Chosin. Marne. Khe Sanh. Tet. Ramadi. Anbar Province. Pearl Harbor. Belleau Wood. Bataan. Auschwitz. Nanking. Dresden. Nagasaki. Hiroshima. Leyte Gulf. Mekong Delta. Kirkuk. Baghdad. Countless places of the past, countless places of the present. Guantanamo. Hanoi. Grenada. All places where United States soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, coast guardsmen and women have been detailed for various reasons, from support to front-line defenders. Many did not return from a detail, whether the first detail or the last of many. Many more returned mangled, crippled, forever living within a shell where there is safety. Many went under protest, but went anyway. Some went with vengeance, to repay presumed debts long past. Many went, followed their orders, survived, and just kept going, never returning. Iwo Jima. Battle of the Bulge. Haditha.
Many more never left the States, or if they did leave the States, never saw front-line action, serving instead as supporters of whatever cause was on hand as clerks, radiomen, crypies, corpsmen, aircrews, refuellers, loaders, construction engineers, convoy drivers, instructors, mentors, chaplains.
As John Prine once penned in a song, all the places were "foreign to my body, foreign to my shore," and yet when the need was great, when the task at hand was seemingly insurmountable, the volunteers just kept on coming. The pride, for the most part, was too strong to deny.
Sometimes to write of this eventful day of remembrance is a task I hope not to suffer, yet, to not write of it, however simple or nondescript would be a shame on my part. Therefore.
To all you ladies and gentlemen who have gone before me, with me, or who follow me in service to the greatest country in the world, officers and enlisted, active duty and reserve, support personnel or front line defenders, I can only say Thank You For Your Service. Thank you for standing tall, for representing this country in those foreign countries, for sailing the open oceans with no horizons in sight for days on end, for flying through hostile skies, for continuing to support my country as a safer place to live, a place of peaceful refuge.
Thank You!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Hap, Hap, Hap, Hap, Happy Birthday!
Hap, Hap, Hap, Hap, Happy Birthday! - © Kent Fletcher
August 10, 2008
Just a few short notes, hopefully to a point, about a day of celebration for moi. I rose early, around 0620, due to a little dog bouncing on my bladder, telling me she needed out, too, I suppose, and that the sun was coming up. As I already had my day planned, I hit the floor running, for the back door first, for the bathroom, second, and for the kitchen and a pot of joe, third.
Got the cats fed early, which is most always a lot of fun and excitement for them, and me, too. To watch them vying for a space, for the closest bowl and the first drop of food is always changing. Most everyone gets along well, with an occasional hiss or slap across the face. There are several picky, finicky eaters, having their own special spots to eat leisurely, and I appease them, too, to keep relative calm around the yard.
So I settled on the front stoop to enjoy a brief respite from the heat. A light breeze, a couple of birds flittering about in the trees, the rueful sounds of a train passing town, and the perfunctory ambulance going somewhere, sirens blaring, all on a Sunday morning, before 0800. Didn't eat anything, as the bananas I found a couple of days ago in the store weren't too healthy looking. No muffins to be had, too lazy to do an English muffin, so I just slurped my coffee. Took my regimen of pills and played on the puter for a few minutes.
About 0830 I put on my sandals, a light-colored t-shirt, grabbed a hat and my hanky, headed out to the side yard to unload the truck. See, I had been tasked on Friday by Leona Davis to pick up Davis Caronza around 0900, go out to her house, get her truck and large trailer, along with a big old weed eater and a chainsaw, to return to my neighbor's house to clear out brush and small trees from the fence lines. Got out to her house, and whoops! no trailer. I had called Crystal on Saturday evening, when I went out to feed the animals as to the whereabouts of said trailer, and it turned out Cassidy and Rick (her latest flame) had taken it to do some four-wheeling Saturday afternoon, and had not returned it. Crystal said she would pass the word to Cassidy to get the trailer back by Sunday morning. I guess Cassidy didn't get the word.
Davis and I loaded all the gear - weed eater, chainsaw, and electrical cord into the back of her truck, and headed on back to town. In the meantime I called Cassidy, but I guess she had her phone turned off, so I had to leave a message.
I got Davis going on the fence line, and I was helping a little here and there. After all, it was him getting the money, not me. After I had not received a call from Cassidy by 1100-ish or so, I called her again, paged her, and left another message, telling her I really needed that trailer. In the long run, all my calling was for naught, as one of the tires on the trailer had blown out sometime Saturday and was still not repaired by mid-day today.
Not wishing to wait on Cassiday (you know how young'uns are these days, irresponsible when they borrow stuff), I drove back out to Leona's while Davis continued his work, got my truck and returned to the site. See, I've got a trailer, too, and instead of waiting on Cassidy, it was easier just to use my own stuff, git-er-done. While I think Davis and I could have done the dirty with one trip to the trash pile, it took three with my lil thang.
About 1500, though, I noticed my thermometer on the tree, in the shade, was at 105 degrees. Davis was getting winded, so I called it a day for both of us. Damn, that's hot, folks, especially to be outside working in it. On my birthday. On my day of celebration of freedom for 21 years. Yep, that's what I wrote: Today, August 10, is my birthday, 62 years of longevity, and what am I doing? Yard work. Not that I had planned on a real celebration anyway, but if nothing else I had something gainful to do, with help. But alas, and alack, the job is still not done. And tomorrow, Monday, August 11 is another day.
I'm "relaxing" now, writing this, and drinking a couple of brews. I need to shower, put on some clean clothes and ankle down to Grandview for a body viewing. But thinking about the heat, and how tired I am at the moment, nope, don't think so. That's part of the problem with viewing the dead, they're all made-up with cosmetics, hair is trimmed, freshly shaved, with a suit or dress on. Heck, if the family's would just sport them out in their regular everyday wear to let those who come to view the body as they knew it, it would just be so much better. Besides, when one arrives at the Pearly Gates, does St. Peter really give a hoot or a holler about what clothes one has on?
Happy Birthday, Kent! I hope you enjoyed YOUR day, today!
August 10, 2008
Just a few short notes, hopefully to a point, about a day of celebration for moi. I rose early, around 0620, due to a little dog bouncing on my bladder, telling me she needed out, too, I suppose, and that the sun was coming up. As I already had my day planned, I hit the floor running, for the back door first, for the bathroom, second, and for the kitchen and a pot of joe, third.
Got the cats fed early, which is most always a lot of fun and excitement for them, and me, too. To watch them vying for a space, for the closest bowl and the first drop of food is always changing. Most everyone gets along well, with an occasional hiss or slap across the face. There are several picky, finicky eaters, having their own special spots to eat leisurely, and I appease them, too, to keep relative calm around the yard.
So I settled on the front stoop to enjoy a brief respite from the heat. A light breeze, a couple of birds flittering about in the trees, the rueful sounds of a train passing town, and the perfunctory ambulance going somewhere, sirens blaring, all on a Sunday morning, before 0800. Didn't eat anything, as the bananas I found a couple of days ago in the store weren't too healthy looking. No muffins to be had, too lazy to do an English muffin, so I just slurped my coffee. Took my regimen of pills and played on the puter for a few minutes.
About 0830 I put on my sandals, a light-colored t-shirt, grabbed a hat and my hanky, headed out to the side yard to unload the truck. See, I had been tasked on Friday by Leona Davis to pick up Davis Caronza around 0900, go out to her house, get her truck and large trailer, along with a big old weed eater and a chainsaw, to return to my neighbor's house to clear out brush and small trees from the fence lines. Got out to her house, and whoops! no trailer. I had called Crystal on Saturday evening, when I went out to feed the animals as to the whereabouts of said trailer, and it turned out Cassidy and Rick (her latest flame) had taken it to do some four-wheeling Saturday afternoon, and had not returned it. Crystal said she would pass the word to Cassidy to get the trailer back by Sunday morning. I guess Cassidy didn't get the word.
Davis and I loaded all the gear - weed eater, chainsaw, and electrical cord into the back of her truck, and headed on back to town. In the meantime I called Cassidy, but I guess she had her phone turned off, so I had to leave a message.
I got Davis going on the fence line, and I was helping a little here and there. After all, it was him getting the money, not me. After I had not received a call from Cassidy by 1100-ish or so, I called her again, paged her, and left another message, telling her I really needed that trailer. In the long run, all my calling was for naught, as one of the tires on the trailer had blown out sometime Saturday and was still not repaired by mid-day today.
Not wishing to wait on Cassiday (you know how young'uns are these days, irresponsible when they borrow stuff), I drove back out to Leona's while Davis continued his work, got my truck and returned to the site. See, I've got a trailer, too, and instead of waiting on Cassidy, it was easier just to use my own stuff, git-er-done. While I think Davis and I could have done the dirty with one trip to the trash pile, it took three with my lil thang.
About 1500, though, I noticed my thermometer on the tree, in the shade, was at 105 degrees. Davis was getting winded, so I called it a day for both of us. Damn, that's hot, folks, especially to be outside working in it. On my birthday. On my day of celebration of freedom for 21 years. Yep, that's what I wrote: Today, August 10, is my birthday, 62 years of longevity, and what am I doing? Yard work. Not that I had planned on a real celebration anyway, but if nothing else I had something gainful to do, with help. But alas, and alack, the job is still not done. And tomorrow, Monday, August 11 is another day.
I'm "relaxing" now, writing this, and drinking a couple of brews. I need to shower, put on some clean clothes and ankle down to Grandview for a body viewing. But thinking about the heat, and how tired I am at the moment, nope, don't think so. That's part of the problem with viewing the dead, they're all made-up with cosmetics, hair is trimmed, freshly shaved, with a suit or dress on. Heck, if the family's would just sport them out in their regular everyday wear to let those who come to view the body as they knew it, it would just be so much better. Besides, when one arrives at the Pearly Gates, does St. Peter really give a hoot or a holler about what clothes one has on?
Happy Birthday, Kent! I hope you enjoyed YOUR day, today!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Honest Lies and Other Misguided Thoughts---06-16-08
I get an email or two several times a week from this fella, a friend down in Southeast Texas. This'un is just too good not to post here. You can subscribe to his newsletters if you wish at newt281@embarqmail.com , or you can just write to him at that address.
Grab yourself an iced tea, get a grip on yourself, prepare to be entertained!
---
By Newt Harlan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Good morning y'all. I trust everyone passed a good weekend and all you fathers were suitably honored on Father’s Day. There’s coffee made on the stove and unsweetened tea and store-bought orange juice in the icebox. For those of you who need them, there’s fixing’s on the sideboard, including artificial sugar in pink packages some of y'all like so well. I remembered the doughnuts this morning, so y'all help yourselves.
Today dawned partly cloudy, hot and muggy. The temperature on my back porch at 5:30 this morning was 79 and it's supposed to get to 97 this afternoon. That won't quite match yesterday's 99, but I'm sure we'll find it plenty hot, and yes, the humidity will still be on the high side to complete our sauna...Hang in there, it's only 3 1/2 months until October.
Y'all might want to pay attention to these warnings today, since we're going to be discussing some fairly sensitive material.
This email is intended for the use of the addressees named above and contains information that is confidential and privileged (especially the part concerning damnyankees). It is definitely unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with low self-esteem, no sense of humor or irrational religious beliefs and should also be avoided by persons of questionable parentage. Persons sensitive to the words "damnyankee" will probably suffer a reaction; in fact care has been taken to assure this.
Those of you with an overwhelming fear of the unknown need to be aware that a hidden message has been inserted somewhere in this issue. Due to your irrational fear, it might be necessary for you to forego reading certain parts of this email, however I'm not at liberty to tell you which ones. Since you've already been exposed to portions, it might be a good idea for you to unplug your computer and light a dozen votive candles placed in a triangle around your monitor in the event that some of the secret message spills out. It will accomplish absolutely nothing, but you'll feel better about yourself.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
You Might Be A Blue Belly
For several years now Jeff Foxworthy and his friends have been entertaining us and I'm fairly sure by now you've heard most of the “You might be a redneck if” jokes. I enjoy most of these and often repeat them to friends and family. Nevertheless, I do resent it when those of the northern persuasion take it upon themselves to place everyone in the South into the redneck category, and look down their collective noses at us as if somehow living in the north makes them more intelligent than we Southerners, or whatever it is they think.
To tell the truth, the way damnyankees act and some of the things they do are just as funny as the antics of so-called rednecks, when they're viewed through a Southerner’s eyes. In order to be politically correct I shouldn't use the term damnyankees, so I'll call them what we've been calling them since the “War of Northern Aggression” – blue belly.
Here are my observations.
You might be a blue belly if...
1. Your last name is Lodge-Berkley or Smythe-Williams and you think it’s hilarious because Southerner’s have first names like Billy Joe, James Lee, Ludie Beth or Martha Fay.
2. You don't understand the concept that a man wearing his newest pair of bib overalls and a starched white shirt is just as dressed up as a man wearing a dark business suit.
3. You've never eaten okra, ever, not boiled, fried or in okra and tomatoes.
4. You think Heinz Hot Ketchup is REALLY spicy.
5. Your concept of roughing it is staying in a “Motel 6” instead of a “Sheraton”.
6. You use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken.
7. You have no idea where over yonder, down yonder or up yonder are.
8. You've never planned a vacation to coincide with the opening of deer season, a chili cookoff or the National Finals Rodeo.
9. You laugh when a group of people is referred to as y'all, but think it is perfectly okay to refer to them as you guys, even when it’s a group of women.
10. You think black-eyed peas are hog food and have no idea what purple hulls, crowders or cream peas are.
11. Your snow blower breaking down is a far bigger problem than your lawn mower breaking down.
12. You even know what a snow blower is.
13. You haven't the foggiest idea what a polecat is.
14. You're a male and can see no reason for owning a truck.
15. You don't know and don't want to know what a “spit-cup” is.
16. You have no problem pronouncing “Worcestershire Sauce” correctly and have never just given up and said, “pass the Lea and Perrins please.”
17. You don't have at least one can of WD-40 and one roll of duct tape somewhere in you house or at least in your truck.
18. You don't have at least 6 or 8 gimme caps advertising a product, company or organization hanging on your hat rack.
19. You can't understand why a head football coach is worth as much money as a university president.
20. You don't smile, speak or wave at people you meet on the street or while driving down the road, even if you don’t know them.
21. You don't understand that fixin’ to is a necessary step to accomplishing something.
22. You think 200 miles is too far to drive to watch a high school football game.
23. You refer to all western-style hats as “ten gallon hats.”
24. You have no idea what a doodad is.
25. You don’t know whether to be pleased or pissed off when someone tells you, “you’re worth about as much as a truckload of postholes.”
