POETRY
I love reading well
crafted words.
Tasting the beauty of
the world with just one lick.
I love taking long
walks on the beach,
and poking dead
things with a little stick.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sunday, November 14, 2010
DESCHUTES RIVER RATTLERS
The Deschutes River is pronounced "Dey shoot tay" by dry fly fisherman who fancy themselves as so very literate having some pseudo French language in their vocabulary. White water rafters call it "Da Chutes" because of the velocity of the water and the rapid falls down its path, and because someone, toked up on "loco weed" IE: "Local Weed," figured out that was a pretty good thing to yell if you have cotton mouth at the moment you're coming up on a rated 3 rapid like "boxcar." In fact it is a french name "Riviere aux Chutes" meaning river of falls. Now, my traveling buddy and I just call it "cold and wet."
When we were younger we went out of our way to be "cold and wet." Anyone can have a good time when they are warm and dry. We were special. We rattled about "cold and wet" pretty much wherever we would go.
I especially liked being "cold and wet" for the weekend out by the Deschutes River.
The Indigenous Indian population around those parts call it the "Deschutes River" which means in Indian, "dark, cold, and wet, and hard to get a campsite, because of the dry fly fisherman and the white water rafters everywhere during the summer months, when all you want to do is find a place to lay down before you fall down."
It's also a little song and dance you can see over at Happy Canyon at the Pendleton Round Up.
We were driving the "Muscrat" at high and dangerous speeds across the desert from Redmond at night, all alone, except for the sound of each others high pitched out cries accompanied by Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings Outlaw tapes stashed in a pasteboard box in the back of the Muscrat next to a weeks supply of 16 ounce cans of Colt 45 Malt Liquor and a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Oh yeah; and blocks of ice that drained right through holes drilled in the floor boards to make it "real nice."
The "Muscrat" is actually a 64 1/2 Blue Ford Mustang that I bought for $300.00 from an old farmer guy I knew who was hurting for money. It was spray painted Metallic Blue from rattle cans bought at the GI Joe's discount store.
It had a 289 Cobra High Pro "K" code high compression 270 horsepower motor in it. Built at a cost of $3300.00 all blueprinted and balanced before being installed into the lightweight shabby body of that notorious automobile.
The body did not have one place anywhere on the car that was not dented and repaired with Bondo, then rattle can spray painted back to acceptable sleeper status. It had 2x6's screw nailed at the bottom of the doors for makeshift running boards. God only knows what it would have looked like otherwise. They were hand painted with a blue house paint that kind of matched. Most of the paint was rubbed off anyway from numerous brush runs across the desert in pursuit of high grade excitement.
The under carriage had another $1100.00 worth of racing suspension traction masters built at High School shop class for an old 1966 Falcon. It had low wide profile tires at the rear and little 15 inch tires on the front with rusty American Mag wheels to kind of pretty it up some. The front end was reverse raked by the installation of 1957 Buick "A" frame springs to set the weight back a little further on to the back wheels for better traction. The out of balance slip stream through the air didn't really matter much because the car would only go 112 miles per hour anyway.
The motor was in front of a standard 3 speed transmission shifted from the column with a 4/11 rear end. The car, up hill or downhill, would only go 112 miles per hour but it would get to top speed really, really fast! You had to hold your cheeks real tight when you were accelerating to keep them from flopping. It would pull your face all out of alignment as well. I'm saying it was a real fast automobile.
One really great thing about it, the damn thing would go nearly 40 miles an hour in reverse. It was fun to gun it up to forty in reverse then slam on the brakes for a moment to send it into a 180 degree spin to forward motion then grab second gear and run it up to about 80 miles an hour or so while plowing through the sage brush. We did it mostly to impress the ladies. Figured it was worth the risk to the paint job.
All this really means is that the car was equipped pretty much the same as if you hooked up a 45 horsepower Mercury outboard motor to a piece of plywood for a run about on Lake Billy Chinook.
Well anyway, my traveling partner and I were cruising back and forth up river from Maupin, down river to Shearers Falls and into the White River valley and even over to Oak Springs on the west side and back looking for a place to camp for the night. The normally dark night was so completely filled with campfires blazing everywhere it was confusing and our minds were somewhat addled from having drank a weeks worth of Malt Liquor on the way over from Portland.
It seemed like there was a campfire every 10 feet for miles in every direction. Finally out from no where there was a breech in the campfire light. A cold, wet, dark, black void of a place where no fires burned and no cars were parked and not a single boulder in sight large enough to dissuade the Muscrat from lurching in there for a landing. It was dark "cold and wet" so we quickly rolled out the side doors of the "Muscrat" to our resting places.
About 6:00AM: that morning I felt a kick to my head; then a second. I peered out to see a Oregon State Trooper patrolman staring down at me. All dressed up with authority over us.
"Hey! Can you read boy?" he shouted at me from about a foot and a half away from my face! "Yeah a little bit." "What do ya need read?" I replied smartly? "Look at that sign in front of that God awful piece of crap car your driving dip shit." I open my eyes wide enough to focus on a brilliantly white painted 4x8 sheet of plywood with huge red letters stating,
I called out to my traveling pal, by his God given name, and suggested he carefully rise for morning prayers right then and there. Just about where his hip lay there in a wet cotton Coleman sleeping bag between him and the ground was a nice big hole where the rattlers exit when it warms up some. Luckily he like me sleeps "cold and wet."
Warning to you slithery sinful serpents, rafters, and fishermen of the Deschutes River Recreation Area.
You have been presided over by a "Cobra High Pro," Gods own drunks and innocent men.
General Chows wisdom from the East (over by Service Creek, Monument and Spray maybe not Antelope certainly)
When we were younger we went out of our way to be "cold and wet." Anyone can have a good time when they are warm and dry. We were special. We rattled about "cold and wet" pretty much wherever we would go.
I especially liked being "cold and wet" for the weekend out by the Deschutes River.
The Indigenous Indian population around those parts call it the "Deschutes River" which means in Indian, "dark, cold, and wet, and hard to get a campsite, because of the dry fly fisherman and the white water rafters everywhere during the summer months, when all you want to do is find a place to lay down before you fall down."
It's also a little song and dance you can see over at Happy Canyon at the Pendleton Round Up.
We were driving the "Muscrat" at high and dangerous speeds across the desert from Redmond at night, all alone, except for the sound of each others high pitched out cries accompanied by Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings Outlaw tapes stashed in a pasteboard box in the back of the Muscrat next to a weeks supply of 16 ounce cans of Colt 45 Malt Liquor and a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Oh yeah; and blocks of ice that drained right through holes drilled in the floor boards to make it "real nice."
The "Muscrat" is actually a 64 1/2 Blue Ford Mustang that I bought for $300.00 from an old farmer guy I knew who was hurting for money. It was spray painted Metallic Blue from rattle cans bought at the GI Joe's discount store.
It had a 289 Cobra High Pro "K" code high compression 270 horsepower motor in it. Built at a cost of $3300.00 all blueprinted and balanced before being installed into the lightweight shabby body of that notorious automobile.
The body did not have one place anywhere on the car that was not dented and repaired with Bondo, then rattle can spray painted back to acceptable sleeper status. It had 2x6's screw nailed at the bottom of the doors for makeshift running boards. God only knows what it would have looked like otherwise. They were hand painted with a blue house paint that kind of matched. Most of the paint was rubbed off anyway from numerous brush runs across the desert in pursuit of high grade excitement.
The under carriage had another $1100.00 worth of racing suspension traction masters built at High School shop class for an old 1966 Falcon. It had low wide profile tires at the rear and little 15 inch tires on the front with rusty American Mag wheels to kind of pretty it up some. The front end was reverse raked by the installation of 1957 Buick "A" frame springs to set the weight back a little further on to the back wheels for better traction. The out of balance slip stream through the air didn't really matter much because the car would only go 112 miles per hour anyway.
The motor was in front of a standard 3 speed transmission shifted from the column with a 4/11 rear end. The car, up hill or downhill, would only go 112 miles per hour but it would get to top speed really, really fast! You had to hold your cheeks real tight when you were accelerating to keep them from flopping. It would pull your face all out of alignment as well. I'm saying it was a real fast automobile.
One really great thing about it, the damn thing would go nearly 40 miles an hour in reverse. It was fun to gun it up to forty in reverse then slam on the brakes for a moment to send it into a 180 degree spin to forward motion then grab second gear and run it up to about 80 miles an hour or so while plowing through the sage brush. We did it mostly to impress the ladies. Figured it was worth the risk to the paint job.
All this really means is that the car was equipped pretty much the same as if you hooked up a 45 horsepower Mercury outboard motor to a piece of plywood for a run about on Lake Billy Chinook.
Well anyway, my traveling partner and I were cruising back and forth up river from Maupin, down river to Shearers Falls and into the White River valley and even over to Oak Springs on the west side and back looking for a place to camp for the night. The normally dark night was so completely filled with campfires blazing everywhere it was confusing and our minds were somewhat addled from having drank a weeks worth of Malt Liquor on the way over from Portland.
It seemed like there was a campfire every 10 feet for miles in every direction. Finally out from no where there was a breech in the campfire light. A cold, wet, dark, black void of a place where no fires burned and no cars were parked and not a single boulder in sight large enough to dissuade the Muscrat from lurching in there for a landing. It was dark "cold and wet" so we quickly rolled out the side doors of the "Muscrat" to our resting places.
About 6:00AM: that morning I felt a kick to my head; then a second. I peered out to see a Oregon State Trooper patrolman staring down at me. All dressed up with authority over us.
"Hey! Can you read boy?" he shouted at me from about a foot and a half away from my face! "Yeah a little bit." "What do ya need read?" I replied smartly? "Look at that sign in front of that God awful piece of crap car your driving dip shit." I open my eyes wide enough to focus on a brilliantly white painted 4x8 sheet of plywood with huge red letters stating,
BEWARE KNOWN RATTLESNAKE NESTING AREA!
I called out to my traveling pal, by his God given name, and suggested he carefully rise for morning prayers right then and there. Just about where his hip lay there in a wet cotton Coleman sleeping bag between him and the ground was a nice big hole where the rattlers exit when it warms up some. Luckily he like me sleeps "cold and wet."
Yeah! "What do you need read?"----------- An inspiration to me.
Now this story has been told and retold translated from and to many languages and still controversy remains as to it's origins and authenticity.
Rattlers part ll
by our sponsors HOT DOG TRAVELER and GENERAL CHOW
Hot Dog Traveler editorial comment:
Imagine now for a moment the imaginary remote control camera that is always trained on our two heros soaring upwards in the heavens to a point perhaps 1000 feet above this whole entire scene. The headlights dimming now from a used battery going low on power that had been like a beacon shinning directly on the brilliant white sign painted with the inescapable red letters the night before. Our heros laid prostrate on the ground perpendicular to the vehicle forming a cruciform shape of sleeping bags and the Muscat. One on the right and the other to the left, respectively.
Warning to you slithery sinful serpents, rafters, and fishermen of the Deschutes River Recreation Area.
Beware known nesting rattlesnakes!
You have been presided over by a "Cobra High Pro," Gods own drunks and innocent men.
General Chows wisdom from the East (over by Service Creek, Monument and Spray maybe not Antelope certainly)
Always load up the rear end of your conveyance with General Chow for any eventuality.
It may be opened and eaten directly from the can "cold and wet," or warm and dry.
It's up to you!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
RUBICON
I once had a real fine piece of property and a savings account building toward a barn that would have a pitched metal roof and real wood siding and a troweled smooth concrete floor.
I lost it all by giving in to an unlikely request from my young wife!
She pleaded that if I would just let her use the savings account to buy a little red sailboat she would be so very happy and would “never ask me for anything else” ever again.
