Maudie Grown

Maudie grew up. She was expected to find a nice young man that her father could approve, start a family, make her parents proud. Her sisters did. Maudie did not. She should have been destined to marry a man with an assured future, possibly already settled and moneyed. Certainly a carpenter born in Illinois and barely making enough to get by, was not the intended. She was marrying beneath her station, and while most of the family stuck by her, Father, aunts, uncles, did not. I imagine stormy scenes, harsh words, perhaps even ultimatums. Civil War sympathies still drew hard lines between people and might have increased the problem. But Maude never told me of any of that. Her stubborn choice and its consequences were only obliquely referred to, mostly gleaned from what was not said. Simply wanting out of that house, and from under that thumb, probably set her determination.

She and Dave, her chosen husband, must have stuck it out for years. And those years would have been hard to bear. Her sisters never deserted her. And I think she never regretted the choice.

There were four living boys born to the new family, scattered over the years, not one after another. I doubt the carpenter---he was good, I’ve seen his work---was able to open his own shop. To get work, he must have been away from home a lot of the time. Later years would suggest he perhaps grew up on a farm. At some point, I was told of the older males of his family leaving their plantation to join the battles---and never returning. Maybe he supplemented his income with farm work, at times. Maude raised her boys, and lost at least two other children. That was not uncommon at the time---stillborn, dying soon after birth, diseases in infancy.

During that time, the land rush and bidding in Oklahoma must have caught their attention, and then their imagination. While the two youngest boys were very small, David and Maude packed what they could into a covered wagon and set out to change their fortunes.

Bye

I am leaving today for the moon.
This old world’s become crazed as a loon.
I’m locking my door.
Won’t be back no more.
And I hope you’ll be joining me soon.

Is There A DoctorDog In The House?

Could you please recommend a good canine psychologist? I can’t believe a psychologist for canines would be of much use. How could you relate to a psychologist who has no understanding of your sense of hearing, for instance, or your sense of smell? Would they really do you much good if they had a degree from the University of Mars? No. What I need is a canine psychologist. Poor Declan Dog is going through a very hard time, and I think he needs to talk to someone who understands.

In Washington State, in Spokane, earthquakes are practically unheard of---at least that held true for decades. Then this millenium arrived, and so did earthquakes. Declan Dog hails from that area. His exact hometown is not a subject he likes anyone to know. As a youngster he got himself lost, and subsequently adopted. His familial descent was such that he instinctively knew how to point at prey, not to eat the prey, and to stand fast and not flinch at loud reports. Even the 4th of July gave him no problems. Thunder and lightning were interesting displays. And then, about a year into his adoptive life, the earthquakes shook his world. They were shallow quakes, short, but beginning with a loud booming. Follow that with the ground beneath your four feet dropping abruptly, and just as quickly slamming back into your paws……well if you were a dog you would find that a mite unnerving. Even with two legs and human genes, it robs you of your secure assumptions.

Since that traumatic time, he has detested thunder. It sends him quivering into the shower stall, or under the desk chair. He fits very poorly under the chair. All he can manage is hiding his eyes like a girly horror-movie watcher, peeping between her fingers. And for a fetch-it dog he has always been unusually averse to water, so if he hides in the shower, you can imagine how unbalanced he becomes. The results are pitiful, robbing him of his proper sleep, and even costing him his scarf-it-down-fast nature. Meals, sleep, petting, trips to the nearest tree---all of it ceases until the storm is not only gone, but gone by tens of miles. He alerts to one passing in the next county, and trembles at ones afflicting only neighboring communities.

And for the last week we have suffered (his take on the events) storm after storm. One was so severe that it fit the category of explosions clearing rock from a canyon, better than a summer storm cracking above. And he, Declan Dog, has had just about all his nerves will take. There were no storms today, though he lost a lot of sleep last night. However, he was reluctant to take up his usual post, overseeing the neighborhood activities; nor did he care to play ball, keep-away, or destroy-the-rawhide-bone. He has been lethargic and withdrawn, continuously, nervously, scanning the invisible horizon from inside these four walls

So I beg you, if your dog has a petdegree---I’d prefer a PhD in canine psychological therapy---please get in contact with me. His state is bordering on clinical depression and anxiety attacks. I’d hate to see a good dog go bad.