26. You can’t understand why drivers of diesel 4X4 pickups, hummers or Suburbans aren’t impressed with your Lexus, Mercedes or BMW. Just try running yours through a bog hole or in and out of a road ditch.
27. You think a stock tank is something the Army keeps on hand in case one of theirs breaks down or something.
28. You think NASCAR is an automobile dealership.
29. You have no idea of the therapeutic value of just sitting in the porch swing at grandma’s house.
30. You don’t understand when I tell you this whole essay is worth about as much as a milk bucket under a bull.
That’s about all I have for now. I hope you got a few chuckles. I imagine many of y’all have some of your own “you might be a blue belly if-----ideas.” If you’d like, share them with me and maybe we can do something interesting with them, even if it’s just to make a bunch of damnyankees wonder what the hell we’re up to.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
It’s obviously time to put a-30- on this attempt at literary mediocrity. I want to offer my usual thanks to y’all who again waded through all the twaddle and endured the blather and drivel until the bitter end. I’m blessed to have friends who overlook shoddy writing while in search of that one flash of literary brilliance…Unfortunately it didn’t appear today either. If parts of this look familiar, it’s probably because I found some of my old notes from back in early 2004 and used some material from them.
On the outside chance you actually enjoyed this effort, please forward it to your friends. In the event you loathed it, you can always forward it to your enemies; can you think of a better way to aggravate them? If nothing else, simply print it out for bathroom reading material and then you’ll have some extra paper in the event of an emergency.
If you have the time, ping me over an email and give me your comments on this effort, good or bad, I have an ego to feed and if I can move you to comment, I will have accomplished something.
Remember while you’re traveling down the road of life; try to dodge the used chewing gum and doggy piles. Be extra good to yourself and surprise someone with a random act of kindness. Remember, when you get to thinking you’ve run plumb out of friends, you haven’t yet… old Newt’s still over here. May God bless you and yours, my brothers and sisters and God Bless America!
My Pledge:
To maintain the highest standards of which I am capable or happen to feel like on any given day, to publish only information that is based on as much fact as I can find or make up, and most of all to have as much fun as possible without offending too many readers. The facts expressed here belong to everyone, the opinions are mine, and it’s your job to figure out which are which.
Newt Harlan
© 06-16-08
-30-
Grab yourself an iced tea, get a grip on yourself, prepare to be entertained!
---
By Newt Harlan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Good morning y'all. I trust everyone passed a good weekend and all you fathers were suitably honored on Father’s Day. There’s coffee made on the stove and unsweetened tea and store-bought orange juice in the icebox. For those of you who need them, there’s fixing’s on the sideboard, including artificial sugar in pink packages some of y'all like so well. I remembered the doughnuts this morning, so y'all help yourselves.
Today dawned partly cloudy, hot and muggy. The temperature on my back porch at 5:30 this morning was 79 and it's supposed to get to 97 this afternoon. That won't quite match yesterday's 99, but I'm sure we'll find it plenty hot, and yes, the humidity will still be on the high side to complete our sauna...Hang in there, it's only 3 1/2 months until October.
Y'all might want to pay attention to these warnings today, since we're going to be discussing some fairly sensitive material.
This email is intended for the use of the addressees named above and contains information that is confidential and privileged (especially the part concerning damnyankees). It is definitely unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with low self-esteem, no sense of humor or irrational religious beliefs and should also be avoided by persons of questionable parentage. Persons sensitive to the words "damnyankee" will probably suffer a reaction; in fact care has been taken to assure this.
Those of you with an overwhelming fear of the unknown need to be aware that a hidden message has been inserted somewhere in this issue. Due to your irrational fear, it might be necessary for you to forego reading certain parts of this email, however I'm not at liberty to tell you which ones. Since you've already been exposed to portions, it might be a good idea for you to unplug your computer and light a dozen votive candles placed in a triangle around your monitor in the event that some of the secret message spills out. It will accomplish absolutely nothing, but you'll feel better about yourself.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
You Might Be A Blue Belly
For several years now Jeff Foxworthy and his friends have been entertaining us and I'm fairly sure by now you've heard most of the “You might be a redneck if” jokes. I enjoy most of these and often repeat them to friends and family. Nevertheless, I do resent it when those of the northern persuasion take it upon themselves to place everyone in the South into the redneck category, and look down their collective noses at us as if somehow living in the north makes them more intelligent than we Southerners, or whatever it is they think.
To tell the truth, the way damnyankees act and some of the things they do are just as funny as the antics of so-called rednecks, when they're viewed through a Southerner’s eyes. In order to be politically correct I shouldn't use the term damnyankees, so I'll call them what we've been calling them since the “War of Northern Aggression” – blue belly.
Here are my observations.
You might be a blue belly if...
1. Your last name is Lodge-Berkley or Smythe-Williams and you think it’s hilarious because Southerner’s have first names like Billy Joe, James Lee, Ludie Beth or Martha Fay.
2. You don't understand the concept that a man wearing his newest pair of bib overalls and a starched white shirt is just as dressed up as a man wearing a dark business suit.
3. You've never eaten okra, ever, not boiled, fried or in okra and tomatoes.
4. You think Heinz Hot Ketchup is REALLY spicy.
5. Your concept of roughing it is staying in a “Motel 6” instead of a “Sheraton”.
6. You use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken.
7. You have no idea where over yonder, down yonder or up yonder are.
8. You've never planned a vacation to coincide with the opening of deer season, a chili cookoff or the National Finals Rodeo.
9. You laugh when a group of people is referred to as y'all, but think it is perfectly okay to refer to them as you guys, even when it’s a group of women.
10. You think black-eyed peas are hog food and have no idea what purple hulls, crowders or cream peas are.
11. Your snow blower breaking down is a far bigger problem than your lawn mower breaking down.
12. You even know what a snow blower is.
13. You haven't the foggiest idea what a polecat is.
14. You're a male and can see no reason for owning a truck.
15. You don't know and don't want to know what a “spit-cup” is.
16. You have no problem pronouncing “Worcestershire Sauce” correctly and have never just given up and said, “pass the Lea and Perrins please.”
17. You don't have at least one can of WD-40 and one roll of duct tape somewhere in you house or at least in your truck.
18. You don't have at least 6 or 8 gimme caps advertising a product, company or organization hanging on your hat rack.
19. You can't understand why a head football coach is worth as much money as a university president.
20. You don't smile, speak or wave at people you meet on the street or while driving down the road, even if you don’t know them.
21. You don't understand that fixin’ to is a necessary step to accomplishing something.
22. You think 200 miles is too far to drive to watch a high school football game.
23. You refer to all western-style hats as “ten gallon hats.”
24. You have no idea what a doodad is.
25. You don’t know whether to be pleased or pissed off when someone tells you, “you’re worth about as much as a truckload of postholes.”
26. You can’t understand why drivers of diesel 4X4 pickups, hummers or Suburbans aren’t impressed with your Lexus, Mercedes or BMW. Just try running yours through a bog hole or in and out of a road ditch.
27. You think a stock tank is something the Army keeps on hand in case one of theirs breaks down or something.
28. You think NASCAR is an automobile dealership.
29. You have no idea of the therapeutic value of just sitting in the porch swing at grandma’s house.
30. You don’t understand when I tell you this whole essay is worth about as much as a milk bucket under a bull.
That’s about all I have for now. I hope you got a few chuckles. I imagine many of y’all have some of your own “you might be a blue belly if-----ideas.” If you’d like, share them with me and maybe we can do something interesting with them, even if it’s just to make a bunch of damnyankees wonder what the hell we’re up to.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
It’s obviously time to put a-30- on this attempt at literary mediocrity. I want to offer my usual thanks to y’all who again waded through all the twaddle and endured the blather and drivel until the bitter end. I’m blessed to have friends who overlook shoddy writing while in search of that one flash of literary brilliance…Unfortunately it didn’t appear today either. If parts of this look familiar, it’s probably because I found some of my old notes from back in early 2004 and used some material from them.
On the outside chance you actually enjoyed this effort, please forward it to your friends. In the event you loathed it, you can always forward it to your enemies; can you think of a better way to aggravate them? If nothing else, simply print it out for bathroom reading material and then you’ll have some extra paper in the event of an emergency.
If you have the time, ping me over an email and give me your comments on this effort, good or bad, I have an ego to feed and if I can move you to comment, I will have accomplished something.
Remember while you’re traveling down the road of life; try to dodge the used chewing gum and doggy piles. Be extra good to yourself and surprise someone with a random act of kindness. Remember, when you get to thinking you’ve run plumb out of friends, you haven’t yet… old Newt’s still over here. May God bless you and yours, my brothers and sisters and God Bless America!
My Pledge:
To maintain the highest standards of which I am capable or happen to feel like on any given day, to publish only information that is based on as much fact as I can find or make up, and most of all to have as much fun as possible without offending too many readers. The facts expressed here belong to everyone, the opinions are mine, and it’s your job to figure out which are which.
Newt Harlan
© 06-16-08
-30-
Friday, June 6, 2008
Sumthin diffrent
This morning, as I do most every morning, I ran through several websites I've got listed on my toolbar, including a political satire site. http://wwwDaybydaycartoon.com, by Chris Muir. He's usually right on target with his stabs. And he does stab both ways, so everyone is fair game.
Down the page a little, he's started putting links to other places and this one caught my eye: The Mudville Gazette http://www.mudvillegazette.com/archives/030196.html. The first article there was about this Army disabled (now) vet who is touring the country "to meet the people that supported him while he was deployed (camping or sleeping in his truck when he has to)."
This is his blog: http://danielsbigtrip.blogspot.com/?danny . I've read the whole thing, word for word, only took a couple of hours. But it's interesting, for sure.
I hope he comes close to Alvarado, TX, on his return trip, if he gets that far. I'd sure like to meet him. Guess I'd better write him, tell him that, huh?
Down the page a little, he's started putting links to other places and this one caught my eye: The Mudville Gazette http://www.mudvillegazette.com/archives/030196.html. The first article there was about this Army disabled (now) vet who is touring the country "to meet the people that supported him while he was deployed (camping or sleeping in his truck when he has to)."
This is his blog: http://danielsbigtrip.blogspot.com/?danny . I've read the whole thing, word for word, only took a couple of hours. But it's interesting, for sure.
I hope he comes close to Alvarado, TX, on his return trip, if he gets that far. I'd sure like to meet him. Guess I'd better write him, tell him that, huh?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
FW: The end of deployment to Iraq
If you've seen this already, my apologies for repetition, but it's just too informative to not forward.
Best regards,
Fletch
Chuck Jamison wrote:
From: "Chuck Jamison"
To: "Chuck Jamison"
Subject: FW: The end of deployment to Iraq
Date: Wed, 4 Jun 2008 20:40:32 -0700
Here’s some end of tour thoughts from a returning Marine officer.
Cheers
Chuck
Date: Tue, 3 Jun 2008 04:04:08 -0700
From: johnwemett
Subject: The end of deployment to Iraq
Dear family & friends -
My deployment to Iraq is nearly over. This will be my last letter to all of you from Iraq. I'm officially detached from my command and am now awaiting transportation. I'll fly from Baghdad to Kuwait one day and then from Kuwait to Dulles to Tampa the day after. After I out-process at MarCent at CentCom in Tampa, I will fly to Camp Lejeune, NC to do my final checkout. That part will take the longest since I have to turn in all my gear and go through the health and dental screenings as well as all the administrative checklists. But at least I am done with this headquarters staff job and soon will be moving in the right direction - towards home.
Overall, I think I did my part to make a difference in Iraq. It may not have been any kind of significant difference, but I know that I directly influenced some of the Iraqi generals that I worked with and was able to show them better and more efficient ways to manage their programs at MOI Ops (Ministry of the Interior Operations) or in other words, where the police planning for religious events security, as well as elections, took place. I assisted with the planning and execution of the orders written to support those events and for the offensive police operations that took place in al-Kut, Basra, Mosul, and Sadr City in the news the past few months. The main problem with MOI is that its forces belong to the provinces that have Operational Centers established which control all security forces in that province, to include the military and the police. The provinces that don't have OCs have their police forces all controlled by the provincial chief of police. That's quite a deal for everyone except MOI because MOI has to pay its forces and supply equipment but has no operational control over any of them. It would be similar in America to having someone else provide you with an employee workforce for your company that you can control and direct, but you don't have to pay them or provide their tools or equipment. Somehow it works in Iraq, it is what it is, and everyone accepts it. Our best guess is that the Iraqi government has it set up that way in order to prevent any one ministry from becoming too powerful, which is good, because MOI is now easily the single largest employer of adult working age males in this country. If they had full control over all their forces, they could easily shut down this entire country, support a coup, etc.
I've learned that the Iraqi governmental organizational problems involving its structure and processes will only be fixed when the Iraqis see the problem and solve it themselves. No amount of manpower, time, and money on behalf of the Coalition Forces is going to change anything of that nature until the Iraqis fix it themselves.
I've learned that extortion through illegal taxes, governmental corruption from the highest level on down, and kidnapping for ransom is a way of life for the Iraqi people. Places such as Basra have an entire economy dependent upon it. It's ingrained into the culture and is an accepted way of life and a perceived legitimate way to make a living.
I've learned that the Iraqis share no sense of nationalism or pride in being an Iraqi. Their allegiance is to their tribe and region first and foremost. The concept that an American can pick up and simply move from one state to another and begin a new life is an alien concept to Iraqis and they wonder how we can just do that and not worry about giving up the security and protection from our "tribe."
But overall, I've learned that Iraq is what it is. This is the true clash of civilizations, of East meeting West. The English language is heavy on verbs and is an "action" language. Arabic is heavy on adjectives and is a very descriptive language. Western languages can be translated nearly word for word from one to another. Arabic has to be translated in such a way that the meaning and intent of the speaker or writer can be properly understood. Direct translation is meaningless.
The security situation in Iraq has dramatically improved in the full year that I've been here. The numbers prove it. Because it's not a headline-grabbing concept and doesn't fit the media's anti-Bush agenda, you don't hear much about Iraq as you did a year ago. We're winning, we're succeeding, life is better in Iraq for all. If we ensure that the Iraqi government is strong enough and properly trained and equipped and able to handle their own security before we pull out, then this war will have been worth it. If we just pull everyone out and cave in to our American short attention span mindedness because this war has been going on too long, then this whole country will simply implode and erupt in civil war, and all the time, money, effort, and lives lost will have been for nothing. Just like Vietnam, withdrawal because of public pressure before the host nation government is ready will just result in defeat. It's the American public that will decide if we win or lose this war. Complete and early withdrawal before the Iraqi government is fully ready will be a defeat. It's not over, but militarily we have already won. America will lose if we walk away and let Iraq fall. A strong Iraq will keep Iran in check, it always has. To let Iran control this region of the world would be a huge mistake. If you think gas prices are bad now, wait until you see what they would be if Iran controlled and influenced all Middle East oil exports. Controlling Iran is best done through a strong Iraq.