So we went down to the Marina and bought the little red sail boat and parked it right on the flat spot leveled out for the barn. She painted the name “Ruby” on the stern and was quite pleased and was so satisfied in fact she indeed never asked me for anything ever again!
My Father and my successful farmer Uncle had taught me that a responsible self-reliant individual always lets the barn pay the way, but she was so insistent. I was young and able to resave the little bit of money set aside for the barn. It was such a small price to pay for the Cheshire cat wide smile it put on her face. Most importantly she did very well intend to keep the promise.
THIS LITTLE MISSIVE IS ABOUT A WELL PLANNED IRONY
The idiom”Crossing the Rubicon” means to pass a point of no return and refers to Julius Caesar’s crossing the Rubicon River and beginning an act of war in 49 BC. The Latin word rubico comes from the adjective ‘rubeus’ meaning red!
“The dye had been cast” Some twenty five years later at our son’s wedding I again met the promise keeper who had taken the “Ruby in the divorce. I asked her if Ruby was a nick name for Rubicon.
“Took you long enough” was her reply!
I lost it all by giving in to an unlikely request from my young wife!
She pleaded that if I would just let her use the savings account to buy a little red sailboat she would be so very happy and would “never ask me for anything else” ever again.
So we went down to the Marina and bought the little red sail boat and parked it right on the flat spot leveled out for the barn. She painted the name “Ruby” on the stern and was quite pleased and was so satisfied in fact she indeed never asked me for anything ever again!
My Father and my successful farmer Uncle had taught me that a responsible self-reliant individual always lets the barn pay the way, but she was so insistent. I was young and able to resave the little bit of money set aside for the barn. It was such a small price to pay for the Cheshire cat wide smile it put on her face. Most importantly she did very well intend to keep the promise.
THIS LITTLE MISSIVE IS ABOUT A WELL PLANNED IRONY
The idiom”Crossing the Rubicon” means to pass a point of no return and refers to Julius Caesar’s crossing the Rubicon River and beginning an act of war in 49 BC. The Latin word rubico comes from the adjective ‘rubeus’ meaning red!
“The dye had been cast” Some twenty five years later at our son’s wedding I again met the promise keeper who had taken the “Ruby in the divorce. I asked her if Ruby was a nick name for Rubicon.
“Took you long enough” was her reply!
STRING THEORY OF HAPPY BIRTHDAYS
They say that space is still expanding; stretching tight as metal banding.
Someday it’ll snap back, the universal contract
And we will blast very fast into the sun.
Remember quickly, lickedy splitly, back when we were young.
Strung back together, like we begun.
Quantum theory, singularity, quarks and
Guitar strings
bind our lives with everything.
Tethered souls, mine and yours
Unexplained it still endures.
From your friend
Dennis--------------------------2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
CAT FISHING IN THE FUTURE OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST
One of my best friends is NOT always my favorite fishing buddy!
He is one of my best friends because we both have so much in common with one another. For example he and I love music. We used to both play little tin horns that had the label "Marine Band" on them. Yet, now he has attained a level of competence that requires much higher quality and quantities of mouth organs with many keys in minors and majors.
You can get a Marine Band "C" at the Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Missoula, Montana for $3.00 or so, I guess now he spends $80.00 or more for one that makes you sound a whole lot better than we did when we were just starting out!
We both bought harmonica's at the pier in Embarcadero in San Francisco one night on a hoot. I could play "When the Saints Go Marching In" pretty good in about a half an hour. I still play that about as good as I did then.
He plays lead and stands up front. I play back up and sing and dance just as good as you want.
It is only right since I take the lead on enough other stuff. It is much safer for me as well. He is much more physically capable than I to fend off stuff thrown at us when we get up to play to the public for free drinks.
Besides
"A mans got to look good even when he is just showing off."
We both love sailing. There is just about nothing in the world more satisfying than getting blown along in the wind for free in the pursuit of high adventure.
When we were first coming up we both would be constantly on the look out for boats full of pretty girls with bulging bikinis and beer lockers. We would cut them off for the booty.
We both like fast cars, late night drinking, stupid stories, uncle pervy dirty jokes, Willie and Wayland, Jimmy Buffet , running "a muck" in general and the beauty, love and patience of the women we took for wives.
One thing we don't have in common is fishing and politics.
He is a union man left swinging democrat that hasn't read much after high school and hasn't needed to. He got good marks in school and graduated on time and got a good job right afterwards in the trades. He hasn't had to compensate for any deficiencies with a continuing higher education because he was gifted with good looks, a great personality, athletic ability, an unusually gifted hand for mechanical things, an eye for art and the ability to create it, a musical bent and good hair and health.
When he goes fishing he fishes with worms and keeps and eats every fish he catches. He sees it as the only right thing to do. If the fish are not biting he considers bringing the dozen worms less the one he used back to the store for a refund. Matter of fact he kind of thinks everybody ought to get free worms from the government cause they live in the ground that belongs to us all for Christs sake.
He does not fret over the future of the world and does not see that he has much at all to do with how things are going.
He drinks beer and lives in the moment and is damn proud to say he has personally eradicated many local streams of every fish there ever was swimming there. Any responsibility to those to follow is not of any great concern to him. He leaves that up to his effete intellectual friends who go for that sort of thing and talk about it mostly when their heads are full of learning and expensive European wine.
Me, oh well, I'm a catch and release man. When a fish shakes about and loosens himself from my barbless hook I refer to it as an "early release." Sometimes I imagine, after a brilliant cast, that sets my dry fly lightly on the surface tension of the stream that if a fish just comes to look at it, that alone, is considered, by the end of the day as "a catch."
I read Kierkegaard and King James, Burns, Dylan Thomas, Emerson and Thoreau, the Economist and the like, and watch all the Sunday morning political pundits and read volumes of history so I can look for predictable events to expect and avoid in the future and fret and stew about myriads of things. I like to dabble in all manner of heady stuff to compensate for the lack of all the God given gifts my friend enjoys.
I drink enough Chianti to really know my stuff. I labor in the belief that words mean and can accomplish things and that thinking can make a strong nation endure.
It is a well known religious belief that God does not take away any time from the sum total of your life for the time spent fishing. The truth be known the time spent fly fishing gains you credits on the overall span of your life and dry fly fishing earns you a bonus round. It is common knowledge with the literate.
Jesus was a fisher among men. He hung out with disciples who were most probably net and seine fisherman. The apostles were trawl line and rod fishermen and Jesus of course was a dry fly fisherman.
So one day the self centered pragmatist called the independent existentialist to do a little fishing. He claimed he had found a fool proof method and he guaranteed a strike with every cast!
He guaranteed a strike on every cast!
The only thing I had to swallow was that it was "cat fishing" "You can use flies if you want to," he told me, "just as long as they are a pretty good size like at least two to three inches long" and if I didn't mind them "getting chewed up a quite a bit." He knew they were time consuming to tie or expensive to buy.
Well, I was in the pick up in about a second with my wife and my fly pole strapped in at my side to call bullshit on that little guarantee of his as quick as humanly possible.
We arrived lickety splitly to find he had already rigged up to two Zebco closed faced reels on six and a half foot fiberglass fishing poles that he had owned since grade school. The thirty pound test line inside had never fouled and was the original line that came on the reel sold to him by the Sears and Roebuck salesman friend of his fathers. There were two colors to choose from. Anodized coated metallic red and another in green. The green one had a couple of chips knocked off of it as it had been the one used most often. The red one was for back up. Today, as usual, I would play the back up pole.
The poles were leaned up against the handrail of the fishing deck and while I felt a little put upon to use one of these inferior rigs but it was easier than going back home to get my old reel that contained old beat up line. I wasn't going to throw my expensive floating double tapered Orvis line into that tangle of bushes and bunch grass he was fishing in.
He gave me a pointer that the best place was to sidearm cast so I could tuck my fly up right under an overhanging bush. My first cast fell short and I was quickly advised the guarantee did not extend to people who could not "cast a Zebco."
My second cast was right in there where he pointed out as the place to find the cats "honey hole." Sure enough there was a flash and a blurr and a pull on my line like you would not believe. I had never felt a strike like that before!
"What was that" I hollered. My friend said it was likely the one they had named the "Himalayan." I pulled back too hard and lost the damn thing. My friend reminded me the guarantee was not to land the big cats just guaranteed to get a strike every time.
So I rared back a let another one fly right into the bush that held the beasts.
To my amazement another cat jumped clean up into the bush for a taste of my feathered bait. I suppose you got a name for that one too I taunted. Yep we call him the "Persian."
The next one was a "Tabby" then "Scrappy" and then-------------------
The Barbecue was ready and the cats had gotten tired of chasing our lines and left the lawn for scraps of Salmon thrown to them from the patio deck.
Now a word from our sponsor HOT DOG TRAVELER reminding you that no animal domestic or feral was harmed in the writing of this story.
GENERAL CHOW is still willing to sell you the food for the people and guarantees it makes damn good cat food as well.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
EVERLASTING "LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI"
Uncle Helmer and Aunt Clara had done all the threshing they wanted for awhile. They were loaded with cash from ten years of "bumpers" and decided to head south to see the relatives and do some sight seeing down the Missouri to Cora Island (Clara's aunts namesake) to see it mix in with the great Mississippi.
They left Eden at sunrise and headed due east to pick up old highway 81 to Watertown, South Dakota. They stopped to stock up on store bought provisions for the long trip due south.
They took highway 18 to 20 as they had planned, but the Model "A" kept heating up so bad they were not sure they would ever make it to Confluence State Park for the big family sleep over.
They made a pay phone call ahead to the relatives to warn them they might be late and to ask them to warm up the Hudson dealer in St. Louis with a call. They had a trade in and cash money to purchase a brand new honey colored lacquer coated 2 door coupe.
The Hudson Hornet had the largest most powerful in line six cylinder engine on the planet. It was 308 cubic inches of pure horse power.
It could accelerate to speeds over 100 miles an hour! Of course you wouldn't want to do such a thing since the speedometer was only marked to 90 mph and if you pegged the needle it would twist up the speedometer cable. From then on you would never know for sure your true speed when approaching the speed traps of Louisiana Parrish's.
Any family would be proud to have members that could pony up the $3000.00 for an "auto-mobile" and still have enough left over for a trip all the way down the "Ole Mississip" to the Gulf of Mexico.
Leaving the company of loving relatives Helmer rested his foot against the transmission hump just right into the cut pile of the carpeted floor boards at the foot feed of the new Hornet. He powered the new coupe south down the famous highway 61 where they both made a special effort to spot the bleachers folks had "set out in the sun" to seat the crowds awaiting Satan and the desolation that would follow his appearance.
The Mississippi runs slowly through nearly level farmland for hundreds of miles south. The Hudson with it's low slung center of gravity navigated the meandering turns of the state highway following the river with ease.
They would be at their destination in no time at all. Helmer could never have dreamed that one day he would be driving a machine the likes of this one.
Clara remembered a book she had read in her youth written by a famous river boat pilot. He described how really dark, dark can be, especially at night in and around the river in these parts.
He claimed it was "as dark as the inside of a cow."
Clara stared out the tinted side windows and watched the terns swoop by and the sun glint through the live oak branches. The wind breezed thru the side vent of the new Hudson thru her hair and past her consciousness.
She thought the herd of cows her Aunt and Uncle had just outside of Sisseton. They are called Banded Holsteins. They have dark black shoulders and black haunches to the rear but their midriffs are as white as new fallen snow. She yawned and nearly drifted off to sleep in the warm of the sun as she wondered, in and out, of dreams, if those cows were quite as dark inside.
Tomorrow they would be at their destination at the great delta of the Mississippi where it mixes up with the water of all the worlds oceans.
