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.

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!

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!

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

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We are doing so in my fair land you can still do it too!

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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.

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.

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 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

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?

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.

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"

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WHAT'S IN A NAME CALLING

I had an Uncle Helmer in my early life and he married a lady we called Clara. Helmer and Clara named all their forthcoming sons Helmer and all the daughters Clara. Now presumably to keep the tradition alive all of those upper branches of the family tree honored the earlier tradition and did the same. I think now there are a considerable number of folks out there in the world named Helmer or Clara.

There's story's about some of them.

The plains of the Dakota offers up beautiful farmland to plant crops. Almost anything will grow in the rich black moist soil found there. The first settlers almost jumped from their britches as they leaped from the wagon seats to stake out property lines and claim homesteads.

There were a few draw backs though. Gophers!

Whole villages full of pocket gophers. Prairie Dog towns raised holy hell with the stability of the soil and the crops that grew near them. You could not canter at speed across a field on your horse, heading home for supper, for fear of the poor animal going down with a turned ankle, or worse, from sticking a foot into a hole or tripping on a gopher mound.

Helmer had one name for them, "SONS OF BITCHES" He never referred to them by any other name but "SONS OF BITCHES"

In those days folks would come out from the city for sport and shoot gophers. It was like a family outing. The farmers out on the homestead liked it because it got rid of some of the pesky critters without wasting any time or money.

What you do is after Sunday school and church you take along some fried chicken and water melon and baked beans and a pitcher full of lemonade, if you could get it, and go out to the country, eat a little something, and then shoot gophers. The women cleaned up and chatted about whoever had not showed up for church or wouldn't speak up for a volunteer project at the Sunshine Club. The men would go off on the prairies and farmers fields with their sons and their Remington bolt action single shots loaded with rounds of long rifle rim fires and shoot gophers. Yep! Shot gophers to while away Gods given day of rest and peace.


The poor little gophers didn't have much of an idea how miserable they had made it for others. They were just doing, they thought, what the good lord intended them to do. That which it was, to eat regular, sleep in little holes they dug for themselves for homes, and sun themselves after lunch on top of their mounds and live like proper little gophers. They sit straight up on their hind legs as look outs for big gopher snakes on the prowl, and hungry prairies chickens, and hawks in the sky. The little "SON OF BITCHES" couldn't know how easy a target they made sitting straight up on top of their mounds like that.

They did this duty as good citizens and solders of Prairie Dog town so the older gophers who needed to rest longer after eating could do so in peace. It was an honorable thing to do and a good life to live. Prospering, sharing and looking out for one another, and in that security enjoying the singular sweet joy of this here life!



We were from the west coast and thought the little prairie dogs were really cute sweet soft cuddly things like a hamster or a squirrel or Buttons the guinea pig.
We drove clear across those plains heading east and began to see the little guys along about western Montana. We were eager to meet our cousins who lived out on the original family homestead.

We always had little pets, and were taught in church to love and respect all living things, and to respect our elders and the ways of others, to be tolerant and speak politely with manners and such.

Imagine for just a moment our shock and curiosity when we were greeted by a little fellow in the open ground by the hand pump between the barn and the farmhouse with these words.

Hello, I am Helmer. Are you the folks that are coming out to shoot some of our "SONS OF BITCHES"?

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Almost Everything About this Story is Pretty Much True

My Uncle Helmer and Aunt Clara were married in South Dakota and honeymooned somewhere out in western Montana.

The first night of their married life was spent at a little motel near Red Deer out of town some where near a little creek and a grove of trees.

This is a story about value and how to get it.

A long time later maybe twenty-thirty years or so they had a chance to travel back through that area and longed to find that wonderful little cottage like motel room where they first played house and gained adulthood knowledge of loving one another, in the altogether.

They had a brand new fancy 1956 Chevrolet Bel Aire Green on Dark Green colored automobile with bench seats that were so comfortable you could go halfway across the United States of America in it without getting too tired to drive.

Well; they did that, and looked high and low on every side of that town of Red Deer, or maybe it was Deer Lodge, for that little slice of paradise with that little creek running whole and holy and that grove of trees that stood proud. They were bound and determined to find it and re-live, for just a moment, that wonderful first night of their happy marriage together.

It was dusk 9:00 PM pretty late! when they came over a rise and saw, though very run down, what must just have been the sight of the loveliest little motel anyone has ever laid eyes on! Paradise Motel. Why couldn't they have remembered that name?