Young Maudie

Maudie was born toward the end of the century before the last century, in the 1880s. She never spoke of her earliest childhood. There was a large, extended family, scattered in several states. She had sisters, older I’d guess, maybe one younger than she, possibly even a brother who must have died young. Her father was a strict, “bible-thumping, hell-and-brimstone” patriarch. A preacher? Maybe. Certainly devout enough to have been one. And Maudie’s religious upbringing centered around some rigorously applied doctrine. Her references made it sound Pentecostal, evangelical, fundamentalist---perhaps all of them rolled into one.

She lived church, hymns, strict rules and--per her times--an ironclad sense of what young ladies must be. Her household was not a poor one. Maybe not rich, as we would recognize it now, but well off, wanting for little—except the freedom to be individuals. Maudie took from this, into her future identity, an aversion to church-going, but not to believing. She also kept a habit of singing hymns to pass the hours of work. No radio then, no television or iPods. The day was filled with parlor visits, needlework, baking the daily bread, scrubbing the floors--literally by hand--and rubbing them to a shine with blocks of paraffin, and coal oil.

Education was perfunctory. I can recall her laboriously “doing her sums” as she maintained her household budget, in the days I knew her. She could do math, but struggled with it—calculators were not even a dream then. And she learned how to read, but read with the same extreme effort as she did sums. She informed me several times that reading was pretty easy for her. If she came to a word she didn’t know, she “called it grindstone” and went on reading. The rest of the text usually defined the unknown word. If she’d learned a “copperplate” cursive, she’d long lost it to arthritis.

But miserably as she recalled the parents (really parent, I never heard much about her mother) she loved her siblings dearly. They still lived in Missouri, I think, and corresponded by letter, regularly. Her face would light, a time would be set aside for the event, and their letters would be read over and over at the kitchen table.

I know she enjoyed light, happy times, even though the family was strict. She told me snippets of her visit to the World’s Fair, in St. Louis--the largest ever held. It was in 1904 and boasted the likes of John Phillip Sousa, Thomas Edison, and Scott Joplin as attendees. She had a couple of mementos purchased there, that had pride-of-place in her dining room décor. She owned some pieces of furniture, given by family as wedding gifts, and as heirlooms, that were extremely good pieces, expensively made, lovingly cared for. She had been raised repressively, genteelly, righteously. And when she grew up, met a man to love, and married---she became the daughter we’d rather not speak of. That new era is for next time. .

I'm Back

It’s been a long time, but I can assure you it’s been wisely spent. I was on vacation. Well, sort of. I heard someone was trying to track me down, and a vacation became a very good idea. I’m not sure who it was, but I can guess. Won’t tell you where I’ve been, I might need to head there again. I looked into something for Dusty while I was disappearing, but that’s his business. You don’t get to hear about it either.

And I checked into something I heard, something pretty disturbing. There are some creeps out there working very behind-the-scene. At least the rumors lead one to believe that. That’s the problem: Ever try to find where a rumor starts, what part of it is true? Not easy. They spiral, lead back on themselves---you can end up where you began and no wiser. But I think I found a thread to follow. Can’t say I got somewhere exactly, but I think I might get there. There are friends of mine who love doing this sort of thing. I understand what they do about as much as I understand gene-mapping, but they are very good at whatever it is. I gave them all I was able to establish, and now we wait for the eccentric geniuses to get back from their playground.

Maybe you can help me flesh out the real story. Have you heard there is someone---should have showed up on some of the boards by now---trying to sabotage the Internet? I can’t imagine how that could be done, but the rumors I followed are coming from quite convincing locations. I'm almost sure it’s really being tried, and I have an idea the trail is heating up for figuring out whom to watch. The "how" is a thing I probably couldn’t wrap my mind around anyway, but my friends got very excited at what facts and suppositions I presented to them--and started arguing in a language that left me feeling like furniture.

Well, don’t want to give the Dragon any aid, so I’d better fade out of here. Let me know if you have anything to add to this enigma.

For Whom The Bells Toll Today

At ten o'clock, today, when the bells call for your attention, remember another anniversary---actually two, one of them based on a third, earlier one. Tragic anniversaries, brought to mind by the Virginia Tech Massacre that is the immediate reason for the bells.

On April 19, in 1995, was the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. It's was thought to be timed and inspired by the Waco conflagration, exactly two years before. Those terrorists, three of them if all the conspiracy theories are ignored, lived to regret (or not) the murders they claimed credit for, and to be tried. One, Timothy McVeigh, was executed in 2001. Another is in prison in Florence, CO---the maximum security prison there---and will be for a while. Terry Nichols was sentenced to something like 162 lifetimes, without parole. The third conspirator could be across the street from you. Michael Fortier was released to the Witness Protection Program last year, having testified against the other two and served time in prison.