South of New Orleans there is a county park where you can sleep over in your car and cook outside in the morning while you wait your turn for the swamp tour offered there. Helmer slept on the front bench seat curled up under the afghan his mother had knitted him. Clara folded the armrest up into the backrest and slept, warm as toast, under the quilt she had bought from the friendship club over at the Methodist Church outside of Peever, near Hartford Beach on Big Stone Lake.
Down at the wharf Captain Sid had just moored his boat the "Karma Hardy" The deck hands were already loading tourists up for the excursion. While you waited, you could read up on the attraction in promotional materials, set out here and there on the dock. The brochure contained a little picture of a note hand scratched on to a scrap of paper that read "Captain Sid, the value of the time I have spent on Karma and the waters of the Great Mississippi is unmeasurable."------Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
The South Dakota couple finally boarded Captain Sid's motor boat and noticed right away brass fittings mounting a little piece of plate glass over a faded scrap of paper with the supposed scribbles of Mark Twain.
It was positioned next to a placard with mention of all the necessary license, experience, and insurance coverage the Captain carried to conduct this transcendental tour of the Mississippi swamps.
Captain Sid fired up the "one lunger" of the Karma Hardy and they set off into the bayou. It was a perfect morning. Not too hot or humid for the tour day in Gods green paradise.
The bayou swamp is not really dirty and "swampy' as you might think. The water is not murky, it is just stained brown from the tannins that leech out from the Cypress trees growing there. The bayou has a slight current that runs under a blanket of the loveliest little green flora that blooms the tiniest beautiful little blossoms daily.
The swamp had a vast population of birds and animals, beaver and black bear and blue heron, bitterns, white egrets, muskrats, box and snapping turtles and even bearcats too, but everyone was eager to see the terrifying gaze of man eating alligators!
Captain Sid handed out "marsh melons" to the children on the upper sun deck to throw in the direction of alligators as they presented themselves. The captain claimed that it is the color white that attracts them and not the sweet taste of the sugary campfire treats. No one knows for sure why white does the trick but they jumped clear out of the water for them. The captain disengaged the one lunger on several occasions so he could demonstrate the dangerous tenacity and fury of alligators feeding.
Captain Sid did not seem like someone who had spent a great deal of time in the library or the university at study of the famous works of literature, science, art, philosophy and comparative religion. From his accent and general demeanor one would guess he might very well not even seen much TV or any manner of education. He might have been, in fact, an illiterate Creole or Cajun hermit!"
When he spouted off on something however, you did get the notion that he was a keen observer of nature and had an opinion on just about everything as it related to the great outdoors on the Mississippi and everything else worth knowing in the universe.
The Karma Hardy jugged round another corner of the river and a "copperhead" fell from a tree limb to the water below. Just as quick as I am telling this part of the story the snake was pulled under by an unseen chilling monster of some kind. Everyone figured it was an alligator, for sure. Captain Sid, did you see that, they questioned?
"Modur Natur an da serpent are mor---tal enemies and da serpent, he kno dat!" replied the Captain. "Da snake man, he come into da homes good and send bad seed and eats eggs an what have ya."
Well, that was stirring and thought provoking, even for seasoned travelers like Uncle Helmer and Aunt Clara. They sat back in their hard backed plywood seats and watched the silk spiders weave another web for the day and listened to the drone of the one cylinder diesel motor of the Karma Hardy and pondered just how one does "karma hardy?"
The little craft full of tourists plied the waters back and forth, in and out, of dead end coves, exploring all manner of Gods creation.
A young women suddenly cried out, "my God" Captain Sid, "what is that in the water." Helmer peered out to see the biggest carp he had even seen! This one even bigger than anything up at Lake Travis or anywhere else for that matter. The great fish, for some unknown reason, had turned "belly up"dead. Captain Sid pulled the launch out of gear and coasted up on the motionless fish.
This weeks story brought to you by our sponsor "GENERAL CHOW"
They left Eden at sunrise and headed due east to pick up old highway 81 to Watertown, South Dakota. They stopped to stock up on store bought provisions for the long trip due south.
They took highway 18 to 20 as they had planned, but the Model "A" kept heating up so bad they were not sure they would ever make it to Confluence State Park for the big family sleep over.
They made a pay phone call ahead to the relatives to warn them they might be late and to ask them to warm up the Hudson dealer in St. Louis with a call. They had a trade in and cash money to purchase a brand new honey colored lacquer coated 2 door coupe.
The Hudson Hornet had the largest most powerful in line six cylinder engine on the planet. It was 308 cubic inches of pure horse power.
It could accelerate to speeds over 100 miles an hour! Of course you wouldn't want to do such a thing since the speedometer was only marked to 90 mph and if you pegged the needle it would twist up the speedometer cable. From then on you would never know for sure your true speed when approaching the speed traps of Louisiana Parrish's.
Any family would be proud to have members that could pony up the $3000.00 for an "auto-mobile" and still have enough left over for a trip all the way down the "Ole Mississip" to the Gulf of Mexico.
Leaving the company of loving relatives Helmer rested his foot against the transmission hump just right into the cut pile of the carpeted floor boards at the foot feed of the new Hornet. He powered the new coupe south down the famous highway 61 where they both made a special effort to spot the bleachers folks had "set out in the sun" to seat the crowds awaiting Satan and the desolation that would follow his appearance.
The Mississippi runs slowly through nearly level farmland for hundreds of miles south. The Hudson with it's low slung center of gravity navigated the meandering turns of the state highway following the river with ease.
They would be at their destination in no time at all. Helmer could never have dreamed that one day he would be driving a machine the likes of this one.
Clara remembered a book she had read in her youth written by a famous river boat pilot. He described how really dark, dark can be, especially at night in and around the river in these parts.
He claimed it was "as dark as the inside of a cow."
Clara stared out the tinted side windows and watched the terns swoop by and the sun glint through the live oak branches. The wind breezed thru the side vent of the new Hudson thru her hair and past her consciousness.
She thought the herd of cows her Aunt and Uncle had just outside of Sisseton. They are called Banded Holsteins. They have dark black shoulders and black haunches to the rear but their midriffs are as white as new fallen snow. She yawned and nearly drifted off to sleep in the warm of the sun as she wondered, in and out, of dreams, if those cows were quite as dark inside.
Tomorrow they would be at their destination at the great delta of the Mississippi where it mixes up with the water of all the worlds oceans.
South of New Orleans there is a county park where you can sleep over in your car and cook outside in the morning while you wait your turn for the swamp tour offered there. Helmer slept on the front bench seat curled up under the afghan his mother had knitted him. Clara folded the armrest up into the backrest and slept, warm as toast, under the quilt she had bought from the friendship club over at the Methodist Church outside of Peever, near Hartford Beach on Big Stone Lake.
Down at the wharf Captain Sid had just moored his boat the "Karma Hardy" The deck hands were already loading tourists up for the excursion. While you waited, you could read up on the attraction in promotional materials, set out here and there on the dock. The brochure contained a little picture of a note hand scratched on to a scrap of paper that read "Captain Sid, the value of the time I have spent on Karma and the waters of the Great Mississippi is unmeasurable."------Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
The South Dakota couple finally boarded Captain Sid's motor boat and noticed right away brass fittings mounting a little piece of plate glass over a faded scrap of paper with the supposed scribbles of Mark Twain.
It was positioned next to a placard with mention of all the necessary license, experience, and insurance coverage the Captain carried to conduct this transcendental tour of the Mississippi swamps.
Captain Sid fired up the "one lunger" of the Karma Hardy and they set off into the bayou. It was a perfect morning. Not too hot or humid for the tour day in Gods green paradise.
The bayou swamp is not really dirty and "swampy' as you might think. The water is not murky, it is just stained brown from the tannins that leech out from the Cypress trees growing there. The bayou has a slight current that runs under a blanket of the loveliest little green flora that blooms the tiniest beautiful little blossoms daily.
The swamp had a vast population of birds and animals, beaver and black bear and blue heron, bitterns, white egrets, muskrats, box and snapping turtles and even bearcats too, but everyone was eager to see the terrifying gaze of man eating alligators!
Captain Sid handed out "marsh melons" to the children on the upper sun deck to throw in the direction of alligators as they presented themselves. The captain claimed that it is the color white that attracts them and not the sweet taste of the sugary campfire treats. No one knows for sure why white does the trick but they jumped clear out of the water for them. The captain disengaged the one lunger on several occasions so he could demonstrate the dangerous tenacity and fury of alligators feeding.
Captain Sid did not seem like someone who had spent a great deal of time in the library or the university at study of the famous works of literature, science, art, philosophy and comparative religion. From his accent and general demeanor one would guess he might very well not even seen much TV or any manner of education. He might have been, in fact, an illiterate Creole or Cajun hermit!"
When he spouted off on something however, you did get the notion that he was a keen observer of nature and had an opinion on just about everything as it related to the great outdoors on the Mississippi and everything else worth knowing in the universe.
The Karma Hardy jugged round another corner of the river and a "copperhead" fell from a tree limb to the water below. Just as quick as I am telling this part of the story the snake was pulled under by an unseen chilling monster of some kind. Everyone figured it was an alligator, for sure. Captain Sid, did you see that, they questioned?
"Modur Natur an da serpent are mor---tal enemies and da serpent, he kno dat!" replied the Captain. "Da snake man, he come into da homes good and send bad seed and eats eggs an what have ya."
Well, that was stirring and thought provoking, even for seasoned travelers like Uncle Helmer and Aunt Clara. They sat back in their hard backed plywood seats and watched the silk spiders weave another web for the day and listened to the drone of the one cylinder diesel motor of the Karma Hardy and pondered just how one does "karma hardy?"
The little craft full of tourists plied the waters back and forth, in and out, of dead end coves, exploring all manner of Gods creation.
A young women suddenly cried out, "my God" Captain Sid, "what is that in the water." Helmer peered out to see the biggest carp he had even seen! This one even bigger than anything up at Lake Travis or anywhere else for that matter. The great fish, for some unknown reason, had turned "belly up"dead. Captain Sid pulled the launch out of gear and coasted up on the motionless fish.
"Well it nutin but a deid fish! Don't you worry now Shar, it won't be deid long"---------- "gators'll get him"
Just then Helmer looked back hard at the placard with The captain's credentials.
Captain Sidney Hartha fleet commander Belle Chase Naval Reserve retired
Doctorate of Letters Chinese Academy of Sciences Beijing
Proffesor Hartha University of Florida
National Merit Scholar Environmental Law
Merchant Marine 4oo ton master
Captain and owner of the pleasure craft "Karma Hardy"
Just then Helmer looked back hard at the placard with The captain's credentials.
Captain Sidney Hartha fleet commander Belle Chase Naval Reserve retired
Doctorate of Letters Chinese Academy of Sciences Beijing
Proffesor Hartha University of Florida
National Merit Scholar Environmental Law
Merchant Marine 4oo ton master
Captain and owner of the pleasure craft "Karma Hardy"
and chief cook and bottle washer.
The great fish would not be dead for long!
He would soon be alive again!
This weeks story brought to you by our sponsor "GENERAL CHOW"
We got something that "you all" will eat.
Uniform, wholesome, yet it stimulates you to "Party Hardy"
Take home a continental size portion of our "very fine food product today!"
And By "HOT DOG TRAVELLER"
Be first Human for you are the splendid blossoms of Gods paradise.
Yet, the flower is fleeting in the whole of it all.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
SHORT RIVER BRIDGE
I jumped from the vineyard over the ancient hedgerow and began my walk down the well worn cobblestone path that would lead me into the fishing village. The breeze carried the scent of lavender to me as I walked past the fields on my way to the arched entry gate.