Thank-you for your prayers and support throughout this deployment, especially for my family. This has been a long deployment and not one that we ever want to repeat. I have not been home or seen my family since April, last year. Although this deployment has been informative and challenging, I have no desire to ever see this part of the world again. Hopefully, if things go right and the checkout process is smooth, I will be home in Clovis by mid-June.
Sorry that I don't have a picture attached to this letter this month. All my pictures are now packed and inaccessible at the moment.
Thank-you for your support. Take care.
John Wemett
Col USMC
"Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they
made a difference. The Marines don't have that problem."
President Ronald Reagan; 1985
Best regards,
Fletch
Chuck Jamison wrote:
From: "Chuck Jamison"
To: "Chuck Jamison"
Subject: FW: The end of deployment to Iraq
Date: Wed, 4 Jun 2008 20:40:32 -0700
Here’s some end of tour thoughts from a returning Marine officer.
Cheers
Chuck
Date: Tue, 3 Jun 2008 04:04:08 -0700
From: johnwemett
Subject: The end of deployment to Iraq
Dear family & friends -
My deployment to Iraq is nearly over. This will be my last letter to all of you from Iraq. I'm officially detached from my command and am now awaiting transportation. I'll fly from Baghdad to Kuwait one day and then from Kuwait to Dulles to Tampa the day after. After I out-process at MarCent at CentCom in Tampa, I will fly to Camp Lejeune, NC to do my final checkout. That part will take the longest since I have to turn in all my gear and go through the health and dental screenings as well as all the administrative checklists. But at least I am done with this headquarters staff job and soon will be moving in the right direction - towards home.
Overall, I think I did my part to make a difference in Iraq. It may not have been any kind of significant difference, but I know that I directly influenced some of the Iraqi generals that I worked with and was able to show them better and more efficient ways to manage their programs at MOI Ops (Ministry of the Interior Operations) or in other words, where the police planning for religious events security, as well as elections, took place. I assisted with the planning and execution of the orders written to support those events and for the offensive police operations that took place in al-Kut, Basra, Mosul, and Sadr City in the news the past few months. The main problem with MOI is that its forces belong to the provinces that have Operational Centers established which control all security forces in that province, to include the military and the police. The provinces that don't have OCs have their police forces all controlled by the provincial chief of police. That's quite a deal for everyone except MOI because MOI has to pay its forces and supply equipment but has no operational control over any of them. It would be similar in America to having someone else provide you with an employee workforce for your company that you can control and direct, but you don't have to pay them or provide their tools or equipment. Somehow it works in Iraq, it is what it is, and everyone accepts it. Our best guess is that the Iraqi government has it set up that way in order to prevent any one ministry from becoming too powerful, which is good, because MOI is now easily the single largest employer of adult working age males in this country. If they had full control over all their forces, they could easily shut down this entire country, support a coup, etc.
I've learned that the Iraqi governmental organizational problems involving its structure and processes will only be fixed when the Iraqis see the problem and solve it themselves. No amount of manpower, time, and money on behalf of the Coalition Forces is going to change anything of that nature until the Iraqis fix it themselves.
I've learned that extortion through illegal taxes, governmental corruption from the highest level on down, and kidnapping for ransom is a way of life for the Iraqi people. Places such as Basra have an entire economy dependent upon it. It's ingrained into the culture and is an accepted way of life and a perceived legitimate way to make a living.
I've learned that the Iraqis share no sense of nationalism or pride in being an Iraqi. Their allegiance is to their tribe and region first and foremost. The concept that an American can pick up and simply move from one state to another and begin a new life is an alien concept to Iraqis and they wonder how we can just do that and not worry about giving up the security and protection from our "tribe."
But overall, I've learned that Iraq is what it is. This is the true clash of civilizations, of East meeting West. The English language is heavy on verbs and is an "action" language. Arabic is heavy on adjectives and is a very descriptive language. Western languages can be translated nearly word for word from one to another. Arabic has to be translated in such a way that the meaning and intent of the speaker or writer can be properly understood. Direct translation is meaningless.
The security situation in Iraq has dramatically improved in the full year that I've been here. The numbers prove it. Because it's not a headline-grabbing concept and doesn't fit the media's anti-Bush agenda, you don't hear much about Iraq as you did a year ago. We're winning, we're succeeding, life is better in Iraq for all. If we ensure that the Iraqi government is strong enough and properly trained and equipped and able to handle their own security before we pull out, then this war will have been worth it. If we just pull everyone out and cave in to our American short attention span mindedness because this war has been going on too long, then this whole country will simply implode and erupt in civil war, and all the time, money, effort, and lives lost will have been for nothing. Just like Vietnam, withdrawal because of public pressure before the host nation government is ready will just result in defeat. It's the American public that will decide if we win or lose this war. Complete and early withdrawal before the Iraqi government is fully ready will be a defeat. It's not over, but militarily we have already won. America will lose if we walk away and let Iraq fall. A strong Iraq will keep Iran in check, it always has. To let Iran control this region of the world would be a huge mistake. If you think gas prices are bad now, wait until you see what they would be if Iran controlled and influenced all Middle East oil exports. Controlling Iran is best done through a strong Iraq.
Thank-you for your prayers and support throughout this deployment, especially for my family. This has been a long deployment and not one that we ever want to repeat. I have not been home or seen my family since April, last year. Although this deployment has been informative and challenging, I have no desire to ever see this part of the world again. Hopefully, if things go right and the checkout process is smooth, I will be home in Clovis by mid-June.
Sorry that I don't have a picture attached to this letter this month. All my pictures are now packed and inaccessible at the moment.
Thank-you for your support. Take care.
John Wemett
Col USMC
"Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they
made a difference. The Marines don't have that problem."
President Ronald Reagan; 1985
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Weighty Things
Weighty Things - © Kent Fletcher
June 1, 2008
In my cruising of the web, I keep coming across weighty things, mostly tons. "Tons" of information, "tons" of fun, "tons" of frivolity. Wow, must be tons of tons of things out there, eh?
Now, herein lies my quandary. How does one weigh tons of information, of fun, of frivolity? How does one weigh flights of fancy, the spoken word, the sung song, the preacher's comments on Sunday mornings? For these items, and others, of surreality, how does one weigh the thought processes? It's confusing to me.
To weigh the physical things, like radioisotopes, or birds, or virii, or ships, or bacteria, now there I can get a grip of the reality. Tiny as they are - the radioisotopes or virii or bacteria - they still have physical characteristics, don't they? And if they have physical characteristics, well, then they would weigh something, wouldn't they? And of course, we all know perfectly well that ships and buildings and water containers and cars and some animals like whales and elephants can and do weigh tons, but I wonder how many specimens of radioisotopes or virii or bacteria would it take to weigh a ton? If all humanity, and all the animal world were taken away, would there be enough radioisotopes or virii or bacteria left on this planet to even weigh a ton, or two? Now there is an interesting subject for some young entrepreneur to work on for a thesis. It would keep him busy for a ton of time, wouldn't it?
Thinking about all this weighs on my mind, on my thought processes, I'm getting a headache. But I will plod along for just a few more minutes.
Here's some thoughts, maybe a ton or two for YOU to ponder, as well:
- How can the weight of the earth be calculated, when all known living things in the universe only reside on this little orb, this minute speck in the sky? Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say, that approximations can be made up in the physical aspects of the elements, tons of rock, tons of water, all those physical things that can be touched, felt, weighed can be guesstimated out, extrapolated for density and volume and given a number. But compared to what? Has anyone ever been anywhere else but the Earth's moon for comparisons? Do we (humanity) have drilling stations set up on the dark side of the moon, out of eyesight of humanity back here at the home base, coring samples through that mass of.... what? How can the weight of the Earth orb be calculated, as we have nothing to really -compare it to?
- We've all heard tell of how things - thoughts, emotions, non-physical aspects - weigh on us, yes? We have "heavy" hearts at times, and we have "light-headedness"? Can someone tell me how to weigh an emotion? How much is a ton of emotion, or thought?
- Somehow, if the "thing" that holds all the universe together (gravity?) were to go away, what would happen to the tons of stuff we can see and feel? Would it all flatten into a pancake form? Would it get bigger? How big would the hole be where it all collects? Hm. Dr. Pepple, where are you?
- How is the weight of the air we breathe weighed? It is so light and fluffy (?), how can one get a grasp, really, on air? If one takes a cube, say a cubic foot of space, of air, and extracts all the air within that confine, can the weight of the cube after the extraction be compared to the weight before? What's left, just a lot of dead air? And would the cube even exist, anyway, because as I understand it, there's tons of air both inside a given space, and outside, and if the air inside is removed, what's to keep the air outside from collapsing the whole thing? Hm.
- How much does a cubic foot of water weigh at 10,000 feet below sea level? There are trenches that deep, I think. Does the weight of an object really increase the closer to the core of the Earth it is? Does a pound of weight on the surface eventually weigh a ton somewhere below that? I'm not asking about the cumulative weight on top, the tons on top, just that one cubic foot of... whatever - water, air, elephants.
- If Superman has super-human abilities, how much does he really weigh? Tons?
- How much space does a ton of air take up?
- How much space does a ton of information take up? Or fun? Or frivolity? In our shrinking environment, can we really afford to have all these weighty things? Will all these tons of information eventually do us in?
Think about all this, will you? Let me know your thoughts, even your tons of thoughts. I've got a couple of cubby-holes it could all be stored in for future generations.
The more I think about all this, the more I draw on my consciousness about "things". How many thoughts make up a ton of thoughts? But I'm repeating myself, so I'll end this, now, with just one more thought.
As I've written elsewhere, and drawing upon an old cartoon from many years gone by, sometimes I sits, sometimes I sits and thinks, and when I sits and thinks long enough, I goes to sleep.
June 1, 2008
In my cruising of the web, I keep coming across weighty things, mostly tons. "Tons" of information, "tons" of fun, "tons" of frivolity. Wow, must be tons of tons of things out there, eh?
Now, herein lies my quandary. How does one weigh tons of information, of fun, of frivolity? How does one weigh flights of fancy, the spoken word, the sung song, the preacher's comments on Sunday mornings? For these items, and others, of surreality, how does one weigh the thought processes? It's confusing to me.
To weigh the physical things, like radioisotopes, or birds, or virii, or ships, or bacteria, now there I can get a grip of the reality. Tiny as they are - the radioisotopes or virii or bacteria - they still have physical characteristics, don't they? And if they have physical characteristics, well, then they would weigh something, wouldn't they? And of course, we all know perfectly well that ships and buildings and water containers and cars and some animals like whales and elephants can and do weigh tons, but I wonder how many specimens of radioisotopes or virii or bacteria would it take to weigh a ton? If all humanity, and all the animal world were taken away, would there be enough radioisotopes or virii or bacteria left on this planet to even weigh a ton, or two? Now there is an interesting subject for some young entrepreneur to work on for a thesis. It would keep him busy for a ton of time, wouldn't it?
Thinking about all this weighs on my mind, on my thought processes, I'm getting a headache. But I will plod along for just a few more minutes.
Here's some thoughts, maybe a ton or two for YOU to ponder, as well:
- How can the weight of the earth be calculated, when all known living things in the universe only reside on this little orb, this minute speck in the sky? Yeah, yeah, I know what you're going to say, that approximations can be made up in the physical aspects of the elements, tons of rock, tons of water, all those physical things that can be touched, felt, weighed can be guesstimated out, extrapolated for density and volume and given a number. But compared to what? Has anyone ever been anywhere else but the Earth's moon for comparisons? Do we (humanity) have drilling stations set up on the dark side of the moon, out of eyesight of humanity back here at the home base, coring samples through that mass of.... what? How can the weight of the Earth orb be calculated, as we have nothing to really -compare it to?
- We've all heard tell of how things - thoughts, emotions, non-physical aspects - weigh on us, yes? We have "heavy" hearts at times, and we have "light-headedness"? Can someone tell me how to weigh an emotion? How much is a ton of emotion, or thought?
- Somehow, if the "thing" that holds all the universe together (gravity?) were to go away, what would happen to the tons of stuff we can see and feel? Would it all flatten into a pancake form? Would it get bigger? How big would the hole be where it all collects? Hm. Dr. Pepple, where are you?
- How is the weight of the air we breathe weighed? It is so light and fluffy (?), how can one get a grasp, really, on air? If one takes a cube, say a cubic foot of space, of air, and extracts all the air within that confine, can the weight of the cube after the extraction be compared to the weight before? What's left, just a lot of dead air? And would the cube even exist, anyway, because as I understand it, there's tons of air both inside a given space, and outside, and if the air inside is removed, what's to keep the air outside from collapsing the whole thing? Hm.
- How much does a cubic foot of water weigh at 10,000 feet below sea level? There are trenches that deep, I think. Does the weight of an object really increase the closer to the core of the Earth it is? Does a pound of weight on the surface eventually weigh a ton somewhere below that? I'm not asking about the cumulative weight on top, the tons on top, just that one cubic foot of... whatever - water, air, elephants.
- If Superman has super-human abilities, how much does he really weigh? Tons?
- How much space does a ton of air take up?
- How much space does a ton of information take up? Or fun? Or frivolity? In our shrinking environment, can we really afford to have all these weighty things? Will all these tons of information eventually do us in?
Think about all this, will you? Let me know your thoughts, even your tons of thoughts. I've got a couple of cubby-holes it could all be stored in for future generations.
The more I think about all this, the more I draw on my consciousness about "things". How many thoughts make up a ton of thoughts? But I'm repeating myself, so I'll end this, now, with just one more thought.
As I've written elsewhere, and drawing upon an old cartoon from many years gone by, sometimes I sits, sometimes I sits and thinks, and when I sits and thinks long enough, I goes to sleep.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Two Words
Two Words - © Kent Fletcher
May 6, 2008
Green. Diverse. Tiresome, tiresome words. Used, abused, rode hard and put-up-wet-words. Useless words except to the purveyors of the new age of experience. I am so tired of hearing them and they will never return to their original meanings.
Green comes about not as a color per se, but as a movement among the environmentalists, the tree-huggers, the water-huggers, the pacifists who worry more about a snail darter's demise somewhere than the continuance of human life, itself. Green has invaded everyday speech ad nauseam from recycling aluminum to giant windmills, as if those two extremes were not already on the map. And yet, while a community may be suffering because food supplies cannot be garnered in a timely manner, these same environmentalists will stop at nothing to prohibit exploration of new areas of attainment of energy-producing products. While the community is aching for suitable housing - a roof over their heads, a bit of warmth in cool weather, a bit of cool in warm weather, a dry spot in a flood - the environmentalists, the Greens will prohibit the cutting and processing of old-growth forests for the sake of their grandchildren, who indeed may be the ones aching in the future, if not now.
