons.” He also said, "Conservatism is the blind and fear-filled worship of dead radicals.”  With regard to religion he left no doubt; "I am quite sure now that in matters concerning religion, a man's reasoning powers are not above the monkey’s.” Today’s conspiracy and misinformation culture was foreseen by Twain when he observed: "It's easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled.” It has always been easy to point out flaws in human nature but all we see when looking at ourselves in a mirror is the lipstick on the pig. I tend to identify with others in Twain’s camp as he didn't exclude himself when it came to mocking human folly. 
After 40,000 years (a significant number if you know our backstory), the weight and measure of our checkered past can be as much an inditement as an accolade. Historically, small groups (hunter-gatherers) were egalitarian. They lived together peacefully (more or less) and sustained a stable culture for at least 30,000 years. Every person contributed to the greater good. Cooperation and resolution of conflicts were far more productive than competition and violence. The loss of a peer, even to an injury could threaten the clan’s survival. 
Civilization started evolving in many different places and at different times but experts agree it began with the Agricultural Revolution some 12,000 years ago and it was about 6,000 years later before they started building cities. I have a friend, a lady in her 70’s, educated, intelligent and very confident in her own opinions. At coffee maybe a year ago she was treating the words ‘culture’ and ‘civilization’ as synonyms, as if they were interchangeable. The two have commonalities but they are not synonymous. Gently, I tried to share that with her but she was upset to begin with and gave me a dose of ‘What-for’. But culture is about behavior and beliefs, how people interact and frame their expectations. Civilization requires infrastructure. A civilization requires large numbers of people living in densely populated areas (cities), it must be able to feed all of those people, it requires specialized division of labor (work) which in turn forms a class system hierarchy, it requires leaders, some form of government, religion, a means of self defense and/or waging war. There are other criteria but you get the drift. There can be many cultures present in one civilization but not vise versa. My friend reminded me of the expression: “I know what I know so don’t confuse me with facts.” So I moved to another table.
I am reminded at this point that we are all civilized and we all fit into a culture, even a subculture; not a choice. What goes unobserved is that Civilization (as we know it) is driven by large numbers of people and serves its own organizational and technological needs with little or no accommodation for individuals. Whoever prospers in that culture wants to maintain status quo. They may give lip service to social reform but not if it call for them to sacrifice anything they value. 
What would you call a well aged, almost but not quite humanist with an ever so thin shred of misanthrope, a recovering Christian with spiritual leanings toward nature based (pagan) traditions? That would be me. I am comfortable with that identity and I fit there in a relatively small niche. I know what I know and like to believe but sometimes I miss the mark. When I must deal with my own, erroneous conclusions I certainly hope someone gently helps me balance the equation. 
When I began this writing I thought it would be about culture and herd mentality. Herd animals benefit from safety in numbers. Predators may pick off individuals that wander but inside the herd is a pretty safe place to be. For people who herd together the risk is falling out of favor with peers if you step outside the rule. We are social animals, we need each other and in order to enjoy that ‘Herd’ security we can’t wander too far from the herd’s agenda. So if your subculture tends to be racist or ultra political, one side or the other there won’t be much tolerance for an individual who deviates from those prejudices. Social rejection is hard to bear and it’s easy to fall back on the herd mentality rather than be rejected or worse. Here and now in our greater herd, I fear the herd at large is smitten with Twain's, blind and fear-filled worship of dead radicals. 
It’s a delicate balance and often, more often than I like to admit; I surrender that independence for the sake of belonging to the herd, even if my herd is few and scattered. I’m sure Mark Twain would have something to say about people who take pride in their herd mentality. 