As I entered, I could hear the sound of women singing sweetly from windows and shutters swung open at the second floors, behind thick, sun baked, adobe walls. They sang rhythmically to the thump of their irons on their flat ironing boards, finishing up the days laundry. Fresh, white linens, colorful shirts, and fishing trousers were hung from lines strung cooperatively from neighboring window to window. They giggled and hid themselves from me as they snuck a peak at "the mister" stumbling across the cobblestones.
I wandered down lanes mysteriously empty, filled only with a couple of fishing boats cradled at wide places along the way, harbored there, momentarily, for repairs. The boats were hand built, with strong, brightly painted wooden planks, yet light enough to be handled by capable oarsmen. Olive wood, from the nearby hills, is used to fashion the chain plates, rub rails, oars and locks. I inspected these features and found them well worn from decades of use, but they remained extraordinarily serviceable. The boats are maintained well, using methods passed down from their grandfathers, fathers. The boats there live long, lasting well beyond single lifetimes.
The men were at sea, fishing away this day, in the soft sun, indebted only to the breeze that filled their sails and fish that found their nets.
"BREIS FLUMEN PONS PONTIS"
I wondered for a moment if, somehow, I could get into the act. If, I could find a fly pole and line and a bit of feather, I would try my luck at fooling one of these fish into biting my bait. I could then make a meal for myself in this world where all things seemed possible.
Now, the pole wasn't like an American made split bamboo work of art from the forty's. NO! NO! It was just simply a fine straight bamboo pole with the ridges sanded down some, with a handle made out of an olive wood dummy pin. This pole had no eyelets or a reel to string and hold the line. The line was just simply tied to the limber end of the pole with an "improved cinch knot."
The line itself was from the very long tail of a horse. The first length was about a meter long and maybe four or five hairs thick, all spun together. The next section was maybe three strands of horse hair, then two strands, and finally, just one hair thick for a short, horse hair, hard to see, leader. All the hairs tied together, end to end, made a pretty good, long, tapered line to dangle beneath the short river bridge.
This story about everything was brought to you by our sponsor who is everything in the "very fine food product" business "GENERAL CHOW"
As I entered, I could hear the sound of women singing sweetly from windows and shutters swung open at the second floors, behind thick, sun baked, adobe walls. They sang rhythmically to the thump of their irons on their flat ironing boards, finishing up the days laundry. Fresh, white linens, colorful shirts, and fishing trousers were hung from lines strung cooperatively from neighboring window to window. They giggled and hid themselves from me as they snuck a peak at "the mister" stumbling across the cobblestones.
The air was alive with the simple pleasures of the timeless life they lived there.
I wandered down lanes mysteriously empty, filled only with a couple of fishing boats cradled at wide places along the way, harbored there, momentarily, for repairs. The boats were hand built, with strong, brightly painted wooden planks, yet light enough to be handled by capable oarsmen. Olive wood, from the nearby hills, is used to fashion the chain plates, rub rails, oars and locks. I inspected these features and found them well worn from decades of use, but they remained extraordinarily serviceable. The boats are maintained well, using methods passed down from their grandfathers, fathers. The boats there live long, lasting well beyond single lifetimes.
The men were at sea, fishing away this day, in the soft sun, indebted only to the breeze that filled their sails and fish that found their nets.
As I made my way deeper into the little city. I found fat cats lying there in the sun waiting for the fishy feast to come. I heard the light laughter of a child, just beyond my sight.
As I rounded a bend in the lane a young man of about nine years of age, dressed in a Greek fishing hat, a white frock and flowing pantaloons ran by, laughing and shouting. He was wearing a dark blue naval officers coat with shinny buttons and a red neckerchief. I saw a wisdom in his eyes and a confidence in his gate well beyond his obvious years.
As I rounded a bend in the lane a young man of about nine years of age, dressed in a Greek fishing hat, a white frock and flowing pantaloons ran by, laughing and shouting. He was wearing a dark blue naval officers coat with shinny buttons and a red neckerchief. I saw a wisdom in his eyes and a confidence in his gate well beyond his obvious years.
His young voice called out to me as he passed by---------
"HEY MISTER, HAVE YOU TRIED TO CATCH A BIRD BENEATH THE SHORT RIVER BRIDGE?"
I shook my head, no.
"YOU CAN'T!"
He laughed out loud!
The shutters and the windows suddenly swung shut and the lovely songs in the air were gone! A new kind of quiet shouted out for me to listen. The sea slapped sounds just beyond, as the waves and wind began to build. The seabirds cackled and called. The fat cats meowed and purred and whined as I passed them by. I could feel the warm wind whirling between the buildings and up the lane; now, being cooled, by waters and the shade of a curious arched bridge making it's way into my view. I climbed to the top of the arched bridge and found an inscription carved into the keystone of the bridges handrail.
"BREIS FLUMEN PONS PONTIS"
The experience on the bridge and the scene below and all around was endless and beguiling. I looked straight down into a life, unto itself, in microcosm! A little stream formed from nothing but moist earth, ferns and water plants. Then, a little trickle, from under a leaf came forth, hardly more than a droplet of water. It was being celebrated all around with great quiet fanfare.
Life was born there.
I noticed little fish swimming in the new formed stream, eating flies emerging from the short little river. The river flowed from nothing, to something, then under the bridge and out to the sea, that lay, but a moment away. Larger fish hid themselves in the shadows of the bridge waiting for their daily meal. Ospreys plied the sky above for their earnings. Bull frogs rested on flat rocks in the sun, waiting for an errant morsel to fly by. A "big ole" bull snake slide through the grassy area's on full alert. The Heron and Bittern made their way there from time to time to ply their trade as well.
I noticed little fish swimming in the new formed stream, eating flies emerging from the short little river. The river flowed from nothing, to something, then under the bridge and out to the sea, that lay, but a moment away. Larger fish hid themselves in the shadows of the bridge waiting for their daily meal. Ospreys plied the sky above for their earnings. Bull frogs rested on flat rocks in the sun, waiting for an errant morsel to fly by. A "big ole" bull snake slide through the grassy area's on full alert. The Heron and Bittern made their way there from time to time to ply their trade as well.
The swallows----- Oh! -----The swallows. The swallows made their homes of mud and twigs gathered from the river below that were then hung there attached under the bridge.
The swallows made a good living on the bugs that rose from the stream below. The bugs hatch early afternoon and the swallows swoop down, float over them, spin about for a catch and then fly up to their nests to feed their young ones. The fish just down river jump clear from the water, growing larger and wiser at each bite.
Life from nothing, to something and then, to even more.
I wondered for a moment if, somehow, I could get into the act. If, I could find a fly pole and line and a bit of feather, I would try my luck at fooling one of these fish into biting my bait. I could then make a meal for myself in this world where all things seemed possible.
I looked to my right and there, leaning up against a nearby adobe wall was a very old, time tested, bamboo cane pole, with a line and a fly tied just exactly like the ones flying about below the short river bridge!
Now, the pole wasn't like an American made split bamboo work of art from the forty's. NO! NO! It was just simply a fine straight bamboo pole with the ridges sanded down some, with a handle made out of an olive wood dummy pin. This pole had no eyelets or a reel to string and hold the line. The line was just simply tied to the limber end of the pole with an "improved cinch knot."
The line itself was from the very long tail of a horse. The first length was about a meter long and maybe four or five hairs thick, all spun together. The next section was maybe three strands of horse hair, then two strands, and finally, just one hair thick for a short, horse hair, hard to see, leader. All the hairs tied together, end to end, made a pretty good, long, tapered line to dangle beneath the short river bridge.
The whole lash up, counting the pole and all, was still short enough to raise up a catch and flop it out on the cobblestones. Anything that might bite and hang on to the feathery bait without a hook hidden inside to hold the catch to would be deserving of being caught and ate. I examined the bug closely and I swear it was an exact match to an original live type! If it had a hook hidden away, it would have not fooled a one of those spectacular living creatures there below the bridge.
BY NOW, YOU MUST KNOW THIS IS A STORY ABOUT EVERYTHING!
I sent my bait floating down over the keystone inscribed handrail and the swallows went wild over the thing. Oh, those swallows! They were mad as they could be for the bait. They swooped down, flew up, spun around, and dive bombed my line till I thought I might lose my whole set up. Not once was I able to get at the water for the fish with the awful fuss from those swallows.
I became transfixed and I commited myself. I was compelled to catch one of those swallows!
OH, THOSE SWALLOWS!
If I could just float my bait right. I flew my bait fly side to side. I learned to make it appear to spin. I flew it up and down. I waited till the sea breeze and a wave corresponded just right to lift the fly from gravity, entirely, and danced it on thin air exactly as the other live ones were doing. I tried snapping the end like a whip at them. I tried tangling them in the line. I tried snagging their beaks like you do with pike or a turtle. I could not get a decent bite to save my ever loving soul!
Just about the time I was thinking about forgetting my manners altogether and rigging up a treble hook fashioned out of a piece of wire found near a downspout; I sensed a presence nearly on top of me.
It was a wise old fisherman towering over me. He was wearing a Greek hat and flowing shirt and pants with a captains naval coat curiously similar to the look of the young man I had met earlier.
He spoke in an octave lower than you would expect from God himself! It was lower than you could tune a base guitar even if the strings drooped below the frets and neck.
His blue green all knowing eyes burned in on mine. He impatiently and omnisciently boomed the question to me.
"HAVE YOU TRIED TO CATCH A BIRD BENEATH THE SHORT RIVER BRIDGE?"
Embarrassed, I tried to return the pole to the place I had found it, without him noticing.
Why no, "I haven't" I lied.
"YOU CAN'T!"
he said,
His eyes watered up to a twinkle.
This story about everything was brought to you by our sponsor who is everything in the "very fine food product" business "GENERAL CHOW"
and by
"HOT DOG TRAVELLER" Don't be away from home without it.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
BALLS ON GRASS
It has widespread overwhelming popularity. It is seemingly everywhere, all the time! Everybody likes it, or at least eagerly tolerates it. If you go to a party it permeates the room and the majority of conversation circulates around the subject, or it is being directly participating in it!
This is not one of those things that is uniquely American or 21st century. Oh no, this has been enjoyed by almost every tier and class of culture in all of mans history! You can find images of the activity in the "smoky" caves of the Ozarks, in Ancient Mesopotamia,the Mayan and Inca ruins, Micronesia, the Orient, South Pacific Islands, and even, yes sir ladies and gentleman, even the moon!
The very earliest literature and historical records chronicle the use and popularity of this "opiate of the people" as was characterized in an open forum by a Roman Senator.
Leap forward to the past half century.We find on television news, clicks on Goggle and Yahoo and presumably it still draws intrest in the regular news print stories of folks like Tiger Woods, Arnold Palmer, Ben Hogan, Walter Hagen, Peter Jacobsen, Michael Jordan, Earvin "Magic" Johnson, Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra "Hank" Aaron, Henry L. "Hank" Robinson, Jack R. Stargell, Wilver D. "Willie" Drysdale, Donald S. Fingers, George H. "Babe" Ruth, Walter Payton, O.J. Simpson, Marcus Allen, Franco Harris, Terry Bradshaw, Dick Butkus, Frank Gifford, Paul Hornung, Alphonse "Tuffy" Leemans, Hugh "Shorty" Ray, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach to name just a few who have distinguished themselves in the popular pastime.
In ancient Rome this stuff was usually free to the public. The emperors believed it was a good way to "keep the people happy and content" with the way the city was being governed. The government provided free bread and free entertainment - a combination they believed would keep happy the many unemployed people in Rome.
Now, just sit back and relax, don't worry.
Now an editorial comment from our very fine sponsor "GENERAL CHOW"
This just in---- "New York City's Industrial Development Agency recently approved $1.58 billion of tax-exempt and taxable financing for baseball's Yankees and Mets to build new stadiums. " "Beginning in the early 1990s, an unprecedented stadium construction boom has swept the world of professional sports.