I would hope that more people, at least more adults care more about their surroundings than the general public realizes. I remember driving down a road outside New Orleans and seeing McDonalds wrappers flying willy-nilly out the windows as a family drove somewhere. It disgusted me, but being a newbie to the area, I said nothing. Knowing remotely of the populace in that area, I could have been shot for my concerns. Where I live now, in Texas, I keep the right-of-way on the property I rent as free of trash as I can, going beyond the property line and picking up styrofoam cups, plastic cups, beer cans or bottles, food wrappers, flyers, advertisement sheets from newspapers, sticks of size, whatever out of a sense of pride, if nothing else, for my corner of the world. But today's society is such a throw-away society with a give-a-hoot attitude, it's a wonder there is a clean spot anywhere in the world. Shrink-wrap, plastic bottles and plates and knives and forks and spoons litter the landscape like new-fallen snow at times. Companies have been formed and are quite profitable, hiring unskilled labor (and maybe even skilled labor, too) to walk the highways and byways of this nation to pick up others' trash, and charge the government - city, county, state, federal - for the services. Local governments such as cities or counties have their own readily-available work crews - those incarcerated for trivial reasons, yet sentenced to confinement at the taxpayers' expense nonetheless - out in the hot, hot summertime clearing out ditches of brush and vines. With that I agree wholeheartedly. Reminds me of "Cool Hand Luke", should be more, far more utilization of inmates across the board. What's wrong with a chain-gang, anyway? I know I'll get flack for that, so I say, bring it on.
Diverse means what, not-the-same-old, same old, does it not? From Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913), 1. Different; unlike; dissimilar; distinct; separate; 2. Capable of various forms; multiform.
I look around the Internet on a daily basis and find countless websites wherein folks are looking for diversity when they move. Tell it like it is, folks, why don't you? If you want to find a neighborhood that has both reaches of the wealth spectrum - lower income to higher income, just state as such. If you want to live among those folks who don't have a lot, so that you can feel better about yourself, say so. If you want to live in a gated community, where the riff-raff cannot easily get in, say so. If you want to live in an integrated neighborhood where most everyone is on equal footing, say so. Go for it. But please, give me a break!
If you want to go "green", please, do so, but don't beat me around my head and shoulders about what you want. I've got my own problems to deal with. If you want diversity, open your eyes, go find it for yourself, just don't talk my ear off about it. It's a wide-open world out there, all for your taking! Go live your life for yourself without taking any prisoners!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Sunday Afternoon Revelation
Sunday Afternoon Revelation - © Kent Fletcher
April 6, 2008
This morning I awoke to a potentially beautiful day. And it has been a beautiful day. Yesterday I had loaded the bed of my pickup with broken, dried-out limbs from the pine trees, and some other assorted limbs, with the intention of taking it all out to Leona's to throw on the future burn pile. Then, about 10, Leona just happened to call, talking about some sycamore wood from a tree in her front yard she needed hauled around to the same burn pile. I told her Belle and I would be out in about 30 minutes.
So Belle and I loaded up and ankled out to Leona's. Leona is still in the process of cleaning out/cleaning up her abode. When I walked in the house, she was cleaning out her pantry, which I built for her a couple of years ago. We yakked for a few minutes while Belle and Priss played, and Biddy growled. In a bit I drove on out in the field and dumped my load. I came back to the house and helped her load her own truck with the sycamore limbs and hauled them out to the burn pile as well. I left Belle in Leona's care and returned to the house to pick up a couple of garbage cans full of thorny vines and returned to her house.
While still in the field, I stopped by my old Volvo with the intent of breaking loose that second bolt on the starter. I was able to get the socket on the bolt along with the wobbly and the extensions and the breaker bar. But alas, I don't have the physical strength to turn the bolt. Disgruntled, I gave it up and went back out of the field, returning to the house. I helped Leona move the future firewood logs to the side of the house, then went inside with her, returning to her kitchen.
She was cleaning off her kitchen counters of jars of canned foods, of which I came home with a dozen or so, anything from blueberry jam to peanut butter to spicy mustard, and a couple of yams, to boot. Then we sat in the living room while she rested, and Belle fell asleep on my lap, while we were just talking about this, that, and the other.
I guess I finally left around 2, driving Belle and myself back to our own digs. Leaving Belle at home (the heat index was up at the time, and she's a young pup), I took the frontage road up to Burleson, about 10 miles north. I had a hankering for beer and wine. So for the first time in about 1½ years, I whipped into Albertson's and bought a six-pack of Coors and a bottle of Liebfraumilch. On the way back, I stopped in the Smoke Shack for my weekly of seegars, and began the trek back to the abode, again on the frontage road. Interesting things one can see on a frontage road, that are otherwise passed by in quick succession of but a blur when on the interstate.
Got home about 4:30, grabbed that first brew, and ankled out in the yard, with Belle on my heels. Man, what a nice day, today. The yard thermometer was reading about 82F, and all was good. I called several people, one in McKinney, another in Dallas, a friend in Madison, MS, and my niece in Jackson, MS.
Finishing off that first brew, I proceeded to the 2nd one. Mistake in the making. I knew when I bought the brew that I'd sit and drink the stuff like water. And I did. Should have bought Red Dog, a lot cheaper, but palatable. After all, the content doesn't really matter, it's the taste in the long run, for in the end the brew is just pithed away. I like that term, "pithed," cause I can get away with it on rhyme alone.
Coming up on 5ish, and the cats were gathering, I dropped a couple of cans of food in warm water in the sink in the kitchen. About 15 minutes later, I began to ring the cat dinner bell, which is a stainless steel bowl with rings on the side. They come running when they hear it. All in the kitchen, of course, with a little meowing going on from a select few. Sometimes I mix a little dry in with the stuff, to give it some substance, if nothing else. Then I have to forge my way through a herd of cats to the outside picnic table where their bowls and saucers are. Must be around a dozen or so, some are everyday cats, others are just happened-by types. Some I don't really like - toms mostly - but all are welcome to the tidbits if they can get to it all. Just no fighting allowed.
The cats are fed, now, coming up on 6 p.m., and even Belle has had her morsel of her own food, I think. She loves cat food, as does any dog I've ever run across. Keeping a close eye on her and attempting to feed the cats alone is a chore in itself. If I turn my back for a moment, I know without looking where she is, already.
And I'm working on my third brew already. Gentle Reader, you may be asking what the Sunday Afternoon Revelation is, by now. Well, it's this: I don't need beer on a regular schedule. Heck, I'd dare say, I don't need it at all. When I quit the stuff before Christmas, maybe Thanksgiving, 2006, I was going through a case in four or less days. Talk about pithing my money away, what an understatement. But beer, good beer sure does go down smoothly and serenely. It's the after-effects that I really don't like, and frankly, until today, I'd forgotten all about. One more reason I don't imbibe like I usta. Pithing my money away. I suppose I could get the non-alcoholic Coors, or some other brand, but why?
And while I'm typing this, I'm somewhat inebriated on just shy of three beers. Think I'd better get some food in my gut before the next one. I'm a cheap drunk, huh? Better yet, I can freely admit it!
April 6, 2008
This morning I awoke to a potentially beautiful day. And it has been a beautiful day. Yesterday I had loaded the bed of my pickup with broken, dried-out limbs from the pine trees, and some other assorted limbs, with the intention of taking it all out to Leona's to throw on the future burn pile. Then, about 10, Leona just happened to call, talking about some sycamore wood from a tree in her front yard she needed hauled around to the same burn pile. I told her Belle and I would be out in about 30 minutes.
So Belle and I loaded up and ankled out to Leona's. Leona is still in the process of cleaning out/cleaning up her abode. When I walked in the house, she was cleaning out her pantry, which I built for her a couple of years ago. We yakked for a few minutes while Belle and Priss played, and Biddy growled. In a bit I drove on out in the field and dumped my load. I came back to the house and helped her load her own truck with the sycamore limbs and hauled them out to the burn pile as well. I left Belle in Leona's care and returned to the house to pick up a couple of garbage cans full of thorny vines and returned to her house.
While still in the field, I stopped by my old Volvo with the intent of breaking loose that second bolt on the starter. I was able to get the socket on the bolt along with the wobbly and the extensions and the breaker bar. But alas, I don't have the physical strength to turn the bolt. Disgruntled, I gave it up and went back out of the field, returning to the house. I helped Leona move the future firewood logs to the side of the house, then went inside with her, returning to her kitchen.
She was cleaning off her kitchen counters of jars of canned foods, of which I came home with a dozen or so, anything from blueberry jam to peanut butter to spicy mustard, and a couple of yams, to boot. Then we sat in the living room while she rested, and Belle fell asleep on my lap, while we were just talking about this, that, and the other.
I guess I finally left around 2, driving Belle and myself back to our own digs. Leaving Belle at home (the heat index was up at the time, and she's a young pup), I took the frontage road up to Burleson, about 10 miles north. I had a hankering for beer and wine. So for the first time in about 1½ years, I whipped into Albertson's and bought a six-pack of Coors and a bottle of Liebfraumilch. On the way back, I stopped in the Smoke Shack for my weekly of seegars, and began the trek back to the abode, again on the frontage road. Interesting things one can see on a frontage road, that are otherwise passed by in quick succession of but a blur when on the interstate.
Got home about 4:30, grabbed that first brew, and ankled out in the yard, with Belle on my heels. Man, what a nice day, today. The yard thermometer was reading about 82F, and all was good. I called several people, one in McKinney, another in Dallas, a friend in Madison, MS, and my niece in Jackson, MS.
Finishing off that first brew, I proceeded to the 2nd one. Mistake in the making. I knew when I bought the brew that I'd sit and drink the stuff like water. And I did. Should have bought Red Dog, a lot cheaper, but palatable. After all, the content doesn't really matter, it's the taste in the long run, for in the end the brew is just pithed away. I like that term, "pithed," cause I can get away with it on rhyme alone.
Coming up on 5ish, and the cats were gathering, I dropped a couple of cans of food in warm water in the sink in the kitchen. About 15 minutes later, I began to ring the cat dinner bell, which is a stainless steel bowl with rings on the side. They come running when they hear it. All in the kitchen, of course, with a little meowing going on from a select few. Sometimes I mix a little dry in with the stuff, to give it some substance, if nothing else. Then I have to forge my way through a herd of cats to the outside picnic table where their bowls and saucers are. Must be around a dozen or so, some are everyday cats, others are just happened-by types. Some I don't really like - toms mostly - but all are welcome to the tidbits if they can get to it all. Just no fighting allowed.
The cats are fed, now, coming up on 6 p.m., and even Belle has had her morsel of her own food, I think. She loves cat food, as does any dog I've ever run across. Keeping a close eye on her and attempting to feed the cats alone is a chore in itself. If I turn my back for a moment, I know without looking where she is, already.
And I'm working on my third brew already. Gentle Reader, you may be asking what the Sunday Afternoon Revelation is, by now. Well, it's this: I don't need beer on a regular schedule. Heck, I'd dare say, I don't need it at all. When I quit the stuff before Christmas, maybe Thanksgiving, 2006, I was going through a case in four or less days. Talk about pithing my money away, what an understatement. But beer, good beer sure does go down smoothly and serenely. It's the after-effects that I really don't like, and frankly, until today, I'd forgotten all about. One more reason I don't imbibe like I usta. Pithing my money away. I suppose I could get the non-alcoholic Coors, or some other brand, but why?
And while I'm typing this, I'm somewhat inebriated on just shy of three beers. Think I'd better get some food in my gut before the next one. I'm a cheap drunk, huh? Better yet, I can freely admit it!
Friday, April 4, 2008
40 Years
40 Years - © Kent Fletcher
April 4, 2008
And what were YOU doing on this anniversary date? Were you in school? Were you working? Were you enjoying the fruits of your labor? Or were you grossly entrenched in your own sorry, pitiful self?
I was on my way to the metropolis of Oakdale, Louisiana, taking a baby in a casket for burial there. I had just passed through the loop at Monroe, Louisiana, heading south on US 165 when I heard the news that Martin Luther King had been assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. "Oh, my God," thought I, as I kept moving on down the road. At the moment I was more concerned about my own safety than I was for the rest of the world, the black and the white communities, specifically.
I could do nothing but continue my journey to Oakdale with my cargo. I was the ripe young age of a mere 21 years, the product of a middle-class white family, and working in a family business - a funeral home. Thinking back now, but probably not then, the business also provided an ambulance service to the communities surrounding Cleveland, Mississippi, and either our business or our competitor's business was called at all hours of the days and nights for "emergencies" of many kinds, anything from a stubbed toe to a catastrophic wreck somewhere within a 20- to 30-mile radius. I can remember some very specific wrecks I was called out on, involving drunks, idiots, and in general ne'er-do-wells, resulting in grievous, bloody injuries to the "innocent" folks who were minding their own business.
I remember one wreck specifically that happened on State Highway 448 just west of Shaw, Mississippi, around 10 p.m. An older black man and his wife were heading home from somewhere and were hit head-on by a white man in another truck. The white man was profusely drunk and relatively unscathed in the incident. Other than his drunken stupor and wild ranting and raving about "the niggas on the road," in his way, he needed no attention whatsoever. I doubt seriously I would have carried him anywhere, anyway, as his attitude toward some colored folks was abysmal in my eye. The colored folks were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time, but I don't think anything could have changed that.
This black man and his wife, however, were in much worse shape, as they were stone-cold sober at the time of the incident. I seem to remember they were driving an old Chevy pickup which had a hard, steel dashboard, no padding. The old lady had "kissed" that dashboard with her face, specifically her lower jaw. In addition to her mouth, there was another gaping hole just above her gum line that looked like another mouth, except the bleeding was profuse, the tissue looking like hamburger meat. I went to the old man and offered him and his wife a ride back to the hospital in Cleveland for her injuries to be taken care of.
The old man accepted my offer, we loaded up his wife, and as he was closing the door to the back of the ambulance, he hesitated, then called out, "Hey, nigga, you takes care of my stuff, be back in a while!" Of course, I cannot really write what he said, but it was in that vernacular. I don't think our business even billed that call out, as there was really no sense in it. But I did feel good about it, that I actually helped someone less fortunate out in a time of need.