BAD DAY FISHING

  I had breakfast yesterday at the Sportsman’s Cafe  in Deer River, Minnesota. If you draw a line to the Northwest from Duluth, MN it’s about 90 miles on paved road. My son and I were headed home from a windy day on Sand Lake which is another 25 miles Northwest of Deer River, mostly paved. I will not find fault with anything as generations of fishermen before me have concluded, a bad day of fishing is better than the best day at work. The boat ran perfectly and we both got what we thought were hits but the line went slack and empty hooks were all we got back to the boat. Still, a good day on the water, good company and we slept sound. 
In Deer River our slow moving appetites woke up and required attention. The Sportsman’s was a plain storefront on the main street with blinds pulled against the sun and no clue to what we would find inside. Church parking lots were occupied so I would guess it was the Sunday morning breakfast crowd had left only two tables to choose from. There was a natural buzz but not too loud and several waitresses were scurrying to keep up. The menu listed the standard offerings but the prices were throwback to another decade, before Covid. We both ordered three-egg omelettes with American fries at under ten dollars and coffee was fifty cents. Not to labor the issue but my cup got topped off several times before I could empty it. It came as a pleasant surprise. Somebody somewhere has figured out how to stay in business, serve a better than average, full size meal, all you can drink coffee and a three dollar tip for under $15. I thought at the time; too bad they couldn’t get the fish to bite. 
Here it is Monday morning in St. Paul, my son was off to work while I slept in and I’m having to create my own itinerary for the day. I’ll stick around another day then go over into Wisconsin to see some longtime friends before I make the long-day drive back to Kansas City. I haven’t been fishing for so long I can’t remember when and I am thinking I should find a way to do that without needing a long drive time or a boat for myself. I don’t need to land a big fish or even fill a stringer with panfish. Catch & release sounds great and I can keep myself company. 

WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT

Memory can be like a leaky faucet. When you turn it off it may slow down to a trickle but it keeps on giving. In 1977 we lived in an old farmhouse with a step-down from the kitchen to what had been a closed in porch with a door in the floor that led to the basement. Some time later, someone extended the room with a dirt floor and a back door. I finished the room with a real floor all the way to the back wall, paneling, a dropped ceiling, lighting and a wood burning stove with a hearth. I got a good deal on carpet samples, sewed them together by hand and we had a family room. There was just enough space between the kitchen wall and the pull-up door for a wardrobe we used as an entertainment center. If someone needed to go down in the basement while watching TV everyone sitting on the floor had to get up and pull back the carpet so we could open the door in the floor. 

Our television set was made of red plastic, about the size of a small suitcase with a handle on top, a 17” screen with a black and white picture. There was no remote control, to turn it on and off you had to twist a dial. To change channels you had to twist a different dial. The kids could all sit together, legs crossed on the carpet a few feet back from the screen. Two favorite programs were animated time-travel spoofs, The Flintstones were a typical Stone Age family with primitive technology and modern behavior. The Jetsons were from the future with yet to be invented flying cars & robot housekeepers. It was great entertainment, a time when adults were as simple as the program their kids were watching. 

Forty-plus years later I find myself going to a coffee klatch with my niece. She is living in her camper in my back yard this summer to avoid the heat and hurricanes in south Florida where her furniture lives. She usually drives her two year-old Tesla and I ride along in the all electric smart car. The experience rivals astronauts checking with Mission Control, switching from mode to mode as they prepare for docking. Almost everything with the Tesla responds to voice command and almost-radar displays other vehicles coming or going and won’t let you get too close to any of them.

Coming home from coffee she asked if I wanted to do a demo ride in the new, self-driving model. So the guy at Tesla checks her out and she knew as much as he did. She drives up the street, pulls off in a shady spot, touches an icon on the big screen and tells the car we want to go to Trader Joe’s on Ward Parkway. She folded her arms and leaned back in the seat while the car pulls out into traffic. We held firm at the speed limit, centered up in the proper lane, changing lanes when necessary and braking hard when other drivers misbehaved. I was grinning like my kids used to but they are too old now to grin like that. We drove around south Kansas City for almost an hour. At Trader Joe’s negotiating traffic around rows of parked cars was like running with the bulls at Pamplona. Terry pointed the car at the space on thee control screen. It was easy, just point and hit the ‘Go’ button. When I got out I looked down at my feet and the only words that came to mind were; “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” 

O.M.G. I have seen it, done it in my lifetime. I have transitioned from Fred Flintstone’s Stone Age boulder-cars and pedal powered technology to George Jetson’s Artificial Intelligence and automated shuttles. I don’t think I have either the time or money to tap into the self-driving. Too much new stuff for me to assimilate and short of $$ for a retired biology teacher’s benefits. Having my own self-driving vehicle may be too much to hope for but you never know. I am still impressed with the superimposed lines on my car’s backup camera that guide me backward into spaces so I can pull straight ahead coming out. Talking to my car doesn’t do anything but I can unlock the doors and start the motor from inside the house. Wouldn’t it be great if I live long enough to have my own Tesla toothbrush that lets me sleep while it scrubs my teeth!