Since the opening of New Comiskey Park in Chicago in April of 1991 a total of 28 new stadiums have been built or are under construction to house professional football and baseball franchises in the United States. Three more stadium projects, two in Philadelphia and one in Chicago, received approval in recent months but have not begun construction yet. Twelve additional older stadiums have undergone extensive renovations funded by taxpayer dollars in the last 5 years.
Canadian baseball teams have also had recent stadium deals and hundreds of arenas have been built around the country. Most stadiums built recently are specifically for Major League Baseball or National Football League teams. " "A careful review of lease information from both Major League Baseball and the National Football League found that taxpayers around the country have spent more than $7.5 billion on stadium construction since 1990 and will spend twice that again in the next few years.
"The spending spree is not over yet. In fact, the St. Louis Cardinals and Oakland Raiders play in stadiums that had major renovations completed at taxpayer expense less than five years ago. As of spring 2001, both of them are among the 15 franchises seeking taxpayer funding for new stadiums." (composite of national news items last week)
That's 22 and half billion dollars we got to loan you!
If you go to a party please notice that most people in conversation are brilliant in their knowledge of sports statistics. Yet they can not tell you how many Senators there are (100) or how many Representatives (435)
You should know you can vote them out of office if you don't like their performance.
Balls on grass the national pastime.
This is not one of those things that is uniquely American or 21st century. Oh no, this has been enjoyed by almost every tier and class of culture in all of mans history! You can find images of the activity in the "smoky" caves of the Ozarks, in Ancient Mesopotamia,the Mayan and Inca ruins, Micronesia, the Orient, South Pacific Islands, and even, yes sir ladies and gentleman, even the moon!
The very earliest literature and historical records chronicle the use and popularity of this "opiate of the people" as was characterized in an open forum by a Roman Senator.
Leap forward to the past half century.We find on television news, clicks on Goggle and Yahoo and presumably it still draws intrest in the regular news print stories of folks like Tiger Woods, Arnold Palmer, Ben Hogan, Walter Hagen, Peter Jacobsen, Michael Jordan, Earvin "Magic" Johnson, Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra "Hank" Aaron, Henry L. "Hank" Robinson, Jack R. Stargell, Wilver D. "Willie" Drysdale, Donald S. Fingers, George H. "Babe" Ruth, Walter Payton, O.J. Simpson, Marcus Allen, Franco Harris, Terry Bradshaw, Dick Butkus, Frank Gifford, Paul Hornung, Alphonse "Tuffy" Leemans, Hugh "Shorty" Ray, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach to name just a few who have distinguished themselves in the popular pastime.
In ancient Rome this stuff was usually free to the public. The emperors believed it was a good way to "keep the people happy and content" with the way the city was being governed. The government provided free bread and free entertainment - a combination they believed would keep happy the many unemployed people in Rome.
Now, just sit back and relax, don't worry.
We have always had "a ball on grass."
Now an editorial comment from our very fine sponsor "GENERAL CHOW"
This just in---- "New York City's Industrial Development Agency recently approved $1.58 billion of tax-exempt and taxable financing for baseball's Yankees and Mets to build new stadiums. " "Beginning in the early 1990s, an unprecedented stadium construction boom has swept the world of professional sports.
Since the opening of New Comiskey Park in Chicago in April of 1991 a total of 28 new stadiums have been built or are under construction to house professional football and baseball franchises in the United States. Three more stadium projects, two in Philadelphia and one in Chicago, received approval in recent months but have not begun construction yet. Twelve additional older stadiums have undergone extensive renovations funded by taxpayer dollars in the last 5 years.
Canadian baseball teams have also had recent stadium deals and hundreds of arenas have been built around the country. Most stadiums built recently are specifically for Major League Baseball or National Football League teams. " "A careful review of lease information from both Major League Baseball and the National Football League found that taxpayers around the country have spent more than $7.5 billion on stadium construction since 1990 and will spend twice that again in the next few years.
"The spending spree is not over yet. In fact, the St. Louis Cardinals and Oakland Raiders play in stadiums that had major renovations completed at taxpayer expense less than five years ago. As of spring 2001, both of them are among the 15 franchises seeking taxpayer funding for new stadiums." (composite of national news items last week)
That's 22 and half billion dollars we got to loan you!
If you go to a party please notice that most people in conversation are brilliant in their knowledge of sports statistics. Yet they can not tell you how many Senators there are (100) or how many Representatives (435)
You should know you can vote them out of office if you don't like their performance.
Thats okay! just---------PLEASE BUY A BOX OF OUR "VERY FINE FOOD PRODUCT"
"GENERAL CHOW"
You can eat it when you get the "munchies"
Balls on grass the national pastime.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Collected Ravings of Three American Mad Men
Reality Check Radio---------- "Can I help you?" asked the caller
Why do we have to have so much bullshit on TV and the Radio? Republicans own this and Democrats want control of that. Can't you guys go somewhere else!
Well yes, this is a well known dynamic.
Republicans indeed represent more of the ownership demographic and Democrats entitlement demographic.
Boiling it down to basics; when folks lived off the land they found refuge and commerce in the city. The city needed, rightly so, services for sanitation, transportation, war efforts etc.
Thus was born a political party known as Federalist representing such basics and carried the debt as part of it service to the cause.
The problem is when parts of the electorate began to realize it could vote for its own “special interests” and levy debt on the whole it began eating itself alive!
Watch Gangs of New York by Martin Scorsese for the basics better illuminated.
Reality Check----------- "Can I help You?
I wonder if in fact the “right” can’t help but prevail because it has the power of commerce. Yet many times in history the entitlement class set civilization back a couple of decades with their shortsightedness, World War One, WW ll, 1917 Russia, 1926 China, Cuba, Poland, Yugoslavia, to mention a few.
Government would do well to recall its primary role as law maker and enforcer. We all would be better served had the intent of law and decency been placed ahead of some "greater good" social engineering experiment like the last decades supposed entitlement program of single family housing for everyone! That fomented fraud on the world; packaging worthless contracts through our financial systems represented by our “loving” Republicans who with collaboration with the Democrats and federal bureaucrats put us back at least two decades. They squandered the future of our sons and daughters children for money and power.
More than that, even now, the powerful get to pick up all the pieces leaving people who would like to work for a living with no choice but to work for the government take government entitlements or work for large publicly held global capitalist corporations.
Yeah, Yeah, stick it up your ass!----MY PRODUCER SHOULD HAVE WARNED YOU NOT TO READ YOUR REMARKS ON THE AIR-------Good Bye-----!
Reality Check------ What do you want to say?
Today is a good day to compare the stark differences between a free robust economy and a government operated one based on institutionalized class distinction. IE: A program for Indians, Islamics, Latinos, Blacks, the wealthy, the poor working class, white collar, blue collar, grey collar, no collar, and on and on. The Government of California, for example, has a plan for almost everyone! All, of course, based on leadership opinions of a very few very powerful benevolent souls who determine “fairness.”
Realty Check--------- can I help you?
Yeah, I wanted to know if anybody else has seen those airplanes up in the air that are spraying citizens with gas? It is supposed to turn your finger purple color if you are an alien from outer space and want to vote for free elections which helps get new stuff from our country and everything?
Reality Check------------do you have something to add?
Consider the 20th anniversary of the demolition of the Berlin wall. The “left” leaning “Democratic Labor Socialist Worker Party” fascist types on the east side of the Berlin wall still have yet to recover and prosper as the “free to think" and do what ever you damn well please people on the other side of the wall to the west.
Now we find ourselves concerned about rampant unchecked and unlawful capitalism grown huge, quite unlike private enterprise. This is as demonstrated by the guys we find ourselves in a life and death struggle with who think they might capture the world through the indoctrinated use of fear of man made "global warming."Instead of producing a cure they want to cap and trade in the sin rather than correct it. It is kind of like the old Catholic Church selling indulgences.
Good old George Bush said it best "a new world order" Great! Run by Bill Clinton in the UN I presume. Yippee were all going to die!
Reality Check---------What do you think?
Man, forget the airplanes, did any one see those twenty foot flying dinosaurs. I smashed my Pickup into the back of a Volvo station wagon carrying a family of Socialist Lesbian school teachers a little while ago. The government has them trained to dive bomb us free thinkers man.
Good Bye---------Hello you are live on---------- Reality Check Radio!
Please know that I do not find fundamental fault with the existence of either party, both have a valid role in our great experiment for free enterprise in the United States of America.
I am simply contrasting and comparing the inherent risk in hiring too many people into public service and publicly owned global capitalist corporations. Rather than trusting that individuals doing free commerce with one another generally find justice and cooperation in daily affairs when decisions and risk are spread across great numbers of diverse individuals.
Yeah well--------------I had a time understanding that dribble.
I continue to wonder what model do the left totalitarian type personalities draw their ambitions? Do they think they can somehow prosper in a totally closed system where a rise to power can only be accomplished by employing the most severe measures?
If they find it difficult to achieve success in an open system dedicated to a government that encourages individual achievement, contrasted to a system that only rewards the most violent and powerful ambition driven few and leaves the rest with a common sustenance but "equal and fair" portion.
Thanks for your call though --------------think it through
Hey are you still on the line?
Yes , the last part of your thought had a lot of crap dribbling out the end.
How did you get on the line?--------------- Are you still there?
Yes I am here---- I've been on hold since 9:23------ hold on a minute someone is at the door!
If you have selfish self serving friends as I do (who I am sending this transcript to) ask them how they intend to do well for themselves in a system designed to make everything uniform?
Personally, I want to be one of those who does not contribute anything because I know if I do it will cause global warming and also I will have to pay for the carbon dioxide I use for the extra effort. I think rich people should pay all the bills till they are completely broke or move to China then we can invade them and get their money again to live in peace fairly and equally as long as possible. I am not nor have a ever been a member of the communist party but I do really like their uniforms!
Reality Check---------- Can I help you?
Yes, Dennis Erickson here a SWINE Contributor!
Yes. are you ready?
I would like a gallon of General Chow to go!
We are on a very fine camping trip right now. Can you hear me?
Could you throw in some Greek olives and a bottle of Ketchup and some Jalapenos or Filipinos or whatever those hot pepper things filled with that cheese bullshit are called.
Hot Dog Traveller respectfully refuses to sponsor this portion of the program.
Why do we have to have so much bullshit on TV and the Radio? Republicans own this and Democrats want control of that. Can't you guys go somewhere else!
Well yes, this is a well known dynamic.
Republicans indeed represent more of the ownership demographic and Democrats entitlement demographic.
Boiling it down to basics; when folks lived off the land they found refuge and commerce in the city. The city needed, rightly so, services for sanitation, transportation, war efforts etc.
Thus was born a political party known as Federalist representing such basics and carried the debt as part of it service to the cause.
The problem is when parts of the electorate began to realize it could vote for its own “special interests” and levy debt on the whole it began eating itself alive!
Watch Gangs of New York by Martin Scorsese for the basics better illuminated.
------Thanks for bringing up such a timely topic!
Reality Check----------- "Can I help You?
I wonder if in fact the “right” can’t help but prevail because it has the power of commerce. Yet many times in history the entitlement class set civilization back a couple of decades with their shortsightedness, World War One, WW ll, 1917 Russia, 1926 China, Cuba, Poland, Yugoslavia, to mention a few.
Government would do well to recall its primary role as law maker and enforcer. We all would be better served had the intent of law and decency been placed ahead of some "greater good" social engineering experiment like the last decades supposed entitlement program of single family housing for everyone! That fomented fraud on the world; packaging worthless contracts through our financial systems represented by our “loving” Republicans who with collaboration with the Democrats and federal bureaucrats put us back at least two decades. They squandered the future of our sons and daughters children for money and power.