There is a memorial in Oklahoma City, at the original site, appropriately featuring empty chairs, one for each victim---the smaller chairs signifying children's' deaths.

The second anniversary we don't want to remember, April 20, 1999, was the Columbine High School Massacre, near Denver, which seems to have featured in the most recent atrocity. That was carried out by two of its students, again ignoring the conspiracy theory conclusions. They, like Virginia's murderer, killed themselves. But they spent hours roaming the campus enjoying their rampage, according to accounts, before ending it with suicide. They wandered at will, inside and outside the building, using bombs and guns to spread their terror, leaving a trail of dead and injured. It is now in third place on the infamy scale, with the Virginia Tech murders taking First.

They are connected by dates---by their perpetrators twisted plans. And they are connected by some evil twist of mind, that sees such heinous acts as a justified response to anger.

Genius

Just got reminded that yesterday was the anniversary of the loss of a man I admire very much. He was smart---and wise. He saw guidance in the way things are, but challenged the fire-and-brimstone version of God. He started out militant, but became a pacifist when life showed him an error. He saw learning as a thing that should never end, but railed against formal education and the damage it could do.

Albert Einstein died 52 years ago, and yet he seems to be everywhere, still. In case you've lived in a cave--he was a theoretical physicist and mathematician, who received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1921. TIME Magazine named him Person of the Century in 1999 The Internet can provide you a wealth of information on him, if you're interested.

I'm certainly no mathematician, nor is physics my long suit. But a person able to think through things in new ways--genius. He saw patterns, and made deductions that others missed. Nothing was in its finished state until it could be explained simply. He saw the attempt to do the same things over and over, and expect new results, as the very definition of insanity. (Which means most of today's world is insane. No news there.)

"The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination." Quantum Physics is the newest direction, and one he soured on in later years. But, still having his impact, he remains an icon for today; and quantum theory may yet prove imaginative enough for him to bless it.

Maudie

A very long time ago, a very old woman told me her story. She didn't start at the beginning and tell it through to the end, like reading a book. If you took that book, ripped all of the pages loose, clipped two or three together here and there, cut some in half----then played 52-card-pickup with a couple of hundred pages and fragments, gathered them all in a box, and began to read them out in the disorder you'd made....that was how this story came down to me. I didn't know her for long. But I valued her very much. In the spirit of honoring her, I think I need to tell her story. A lot of the details are lost to my memory. Others I never knew. But she'll forgive me I think for filling the gaps with my imagination. She always liked my imagination.

As I said, she was very old when I knew her. She'd had a hard life, lived through some history you learned in school. She'd seen many changes, adapted to a world unimaginable in her childhood. She was a strong old lady, tough in mind and in body. She'd worked hard for most of the life I hadn't witnessed, and she wasn't inclined to slacken much when inevitable infirmity began to battle with her expectations of herself. Her name was Maude, a white-haired, arthritic, neighborhood caretaker. If someone had a loss, an illness, a shocking reversal of their lives, count on seeing her at the door with something to soothe. Besides her compassionate presence, and willingness to pitch in and keep the household running, she most likely had a food item or a balm to offer. Her major contribution to my life was the healing, comforting massages that held debilitating pain at bay. As her twisted fingers worked, she sang old, old songs, or she told me of her life.

I'll be starting her story at the beginning, as I know it, not telling it as she did. Those scattered pages and fragments trickled into my knowledge from up and down the time line, and through a haze of fever and delirium. But I'll try to do justice to Maude over the next few weeks. Please come back and meet a truly wonderful lady.

Finish Line

By now, since it’s the day you have to turn in the tax info, you are in deep, over your head, with files all around you, trying to get done and mail the blasted thing before midnight. Or, you are sitting there smugly, thinking of all the slackers struggling away while you relax with your feet up, conscience clear. If you are neither of these, you are hoping to catch that plane to the Cayman Islands before someone catches you. I suppose there’s a fourth possibility: You could be frying fish in a pan atop the woodstove, in a cabin hidden in southern, or northern, woods.

If it’s one of the latter two, I’ll understand if you have no comments to share on tax time. But, any of these possibilities still leaves you able to read this post--the internet is great, isn't it? If you are still working, condolences. If you are done with the race, congratulations. Either way, you don’t want a long treatise to slog through, so I’ll just say, IT’S OVER FOR A YEAR, and let myself out.