NEVER IN EXTREEMITY

  Recently my daughter in law sent me a poem, ‘Hope’ by John Roedel. We share stuff like that sometimes and she knows what I might like. I thought it like the Call part in a Call & Response from church tradition so I responded with Emily Dickinson’s poem, ’Hope’. Roedel characterized Hope as a treasured stone you carry in your pocket, just the feel between your fingers was uplifting. Then he turned it upside down, portrayed Hope as a river you can float in, it can carry you; a reassuring metaphor. In Roedel’s free verse he juggled with line length but otherwise it could have read like prose. 
Dickinson wrote with tight, measured phrasing that coupled like rhyme but not quite. I wrote recently about wordsmiths, writers who not only choose the perfect words but arrange them naturally as petals on the bloom. Emily Dickinson was maybe the ultimate wordsmith. Her poem ‘Hope Is A Thing With Feathers’ required only three verses, twelve short lines. Today, this little reflection opens with free verse and closes with Dickinson. 

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet never in extremity
It asked a crumb of me. 

FOLLOWING AN ASS

By definition, a Wordsmith is a skilled writer, an expert at crafting
language in creative ways that resonate with readers and listeners. I
have Wordsmith friends who have been a good influence but for me to 
think myself a crafter of language would be presumptuous. But with
the writing I can get inside my head and work ideas that are too many
and too big to organize and recall. Without the writing it’s like juggling. 
Back in the day I could keep three tennis balls in the air for a long 
time but never four. How does one recall the scope and sequence of
several thousand words just like they were issued? On the page I can
go back to edit, rephrase, even delete passages. The conscious mind
can master many tasks but not all at the same time. So I write, revise
and redo; and when nothing jumps out that needs a fix I can hang it
out to dry where new eyes can see for themselves. To be sure, 
nothing I write goes public on the 1st or 2nd draft.
In the army my Platoon Sergeant was a short, stocky man who
tried to make up for his short stature by crowding your personal space
and a booming, loud voice. Sergeant Crowe was no wordsmith as he
either botched or corrupted grammar as if it were the enemy and we
mocked him for it. One of his habitual language blunders was a
disclaimer concerning how little he cared about something. He would
boom, “I could care less!” But if he could care less then he must have cared at least a little bit. He should have said, “I could NOT have cared less.” He didn’t like being corrected and we were not going to take him there. But low ranking PFC’s, even me, the guy who barely passed high school English, we kicked him around in private like a tin can. His shortfall is still a reminder; pay attention to details and do your homework. It’s not that I don’t want to be corrected but there is a significant difference between making mistakes and serial stupidity; and I’ve been told, you cannot fix ‘Stupid’.
I check and double check words that could easily fall into misuse as a failsafe against ‘Stupid’. Creative license only goes so far and even then the intent should be obvious. Two words in that category are the verb ‘Perceive’ or the noun ‘Perception’, and another noun, ‘Insight’. The perceive-perception combo is about becoming aware or conscious of something. It is (what you think) about whatever it is. If we get the aroma of burgers & fries outside a McDonalds the mind processes the experience and either makes sense of it or begs the question. We decide (think about) whether the speaker is being truthful or selling a lie, a (perception). 
The other word, Insight is defined as the capacity to gain understanding, a deep understanding (emphasis on ‘Deep’). Now, we have to look at ‘capacity’ - the maximum about that can be accommodated; a full bucket has the same capacity as when it was empty. That deep meaning can be about anything you can perceive; a  person, idea or thing. But unlike a perception, it is not about what you think. Insight is about how you think. Not unlike baking bread, insight is partly the way flour, water and yeast interact at high temperature. The other part is how disciplined and persistent the baker is in the preparation and knowing when to take it out of the oven. 
To be insightful one must carefully, accurately observe and examine their perception (what they think) so that any conclusion is both reliable (consistently trustworthy) and credible (it truly is what we say it is). This pattern is also inherent in the discipline of Critical Thinking, the process of creating a bridge between being fundamentally uninformed to having full knowledge. But insight is sufficient to keep me occupied here. Think of perception as a library full of books and insight as the Dewey Decimal System, a library classification system which allows new books to be added to a library in their appropriate location based on subject. Once insight has been acquired there is no rule about what to do with it. Successful criminals and politicians have terrific insight or they could not bend and circumvent the rules like they do. 
Two other words that come to mind, often used erroneously are Presume and Assume. A presumption is an informed guess based on reasonable but insufficient evidence. Still, one need remember, a guess is still a guess, who knows? An assumption is a best guess based on little or no evidence at all; is the beggar on the street corner really destitute or maybe just lazy? There is a clever acronym for the word ‘assume’ that goes, “You & me following an ass.” 
It’s no secret, I write to understand as much as to be understood. That is what I’ve been about here, today. Most of it is little more than touching old bases but the digging puts distance between  ‘Insight’ and ‘Perception’. Being insightful requires a high level of integrity, something lacking in today’s polarized culture. How about ‘Integrity’, now there’s another potent word; it is ‘the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles that you refuse to change.’ I’ve dug in this hole about as deep as I care to go today. I may expand on that ‘Integrity’ thing after the November election. 