More than that, even now, the powerful get to pick up all the pieces leaving people who would like to work for a living with no choice but to work for the government take government entitlements or work for large publicly held global capitalist corporations.
Yeah, Yeah, stick it up your ass!----MY PRODUCER SHOULD HAVE WARNED YOU NOT TO READ YOUR REMARKS ON THE AIR-------Good Bye-----!
Reality Check------ What do you want to say?
Today is a good day to compare the stark differences between a free robust economy and a government operated one based on institutionalized class distinction. IE: A program for Indians, Islamics, Latinos, Blacks, the wealthy, the poor working class, white collar, blue collar, grey collar, no collar, and on and on. The Government of California, for example, has a plan for almost everyone! All, of course, based on leadership opinions of a very few very powerful benevolent souls who determine “fairness.”
Realty Check--------- can I help you?
Reality Check------------do you have something to add?
Consider the 20th anniversary of the demolition of the Berlin wall. The “left” leaning “Democratic Labor Socialist Worker Party” fascist types on the east side of the Berlin wall still have yet to recover and prosper as the “free to think" and do what ever you damn well please people on the other side of the wall to the west.
Now we find ourselves concerned about rampant unchecked and unlawful capitalism grown huge, quite unlike private enterprise. This is as demonstrated by the guys we find ourselves in a life and death struggle with who think they might capture the world through the indoctrinated use of fear of man made "global warming."Instead of producing a cure they want to cap and trade in the sin rather than correct it. It is kind of like the old Catholic Church selling indulgences.
Good old George Bush said it best "a new world order" Great! Run by Bill Clinton in the UN I presume. Yippee were all going to die!
Reality Check---------What do you think?
Man, forget the airplanes, did any one see those twenty foot flying dinosaurs. I smashed my Pickup into the back of a Volvo station wagon carrying a family of Socialist Lesbian school teachers a little while ago. The government has them trained to dive bomb us free thinkers man.
Good Bye---------Hello you are live on---------- Reality Check Radio!
Please know that I do not find fundamental fault with the existence of either party, both have a valid role in our great experiment for free enterprise in the United States of America.
I am simply contrasting and comparing the inherent risk in hiring too many people into public service and publicly owned global capitalist corporations. Rather than trusting that individuals doing free commerce with one another generally find justice and cooperation in daily affairs when decisions and risk are spread across great numbers of diverse individuals.
Yeah well--------------I had a time understanding that dribble.
I continue to wonder what model do the left totalitarian type personalities draw their ambitions? Do they think they can somehow prosper in a totally closed system where a rise to power can only be accomplished by employing the most severe measures?
If they find it difficult to achieve success in an open system dedicated to a government that encourages individual achievement, contrasted to a system that only rewards the most violent and powerful ambition driven few and leaves the rest with a common sustenance but "equal and fair" portion.
Thanks for your call though --------------think it through
Hey are you still on the line?
Yes , the last part of your thought had a lot of crap dribbling out the end.
How did you get on the line?--------------- Are you still there?
Yes I am here---- I've been on hold since 9:23------ hold on a minute someone is at the door!
If you have selfish self serving friends as I do (who I am sending this transcript to) ask them how they intend to do well for themselves in a system designed to make everything uniform?
Personally, I want to be one of those who does not contribute anything because I know if I do it will cause global warming and also I will have to pay for the carbon dioxide I use for the extra effort. I think rich people should pay all the bills till they are completely broke or move to China then we can invade them and get their money again to live in peace fairly and equally as long as possible. I am not nor have a ever been a member of the communist party but I do really like their uniforms!
Reality Check---------- Can I help you?
Yes, Dennis Erickson here a SWINE Contributor!
Yes. are you ready?
I would like a gallon of General Chow to go!
We are on a very fine camping trip right now. Can you hear me?
IF YOU CAN HEAR ME I WOULD LIKE A GALLON OF GENERAL CHOW PLEASE!
Hot Dog Traveller respectfully refuses to sponsor this portion of the program.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
KEEP AN EYE OUT "FOR ALL THE LUCK"
This weeks SWINE REPORT was written
in part by a contributing author John Walthers
It was just after dawn, and already I stood there bare legged and knee deep in the fast running waters of the Madison River. I cursed my rubber waders that 'somehow' over the years had shrunk so small I could not pull them over my legs. Now, I was about to let go my first cast across this great fly fishing stream.
I was operating on a seven day license issued to me by the The Department of the Interior of the Government of United States of America! Additionally, I had in my possession a signed copy of a fly fishing bulletin written by a published author who is the oldest owner of a fly fishing shop and guide service near Yellowstone. This prized document authored by him describes just how a person goes about catching these particular types of "elusive trout." An arrow on the map indicated where I might find the best place to fish, and his signature gave me unimpeachable authority to be, right where I stood, this very moment!
For the record, I was also in possession of an expensive four page glossy photo and informational guide published by the Federal Government. I learned more intrigue however from the old timer than can be elaborated upon here! I was particularly excited about the prospect of fishing waters that are a secret only shared with very few especially privileged outside of the National Park Service, their families, certain volunteers, and "special personnel" assigned to keep the area clear of high brush and low branches that may hang up a fishing line from an amateurish back cast.
My special privilege? I am politically connected to those "in the know."
I delivered a brilliant double false cast in the dark and landed the fake fly at an exact spot, at the edge of the far bank of the Madison River. The water splashed high from the jump of a monster fish. I clumsily yarded back my line as hard as I could, and fell backwards into the cold clear morning water. I struggled to the shore, soaking wet from head to foot, and started retrieving line directly to my reel. I could tell by the wobble of my bait I had something on! I waited with eager regard.
I had hooked and landed the eye of a great rainbow trout! Judging from the size of the eyeball I estimated the fish to be at least 24 inches and probably bigger. I speculated it must be one of the renown migratory rainbows that return every year from the lakes downstream. They swim up to renew this great mysterious fishy world that we only get to watch with wonder.
I stumbled around women and children picnicking on blankets washing down granola bars with drinking water contained in plastic bottles filled from the "Bull Run" reservoir located in Portland, Oregon. I dodged fly lines being slung from uniformed Rangers plying their secret fishy distraction. I scrambled over piles of trimmed brush left from last weeks work conducted by representatives of the Federal Government of the United States of America.
I found my favorite old fishing hole from last week strangely absent the commotion as most of the fisherman "in the know" stood on boardwalks near the edge of the river and cast from promontory points set out at strategic locations. I of course had advanced experience having fished the place earlier in the week and didn't need the boardwalk.
Actually, I had not noticed the boardwalks that first early morning. Most likely due to the hour and amount of light that morning and lack of oxygen in my system having tried for a half hour to pull on too small of rubber waders. Good thing too, I would never have hooked that eye if I had taken the easy access areas maintained by the Government.
I jumped out on a flat dry island rock 'about a yard' from where I had waded before! It was an easy jump of about two feet or so from the shore!
This issue has been reluctantly sponsored by
in part by a contributing author John Walthers
It was just after dawn, and already I stood there bare legged and knee deep in the fast running waters of the Madison River. I cursed my rubber waders that 'somehow' over the years had shrunk so small I could not pull them over my legs. Now, I was about to let go my first cast across this great fly fishing stream.
I was operating on a seven day license issued to me by the The Department of the Interior of the Government of United States of America! Additionally, I had in my possession a signed copy of a fly fishing bulletin written by a published author who is the oldest owner of a fly fishing shop and guide service near Yellowstone. This prized document authored by him describes just how a person goes about catching these particular types of "elusive trout." An arrow on the map indicated where I might find the best place to fish, and his signature gave me unimpeachable authority to be, right where I stood, this very moment!
For the record, I was also in possession of an expensive four page glossy photo and informational guide published by the Federal Government. I learned more intrigue however from the old timer than can be elaborated upon here! I was particularly excited about the prospect of fishing waters that are a secret only shared with very few especially privileged outside of the National Park Service, their families, certain volunteers, and "special personnel" assigned to keep the area clear of high brush and low branches that may hang up a fishing line from an amateurish back cast.
My special privilege? I am politically connected to those "in the know."
I delivered a brilliant double false cast in the dark and landed the fake fly at an exact spot, at the edge of the far bank of the Madison River. The water splashed high from the jump of a monster fish. I clumsily yarded back my line as hard as I could, and fell backwards into the cold clear morning water. I struggled to the shore, soaking wet from head to foot, and started retrieving line directly to my reel. I could tell by the wobble of my bait I had something on! I waited with eager regard.
I had hooked and landed the eye of a great rainbow trout! Judging from the size of the eyeball I estimated the fish to be at least 24 inches and probably bigger. I speculated it must be one of the renown migratory rainbows that return every year from the lakes downstream. They swim up to renew this great mysterious fishy world that we only get to watch with wonder.
By the time I finally returned to that particular spot on the river my seven day license had all but expired.
Later that week I fished the Firehole River near where the water cascades over cliffs to form a towering waterfall. I fished at every turn out for miles upstream to a place where the Nez Perce dumps into the Firehole. I have always been mindful of my back casts, but till the Firehole I had never worried about hooking up on a wandering buffalo!
I fished every little fluff of fake fly I could find. I knew I had the right foolery on my line this time for sure because, a natural fly swam up and immediately tried to mate with my floating fake fly. He may have been especially amorous and a bit careless after enduring such a long cold abstinance toward maturity. He made his way fully emerged to his intended. I know the feeling!
Anyway, I tied on every imaginable bait you can think of during my five days of fishing there. I tried Bead Heads, Woolly Buggers, Tied Down Caddis, Flying Caddis. I fished every Dun fly I owned, which is a considerable lot after bagging my limit from an inventory special "going out of business" sale at GI Joe's! I resorted to Hoppers at midday, streamers in the morning, McKenzie Specials just for a lark in the late afternoon. I even tied on my childhood special "Jackie Catch All" that I had not actually seen in years. I went deep into my fly box for an attractor fly I dubbed "Reefer Madness" which is actually tied with same. Mostly I use it to show off when people come to fish for Sea Run Cutthroats off my dock. I fished a fly that never misses known as "The Last Supper" and in all of that I never, ever got another strike!
Later that week I fished the Firehole River near where the water cascades over cliffs to form a towering waterfall. I fished at every turn out for miles upstream to a place where the Nez Perce dumps into the Firehole. I have always been mindful of my back casts, but till the Firehole I had never worried about hooking up on a wandering buffalo!
I fished every little fluff of fake fly I could find. I knew I had the right foolery on my line this time for sure because, a natural fly swam up and immediately tried to mate with my floating fake fly. He may have been especially amorous and a bit careless after enduring such a long cold abstinance toward maturity. He made his way fully emerged to his intended. I know the feeling!
Anyway, I tied on every imaginable bait you can think of during my five days of fishing there. I tried Bead Heads, Woolly Buggers, Tied Down Caddis, Flying Caddis. I fished every Dun fly I owned, which is a considerable lot after bagging my limit from an inventory special "going out of business" sale at GI Joe's! I resorted to Hoppers at midday, streamers in the morning, McKenzie Specials just for a lark in the late afternoon. I even tied on my childhood special "Jackie Catch All" that I had not actually seen in years. I went deep into my fly box for an attractor fly I dubbed "Reefer Madness" which is actually tied with same. Mostly I use it to show off when people come to fish for Sea Run Cutthroats off my dock. I fished a fly that never misses known as "The Last Supper" and in all of that I never, ever got another strike!
On the last possible moment of the last day of my seven day fly fishing foray I appeared back at the Madison arrogantly self confident. I walked with great authority past the border post clearly labeled a "special area." Past this point you must have in your possession a license issued by the Federal Government of the United States of America. I was still legal, but just to be safe, I pinned my autographed map to my fishing vest.