Back to the story. For some five or ten miles north of Oakdale, at that time, there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the way of civilization along that highway: No small towns, no street lamps, no nothing other than a state forest. On this particular night there was also no moon and a very clear sky. I was literally within sight of the town of Oakdale when I had a blowout. I'm here to tell you it was dark on that road, very dark. There was no jack in the station wagon, either. I had no choice but to flag down a passer-by, ask him/her to stop at the first gas station along the way, send help.
I must have stood out there for some 10 minutes before I saw an approaching somethingoranother. I was in a dark suit with a white shirt, frantically waving a white handkerchief in the wind as the 18-wheeler lumbered past. The driver was able to stop within a very short distance, and I was trotting along after him. I arrived at the side of the tractor about the time the driver rolled down the window and looked out. From his elevated position he appeared to be one of the biggest black men I had ever seen. I made my case very quickly and short, saying I had a baby's body in the car, I was trying to get to the town we could both see in the distance, I couldn't just leave my cargo and walk into town, would he please stop at the first gas station he came to, and ask someone to send help. No problem, says he, and off he goes. I wish, now, I had gotten his name, for I would have written him, thanking him for his assistance. Really, I would!
In about 15 or 20 minutes, someone came out and changed the spare for me. I drove on into town, paid off the service station, and proceeded to the funeral home with my cargo. As was the norm, I called home, and my Mother insisted I stay in Oakdale for the night. She said events in Memphis were unfolding fast and furious, and no telling with the "niggas" were going to do now, that I could be in mortal danger if I was "on the road." So I slept on a couch that night.
The drive back home the next day was completely uneventful. Could it have been that the populace was aware but not extremely prejudiced about the assassination? Could it have been the news had not arrived in that sleepy little section of the country? Who knows, and after 40 years, does it really matter? I had a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I was on the edge of history in the making, and I was alive and well, that's what counted the most. Wow!
Footnote: The only "consolation" for a lot of folks about MLK being killed is that he was not killed within the borders of Mississippi. I tend to agree, although not as a consolation, but as a fortunate thing for my home state. Memphis was close enough. Can you imagine what that great movie of a couple of years ago would be like had he been killed IN Mississippi? Mississippi Burning would never have come about, because Mississippi would not even be among the living, now.
April 4, 2008
And what were YOU doing on this anniversary date? Were you in school? Were you working? Were you enjoying the fruits of your labor? Or were you grossly entrenched in your own sorry, pitiful self?
I was on my way to the metropolis of Oakdale, Louisiana, taking a baby in a casket for burial there. I had just passed through the loop at Monroe, Louisiana, heading south on US 165 when I heard the news that Martin Luther King had been assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. "Oh, my God," thought I, as I kept moving on down the road. At the moment I was more concerned about my own safety than I was for the rest of the world, the black and the white communities, specifically.
I could do nothing but continue my journey to Oakdale with my cargo. I was the ripe young age of a mere 21 years, the product of a middle-class white family, and working in a family business - a funeral home. Thinking back now, but probably not then, the business also provided an ambulance service to the communities surrounding Cleveland, Mississippi, and either our business or our competitor's business was called at all hours of the days and nights for "emergencies" of many kinds, anything from a stubbed toe to a catastrophic wreck somewhere within a 20- to 30-mile radius. I can remember some very specific wrecks I was called out on, involving drunks, idiots, and in general ne'er-do-wells, resulting in grievous, bloody injuries to the "innocent" folks who were minding their own business.
I remember one wreck specifically that happened on State Highway 448 just west of Shaw, Mississippi, around 10 p.m. An older black man and his wife were heading home from somewhere and were hit head-on by a white man in another truck. The white man was profusely drunk and relatively unscathed in the incident. Other than his drunken stupor and wild ranting and raving about "the niggas on the road," in his way, he needed no attention whatsoever. I doubt seriously I would have carried him anywhere, anyway, as his attitude toward some colored folks was abysmal in my eye. The colored folks were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time, but I don't think anything could have changed that.
This black man and his wife, however, were in much worse shape, as they were stone-cold sober at the time of the incident. I seem to remember they were driving an old Chevy pickup which had a hard, steel dashboard, no padding. The old lady had "kissed" that dashboard with her face, specifically her lower jaw. In addition to her mouth, there was another gaping hole just above her gum line that looked like another mouth, except the bleeding was profuse, the tissue looking like hamburger meat. I went to the old man and offered him and his wife a ride back to the hospital in Cleveland for her injuries to be taken care of.
The old man accepted my offer, we loaded up his wife, and as he was closing the door to the back of the ambulance, he hesitated, then called out, "Hey, nigga, you takes care of my stuff, be back in a while!" Of course, I cannot really write what he said, but it was in that vernacular. I don't think our business even billed that call out, as there was really no sense in it. But I did feel good about it, that I actually helped someone less fortunate out in a time of need.
Back to the story. For some five or ten miles north of Oakdale, at that time, there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the way of civilization along that highway: No small towns, no street lamps, no nothing other than a state forest. On this particular night there was also no moon and a very clear sky. I was literally within sight of the town of Oakdale when I had a blowout. I'm here to tell you it was dark on that road, very dark. There was no jack in the station wagon, either. I had no choice but to flag down a passer-by, ask him/her to stop at the first gas station along the way, send help.
I must have stood out there for some 10 minutes before I saw an approaching somethingoranother. I was in a dark suit with a white shirt, frantically waving a white handkerchief in the wind as the 18-wheeler lumbered past. The driver was able to stop within a very short distance, and I was trotting along after him. I arrived at the side of the tractor about the time the driver rolled down the window and looked out. From his elevated position he appeared to be one of the biggest black men I had ever seen. I made my case very quickly and short, saying I had a baby's body in the car, I was trying to get to the town we could both see in the distance, I couldn't just leave my cargo and walk into town, would he please stop at the first gas station he came to, and ask someone to send help. No problem, says he, and off he goes. I wish, now, I had gotten his name, for I would have written him, thanking him for his assistance. Really, I would!
In about 15 or 20 minutes, someone came out and changed the spare for me. I drove on into town, paid off the service station, and proceeded to the funeral home with my cargo. As was the norm, I called home, and my Mother insisted I stay in Oakdale for the night. She said events in Memphis were unfolding fast and furious, and no telling with the "niggas" were going to do now, that I could be in mortal danger if I was "on the road." So I slept on a couch that night.
The drive back home the next day was completely uneventful. Could it have been that the populace was aware but not extremely prejudiced about the assassination? Could it have been the news had not arrived in that sleepy little section of the country? Who knows, and after 40 years, does it really matter? I had a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I was on the edge of history in the making, and I was alive and well, that's what counted the most. Wow!
Footnote: The only "consolation" for a lot of folks about MLK being killed is that he was not killed within the borders of Mississippi. I tend to agree, although not as a consolation, but as a fortunate thing for my home state. Memphis was close enough. Can you imagine what that great movie of a couple of years ago would be like had he been killed IN Mississippi? Mississippi Burning would never have come about, because Mississippi would not even be among the living, now.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
George Davis, Rest In Peace
George Lincoln Davis - Rest In Peace - © Kent Fletcher
January 13, 2008
He came into this world over 60 years ago with nothing, naked, wet, screaming his new lungs out. He departed this world today with nothing, at peace with his Maker.
I first met George Davis at a Christmas function in Grandview, Texas, in 2004. At first meeting, I did not know he was blind as a bat, that he was suffering all sorts of maladies, because he sure didn't let on to them. When we were introduced, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Do you owe me some money?" Of course, I was somewhat taken aback, actually speechless for a moment. I soon learned the money thing was always at the forefront of just about every conversation I ever had with him.
I had moved into a mobile home where he and his bride, Leona, had lived some 30+ years ago. I was needing a washing machine in the worst way, so I told Leona when I paid my rent in January, 2005. She said she had a washing machine out at her place that I could use, I just had to go get it. She called George at home and told him I was coming. When I arrived, he was standing in the yard waiting. He said the machine was around back, and I would find a dolly somewhere to move it with. I got it around to the front yard, and he said, "Is it the black one?" Once again I was kind of bumfuzzled, saying the only one I saw was white, was there another one. He chuckled a bit, and said no, just the white one.
The washing machine was shot as I found out later, needing some plumbing work done, at least. So I dealt with still not having a washing machine for a while, and George only said he'd find me another one. Which he did.
Life rocked along for a spell. I noticed George was out and about a lot, hitching rides with his hires, Archie and Jeannette. I offered on several occasions to haul him around so that Archie and Jeannette could do their own thing, like making money, not that George didn't pay them when he was hitch-hiking. The day finally came when he called me, asking me to take him to Meridian, TX, the next day. So I was up and at it early the next morning, getting out to his house around 9. We tootled off in his car to Meridian, but going where, there, I had no idea. It was the meat locker, where he was just pricing sausage.
By that time, lunch time had rolled around, so he directed me to a dive out west of Meridian, can't recall the name now. He ordered chicken and dumplings and a couple of veggies. He finished the veggies, and promptly put the dive on his "list". As I was to find out much later, he categorized places to eat as good and/or bad, thus the "list". Over the years, if a place was on his list, he never went there again. And it was a good topic of conversation between two old men tooling down the road on various adventures.
Thus an inevitable friendship began with a road trip. I hauled him around usually in the mornings near bout every day of the week, until he had to go on blood dialysis, a couple of years ago. He had been on peritoneal dialysis for several years and suddenly he developed an infection around the tubing, thus being the catalyst to move on to hemodialysis. Where he had been "tied" to a machine for some 14 hours per day, every day, he was now "tied" to a machine for only four hours a day, three days a week, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. The three days he was "off", well, that's when he wanted to get out of the house, go wheeling and dealing and visiting.
Let's see, I took him a myriad of places, Glen Rose for lunch at Hammond's; Dallas to the VA; Maypearl just last week to check on some jerky; Meridian a number of times to get summer sausage; Venus to check on his rental property; Fort Worth to pick up liquor for Christmas presents; Joshua to check out a new BBQ place he heard about on Trade Fair; Crowley to check out a Cajun restaurant that wasn't; Cleburne to get his car or his wife's van worked on, or to go to WalMart and get his fix for turnovers and cheese crackers; and any number of places in between, always for a cause, always for a reason. On several occasions I was sent alone, in his car, to purchase odds and ends from someone he spoke to on the phone, like a key machine in Egan, or a lawn tractor part in Burleson.
He took me on these little trips hither and yon, taking me on county roads far and wide, seeing things and going places I never would have seen had I not been driving him for a day. George used to tell me when he and Leona first got married, they would ride the county roads and other offbeat thoroughfares all over the area, looking for wild flower fields, wild game, whatever. He had a mind like a steel clamp, there was rarely anything he forgot once he committed it to his memory. Absolutely amazing.
George was also amazing in that he could recognize voices so well. Folks I'd never seen before would approach him when we were in a restaurant or a pawn shop or a garage and just start talking with him. He would call them by name, asking about something way back when, never miss a beat. I suppose there is a lot to be said about going blind, that the other senses - hearing, for instance - peak out. George also knew so many, many people far and wide around these parts, by name, by phone number, by occupation, by reputation. The do-gooders, the cops, the robbers, the ne'er-do-wells, the whores, the preachers, the back-stabbers, and the beggars, George Davis knew them all, and had them on and in his "lists".
The last day I spent with George Davis was Friday, January 11, 2008. Earlier in the week, he had talked to Johnny Posey in Cleburne about the backup sensors in Leona's van, about getting them repaired. Johnny had told him that most likely the only way to get them fixed was to go to a Chevrolet dealership, that the sensors were not an after-market option, yet. So George called Lynn Smith Chevrolet in Burleson, and got an appointment for 8 a.m. on Friday. The dealership even called him on Thursday night to remind him of the appointment.
I rose early from bed on Friday, took a shower, and was at George's house by 7:15. We boodled off at 7:30, arriving about 7:50 in Burleson. Having pulled up to the garage door and sitting for a few minutes, the door was finally opened and we were motioned to pull on in. A lady technician came over and asked all the perfunctory questions, and then asked for a phone number where George could be reached. Asking why, George was informed that the shop was "backed up" from Tuesday, and just because he had an eight o'clock appointment, he was not going to be taken to the head of the line for repairs. So we did the only thing we could do, we left. George was ticked, putting it mildly.
On the frontage road, I asked where to, and George said to go to Grandview. It was a long, silent ride for the next 15-20 miles. As I turned off the interstate, he said to go to Barry Holmes' house (his son-in-law). This was about 8:30 a.m., and Barry was still home. I backed the van in for Barry to do some brake work. Barry concluded, after removing the first drum, the problem was not the brake shoes nor the drum, but the brake cylinders. He drove uptown and retrieved the cylinders and returned the shoes he had picked up on Thursday. In about an hour he was finished with the installation, having sprayed B-12 brake cleaner all around, saying the thumping would quit as soon as the units dried out.
With nothing else to do, George told me to head on up to Cleburne. By this time he was grumbling a bit about Lynn Smith Chevrolet. I had learned way back when to let him vent, not to offer my input. We rode on up Main Street, not stopping for any lights. That kinda aggravated him, so he told me to turn off by the Dairy Queen and go back down Anglin Street. He was wanting to use the brakes a lot, to get the noise out, as it turned out. Anglin was closed for repairs, so I drove on over to Wilhite Street and proceeded south, stopping every now and then for stop signs. However, at every stop, the brakes were still thumping, bumping, bonking on the drums. By this time it was around 10:30 a.m., and he decided he wanted to go to Alvarado to lunch.
We got to the Daily Special, a small restaurant on the north side of Alvarado right at 11 a.m. We beat the lunch crowd, barely. George had his usual - veggies - and I had a big ole bacon cheeseburger. About the time he was finishing up, one of his old friends, Tommy Thompson, came over and he and George began yakking about any number of things. Of course, Lynn Smith Chevrolet got into the conversation. George decided to pay for all the meals, including Tommy's, which came to about $27. He asked me about this when we left the restaurant, as he was mentally counting his change.
We stopped by David's Supermarket in Alvarado. He wanted some of their apple turnovers, but they were sold out. Which didn't make George a happy camper. First the Lynn Smith Chevrolet episode, then the brakes still making noise, then spending more than he thought on lunch, and David's was sold out of apple turnovers. He said to take him on home, he didn't have anything else lined up for the day.
I dropped him off, asked him if there was anything else I could do for him. He said not, so I ankled on home. About the time I got my computer fired up, the phone rang.
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "What's goin' on?"
Me: "Checking my email."
Him: "C'mon back out, I need to go to Cleburne."