CLOAKED IN THE DUSTCLOUD

  One of the first things I did when I moved back to Michigan in 1996 was join a writers guild in Grand Rapids. That summer I attended their annual week-long workshop at Glen Lake. The 2nd night we had a potluck supper followed by an informal meeting with stories, Q & A’s, announcements, etc. Sitting in a big circle around the meeting room our leader for the evening explained our first activity: Introduce yourself with a short story about yourself that you think nobody knows. A lady sitting several spots to my left began and the rotation went away from me so I would be one of the last to speak. The stories were informative, funny, even profound and I was caught up in the camaraderie. Listening to the stories I forgot that my turn was coming up and was not prepared. Everybody focused on me and there was a long pause. I managed to say my name thinking something would inspire me but I drew a blank and another pause. When I opened my mouth this is what came out, “I am a Dirtboy from Missouri. I throw stones and sometimes I don’t play fair.” They liked it, some clapped hands, others hooted and we moved on to the next person. 
A bulletin board on the wall with workshop highlights and quotes was updated to include, “I’m a dirtboy from Missouri. . .”  I had branded myself with a new nickname. I keep in touch with writer-friends I made there and “Dirtboy” still pops up in conversation. Being a Dirtboy has little or nothing to do with where you come from. It is about the dirt itself, soil, dust, grit and I have an almost spiritual connection with Mother Earth. 
Pigpen is a character in the Charlie Brown comic strip who travels in his own personal dust cloud. Charles Schultz, the comic strip creator described him this way: He may travel in his own personal dust cloud, but Pigpen’s mind and conscience are clear. He’s confident in who he is and carries himself with dignity and respect. He treats others well and hopes they will do the same for him (they often do not, but he perseveres). Pigpen takes pride that he is cloaked in the ‘dust of countless ages.’  I don’t think I can improve on that; “cloaked in the dust of countless ages.” Any comparison with Pigpen that includes me, I take it as a compliment.
As for being from Missouri; what can I say? Your current zip code or the one before that doesn’t dictate your backstory but it is real and people want to know. It gives legs to the idea; the most important decision one ever makes is choosing their parents. If you were born into poverty in rural Mississippi you probably made a poor choice; shame on you. We don’t get to choose where or to whom we are born. Missouri was a slave state and still clings to its Southern, rural, conservative roots. I don’t want to be from Missouri if that rubs off. Missouri is sometimes described as a sea of Red with two Blue islands (St. Louis & K.C.). I keep to the Blue Island, refer to north Missouri as West-South Carolina and everything south of I-70 as New Mississippi. 
Moving away is just wishful thinking. I have a significant network of family and doctors here and too old to start over again. If being from one place or another is understood as where you feel most at ease I would be from Halifax, Nova Scotia. I spent a couple of summers there in 2001 & 2012. Good place, good people, good times, they keep their politics out of the gutter and their religion inside the church. I know a musician, song writer, we still keep in touch. After noting how crazy American politics are I asked her what it’s like sharing a border with us. Her reply was a gentle insult and she didn’t have to think about it. “Yeah, it’s like living next door to the Simpsons.” I bought her dinner and we joked about the bizarre neighbors next door. But for a guy who throws stones and sometimes doesn’t play fair, playing fair comes easier up there.