Oh, you smug ones, receiving a return? Keep in mind it was your money from the git-go. This savings account earned you how much interest?

Happy Deadline Extension Day

And so far, that's all that made the news. The instructions released by this state for completing and filing give two different dates. Today and tomorrow are both listed as the deadline, in separate sections. I couldn't put up with being as ignorant as a government instruction release, so I went looking for consistency on my own.

Did you know that this is D.C. Compensated Emancipation Day? Do you have any more idea than I did of what that could possibly mean? Did it puzzle you that Monday seems to be a Federal Holiday you'd never heard of? Or are you so caught up in the yearly struggle that you just said, "Whatever gave me an extra day, I am grateful for."

The link below will explain this far better than I can. Check it out. And wonder, along with me, why it took so long to be recognized or, maybe, why it is finally being recognized.

And Wikipedia says that the "they" in charge of these things, made out forms, released them, and then discovered they were facing two, consecutive holidays, messing with the usual April 15th deadline. Of course, none of this made the news. Public Service announcements are only for important things.

http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/featured_documents/dc_emancipation_act/

Danish For Me

I just read something very interesting. I think it shows promise, and I will be looking for like-minded individuals to help me with the start-up on it.

The article was about how Europe is facing the coming crisis/windfall (depending on how you are situated as you observe) of overage people looking for somewhere to live and be cared for, and not go broke. Governments are already broke just looking at the problem, ours included. As usual, in space, in health, in almost any category you’d care to open, the government is less than desirable as a solution---at least until they are willing to adjust to the fact that something innovative must be considered, and that it must apply to people with little to spend---and that they don’t get to rake off a percentage for themselves. The private sector holds the only hope of dealing with a huge problem.

This item I read skimmed the solutions by country. As you can imagine: Varied decisions, all needing to be contemplated, debugged, and adapted to suit the particular environment. However, the one credited to Denmark intrigued me most. What better solution for the generation that gave us flower children and communes and co-ops, than to band together in some tract of housing, or apartment buildings, and set up an interdependent community of oldsters---contracting health care and assistance as a group purchase---living as separately as would be desired, but sharing a food preparation/dining area, as well as whatever recreational items would fit the budget. Sort of--Summer Camp for Seniors. Monitoring each other, arranging for needs when the weaker succumbed, providing a shield against the isolationism of elderly shut-ins, it would also remove the opportunity that care-agencies cannot resist---to take over lives and dictate conditions.

Naturally, it’s much too sensible to work, much too practical to put into practice, and there are probably at least a dozen federal and local laws against it. Don’t want to make this easy, do we? But think about it, Talk about it with others who are looking at possibilities for themselves or family. And let’s get it moving--if it shows promise of working--before everyone who might arrange and design it is too far gone in Alzheimer’s to be able to help.

Friggatriskaidekaphobia

Oh, this is just too much. I can feel my nerves shattering as I attempt to type. Friday the Thirteenth, a major snowstorm going on. Can't run, when I can't even get out of my driveway. What’s next? A black cat sitting on a ladder outside my house? Probably be a black cat with white stripes on his back. All this following right on the heels of that old joker that hacked a post on my doorstep---whom I have yet to get an ID on….. Think the blog owner might be playing games with me?

If he shows up--the owner, not the joker--starts asking questions? I’m the guy from Italy and you think I have ties to the mob. No wait, I’m that guy that wants to go into space. Lots of money and power----and leaving!

Well, that last is true anyway--and crossing my fingers the owner is scared too, too scared to even remember he set this page up. See you here on a more auspicious day......... I hope.

Whatcha Gonna Do?

Just musing today. Either pull up a cup of coffee and join me, or go do something important---with my blessings.

It's tax time, kiddies. Everyone has successfully filed by now, of course. I'm sure you're all much too smart to get caught rushing around at the last minute. Ordinarily, while never enjoying the process, I don't give much thought to taxes. It's one of those things---the first one usually---in that list of inevitables. It's a given. All through history, tribute is a given. If no one's figured out how to successfully, safely, evade it yet---why bother trying. And then of course, well trained as I am, I see it as a duty to a country that's sheltered me for a lifetime. (That "sheltered" part might merit a further look, down the line, however.)