About what he didn't say, and I didn't argue. I had told him on many occasions if there was ever anything he needed to do, to call me, anytime. So I shut down the computer and drove back out. He called Leona right after I walked in, asking the whereabouts of the calendars he'd gotten from Grandview Bank. Finding them, I pulled one from the roll, and we headed out to Cleburne by way of Bud Moon's house, to give Mr. Bud a calendar. Mr. Bud came out to the car to chat with George for a few minutes when Mr. Bud's son, Robert, came up on his motorcycle. When Robert approached George, he was asked for all the money he had. Just idle conversation, that's all, but oh, so typical of George Davis.
Leaving Mr. Bud's house, we drove on over to Cleburne, going to see Johnny Posey once again, but this time about the brakes. I got kicked out of the van so Johnny could drive the van around the block. Johnny gave George the full monty about the brakes, and soon we were headed back to Grandview to see Barry one more time about the brakes. In short order, Barry returned to the auto parts store and retrieved the brake shoes he had returned that morning. PITA for Barry, as he had not ever replaced those shoes before, and they were different from all the rest he had ever worked on. George also had Barry get a can of B-12 cleaner. While Barry was fighting with the shoes, George had me spray down the insides of the drums and he would wipe them out. Twice. When we finally drove off, there was no thumping, bumping, nada coming from the brakes. Success at last!
George told me to drive to Leona's office so he could get some money to pay Barry for his labors. Arriving, he asked Brenda Brown, one of the ladies in the office, to get him to a phone, and to get a phone number for Lynn Smith Chevrolet in Burleson. While Leona was getting a check for Barry, George proceeded to call Lynn Smith Chevrolet and verbally chew out the service manager about the "service" he had been dealt that morning. I had seen George do this on a couple of other occasions, one when a mechanic in Alvarado told him he needed a new a/c compressor on his 1994 Chevrolet Caprice, when in fact he didn't. But that's another story.
Finally satisfied, George said it was time to take him home. Once again we were guffawing down the road, yakking about things unsaid and unspoken about for a while. Once again, I asked him if I could do anything else for him, and his words were, "No, I guess not, Kent. Thanks for putting up with me all day, and it's been a long, long day."
I spoke but once to George after that, early last night. I had just cooked up a batch of venison chili, and I called him to ask him if he wanted some. He said, "Remember that chili recipe I told you about the other day?" I said, "Yes, the one you said you laid back down and never picked it up, again?" He said, "Yep, that's the one." In other words, he didn't like chili, of any kind, and sure didn't want any of mine. After a couple of other noncommittal words, I hung up the phone. Those were the last words I spoke with George Lincoln Davis. The County Medical Examiner gave a rough estimate of 2:30ish Sunday morning that George passed.
I got the call from Barry about 9:18 this morning, Sunday, January 13, 2008. I finally made it out to the Davis residence around 11:00. I spoke for a bit with Leona about the arrangements and about George. She said George was adamant about getting the breaks fixed on Friday, along with the backup sensors, like the brakes were something that "possessed" him at the moment. She was also wondering if George knew his end was near, and that he wanted her to be safe on his last ride to Tennessee. Perhaps so, and I'd also say he loved and honored the woman who took care of him for so many years, that he was willing to do most anything for her, down to his last breath.
In the course of a lifetime, we all cross paths with innumerable people who influence our lives to an indiscernible degree at the time, not knowing the positives nor the negatives until a given person passes on, either on foot or on a deathbed. George Davis was one of those people. I've lost a good friend, a companion who can never be replaced, who can never be duplicated. I'm sure I will miss him sorely in the days and weeks to come, but I am also sure I will see him again when my time comes.
January 13, 2008
He came into this world over 60 years ago with nothing, naked, wet, screaming his new lungs out. He departed this world today with nothing, at peace with his Maker.
I first met George Davis at a Christmas function in Grandview, Texas, in 2004. At first meeting, I did not know he was blind as a bat, that he was suffering all sorts of maladies, because he sure didn't let on to them. When we were introduced, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Do you owe me some money?" Of course, I was somewhat taken aback, actually speechless for a moment. I soon learned the money thing was always at the forefront of just about every conversation I ever had with him.
I had moved into a mobile home where he and his bride, Leona, had lived some 30+ years ago. I was needing a washing machine in the worst way, so I told Leona when I paid my rent in January, 2005. She said she had a washing machine out at her place that I could use, I just had to go get it. She called George at home and told him I was coming. When I arrived, he was standing in the yard waiting. He said the machine was around back, and I would find a dolly somewhere to move it with. I got it around to the front yard, and he said, "Is it the black one?" Once again I was kind of bumfuzzled, saying the only one I saw was white, was there another one. He chuckled a bit, and said no, just the white one.
The washing machine was shot as I found out later, needing some plumbing work done, at least. So I dealt with still not having a washing machine for a while, and George only said he'd find me another one. Which he did.
Life rocked along for a spell. I noticed George was out and about a lot, hitching rides with his hires, Archie and Jeannette. I offered on several occasions to haul him around so that Archie and Jeannette could do their own thing, like making money, not that George didn't pay them when he was hitch-hiking. The day finally came when he called me, asking me to take him to Meridian, TX, the next day. So I was up and at it early the next morning, getting out to his house around 9. We tootled off in his car to Meridian, but going where, there, I had no idea. It was the meat locker, where he was just pricing sausage.
By that time, lunch time had rolled around, so he directed me to a dive out west of Meridian, can't recall the name now. He ordered chicken and dumplings and a couple of veggies. He finished the veggies, and promptly put the dive on his "list". As I was to find out much later, he categorized places to eat as good and/or bad, thus the "list". Over the years, if a place was on his list, he never went there again. And it was a good topic of conversation between two old men tooling down the road on various adventures.
Thus an inevitable friendship began with a road trip. I hauled him around usually in the mornings near bout every day of the week, until he had to go on blood dialysis, a couple of years ago. He had been on peritoneal dialysis for several years and suddenly he developed an infection around the tubing, thus being the catalyst to move on to hemodialysis. Where he had been "tied" to a machine for some 14 hours per day, every day, he was now "tied" to a machine for only four hours a day, three days a week, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. The three days he was "off", well, that's when he wanted to get out of the house, go wheeling and dealing and visiting.
Let's see, I took him a myriad of places, Glen Rose for lunch at Hammond's; Dallas to the VA; Maypearl just last week to check on some jerky; Meridian a number of times to get summer sausage; Venus to check on his rental property; Fort Worth to pick up liquor for Christmas presents; Joshua to check out a new BBQ place he heard about on Trade Fair; Crowley to check out a Cajun restaurant that wasn't; Cleburne to get his car or his wife's van worked on, or to go to WalMart and get his fix for turnovers and cheese crackers; and any number of places in between, always for a cause, always for a reason. On several occasions I was sent alone, in his car, to purchase odds and ends from someone he spoke to on the phone, like a key machine in Egan, or a lawn tractor part in Burleson.
He took me on these little trips hither and yon, taking me on county roads far and wide, seeing things and going places I never would have seen had I not been driving him for a day. George used to tell me when he and Leona first got married, they would ride the county roads and other offbeat thoroughfares all over the area, looking for wild flower fields, wild game, whatever. He had a mind like a steel clamp, there was rarely anything he forgot once he committed it to his memory. Absolutely amazing.
George was also amazing in that he could recognize voices so well. Folks I'd never seen before would approach him when we were in a restaurant or a pawn shop or a garage and just start talking with him. He would call them by name, asking about something way back when, never miss a beat. I suppose there is a lot to be said about going blind, that the other senses - hearing, for instance - peak out. George also knew so many, many people far and wide around these parts, by name, by phone number, by occupation, by reputation. The do-gooders, the cops, the robbers, the ne'er-do-wells, the whores, the preachers, the back-stabbers, and the beggars, George Davis knew them all, and had them on and in his "lists".
The last day I spent with George Davis was Friday, January 11, 2008. Earlier in the week, he had talked to Johnny Posey in Cleburne about the backup sensors in Leona's van, about getting them repaired. Johnny had told him that most likely the only way to get them fixed was to go to a Chevrolet dealership, that the sensors were not an after-market option, yet. So George called Lynn Smith Chevrolet in Burleson, and got an appointment for 8 a.m. on Friday. The dealership even called him on Thursday night to remind him of the appointment.
I rose early from bed on Friday, took a shower, and was at George's house by 7:15. We boodled off at 7:30, arriving about 7:50 in Burleson. Having pulled up to the garage door and sitting for a few minutes, the door was finally opened and we were motioned to pull on in. A lady technician came over and asked all the perfunctory questions, and then asked for a phone number where George could be reached. Asking why, George was informed that the shop was "backed up" from Tuesday, and just because he had an eight o'clock appointment, he was not going to be taken to the head of the line for repairs. So we did the only thing we could do, we left. George was ticked, putting it mildly.
On the frontage road, I asked where to, and George said to go to Grandview. It was a long, silent ride for the next 15-20 miles. As I turned off the interstate, he said to go to Barry Holmes' house (his son-in-law). This was about 8:30 a.m., and Barry was still home. I backed the van in for Barry to do some brake work. Barry concluded, after removing the first drum, the problem was not the brake shoes nor the drum, but the brake cylinders. He drove uptown and retrieved the cylinders and returned the shoes he had picked up on Thursday. In about an hour he was finished with the installation, having sprayed B-12 brake cleaner all around, saying the thumping would quit as soon as the units dried out.
With nothing else to do, George told me to head on up to Cleburne. By this time he was grumbling a bit about Lynn Smith Chevrolet. I had learned way back when to let him vent, not to offer my input. We rode on up Main Street, not stopping for any lights. That kinda aggravated him, so he told me to turn off by the Dairy Queen and go back down Anglin Street. He was wanting to use the brakes a lot, to get the noise out, as it turned out. Anglin was closed for repairs, so I drove on over to Wilhite Street and proceeded south, stopping every now and then for stop signs. However, at every stop, the brakes were still thumping, bumping, bonking on the drums. By this time it was around 10:30 a.m., and he decided he wanted to go to Alvarado to lunch.
We got to the Daily Special, a small restaurant on the north side of Alvarado right at 11 a.m. We beat the lunch crowd, barely. George had his usual - veggies - and I had a big ole bacon cheeseburger. About the time he was finishing up, one of his old friends, Tommy Thompson, came over and he and George began yakking about any number of things. Of course, Lynn Smith Chevrolet got into the conversation. George decided to pay for all the meals, including Tommy's, which came to about $27. He asked me about this when we left the restaurant, as he was mentally counting his change.
We stopped by David's Supermarket in Alvarado. He wanted some of their apple turnovers, but they were sold out. Which didn't make George a happy camper. First the Lynn Smith Chevrolet episode, then the brakes still making noise, then spending more than he thought on lunch, and David's was sold out of apple turnovers. He said to take him on home, he didn't have anything else lined up for the day.
I dropped him off, asked him if there was anything else I could do for him. He said not, so I ankled on home. About the time I got my computer fired up, the phone rang.
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "What's goin' on?"
Me: "Checking my email."
Him: "C'mon back out, I need to go to Cleburne."
About what he didn't say, and I didn't argue. I had told him on many occasions if there was ever anything he needed to do, to call me, anytime. So I shut down the computer and drove back out. He called Leona right after I walked in, asking the whereabouts of the calendars he'd gotten from Grandview Bank. Finding them, I pulled one from the roll, and we headed out to Cleburne by way of Bud Moon's house, to give Mr. Bud a calendar. Mr. Bud came out to the car to chat with George for a few minutes when Mr. Bud's son, Robert, came up on his motorcycle. When Robert approached George, he was asked for all the money he had. Just idle conversation, that's all, but oh, so typical of George Davis.
Leaving Mr. Bud's house, we drove on over to Cleburne, going to see Johnny Posey once again, but this time about the brakes. I got kicked out of the van so Johnny could drive the van around the block. Johnny gave George the full monty about the brakes, and soon we were headed back to Grandview to see Barry one more time about the brakes. In short order, Barry returned to the auto parts store and retrieved the brake shoes he had returned that morning. PITA for Barry, as he had not ever replaced those shoes before, and they were different from all the rest he had ever worked on. George also had Barry get a can of B-12 cleaner. While Barry was fighting with the shoes, George had me spray down the insides of the drums and he would wipe them out. Twice. When we finally drove off, there was no thumping, bumping, nada coming from the brakes. Success at last!
George told me to drive to Leona's office so he could get some money to pay Barry for his labors. Arriving, he asked Brenda Brown, one of the ladies in the office, to get him to a phone, and to get a phone number for Lynn Smith Chevrolet in Burleson. While Leona was getting a check for Barry, George proceeded to call Lynn Smith Chevrolet and verbally chew out the service manager about the "service" he had been dealt that morning. I had seen George do this on a couple of other occasions, one when a mechanic in Alvarado told him he needed a new a/c compressor on his 1994 Chevrolet Caprice, when in fact he didn't. But that's another story.
Finally satisfied, George said it was time to take him home. Once again we were guffawing down the road, yakking about things unsaid and unspoken about for a while. Once again, I asked him if I could do anything else for him, and his words were, "No, I guess not, Kent. Thanks for putting up with me all day, and it's been a long, long day."
I spoke but once to George after that, early last night. I had just cooked up a batch of venison chili, and I called him to ask him if he wanted some. He said, "Remember that chili recipe I told you about the other day?" I said, "Yes, the one you said you laid back down and never picked it up, again?" He said, "Yep, that's the one." In other words, he didn't like chili, of any kind, and sure didn't want any of mine. After a couple of other noncommittal words, I hung up the phone. Those were the last words I spoke with George Lincoln Davis. The County Medical Examiner gave a rough estimate of 2:30ish Sunday morning that George passed.
I got the call from Barry about 9:18 this morning, Sunday, January 13, 2008. I finally made it out to the Davis residence around 11:00. I spoke for a bit with Leona about the arrangements and about George. She said George was adamant about getting the breaks fixed on Friday, along with the backup sensors, like the brakes were something that "possessed" him at the moment. She was also wondering if George knew his end was near, and that he wanted her to be safe on his last ride to Tennessee. Perhaps so, and I'd also say he loved and honored the woman who took care of him for so many years, that he was willing to do most anything for her, down to his last breath.
In the course of a lifetime, we all cross paths with innumerable people who influence our lives to an indiscernible degree at the time, not knowing the positives nor the negatives until a given person passes on, either on foot or on a deathbed. George Davis was one of those people. I've lost a good friend, a companion who can never be replaced, who can never be duplicated. I'm sure I will miss him sorely in the days and weeks to come, but I am also sure I will see him again when my time comes.
Pssssst!
Another of my favorite stories to pass along, from the "old days".
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Pssssst! - 3/14/01
You know how things pop into your mind at the craziest times. This is one of those times.