I stumbled around women and children picnicking on blankets washing down granola bars with drinking water contained in plastic bottles filled from the "Bull Run" reservoir located in Portland, Oregon. I dodged fly lines being slung from uniformed Rangers plying their secret fishy distraction. I scrambled over piles of trimmed brush left from last weeks work conducted by representatives of the Federal Government of the United States of America.
I found my favorite old fishing hole from last week strangely absent the commotion as most of the fisherman "in the know" stood on boardwalks near the edge of the river and cast from promontory points set out at strategic locations. I of course had advanced experience having fished the place earlier in the week and didn't need the boardwalk.
Actually, I had not noticed the boardwalks that first early morning. Most likely due to the hour and amount of light that morning and lack of oxygen in my system having tried for a half hour to pull on too small of rubber waders. Good thing too, I would never have hooked that eye if I had taken the easy access areas maintained by the Government.
I jumped out on a flat dry island rock 'about a yard' from where I had waded before! It was an easy jump of about two feet or so from the shore!
With no false casts at all to get my distance I spanned the 12 foot to the opposite shore with ease. I immediately hooked a fish which I reeled in without much of a fight.
It must have gone six inches or so! I don't mean like six Alaskan inches, measured between the eyes. I mean the fish was just six inches long!
It would have been hard to have made an Alaskan measurement anyway since the fish had but one eye!
I would have returned the whole fish back into the river as is my policy and also that of the Government of the United States of America according to their literature and glossy photo hand outs but I had released the eye earlier that week.
This issue has been reluctantly sponsored by
"HOT DOG TRAVELLER"
We at the traveller reserve the right to withdraw our support of these articles if advanced notice is not given for unauthorized contributing writers. It has been speculated that the supposed contributing author named in the above title block is in fact a famous and successful dry fly fisherman from the Midwest and has in fact never fished the area's hinted at in this story!
Ancient wisdom from our otherwise oriental sponsor
"GENERAL CHOW"
What do you call a fish without eyes------fsh!
Reminding one and all to buy "General Chow" right now before something terrible befalls you.
You just never know for sure what the future may bring and we want our friends in America to have stores of our "very fine food product." Just in case central government stops loaning you money buy lots of "GENERAL CHOW" now!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
WOOL SHIRTS IN GAY COLORS
Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago, in a land, far, far away lived a bunch of unbelievably agile, wildly independent, self reliant, spectacular looking, greatly spirited, robust, healthy, down to earth, hard working, generous, loving, patient, thoughtful, intellectually stimulated, spiritually mature, and enormously successful, wild sheep.
Mind you, this was a while back in time. Although, there are still such beings roaming the high mountain wild places of the world and in our own hearts and imaginations. It was a time basted in history and tradition of individuals striving for greatness of purpose. Working together for all the goodness that life can be.
Today, sheep mostly come in two basic kinds. One kind comes in black face with white wool bodies all around. The other kind comes with a white face with black colored wool on their bodies all around.
There are of course genetic modifications too. A lot of them are all one color or the other. Black sheep are in the minority because they have wool that can not be redyed so easy as their white counterparts. The sheep that are completely white all over on the face and all around their bodies can be made to look like, or be, just about anything anyone wants them to be.
They are what they are, and that is that!
They call them "Orvis aries" in scientific circles. They are "thick skulled" dumb and dumber sheep. There isn't much bragging to be done about any particular sheep around the lab because, well, they are sheep!
They are sheep, plural, period! There isn't even a word for a single independent sheep. There are not 'sheep' singular and 'sheeps' plural; nope, just sheep. If you try counting them individually you immediately get drowsy and fall asleep.
Sheep gave up their individualism and got like they are in exchange for "security." Today they get clean food and water and free medical care and nice idyllic fields of grass to mill around in together as a herd. Everyone is treated equally and fairly and no one is expected to do more than any other. This continues from generation to generation and is very hard now to actually break out of. So just as long as they keep the long stiff hair on their backs "kempt" and the fleece on their bellies clean and be available for their "special purpose" it continues!
In this bargain sheep have a strong leader that makes all the tough decisions for them. The leader decides when and where to market their meat and skins and milk and of course wool to make warm colorful outfits. You can see thousands of them in Shepperd's fields being rounded up by a Border Collies or Australian Shepperd's and one single dumb, anti social, reclusive Shepard man.
THIS IS A "FAIRY TALE" ABOUT SOME VERY QUEER SHEEP
Chapter one
Orvis Niviacola was as handsome a "freemartin" as anyone had ever seen. She was a fierce fighter in battle. Yet, her coat was as smooth and lovely as any of the courtyard beauties down in the valley. If one needed help of any kind Niviacola was always "there for ewe". If the flock needed to generate a coalition of thought or develop some energy for any just cause Niviacola could be counted on to rally the needed forces.
In peaceful times she always helped coordinate the efforts of everyone to take maximum advantage of the changing seasons and minimize the impact of overgrazing the natural pastureland of the high meadows. When the time came to move to other lands Niviacola would discuss with all the members of the flock and independent travellers the best route to make the exodus for the young and old alike, so none was overburdened.
She could always be counted on to settle differences in opinions and cultivate the great diverse talents of the herd for the common good. In those days almost all sheep were self reliant and had very well considered opinions on just about everything. She facilitated a council that gathered together periodically to exchange the commonwealth of knowledge to gain the "capital" required to sustain them from winter to winter.
One time a group of young wild Rams had gathered high up on the ridge above the pleasant valley that Niviacola and her flock inhabited. The flock came to Nivacola in fear and discussed that they expected nothing but trouble from the young Rams gathering on the rise.
It was the time of "rut" and there had been story's of unspeakable things that had befallen flocks in other lands. They pleaded with Niviacola to use all the powers God had entrusted her with to help spare them the plight of their neighboring sisters.
Nivacola dawned her most "shear" accoutrement's and climbed the nearby hills upwind of the young Rams hideout. She scented far and wide the areas where she bounded. The scent of her alone was enough to make the young Rams crazy. Yet, she tantalized them more with her cries of intended passion. She changed postures and profiles in the soft sunlight horizon to further coax them on. It drove them wild with demon thoughts of rape and pillage. Yet she teased them further, exposing her wide and amply rounded rump to their squint'y eyes!
She knew the fury and danger in that narrow gaze! She climbed to the highest pinnacle. A place with a little landing just past the precipice of a thousand foot cliff. Her long lashed eyes bedazzled them as they gazed upon her. There she pounded her hooves and scented the air and called out for her suitors to follow her in impassioned pursuit.
They did just that and ran full bore up and over the cliff to a horrible cascading death, bellowing out as they fell.
From that day forward she was known as the undisputed
"QUEEN" of "SHE BAH"
Chapter two
Arkhar Tajik Dalli Lama was a Ram among Rams. He had distinguished himself about the herd as kind of a supernatural who possessed an uncommon strength and wisdom. He had many times communed then travelled with the great Orvis Marco Polo as he past by the grand mountains high above Dushanbe Tajikistan.
His trans boundary exploits had taken him across Afghanistan, China, Pakistan and his homeland Tajikistan. His travels with learned kinsman had gained him lofty accolades from the flock for his achievements physically, intellectually, and most importantly spiritually!
Arkhar was a giant among sheep. The largest of his kind weighing in at 200 kilograms, with horns curving to an extended distance of two meters! His horns weighed 14 kilograms and would total in weight the balance of all the bones in his body!
All wild sheep male and female have double thick skulls and protective horns. Yet when avoiding predators wild sheep usually flee at a rapid pace to higher places where the footing is unachievable for other animals. Arkhar however, was known to butt wolves off the faces of cliffs to protect his flock.
Arkhar Tajiks was an industrious type that enjoyed the company of other ambitious Rams in the area. He had known since he was a young ram that he had been given the gift of getting things done through leadership. He dreamed for the ultimate prosperity of his flock. Using careful planning he surveyed paths, and built strategic fortifications for respites along the way. He developed means of commerce unknown in generations before him. As a result his flock did indeed prosper as did the other flocks in the region that had the ease of trade and interchange with his own.
Wild sheep are social animals that live in groups, called flocks. Flocking helps them avoid predators and also helps them stay warm in bad weather by huddling together. Flocks of sheep need to keep moving to find new grazing areas and more favorable climate as the seasons change. In each flock there is a sheep, usually a mature ram, which the others follow as a leader.
Arkhar Tajiks Dalli Lama was indeed such a leader.
Excerpt from Tajiks Fables -------------Canton Lesson #7
A wolf found great difficulty getting at sheep to eat, owing to the great wisdom and strength of the flocks leader and the high ground he lead them to occupy. One day the wolf found a sheep's pelt that had been flayed by a Shepherd. The wolf put on that skin and began to mingle with the flock till he had isolated a young lamb who he killed and ate. The wolf deceived the flock with this stunt many times again till Dalli Lama convinced the flock to heed these words of warning."Things are not always what they seem"
"Be watchful of wolves in sheep's clothing"
Chapter three
Rocky and Dolly were born nearly the same moment that spring and the parents could not have been more pleased. Both sets of parents had been great friends with one another and encouraged the young ones to be friends as well. They played together from the very beginning. They became inseparable and were the delight of the entire flock. Individuals would break away from the herd to watch them frolic together in the high meadows chasing butter flies during the day and fire flies after dark.
Rocky grew to be the most handsome in the land and Dolly the most gorgeous. As they grew they inspired others to test themselves to be better individuals. Everywhere they traveled a crowd gathered and went away inspired by their great looks and fashionable coats cut as sheer as any of the social class in the valleys below, but even more so by the transcendental communication skills and grand message that they related.
The flocks all over the land learned through them of a world with great hope and promise where, with ambition and productive work habits, and individual initiative the flock need not suffer through even one more winter.
The idea was that each member of the flock was born with unique characteristics, and that each was free to development those attributes. They delivered the message from ancient writings of the "Dalli Lama" himself who had wished to impress upon them that, it was in fact, their duty, to themselves, to God, and the others of the flock to pursue, to their best of their ability the individual gifts they had been given. In this way each one would be best prepared to add to the total prosperity of the flock. Each one adding as much of themselves as possible through free commerce and interaction with one another. This great collection of individuals had taught themselves the methods to stay protected from the elements and from the selfish masses who believed the power of self determination can somehow be stolen and divided like spoils of war.
Many followed this most noble idea and their decedents can still be found commanding the high places all over the world. Recent discovery's have been made of successful flocks of wild sheep who populate the high Rocky Mountains and the Grand Tetons and the High Sierras to name a few. Thus proving the ancient way of encouraging the pride of being the best of ones self, thereby enabling the many to do the same is still at work in the highest places even yet here on the North American Continent.
THE END
And now a word from our sponsor "GENERAL CHOW"
What can I say, "root hog or die" for a box of our very fine food product!
We are doing so in my fair land you can still do it too!
You showed us the way!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
STILL PLUGGED IN TO GRANDMA
PART l
Poem for Panel Ponder
Reeking walls of rotted stone
like webs across the ground
Paint pictures of a human crime
and I'll plot out the sounds.
A man is inside sitting,
He's all but half his mind.
His bodies scarred from hunger.
He's slowly going blind.
Who could stand to see him suffer,
a single minute more.
If you've any heart at all,
you'll help me "close his door"
Moody Blues------------overture----------something like that
PART ll
FAITH OF A MUSTARD SEED
My Grandmother taught me that God had fashioned life to succeed with the simple faith found in a mustard seed. A mustard seed is very very small, in fact you need hundreds of them cupped in your hand before you can feel them.
Grandma told me when she was young, to gather all the faith she might need for a lifetime, she ran though her fathers fields of mustard seed to collect, in the folds of her skirts and apron, enough faith to forever sustain her.
I have maintained this simple faith, first lent to me, then inherited, from her collection. Despite great intellectual turmoil I endure endless contradictions of my own simple perceptions of God and this great creation with continuing faith even to this very moment supplied to me by Grandma.