TO UNDERSTAND

  I like having heroes. But who you admire and respect, who you would want to emulate speaks as much of you as it does your hero. It’s not simple as squeezing peaches to find the perfect peach. I find myself coming back to the same question; what is it about this particular peach that keeps me coming back? Elie Wiesel was a writer, professor, political activist, Nobel laureate, and Holocaust survivor. A Romanian Jew, his mother and siblings were murdered by the Nazis and his father was worked to death in captivity at Auschwitz and Buchenwald death camps in World War 2. Elie Wiesel survived the holocaust but that’s not what makes him a hero. He is heroic for a life of reconciliation rather than hate. I’ve kept this Elie Wiesel quote on my refrigerator door for over 30 years. “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” We have that connection; I know exactly what he meant. The writing, organizing complex ideas, framing the language; it is the one venue where I can create a lasting image that exceeds my reach. 
Albert Bierstadt was a 19th century American artist who painted large (very large) highly detailed landscapes of the American west. When you stand close enough to appreciate the detail the canvas is too big to grasp the whole image and you find yourself moving left and right, looking up and down at small sections. Once satisfied you can back off and view the painting’s entirety but you cannot do both simultaneously. Still, at some point the viewer is able to appreciate individual brush strokes and texture variations from memory, just knowing they are there. That is when the whole painting becomes an experience. 
When a writer draws from his or her own experience and becomes the source, the work comes together much like a Bierstadt landscape with its multitude of brush strokes and textures. That process is what Elie Wiesel was trying to tell us with his, “I write to understand . . .”  quote. I went for the same idea with, “an image that exceeds my reach.” A fully formed idea that has a life of its own doesn’t need language. But if you want to share it exactly as intended, the only way I know is with word selection, phrasing, scope and sequence. I cannot do that with a single stroke. It requires lots of little strokes and rearranging before I own it, before I grasp the whole, like Bierstadt would do. 
From the beginning I was going to segue here, into the connection between two words; Perceptive and Insight but I think this little Elie Wiesel piece is steady enough to stand on its own legs. His perception and insight were remarkable. I have other heroes but he is the one who could have raged with hate and revenge but he didn’t. Exploring Perceptive & Insight can wait for another day.