This year, I find myself questioning it. The hungry have to be fed, my future must be planned for, and I like going to parks, and vicariously, into space. But lately, it seems what I want doesn't count for much. I don't think "the majority wants" is having any noticeable impact. If PC means the majority must feel guilty for not yielding to the minority---if our president, our congress, the whole pecking order down to the mayors, can go right on doing what they want, in direct opposition to the clamor for something other, then I'm afraid we're losing ground here. Back a ways, there was a big foofarah---ending in a big war---about taxation without representation. Stirring up hornets' nests is never a thing to do without lengthy reflection. But hang it all, I'm getting stung sitting here!

If you come here looking for answers, you'll leave here unsatisfied. But you can take a question with you: We are this country. We are its voice. If shouting into the wind isn't working, what are we going to do about it?

Alright! Just what the heck is going on here?! Who wrote this thing?

I am the one stealing this blog space! I will be the one to write whatever goes out here. Are we very clear on that?!

The only reason I am publishing this piece of piracy is to get an ID on the joker who shoved this thing out here in my face. It was just crouching here, waiting for my arrival this morning---and I want to know if anyone knows how I can get hold of this creep and tear his fingers off his thieving hands….
----------------------------------------------------

Had to really have a talking-to with this young friend o’mine today. Told him right to his face, I did. Said, now I know you got this powerful thing you do, been controlling things like thunder and lightning ever since you was just a mite. But I’m tellin' you, like that there Eagles song says, these things you’re doin’ are gonna hurt you!

You just got to accept that things like storms are gonna keep on keepin’ on. You just can’t do nothing ‘bout that. All you do is, you get yourself all in a state, ever time they come ‘round. You get yourself a drenalin headache, gearin’ up to handle 'em. Then you make all them muscles in your body tight and hurtin’, tying ‘em into knots and bunches, ready for that fight-or-flight thing that gettin’ all upset starts.

If you don’t quit this nonsense and just let what will be, be, you’re gonna kill yourself one a these days. You just ain’t responsible for the weather. Not your province. Won’t help none if you get yourself sick tryin’ to do the impossible. You been havin’ an influence, but you don’t get nowhere in the end. We still have them storms. Everything goes right on , usual-like, only difference you make is to make you sick as a dog. Wise up, boy! Quit messin’ with that stuff and just let it go. Whatever someone told you as a kid, you can’t be playin’ around with stuff and not suffer the consequences.

I heard there’s some wise man once said nothin’s ever gonna be created or destroyed---it just changes to something else. You need to take that to heart. You just been takin’ that stuff and makin’ it your problem, ‘stead a gettin' rid of it. Come on boy, we all want to see you feelin’ good again. Let it go.

I told him, yessir. Sure hope it done some good.

Suspicious Groove

Dusty isn’t here. I’ll fill him in whenever he shows up. But I just knew you were as curious as I have been to find out about that fellow that, as Dusty put it, walks a groove into our small town.

You do remember the one I mean? Every day he makes this short trip past my house, toward the only store in town. But when he comes back---surprise! No purchases dangle in a plastic shopping bag. I have watched this happen for years. We exchange greetings, and that’s the extent of his interest in me. But I? I have been getting “curiouser and curiouser” as the months roll by. I, at last report, had followed him, lost him after the store, and rediscovered him---or rather he suddenly appeared before me while I was busy looking innocent---coming back to the sidewalk from behind a defunct warehouse. Leaving me none the wiser. The whole tailing episode only added to the mystery….

Until now! I am pleased to report I have solved it. Once again I applied my considerable spying talents, aided by my trusty canine cover. When said target ducked out of sight around the back corner of the empty building, I bravely followed, allowing my dog to pull me along as if it were his decision to check out the scents of the surrounding weeds. (I only had to yank at his leash twice to keep him headed in my chosen direction.) As we, innocence our shield, strolled past the opposite corner of the back wall, there crouched our target---downing a large can of beer.

Startled---no acting there, I didn’t expect to walk right up on him---I gestured to Declan Dog and lied that I thought we were alone. The gent smiled, gestured with his beer, and explained that his wife wouldn’t allow him to drink, so he was using the advantage of his daily heart-health walk to satisfy his daily desire. I knew it! I said he was visiting the liquor store portion of the tiny establishment. I feel so Holmes-ish.

Yes, I noticed the mystery's solution hardly seems worth the energy devoted to it. You don't have to belittle my efforts, though. And Declan doesn't feel used in the least. Any excuse for a walk is a good one in his estimation.