My Grandmother was tending her garden and canning fruits and vegetables and making apple pies and freezing for winter one day and then in a long moment she died.
My sister and I were with her the very short 36 hours before her end on earth.
My Grandmother taught me that God had fashioned life to succeed with the simple faith found in a mustard seed. A mustard seed is very very small, in fact you need hundreds of them cupped in your hand before you can feel them.
Grandma told me when she was young, to gather all the faith she might need for a lifetime, she ran though her fathers fields of mustard seed to collect, in the folds of her skirts and apron, enough faith to forever sustain her.
I have maintained this simple faith, first lent to me, then inherited, from her collection. Despite great intellectual turmoil I endure endless contradictions of my own simple perceptions of God and this great creation with continuing faith even to this very moment supplied to me by Grandma.
My Grandmother was tending her garden and canning fruits and vegetables and making apple pies and freezing for winter one day and then in a long moment she died.
My sister and I were with her the very short 36 hours before her end on earth.
At first we prayed for her recovery. We looked in the "good book" there by her hospital bed for some pointers to get her better and to give us some comfort.
It seemed to work too, she stayed alive and then stayed alive some more despite a couple of strokes while there in her bed. When the doctor came to call she rallied the best she could though at all other times she was seemingly falling into a deeper and deeper coma.
Earlier she responded to our loving but frightened voices with calm. Now, her eyes flitted back and forth beneath her tightly closed lids as if she was viewing great adventures from her past. We thought because she had survived great calamities in the past she would get past this one too. Despite her advanced age of 94 we still knew she was strong and God willing we would see her through till she was again well.
The nurses came and went through many shift changes doing all the professional things they had developed skills to do. Till one, named Angel, came in who had a gift to give beyond her ability to deliver care. The one called Angel asked if the doctor had briefed us lately as to the ultimate condition of our Grandmother. At that moment we both knew. I said "she isn't going to make it is she" Angel shook her head and went on to comfort us and explain that Grandma was holding on so as not to let us down.
She suggested we take a break and go somewhere for awhile outside the hospital.
The nurses came and went through many shift changes doing all the professional things they had developed skills to do. Till one, named Angel, came in who had a gift to give beyond her ability to deliver care. The one called Angel asked if the doctor had briefed us lately as to the ultimate condition of our Grandmother. At that moment we both knew. I said "she isn't going to make it is she" Angel shook her head and went on to comfort us and explain that Grandma was holding on so as not to let us down.
She suggested we take a break and go somewhere for awhile outside the hospital.
We picked the destination of Bald Peak, a place that we had picnicked with Grandma and Grandpa in the past. It was not far away, maybe 12 miles in all, from the hospital parking lot to the top of the hill.
It was a terrible foggy Oregon day with rain falling and then misting lighter then again another downpour and so on. About twenty minutes went by and the clouds parted in one little section allowing the sun to beam from its location in the great beyond down the hill toward the hospital in Hillsboro where Grandma lay all alone. We quickly had a horrible realization. I jumped back in the car, turned the ignition key on and the radio started playing. The arteries supplying blood for oxygen to my brain strained as I tried to interpret the words of this song and the message that faithfully resides in me now.
Once upon a time
Once when you were nine.
I remember skies.
The universal eye.
I wonder where you are?
I wonder where you are?
I wonder if you'll still remember
once upon a time in your wildest
faithful dreams.
Once the world was new
and all I loved in you
Love was all you knew
and all I knew was you
I wonder if you know
I wonder if you think about it
Once upon a time in your
Once upon a time in your
wildest faithful dreams---------------------------------
When we returned to the hospital room Nurse Angel was gone and so was my Grandmother!
Moody Blues-------------------The End--------Or something like that
GENERAL CHOW brings us this weeks article without comment beyond that "Life is never at end"
Why not celebrate it privately with a bowl of our very fine food product?
Monday, August 17, 2009
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE JUST A LITTLE BIT BEFORE THE INTERNET
If you have ever been up out of Fidalgo Bay from Anacortes, Washington you'll know one must be very mindful of the strange but useful currents found there. If you watch the tides you can "haul ass" on a flood from the Georgia Straits, into Rosario Stait. You go through tight little passages avoiding the ferry like you're heading toward Haro, and if you want to, you can shoot out into the Strait of Juan de Fuca without even spinning the motor. If you keep going you pass Barkley Sound which leads you on a path to the great Pacific Ocean which can get you anywhere in the world!
Well, my friend Mike and I were up that way on a great adventure. We had pretty good provisions on board, Wesson oil for deep frying fish that we would catch along the way, and some beer to go with it. Quite a bit of beer actually. We had some bread and some cheese and some wine to go with it. Quite a bit of wine actually, white wine, and red we made no pretense as to our preference. We never read a label or knew a vintner.
Now for libation, we had whiskey. We had two big glass bottles of whiskey. The kind of bottles you get from across the border at Portland Island where you don't have to pay tax on the good stuff like in America. Canadians really like their whiskey and they don't mess with the fanciful. I think in Canada you only pay taxes if you vote to pay taxes. They are sensible people who drink whiskey straight from the bottle, and we did too.
Mike calculated a heading and set the sails up on a perfect broad reach. Mike and I settled back on an afternoon flood from Georgia, and started drinking whiskey. Nether one of us could come up with much of a good reason not to, after all, Friday Harbor would be in our sights by late afternoon where we would cruise the seaport bars for adventure.
"Well, we got drunk"--- pretty damn shootin, tootin, high falootin, good and God knows drunk that late afternoon, heading into the wean hours. Might have been close to dawn when we bunked back up.
The next day we lay face down in our berths with awful hangovers. The kind of terrible death type hangovers where you know you would be better of if you could just stand up, flop over the gunwales and drown yourself!
Well along about 15:30 or so I got up and went to the galley for some tomato juice and beer when I got the crazy notion that maybe a little "hair of the dog" would cure us up earlier than the red beer would. I started looking for that other bottle of whiskey.
Damn it to hell anyway.
I got out a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote a quick demand for more whiskey. I rolled up the note, stuck it in the empty whiskey bottle, corked the neck tight and heaved it over board.
Two days later we found ourselves clear around the back of Orcas Island and had Sucia and Matia in our view. We had been on a hard tack with wind from starboard for 34 hours. She had been on a beat and bucked hard till; I'll be dammed if that whiskey bottle didn't bust loose from below and float right up to where I could grab it without leaving the tiller for not more than a second or two.
Well, it wasn't long and Mike caught me sipping from the new bottle regular and proceeded to catch up to me as briskly as possible. It was the right thing to do. You can't let a guy get drunked up alone. Especially if he is at the helm! The day unfolded quite well I might say. We managed to put down the hook in a good holding anchorage. We set out to make a meal up, but we found that we had eaten all the bread and cheese, boiled all the fish, and were down to just the beer and wine and what was left of the whiskey.
"Well we got drunk' I mean we got good and drunk. I felt a great tremulation in my nervous system. I wanted to do something! I wanted to drive fast, get high, shoot my teacher! I wanted to be somebody, I wanted to save the world! I figured I'd jump over the side of the boat in the 35 degree water and swim to shore to see if there were girls at harbor. I wanted to live a little.--------- "SHAZXAM"
Well, the next day we had hangovers. Mike and I, we lay there, face down in the bottom of the boat. I did not ever want to drink whiskey, ever again!
I prayed to God to forgive me everything, if I gave it up, that awful stuff.
I did just once reach down to retrieve that empty bottle though. I penciled a note, the best I could, and placed it inside, secured the cork and dispatched the bottle overboard.
This week our story is brought to you by that elusive world wide adventurer "HOT DOG TRAVELER"
Well, my friend Mike and I were up that way on a great adventure. We had pretty good provisions on board, Wesson oil for deep frying fish that we would catch along the way, and some beer to go with it. Quite a bit of beer actually. We had some bread and some cheese and some wine to go with it. Quite a bit of wine actually, white wine, and red we made no pretense as to our preference. We never read a label or knew a vintner.
Now for libation, we had whiskey. We had two big glass bottles of whiskey. The kind of bottles you get from across the border at Portland Island where you don't have to pay tax on the good stuff like in America. Canadians really like their whiskey and they don't mess with the fanciful. I think in Canada you only pay taxes if you vote to pay taxes. They are sensible people who drink whiskey straight from the bottle, and we did too.
Mike calculated a heading and set the sails up on a perfect broad reach. Mike and I settled back on an afternoon flood from Georgia, and started drinking whiskey. Nether one of us could come up with much of a good reason not to, after all, Friday Harbor would be in our sights by late afternoon where we would cruise the seaport bars for adventure.
A---lo---sailor!
"Well, we got drunk"--- pretty damn shootin, tootin, high falootin, good and God knows drunk that late afternoon, heading into the wean hours. Might have been close to dawn when we bunked back up.
The next day we lay face down in our berths with awful hangovers. The kind of terrible death type hangovers where you know you would be better of if you could just stand up, flop over the gunwales and drown yourself!
You can't because you are too hung over to make that much of a move.
We were hung over!
Well along about 15:30 or so I got up and went to the galley for some tomato juice and beer when I got the crazy notion that maybe a little "hair of the dog" would cure us up earlier than the red beer would. I started looking for that other bottle of whiskey.
The boat had been heeled over to port from the reach we had been on all the day before. I had a vague recollection of that other bottle of whiskey rolling back and forth, bouncing sometimes mighty close to getting over the edge of the false floor and into the bilge where it would be damn hard to reclaim. I looked and looked between red beers for about two hours. Mike finally came alive and searched down there with his face real close to the rails for maybe three hours or more. No whiskey bottle was ever found. It was either way down in the bottom of the boat, cattywompus in the bilge, or over board all together.
Damn it to hell anyway.
I got out a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote a quick demand for more whiskey. I rolled up the note, stuck it in the empty whiskey bottle, corked the neck tight and heaved it over board.
"We are the pleasure craft TJ". "We have fallen on rough times, and are even out of whiskey. "When you find this please, for all that is righteous and good in this world, would you please send us more whiskey!"
Two days later we found ourselves clear around the back of Orcas Island and had Sucia and Matia in our view. We had been on a hard tack with wind from starboard for 34 hours. She had been on a beat and bucked hard till; I'll be dammed if that whiskey bottle didn't bust loose from below and float right up to where I could grab it without leaving the tiller for not more than a second or two.
Well, it wasn't long and Mike caught me sipping from the new bottle regular and proceeded to catch up to me as briskly as possible. It was the right thing to do. You can't let a guy get drunked up alone. Especially if he is at the helm! The day unfolded quite well I might say. We managed to put down the hook in a good holding anchorage. We set out to make a meal up, but we found that we had eaten all the bread and cheese, boiled all the fish, and were down to just the beer and wine and what was left of the whiskey.
"Well we got drunk' I mean we got good and drunk. I felt a great tremulation in my nervous system. I wanted to do something! I wanted to drive fast, get high, shoot my teacher! I wanted to be somebody, I wanted to save the world! I figured I'd jump over the side of the boat in the 35 degree water and swim to shore to see if there were girls at harbor. I wanted to live a little.--------- "SHAZXAM"
Well, the next day we had hangovers. Mike and I, we lay there, face down in the bottom of the boat. I did not ever want to drink whiskey, ever again!
I prayed to God to forgive me everything, if I gave it up, that awful stuff.
I did just once reach down to retrieve that empty bottle though. I penciled a note, the best I could, and placed it inside, secured the cork and dispatched the bottle overboard.
It Read simply PLEASE DISREGARD EARLIER MESSAGE
This week our story is brought to you by that elusive world wide adventurer "HOT DOG TRAVELER"
Please remember you can e-mail your order today for a delivery right away!
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