After I got out of the Navy from my first hitch in April, 1974, the country was still in a recession, and jobs were darned hard to come by. The Navy and the Pentagon had beat my brains to a pulp, and I was mentally as well as physically exhausted after 3½ years of running around the puzzle palace. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep for the next 20 years or so. So I went home, back to Cleveland, Mississippi.
My family owned the Fletcher Funeral Home then, and for a while I would volunteer to spend the night at the funeral home with the body or bodies, to make sure there weren't any break-ins, or fires, or any other mishaps that could possibly ruin the business. Besides, I was still single, not even looking, and I had one bodacious stereo system at the time. I had set the system up in the funeral home chapel, and after the visiting hours were over and all the friends and family had left for the evening, the dearly departed and I would party hardy until the wee hours of the morning. Ah, I can hear the music now, Eric Clapton and Buffalo Springfield, Tom Rush, Bob Dylan, Moody Blues, all the really good music from the early 70s. Sometimes if the night was warm, I would open the front doors to the funeral home, having already cranked up the volume on the stereo, and walk out on Cotton Row and just listen. Sure the cops would drive by from time to time, and look at me and wave, but no one ever said anything. Probably thought I was shell shocked or something, you know, maybe a brick shy of a load after my tour in the Navy.
After a while on any given night, I would eventually shut the system down, say goodnight to the dearly departed, and head for the front of the home, where I slept on one of the couches. One night I was reading a book or something, must have been around one in the morning. Talk about quiet. Ever been in a funeral home, by yourself, in the wee hours of the night? Quiet. Deathly quiet. All of a sudden, I heard a "psssst" from out of nowhere. I looked up, looked around, obviously didn't see anyone, and went back to reading. A few minutes later there was another "psssst". Again, I looked up, looked around, even looked under the couch, just to make sure there wasn't anyone else there but me, alive anyway. Nothing. Back to the book.
Yep, another "psssst". This time I got up, put on my clothes, and decided to make a quick perimeter check around the inside of the funeral home. I went into the chapel, turning on all the lights. I even checked the casket, you know, just to make sure the dearly departed was still lying in repose. I went on to the back of the building, behind the chapel, in the old garage area, again turning on all the lights, making sure no one had snuck in, was hiding somewhere. I came back through the embalming room, checked the window (as far as I knew, it hadn't been opened in years). No problem, yet. Walked into the casket showroom, checked a couple of caskets, even looked under the caskets that were on casket trucks. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. Nil. I swung back into the chapel and turned the lights out there. Then back into the main room where the seating area was. I checked in a little side room, checked the door, checked the ladies' room. Walked back out into the main room, went up to the front of the building, off to the left and checked the men's room. There wasn't a door there, but there was a very small window. It was painted shut. Then I walked back into the foyer, double-checked the front door. Securing that, I went into the office, and double-checked that door, too. Checked the windows, no problem. Went into the back office, all the windows were closed as well. Of course the air conditioning unit was right outside the back office, and the internal fans and workings were inside the back office. No problems anywhere. No doors open or appearing to be jimmied, no windows open or appearing to be opened.
Okay, I thought, now what the heck is going on? I've been from one end of this building to the other and nothing is amiss. What the heck is that "psssst" sound? Here I am, 27 years old, getting kind of shaky in a place that I virtually grew up in. Chills running down my back. I finally gave it up, got back on the couch and started reading again. "Psssst"! Lights Out! That's It! Throw the covers over my head and GO TO SLEEP!!!
I guess the covers muffled the sound enough that I finally slept. I didn't say anything to anyone about the ordeal I'd just gone through for a couple of days. I was just plain stumped about it all. Well, Madeline, Jack, Whit, and I were sitting out on the couches after lunch one day, just talking, and guess what? Right. "Psssst"! I nearly jumped out of my skin. I jumped up and said, "What is that noise?" Jack looked at me and asked, "What noise?" I told him about the "psssst" noise. He said he didn't hear anything. So I kind of blew it off, but again in a minute or so, "psssst"! "There it is, there it is again! What is it?" Then Jack and Madeline finally figured out what I was hearing, and pointed the culprit out to me. High on a wall, just in front of the air conditioning vent was a battery-operated atomizer. An air freshener. I wanted to jump up and rip that thing right off the wall!
After settling down for a few minutes, I related what had happened to me a few nights before. Madeline, Jack, and Whit had tears in their eyes and were holding their sides from laughing so hard, and I felt about a foot high. Here I was, a grown man, who had been nearly totally unnerved by a simple little thing like an air freshener.
Thinking about this today, some 27 years later, even I can smile, no, laugh out loud. I'll have to tell you about the New Cleveland Cemetery another time!
© Kent Fletcher
Arlington, Texas
YN1, USN (Retired)
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Pssssst! - 3/14/01
You know how things pop into your mind at the craziest times. This is one of those times.
After I got out of the Navy from my first hitch in April, 1974, the country was still in a recession, and jobs were darned hard to come by. The Navy and the Pentagon had beat my brains to a pulp, and I was mentally as well as physically exhausted after 3½ years of running around the puzzle palace. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep for the next 20 years or so. So I went home, back to Cleveland, Mississippi.
My family owned the Fletcher Funeral Home then, and for a while I would volunteer to spend the night at the funeral home with the body or bodies, to make sure there weren't any break-ins, or fires, or any other mishaps that could possibly ruin the business. Besides, I was still single, not even looking, and I had one bodacious stereo system at the time. I had set the system up in the funeral home chapel, and after the visiting hours were over and all the friends and family had left for the evening, the dearly departed and I would party hardy until the wee hours of the morning. Ah, I can hear the music now, Eric Clapton and Buffalo Springfield, Tom Rush, Bob Dylan, Moody Blues, all the really good music from the early 70s. Sometimes if the night was warm, I would open the front doors to the funeral home, having already cranked up the volume on the stereo, and walk out on Cotton Row and just listen. Sure the cops would drive by from time to time, and look at me and wave, but no one ever said anything. Probably thought I was shell shocked or something, you know, maybe a brick shy of a load after my tour in the Navy.
After a while on any given night, I would eventually shut the system down, say goodnight to the dearly departed, and head for the front of the home, where I slept on one of the couches. One night I was reading a book or something, must have been around one in the morning. Talk about quiet. Ever been in a funeral home, by yourself, in the wee hours of the night? Quiet. Deathly quiet. All of a sudden, I heard a "psssst" from out of nowhere. I looked up, looked around, obviously didn't see anyone, and went back to reading. A few minutes later there was another "psssst". Again, I looked up, looked around, even looked under the couch, just to make sure there wasn't anyone else there but me, alive anyway. Nothing. Back to the book.
Yep, another "psssst". This time I got up, put on my clothes, and decided to make a quick perimeter check around the inside of the funeral home. I went into the chapel, turning on all the lights. I even checked the casket, you know, just to make sure the dearly departed was still lying in repose. I went on to the back of the building, behind the chapel, in the old garage area, again turning on all the lights, making sure no one had snuck in, was hiding somewhere. I came back through the embalming room, checked the window (as far as I knew, it hadn't been opened in years). No problem, yet. Walked into the casket showroom, checked a couple of caskets, even looked under the caskets that were on casket trucks. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. Nil. I swung back into the chapel and turned the lights out there. Then back into the main room where the seating area was. I checked in a little side room, checked the door, checked the ladies' room. Walked back out into the main room, went up to the front of the building, off to the left and checked the men's room. There wasn't a door there, but there was a very small window. It was painted shut. Then I walked back into the foyer, double-checked the front door. Securing that, I went into the office, and double-checked that door, too. Checked the windows, no problem. Went into the back office, all the windows were closed as well. Of course the air conditioning unit was right outside the back office, and the internal fans and workings were inside the back office. No problems anywhere. No doors open or appearing to be jimmied, no windows open or appearing to be opened.
Okay, I thought, now what the heck is going on? I've been from one end of this building to the other and nothing is amiss. What the heck is that "psssst" sound? Here I am, 27 years old, getting kind of shaky in a place that I virtually grew up in. Chills running down my back. I finally gave it up, got back on the couch and started reading again. "Psssst"! Lights Out! That's It! Throw the covers over my head and GO TO SLEEP!!!
I guess the covers muffled the sound enough that I finally slept. I didn't say anything to anyone about the ordeal I'd just gone through for a couple of days. I was just plain stumped about it all. Well, Madeline, Jack, Whit, and I were sitting out on the couches after lunch one day, just talking, and guess what? Right. "Psssst"! I nearly jumped out of my skin. I jumped up and said, "What is that noise?" Jack looked at me and asked, "What noise?" I told him about the "psssst" noise. He said he didn't hear anything. So I kind of blew it off, but again in a minute or so, "psssst"! "There it is, there it is again! What is it?" Then Jack and Madeline finally figured out what I was hearing, and pointed the culprit out to me. High on a wall, just in front of the air conditioning vent was a battery-operated atomizer. An air freshener. I wanted to jump up and rip that thing right off the wall!
After settling down for a few minutes, I related what had happened to me a few nights before. Madeline, Jack, and Whit had tears in their eyes and were holding their sides from laughing so hard, and I felt about a foot high. Here I was, a grown man, who had been nearly totally unnerved by a simple little thing like an air freshener.
Thinking about this today, some 27 years later, even I can smile, no, laugh out loud. I'll have to tell you about the New Cleveland Cemetery another time!
© Kent Fletcher
Arlington, Texas
YN1, USN (Retired)
Electrical Playtime
I thought I'd spice things up round this blog, post some old "stuff" for your enjoyment!
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Electrical Playtime - 10/8/01
© Kent Fletcher
Talk about the silly and sometimes foolish things we do early in life, and some real oddities come up. Like the time my brother, Jack, decided to "test the waters" for electrical current.
I guess this was a year or two prior to my enlisting in the Navy, maybe 1968 or 1969. I was at home, probably watching the television, maybe on a weekend. Jack called and asked me to come over to his house, he wanted to show me something.
When I arrived, he called me into his living room. He was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, with some strange apparatus next to him. Upon closer inspection I also noticed that he had taken the female end off a short extension cord and had stripped the insulation back several inches. This part of the cord was submerged in a plastic tub of water. The male end was plugged into this apparatus he had, which turned out to be a variable transformer, which was in turn plugged into the wall.
Jack: Sit down here, I want to try something.
Kent: Okay.
Jack: Put your hands in the water.
Kent: I may be your little brother, but I'm not stupid. Why should I put my hands in a tub of water along with a stripped extension cord?
Jack: I want to see how much electricity you can take.
Kent: Yeah, right.
Jack: I've got the cord plugged into this transformer, which you see is in the "off" position. You can watch me while I ease the power up, and I promise to go slowly. If the electricity starts to hurt you, just tell me, and I'll back it off.
Kent: Yeah, right. Oh, well, why not?
So I stuck my hands in the tub, and Jack slowly started turning up the power. Strangely, I didn't really feel anything until the voltage was up to about 25 or 30 volts. Then a tingling sensation started up my arms, maybe to the elbows. This was starting to get interesting. Jack left the power at that volume for a moment, asked me how I felt, and I told him to go on up with it. Around 50 or 60 volts the muscles in my shoulders started reacting. Not violently, more like what an ultrasound wand is supposed to do, make the muscles tense and then relax, but at a much faster speed. Jack again stopped the increase for a few moments, asking how I felt.
Kent: Wow, this feels good, really good. The tingles are light, and I can feel the pulsing going across my shoulders. But it still doesn't hurt. Ease the voltage on up a little.
Jack took it on up to around 70 volts, and the tingles were starting to get a tad uncomfortable, but not really painful. I told him to take it up real slow. At 80 volts or so, the hurt started, really intense in the shoulder muscles, and also in my arms. But the fingers were okay, best as I remember. I told him to take it back down to 70 or 75 volts. The pain went away, and I was in a blissful state. Really, I'm not kidding. This feeling I was having was better than anything I had ever done, yes, including that. I remained in this state for 5 minutes or so, and now Jack was wanting to try it.
So he shut off the transformer, I removed my hands from the tub, he rolled up his sleeves, stuck his hands in the tub, and I turned the transformer on. At around 5 or 10 volts, he was already hurting, so obviously he couldn't take any more volts.
Where is this all leading, you may ask? While I was stationed at the Pentagon, for something to do I signed on with a cleaning crew to work in secured spaces after hours. The pay was good, the work was easy and quick, and it was something to do when I was off work.
One night we were on the fifth deck working in a highly secured space. As I was swabbing the deck, I noticed two small telephone-type wires hanging from the ceiling. I knew that Wells Fargo was installing an alarm system, and it was obvious that these two wires were going to be connected to something at a later date. I put down my swab and walked over to the wires. I grabbed one in each hand and could feel just a tad of electricity flowing through them. I spit on my hands and grabbed them again, and was able to feel just a little bit more, maybe up to my wrists. Wanting more of a kick, I walked over to the deep sink and soaked my arms up past my elbows in water. I walked back over to the wires and grabbed them one more time. I could feel pulses up to my elbows, but that was about it.
About this time my supervisor, a second-class Intelligence Specialist, walked over and in so many words asked me what I was doing. I explained to him about the wires and my ability to take low-voltage electricity. He said I was nuts, or crazy, or something like that. I told him that I couldn't really feel anything lethal, that there was just a gentle tingling up to around my elbows. I told him he should try it, that the tingles were just wonderful. Not wanting to let a third-class Yeoman outdo him, he said, okay, he'd try it.
No sooner had he grabbed the wires after splashing water on his hands, he was knocked all the way across an eight-foot passageway, landing squarely on his keister. Needless to say, the rants of a severely upset petty officer were raining down around my head, calling me crazy, an idiot, a lot of other things. I wonder if the reason was because the wire carried too much for him, plus the fact that I was wearing sneakers at the time, and he had on leather-soled shoes?
Our antics were the talk of the watch when I went back to work a couple of days later. Just goes to show you that the Yeoman rate is one of two basic rates in the U.S. Navy, that all the others are spinoffs. Hah!
© Kent Fletcher
Arlington, Texas
YN1, USNR Retired
"Destiny is not a matter of chance.
Destiny is a matter of choice."
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Electrical Playtime - 10/8/01
© Kent Fletcher
Talk about the silly and sometimes foolish things we do early in life, and some real oddities come up. Like the time my brother, Jack, decided to "test the waters" for electrical current.
I guess this was a year or two prior to my enlisting in the Navy, maybe 1968 or 1969. I was at home, probably watching the television, maybe on a weekend. Jack called and asked me to come over to his house, he wanted to show me something.
When I arrived, he called me into his living room. He was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, with some strange apparatus next to him. Upon closer inspection I also noticed that he had taken the female end off a short extension cord and had stripped the insulation back several inches. This part of the cord was submerged in a plastic tub of water. The male end was plugged into this apparatus he had, which turned out to be a variable transformer, which was in turn plugged into the wall.