The biggest surprise is that Manny---we introduced ourselves after a mere four years of casual contact---was so willing to talk, and not in the least put-out at our intrusion. He never even rose from sitting on his heels until the beer was properly consumed, and properly trashed in a can apparently left there for his convenience. It would appear the only one he is hiding from is his wife.

More of my dark and dangerous exploits will appear in a future issue. Never fear.

To Life -- Long and Full

He looked around the dark room he’d been unceremoniously dumped in just minutes ago. Now what? Where was he this time? Only shapes stood out, dark against the lesser darkness. There was a familiar odor to the place, though. Somewhere, back in the past---the memory tried to connect to a picture. No, not quite. Just a familiarity that felt comforting.

The last place, the high-ceilinged room at the base of a huge flight of stairs---that place that was now, too, only a memory---had not been a bad place to be. At least there’d been people, children--he really loved to be around children. He’d been shoved against one wall where he’d offered his meager comfort to hundreds of people over the last years---maybe thousands. The constant daily turmoil and noise in the free clinic had made him feel useful again, brought him out of his near-sleep, in the home he’d claimed before that hall-way.

That older home had been safe; he’d been cared for. But it had been lonely and musty. An old lady had chosen him from a storefront where he’d sat for months. She’d cleaned him up and polished him lovingly, and then she’d pretty much just walked by him from that time on. His usual position, come to think of it, had been alone, near a door, seldom seeing anything but people and things passing by. He’d been used for years, before the free clinic, as merely a place to drop a purse or a package, or remove boots in the winter. A string of entrance ways filed through his memories…leading him back through the years.

Wait! Now the smell of this new place brought forth the memory from long, long ago. The memory grew, from an isolated shot of a room smelling of freshly turned wood, strong scents riding over that---chemical odors of the sticky stuff that had just been applied to him. His birth place! It came rushing back. It must have been over a century ago. He recalled a man who hummed and whistled, who stood back occasionally, hands on hips, to admire each new creation sitting around his shop. He remembered the thrill of feeling new and smoothly made. He was proud of his carved arms and back rail. A pew, that was what the man called him---a church pew. Right, he’d nearly forgotten his name.

And appropriately, he’d gone from the shop, with many others like him---mostly larger than he, he remembered---straight to a building that seemed enormous to him then. A church on a street in some city whose name he’d now forgotten. He was set right up front, under a pretty, colored window. There’d been long spells of no people around; and then there would be days breaking those lonely ones. Days when people were lined up on all the other church pews, and he too got his visitors---though not as many as the pews nearer the back of the room.

How could he have let that memory slip into obscurity? Oh, now the reason came back to him…. That great memory, that proud, lovely placement, his first experience out of the shop-of-creation, had ended many years later in a disaster. A fire, a painful, frightening memory. When it was all over the building was a wreck, very little left. He’d been one of the lucky ones. Scorched, and bubbled, he’d been taken to the house of the man who’d stood in front of him on the busy days. He’d been stored for a time in a dusty attic, and then, eventually, had all his damaged finish removed. A fresh new look had earned him a place in his first lonely hallway, waiting for packages and overcoats to land on him.

But why did this place smell so familiar? Was he back in his first home? Back with his kindly maker who thought him beautiful? No, he knew by now that the humans, the people that drifted in and out of his world, had very short lives. He’d seen a few carried by him, as unmoving as he was---not a normal thing for humans. And in his years in that church he’d seen his first examples of what humans became, while still much younger than he. He’d seen them in front of him in large, decorated boxes. He’d heard the sobbing of the still-moving people around and on him. Before people stopped moving their finish had changed, in a way his never did. Their outside surfaces had become wrinkly, paler; and the tassels that decorated their tops also became pale and worn. Death, they’d called the non-movement. And his creator, too, must have left his shop, looking like that--long ago.

So what now? And as if in answer to his question, the lights came on as a small, dark man entered by a doorway the old pew had not been able to see. Joy rippled over him as he looked around at what were only looming shapes in darkness just minutes ago. Though different, it looked very much like his birth-shop. There were no pews like him, all lined up as they'd been at his birth. In fact, this place was much smaller and couldn’t have contained all those pews. But there were other furnishings, like him old and scarred. And here and there, there were smoothed and resurfaced pieces drying in the cool breeze from the big fan in the wall behind him. He was to be made handsome again. He would wait patiently while the dark man worked on a table sitting near the wall to his right. He could dream of a new home, busy with people, where he’d be a valued addition---where he’d start another new life in a long string of useful lives.

HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE

MAKE RIPPLES AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE

Tired Of Wool In My Eyes

Oh, man, I intended something fun for today. But I don’t feel lighthearted. I don’t feel carried away by imagination. I don’t feel much but anger and disgust and mistrust.

I told you so.....Sorry, but it’s true. Now that they have “solved” the peanut butter conundrum I feel so much better---don’t you? Look, folks, it was just a small problem with the leaky roof and that darned sprinkler system. We cleaned all that up, but “somehow” we missed the source of the contamination that made you sick. I don’t know how you were raised, but if I cleaned, it had to be clean. If I missed something, I got to clean it again.

And the capper, for the I-told-you-so, is that the “cause” was that nasty bacteria, lying dormant in the litter of the “clean” factory. Dehydrated bacteria---just add water. Still no explanation, of course, as to how a bacteria that loves chickens, eggs, cooked beans, potato salad, etc, managed to thrive on peanuts. Could they have been genetically altering our peanuts all this time without telling us, so that the bacteria could be successfully included in the next harvest? Maybe it was the salmonella that was modified so it could live in a peanut-environment? And just for kicks, explain to me how that dirty floor “somehow” came in contact with the product---which will be perfectly safe from now on---HONEST!

And our poor pets---they are sentenced to eating the same foods we eat if they are to live. Or, at least they have to eat with us, to die with us, instead of separately. Manufacturer, after brand-name, after distributor, after product, after type---joining the list, daily, of things being recalled and warned against. My own list is more comprehensive: I Don’t Trust Any Of Them!

We have a poison that hasn’t seemed to be poisonous---melamine, a plastic manufacturing aid---contaminating everything. But first, we are told it is something else--rat poison--and blame it on the Canadians. In between lab tests the rat poison just vanished. Of course the nasty stuff, then or now, came from some other country. And we only used it in pet food, not the stuff people eat. If it was suspect enough to refuse it for human consumption, I’d think it was suspect enough never to use. But that’s just me. And whatever this thing is that’s wrecking kidneys, we just can’t see how it does it. Now I really feel good about that. We know it’s not in our food and we’re safe---but we don’t really know what it is or how it’s killing? Knowledge/reassurance gap here, big enough to pilot the Titanic through.

Dinner anyone? Bring your beloved children and pets, and come on out for a big nation-wide picnic. All food is guaranteed safe and wholesome. And this bridge with the For Sale sign? I’ve been trying to unload it, and now looks like the time.

And Not A Virus In The House

“Dusty! Come on in.” I poured coffee, without waiting for a request or bothering to ask.

“I was hoping you’d get by here soon,” I said. “I saw something on the news last night that struck me as right up your alley. You’ll need to scrape together a few million, and you can have a home to beat all.”

Dusty smiled in that slow way he has, “Let me guess, something to do with a mansion going on the block?”

I’d heard of McAfee, the virus people---had no idea “they” were a “he.” I’d been sitting here, counting pennies to squeak by, and here was a famous millionaire’s mansion a few hours from my door. Not that counting pennies would have ended had I known, but you do imagine, after living in a place for much of a lifetime, that you might know about the more famous aspects of it.

At first I didn’t make the connection. To tell the truth I wasn’t listening to the news segment all that closely. And the name did not set off bells. I’d called my virus program Mu-caf-fee, back when it was important for me to call it. The news item was about a 280-acre estate, at the base of Pikes Peak, that’s soon to be sold. They did a mini-tour, showed the fabulous view, gave a quick list of the amenities, and connected it to the virus man, Mac-a-fee. Enough repetition finally got through my brain fog and I realized I’d missed innumerable chances to name-drop, through ignorance and mispronunciation.

Sharing all this with Dusty elicited only that same grin. He already knew all about it. “All right, I get it. This is not news to you?”

“No, I know him, or of him sort of. I’d heard he was making some changes. But I didn’t know it had hit the TV news.” He tossed the last in so I could save some face. Good guy. Has his fun, but never rubs it in.

“Have you seen the place?”

“No, never been there, but I hear it is enormous, has its own home theater, isolated cabins for guests, bunch of suites, not just bedrooms,” he responded.

Again full of the story, and ignoring my lack of new information to share, I said, “Yeah, they said it has nine cabins, one of them on solar power. And the house has hand-carved doors. Said most of the furnishings would go with it.”