DESTINY

  By definition, Destiny would be a specific, predetermined future outcome stemming from an inevitable course of events. It may be a popular, wannabe belief but when used in the context of human experience I have serious doubts. The problem I have with Destiny is the predestination part. After the fact, one’s Destiny is a given. That's how it happened and it is what it is. In the summer of 1953 an 18 year-old walked into Sun Recording Company on Union Street in Memphis, Tennessee. He paid $3.98 to cut a two sided demo to give his mother. The ‘A’ side was titled ‘My Happiness’. Three years later he walked onto the stage with a $50,000 contract to perform on The Ed Sullivan Show. He sang ‘You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hounddog.’ After the Ed Sullivan Show, Elvis’ destiny would be realized as the King of Rock’n Roll. But his destiny would continue to unfold for the next twenty one years. Every twist and turn in his life simply updated his destiny. Who could predict where it was going, how his career would play out. Who knew, 21 years after that first Ed Sullivan Show that the King of Rock’n Roll would die of a drug overdose, alone, sitting on the toilet, in the basement at Graceland? Great or small, famous or not, your destiny is about the present and the path you followed to become the person you turned out to be. As you age day to day, year to year, your destiny keeps measuring your life from just a step behind you. 
My destiny has been that of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, curious little boy transformed over time and experience into a retired old educator, still curious but the hair is thin and the blue eyes are camouflaged under bushy eyebrows. If you plot my destiny with predetermined, future outcomes, it simply does not compute. 
People continue to misuse the word and that’s alright. People have always been vulnerable to making up fiction to explain what it is they don’t understand. Curiosity is contagious, it always has been but our paleolithic ancestors lacked the experience and knowledge to solve for the unknown. After 20,000 years we are still hooked on myth and conspiracy theory. Our brain-mind hasn’t changed in structure and function in all that time but we connect the dots so much better now. But there are still throw-backs who swear by the unbelievable rather than do the math. The fact that we don’t understand everything may be inconvenient but it doesn’t require us to fabricate fiction just to satisfy the appetite. 
In 1985 Back To The Future, a cinematic trilogy foreshadowed what might happen with time travel if the Space Time Continuum were to be disrupted. Going back in time gives one the advantage of knowing what the future holds. Christopher Lloyd (Doc Brown) and Michael J. Fox (Marty McFly) fell into that trap and it took three episodes to restore space & time to their original backstory. In the end, Jennifer, Marty McFly’s girls friend was disturbed over an alternative reality from a different but parallel future. Since they were able to go back in time as well, they were able to restore the Space Time Continuum back to its original condition. If you didn’t see the movie then this may be too complicated to explain in this space. Doc Brown reassured Jennifer that her dreadful memories from the distorted future had been erased. “Whatever you do with your life from here on is yours to choose.”  that her future had not been written yet. I have watched the BTTF trilogy too many times to count. I especially like the way Destiny is weighed and measured. If you want to think destiny is out there in the future Doc Brown nailed it down; maybe it is but it has not been predetermined. Where it takes you is up to you and I would add, random chance is a wild card in the mix. I was destined to be here, now, just as I am, by the chain of events that got me here; destiny. There is a little expression I use; don’t know where it hatched but I’ve made it my own. It qualifies both the wiggle-room we get to choose for ourselves and the way we are driven like leaves in the wind. I say, “Sometimes you live life and sometimes life lives you.”

DON'T WORRY

  I get two or three hundred words into an idea before I remember something that needs my attention. When I come back to read what I wrote earlier it reads like something only an old man with nothing to do but throw words at the page would do. This is my 3rd or 4th attempt here, hoping for some inspiration before I remember something else that needs attention. In my last blog post I took the former President to task for simply being a terminal narcissist masquerading as a conservative politician. I don’t need to do that over and over. Get it right the first time and move on but sometimes it won’t leave me be.
There is usually something on YouTube that either informs or entertains but with presidential politics in high gear most of the menu offerings are ridiculous. I do actually try to avoid partisan hype. Still, YouTube has algorithms that tabulate and analyze which film clips you speed by and which ones you slow down for as you scroll along. I speed past Trump photos but I do slowdown just a little for Jon Stewart and Pete Buttigieg so that they know my preferences without me watching anything. I don’t need an insulting photo of DT or some MAGA dunce to get me upset. Getting upset wasn’t on my to-do list but I think it appropriate that his initials DT are synonymous with (Delirious Tremors) “symptoms of anxiety, panic attacks and paranoia.”  While I’m at it, I do like the alternative, a no brainer: a woman of color with real credentials, legitimate backstory and quality of character. 
I killed my facebook account years ago but revived it under another name; have 9 friends. I never post anything just follow those friends. Today one of them posted a quote by somebody I never heard of but it said; worry is the interest you pay on something that hasn’t and may never happen. Bobby McFerrin wrote & sang his song in 1988 - Don’t Worry, Be Happy. I am inclined to believe that people do not (Do Not) make history after all. I think it works the other way; History makes the person. Bonnie Raitt and Linda Ronstadt sang a duet back when they were young - Love Is Blind & It Cannot Find Me. Sort of the same idea; you can chase fame and fortune but if it doesn’t find you it’s just a long walk. So every time I start fretting on what else can go wrong I remind myself; don’t worry, be happy. I have good reason to be happy. Even if we get a leader that is both pathetic and unfit I couldn’t have changed history. I’m just on a long walk and it’s not all bad. I am reminded that change is the nature of nature and if you cannot adapt then you are like the egg that was dreaming about hatching into a chick but woke up in an omelette.