The office door was open 6 inches to let a little cool air in for the night. The spring on the screen door was all stretched out to where it couldn't do much good. A bare bulb was on in the back room streaming light on to the front porch. The vacancy neon sign outside buzzed on and off like a bug zapper at fly time.

Ole Helmer stuck his head inside and yelled his inquiry. Is anyone to home?
The lady came out in her summer house dress. Might have been the very same one she wore so many years before.
Helmer said I see you still have vacancies! "We stayed here years ago" and have been looking for your place for hours now, nye on to a day!

"Well we only have two rooms left here at Paradise" she said.
The Juniper Room and The Sagebrush Palace. Well, how much are they Helmer wanted to know?

The Juniper is $20.00 and the Palace is $22.00 bucks a night. "You get coffee and toast, and what have you, right here at the office for breakfast. If you're up early enough!

Helmer asked "well, what's the difference?"

She held up two fingers kind of like a victory sign and replied

"two bucks!"

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AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE DAY-------------------------------"D-I-Y"----------------

Every year on the fourth of July Some Americans that really get it celebrate "DO IT YOUR SELF DAY"

By the mid 1700s, the 13 colonies that would become the United States of America were finding it difficult to be ruled by a King George the Third. They were tired of the taxes imposed upon them. But, Independence was a gradual and painful process. People then as today were accustomed to the expression and practice of "Let George Do It". The colonists could not forget that they were British citizens and that they owed allegiance to King George III.

When George Washington became President many people still didn't get it and asked; is he the new King then? NO! he is the president who presides over a "DO IT YOURSELF" government!

Think of it like a giant Home Depot that makes products, services and information available to the do it yourselfer. You don't hire Home Depot to do it for you if you can help it! You will get a poor job, pay too much and have no recourse for a fair remedy of deficiencies. Use the tools the founding fathers gave you to "DO IT YOURSELF"

Still today many people do not appreciate their Independence to decide for themselves. "Let George do it" still resounds in the minds of these simple little thinkers. "Let George do it"; King George, George Washington, George S Patton, George Bush Sr, George Soros, George Bush Jr, George Carlin, George of the Jungle the list could go on and on.

Part of

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness."

Do this: Not just today, but everyday, to celebrate your Independence. Continue to reform your government by self determination. Make yourself better, faster smarter than you were the day before. When you are at work at Nike, or the Food Mart, or in a government position, or in a factory somewhere, think of the service you are providing, and if that service could be contracted to the company instead of being done by your employment there. Be a free thinker. Be your own decider. Be your own business. Pursue your own brand of happiness. Operate your own government. Be your own boss. If you're worried about being layed off, but you are very sure you are actually contributing to the success of the operation think of how you could contract the service you provide at a reduced cost to the company and at a better profit to you the provider.

This is the day to remember you have a right and a duty to yourself to do that!

Here is a real simple and true example. In the pre-manufactured roof truss business there is a factory that provides 2x4x22 7/16" precut blocks that fit between trusses or rafters as they are installed in buildings. These stupid little pieces of scrape wood are provided cheaper faster better than companies can provide for themselves! These are companies that cut dimensional lumber in mass quantities yet still can not make little blocks of lumber cheaper than this one guy can make and ship them all over the country and profit on them as well. The individual that decided he could make these blocks at a profit was not a "let George do it" kind of a guy. Celebrate that!

I guess we need government as a necessary overhead to do somethings I suppose; standing army, law enforcement, roads, bridges, water reservoirs, space program etc.
Wait!----- --didn't Bill Clinton decide that contractors at Haliburton run by Dick Cheney could provide for the troops in Iraq better than the traditional army?

Hey wait a minute! ---------Why does the government hire private contractors like Black Water to provide security.
Hold on a bit longer ---------didn't some independent guy Paul Allen shoot a rocket into outer space faster cheaper better and more fun than the government?

I heard Sir Richard Branson was going to ship folks for a fee into outer space as a profitable amusement. English guy, heard about America and it's ability to have it's citizens think independent. Celebrate that.


Hot Dog Traveller asks you to have a safe and sane holiday that does not include blowing off hands and feet.

DH ( heeez govmint man ) I know what you're saying that people just don't want to hear it. But, we at HOT DOG TRAVELLER are helpless to desist. We simply must amble on with the dismal acknowledgement it may not be the message but the inept way in which it is delivered.

Our hopefull mission is after we are shed of this decision to take federal help has been routed and we again are at "liberty" to pusue our own ambitions we pray we will have been blessed with the wisdom to help change the things that can be changed and the wisdom to see the difference. HDT (heezme)