Both of us took a silent few minutes imagining the place, and a lot more minutes discussing what kind of person would be able to buy it. Dusty did know the guy that has been caretaker for the place. Interviewed on television, he looked like someone I’d like knowing, and Dusty’s take on him confirmed it. Dusty remarked he’d kind of like a job like that. My feelings exactly. And then I remembered Stephen King’s, The Shining, and decided I had too much imagination for the job.

Dusty turned at the door as he was leaving, flashing an impish smile this time, and added his parting shot, “You might find the ski resort that small town in Switzerland is giving away more within your budget---until you try to open it.”

In Service Of The Monster

I'm back! Not really full of tales just yet, but elated and relieved, none-the-less.

I've been living in fear of an ogre bigger than the owner of this blog: The IRS. Now that I have satisfied their practically insatiable need to know all about me, and their--ditto-- hunger, I can relax and get back to the less important things in life. My favorite part. And I still have twelve cents to call all my very own!

In the meantime, they shot my dog, tagged him, and collected their tribute---more taxes. But Declan didn't seem to mind (he wasn't paying, either). He thought it was a great convention, called just for his benefit--- loved the people, and dogs, and cats, all being there together, allowed into a building side-by-side for a change. I'm not sure, as intent as he was on remembering every detail, if he even knew he had an injection. He circled constantly, making sure he missed absolutely nothing. His leash is now a series of permanent kinks.

The last description also applies to my shoulder muscles. Whatever damage an 80-pound dog could do to them, attempting to join every conversation in a line, was nothing compared to the damage correctly translating Federalese did to me. A ruinous introduction to Spring.

I realize most readers will not understand about the taxes thing....contact me and I'll fill you in on what it is. Next time----back to normal insanity.

Shivers

Outside town, several miles, there is a small range of hills. Understand, the land around here rolls gently in places, but mostly it lies comparatively flat. These hills stick out like trees in a desert. My guess is, they are the bank of the raging river that was. Its bed is well down the slope to the south, just a tame little river that battles to be more than streams among sand bars in the winter. Springtime, some years, it will remind you of what un-dammed floods must have been like in the past. But even that is only a reminder, a hint of how the land once was inundated by the mountain thaw.

My imagination makes those hills fall just off-bank, deposits made by the retreating river carrying tons of soil onto the flood plain. But why there should be hills of soil built up on that one place only, that one I haven’t imaginarily solved. They stand out, as I said, surrounded by farm and ranch land. They’re covered in the usual scrub of the plains, far from the water that might have created them. And they are strange for more than their unusual topography.

I drive, on a regular basis, back and forth below them. And I do not believe they are entirely normal. I have seen strange things happen to them and in them. For instance, cloud shadows: We’ve all seen them, time to time, those isolated puffy fellows that, on an otherwise bright, sunny day, cast their gloom over one spot only. These hills seem to attract those clouds. If there is shadow anywhere, you can bet the hills will have a cloud tethered above them, crouching in the resulting darkness as if hiding some clandestine activities..

But one day, I noticed the hills in a shade all their own. Driving toward them for over a mile, watching the shadow refuse to move on, it suddenly dawned on me that there were no clouds in the sky. I stopped, got out of the car and checked, the idea was so impossible. The area was certainly darkened by shadow. And just as certainly, there was not a cloud to be seen---none over them, none anywhere. Perhaps the goose flesh on my arms was from the cooling shade on a hot day. I doubt it.

And I’ve noticed that snows never stay on them. The hills run east and west, so that would be expected---a quick melt in the high plains sunshine that can look so warm, though your ears threaten to freeze off. While you shiver, that sunshine will melt snow as though the air were warm as well. That would be expected---on the south face. However, as low on the horizon as the sun rides in the winter, the hills’ northern side would never be in sunshine. Across the rest of the land, snow turns to glacier, un-melted where the sun can’t reach the sheltered north side.. But these eerie hills, out of a carpet of snow all around them, rise completely clear and dry, as though warmed by some internal heat.

I would love to be able to walk up their slopes, look for some difference in what grows and lives there, see the land behind them. Maybe there’s a clue there. But they are fenced off, and no gate gives access anywhere near them. No house is set close, no cattle roam there. Never, have I seen a farm truck parked below them. No antennae of any kind have been erected on them to take advantage of elevation. I watch them constantly in my travels. I wonder what oddity they will present next. And I will not be surprised at any weird occurrence I catch on their flanks, believe me.