Jack: Sit down here, I want to try something.
Kent: Okay.
Jack: Put your hands in the water.
Kent: I may be your little brother, but I'm not stupid. Why should I put my hands in a tub of water along with a stripped extension cord?
Jack: I want to see how much electricity you can take.
Kent: Yeah, right.
Jack: I've got the cord plugged into this transformer, which you see is in the "off" position. You can watch me while I ease the power up, and I promise to go slowly. If the electricity starts to hurt you, just tell me, and I'll back it off.
Kent: Yeah, right. Oh, well, why not?
So I stuck my hands in the tub, and Jack slowly started turning up the power. Strangely, I didn't really feel anything until the voltage was up to about 25 or 30 volts. Then a tingling sensation started up my arms, maybe to the elbows. This was starting to get interesting. Jack left the power at that volume for a moment, asked me how I felt, and I told him to go on up with it. Around 50 or 60 volts the muscles in my shoulders started reacting. Not violently, more like what an ultrasound wand is supposed to do, make the muscles tense and then relax, but at a much faster speed. Jack again stopped the increase for a few moments, asking how I felt.
Kent: Wow, this feels good, really good. The tingles are light, and I can feel the pulsing going across my shoulders. But it still doesn't hurt. Ease the voltage on up a little.
Jack took it on up to around 70 volts, and the tingles were starting to get a tad uncomfortable, but not really painful. I told him to take it up real slow. At 80 volts or so, the hurt started, really intense in the shoulder muscles, and also in my arms. But the fingers were okay, best as I remember. I told him to take it back down to 70 or 75 volts. The pain went away, and I was in a blissful state. Really, I'm not kidding. This feeling I was having was better than anything I had ever done, yes, including that. I remained in this state for 5 minutes or so, and now Jack was wanting to try it.
So he shut off the transformer, I removed my hands from the tub, he rolled up his sleeves, stuck his hands in the tub, and I turned the transformer on. At around 5 or 10 volts, he was already hurting, so obviously he couldn't take any more volts.
Where is this all leading, you may ask? While I was stationed at the Pentagon, for something to do I signed on with a cleaning crew to work in secured spaces after hours. The pay was good, the work was easy and quick, and it was something to do when I was off work.
One night we were on the fifth deck working in a highly secured space. As I was swabbing the deck, I noticed two small telephone-type wires hanging from the ceiling. I knew that Wells Fargo was installing an alarm system, and it was obvious that these two wires were going to be connected to something at a later date. I put down my swab and walked over to the wires. I grabbed one in each hand and could feel just a tad of electricity flowing through them. I spit on my hands and grabbed them again, and was able to feel just a little bit more, maybe up to my wrists. Wanting more of a kick, I walked over to the deep sink and soaked my arms up past my elbows in water. I walked back over to the wires and grabbed them one more time. I could feel pulses up to my elbows, but that was about it.
About this time my supervisor, a second-class Intelligence Specialist, walked over and in so many words asked me what I was doing. I explained to him about the wires and my ability to take low-voltage electricity. He said I was nuts, or crazy, or something like that. I told him that I couldn't really feel anything lethal, that there was just a gentle tingling up to around my elbows. I told him he should try it, that the tingles were just wonderful. Not wanting to let a third-class Yeoman outdo him, he said, okay, he'd try it.
No sooner had he grabbed the wires after splashing water on his hands, he was knocked all the way across an eight-foot passageway, landing squarely on his keister. Needless to say, the rants of a severely upset petty officer were raining down around my head, calling me crazy, an idiot, a lot of other things. I wonder if the reason was because the wire carried too much for him, plus the fact that I was wearing sneakers at the time, and he had on leather-soled shoes?
Our antics were the talk of the watch when I went back to work a couple of days later. Just goes to show you that the Yeoman rate is one of two basic rates in the U.S. Navy, that all the others are spinoffs. Hah!
© Kent Fletcher
Arlington, Texas
YN1, USNR Retired
"Destiny is not a matter of chance.
Destiny is a matter of choice."
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
From the "other" blog
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Off The Cuff - Baggy Pants Syndrome
Baggy Pants Syndrome - © Kent Fletcher
August 23, 2007
It is just absolutely amazing to me how the youth in these United States carry on in nonconformist ways, and how much those ways just bug the bejesus out of the old folks. I'm not saying I'm not affected, because I am.
Remember way back in the early 60s when long hair became the vogue? For the boys, anyway. I remember one of my esteemed classmates would absolutely not cut his hair for some function at the high school, during our graduation exercises. Today, he's pretty clean cut, as are most of us. I also recall sitting in a barber's chair in Arlington, VA, one afternoon in the early 70s, listening to the barber prattle on and on about those long-haired freaks outside his shop window. Something to the effect they were ruining his business by not getting their locks shorn. He still had a pretty good business, though, as he was still open.
After Woodstock and a few other raves of the time, the long hair and art-deco clothing came to be a norm of sorts for the younger generations, and for some who thought they were young. Timothy Leary comes to mind. Of course, if said generations wanted to get in on the ground floor at a job and advance anywhere but the janitor's position, they had to "clean up their act", fly straight and true, get haircuts, buy conformist clothing, speak English that is heard in the business world. I remember after I got out of the Navy in 1974, I got one haircut in 15 months. My hair was so curly it was ridiculous, and my mother let me get away with it. Doing the funeral thing.
My head was also ridiculously hot, as the curliness didn't let the air flow. When I reenlisted in 1975, you can imagine how the barber at NAS Millington felt when I presented him the opportunity to work his wonders. When I told him how strange yet refreshing the breeze felt to me on my right ear, he held a mirror before me. Dang, wish I had gotten a pic of that one - cut on one side, bushy on the other. I've never let my hair get that long since. Beard is another story, though.
In the 90s, I remember the language fiasco. Ebonics it was called. I think I read it stemmed from the Gullah people in the lowlands of South Carolina and Georgia, whose language is a broad mixture of Jamaican Creole, Bahamian Dialect, and the Krio language of Sierra Leone of West Africa. I'm sure there's a smattering of English in there, too. And, of course, the slave languages, as well. Even the city of Oakland, CA, announced ebonics was allowed in the primary schools, as it was an "accepted" language of the gangsta culture there. I can't remember how long that lasted, but not long. The entire country was wondering what the hell possessed the school officials there to condone such language. At least as I understand it all.
In the early 21st Century the clothing styles started to change. Lots of Gothic attire was being worn by the grrls, and even some of the boys in primary schools. Lots of black: makeup, clothes, shoes, dyed hair, anything offbeat it seemed was popular. Even in the summertime here in Texas, Goth is still the hot ticket. Then came the boys' rebellion of baggy pants.
At first the baggy pants syndrome, BPS as I call it, was limited to the big cities, the sprawling metropolises. Ack! Not any more. A couple of days ago, while I was sitting here at the puter, I saw a head float by my window. Got up, went outside, and a kid was walking back out the front gate. I asked him if he was looking for something. He was chasing his dog. The dog was under the porch at the moment. But the dog was just doing doggy things, like sniffing and peeing, chasing cats, anything but minding his master.
Master. Hmph! This child was dressed thusly: Shirtless, sneakers, over-the-knee denim shorts, and about 6" of his underwear. As he wandered back in the yard, I told him that if he came through that gate again, he'd best have his pants pulled up. Otherwise, the dog could stay as long as it wanted. I think I skeered him a little, as he looked at me at first, then started hitching those pants up. He got his dog and left the premises. That's all I said to him in the brief encounter.
Yesterday afternoon while I was walking in front of my property, picking up litter, the BPS child was out on the street again with his dog. Cute dog, too. Terrier. And he had returned to his BPS. Haha! He was steady hitching them up again, though. And he again came on the property to retrieve said terrier, but I don't recall seeing any underwear. Thankfully.
While I blame the kid for his idealisms, I blame the parents even more. Seems that some parents really don't give a hoot nor a holler about how their kids act, dress, or communicate as long as they don't get into deep doo-doo for it. Do the parents dress like this, act like this, communicate like this? I'd say the majority does not. I've known kids who are not rich, in fact who are downright poor who act, dress, and communicate with the rest of the world as we older folks do, with respect, with confidence, with meaning. I'm no psychologist nor psychiatrist, but I think I do know what is socially acceptable in a "normal" society, and what is not.
Why am I writing this? I saw a news item with the following lead-in: Atlanta Considers Banning Baggy Pants - Associated Press - Aug 23 09:39 AM US/Eastern. The story goes on to say
Baggy pants that show boxer shorts or thongs would be illegal under a proposed amendment to Atlanta's indecency laws.
It goes on about how little kids see the BPS and want to emulate it. I personally think if the parents would get inside the heads of their own children, the time and effort of city councils would not be wasted on such trivialities, by passing laws and enforcing such laws as this. There are far more important things to be dealt with on a daily basis than BPS.
However, the purveyors of BPS obviously have lower self-esteems than the rest of the crowd, and one way to get the attention they are missing at home is to dress the dress, walk the walk, act the act. It's really too bad that the carefree attitude of the parents has allowed such moral depravity as BPS and its consequences.
Put them in some sort of boot camp, please? Teach them right from wrong, left from right, up from down, in from out. Build their confidences, build their self-esteems, build on their conforming-to-society skills rather than their screw-the-man idealisms.
Parents and/or caregivers need to step up to the plate, put their feet on solid ground, do what is right, at home.
Moving along a little ways in the same story is this:
The proposed ordinance would also bar women from showing the strap of a thong beneath their pants. They would also be prohibited from wearing jogging bras in public or show a bra strap, said Debbie Seagraves, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia.
So, of course the ACLU has gotten in on the act, not unexpected. I wonder, though, if Ms. Seagraves lets her own bra strap or thong show? She goes on:
Seagraves said any legislation that creates a dress code would not survive a court challenge. She said the law could not be enforced in a nondiscriminatory way because it targets something that came out of the black youth culture.
"This is a racial profiling bill that promotes and establishes a framework for an additional type of racial profiling," Seagraves said.
How insane! This is just like the argument there are more blacks than whites in prison. Why? Because the blacks get caught easier, I suppose. But I'm not going there, other than to say I wonder how many white folks will step up to the prison gates and volunteer to be incarcerated to even out the balance.
Lastly:
Makeda Johnson, an Atlanta mother of a 14-year-old girl, said she is glad (city councilman) Martin introduced the proposal. She does not want to see a law against clothing, but said she thinks teenagers are sending a message with a way of dressing that is based in jailhouse behavior.
Well, that statement carries hope. To me, anyway. Perhaps not all is lost, eh?
August 23, 2007
It is just absolutely amazing to me how the youth in these United States carry on in nonconformist ways, and how much those ways just bug the bejesus out of the old folks. I'm not saying I'm not affected, because I am.
Remember way back in the early 60s when long hair became the vogue? For the boys, anyway. I remember one of my esteemed classmates would absolutely not cut his hair for some function at the high school, during our graduation exercises. Today, he's pretty clean cut, as are most of us. I also recall sitting in a barber's chair in Arlington, VA, one afternoon in the early 70s, listening to the barber prattle on and on about those long-haired freaks outside his shop window. Something to the effect they were ruining his business by not getting their locks shorn. He still had a pretty good business, though, as he was still open.
After Woodstock and a few other raves of the time, the long hair and art-deco clothing came to be a norm of sorts for the younger generations, and for some who thought they were young. Timothy Leary comes to mind. Of course, if said generations wanted to get in on the ground floor at a job and advance anywhere but the janitor's position, they had to "clean up their act", fly straight and true, get haircuts, buy conformist clothing, speak English that is heard in the business world. I remember after I got out of the Navy in 1974, I got one haircut in 15 months. My hair was so curly it was ridiculous, and my mother let me get away with it. Doing the funeral thing.
My head was also ridiculously hot, as the curliness didn't let the air flow. When I reenlisted in 1975, you can imagine how the barber at NAS Millington felt when I presented him the opportunity to work his wonders. When I told him how strange yet refreshing the breeze felt to me on my right ear, he held a mirror before me. Dang, wish I had gotten a pic of that one - cut on one side, bushy on the other. I've never let my hair get that long since. Beard is another story, though.
In the 90s, I remember the language fiasco. Ebonics it was called. I think I read it stemmed from the Gullah people in the lowlands of South Carolina and Georgia, whose language is a broad mixture of Jamaican Creole, Bahamian Dialect, and the Krio language of Sierra Leone of West Africa. I'm sure there's a smattering of English in there, too. And, of course, the slave languages, as well. Even the city of Oakland, CA, announced ebonics was allowed in the primary schools, as it was an "accepted" language of the gangsta culture there. I can't remember how long that lasted, but not long. The entire country was wondering what the hell possessed the school officials there to condone such language. At least as I understand it all.
In the early 21st Century the clothing styles started to change. Lots of Gothic attire was being worn by the grrls, and even some of the boys in primary schools. Lots of black: makeup, clothes, shoes, dyed hair, anything offbeat it seemed was popular. Even in the summertime here in Texas, Goth is still the hot ticket. Then came the boys' rebellion of baggy pants.
At first the baggy pants syndrome, BPS as I call it, was limited to the big cities, the sprawling metropolises. Ack! Not any more. A couple of days ago, while I was sitting here at the puter, I saw a head float by my window. Got up, went outside, and a kid was walking back out the front gate. I asked him if he was looking for something. He was chasing his dog. The dog was under the porch at the moment. But the dog was just doing doggy things, like sniffing and peeing, chasing cats, anything but minding his master.
Master. Hmph! This child was dressed thusly: Shirtless, sneakers, over-the-knee denim shorts, and about 6" of his underwear. As he wandered back in the yard, I told him that if he came through that gate again, he'd best have his pants pulled up. Otherwise, the dog could stay as long as it wanted. I think I skeered him a little, as he looked at me at first, then started hitching those pants up. He got his dog and left the premises. That's all I said to him in the brief encounter.
Yesterday afternoon while I was walking in front of my property, picking up litter, the BPS child was out on the street again with his dog. Cute dog, too. Terrier. And he had returned to his BPS. Haha! He was steady hitching them up again, though. And he again came on the property to retrieve said terrier, but I don't recall seeing any underwear. Thankfully.
While I blame the kid for his idealisms, I blame the parents even more. Seems that some parents really don't give a hoot nor a holler about how their kids act, dress, or communicate as long as they don't get into deep doo-doo for it. Do the parents dress like this, act like this, communicate like this? I'd say the majority does not. I've known kids who are not rich, in fact who are downright poor who act, dress, and communicate with the rest of the world as we older folks do, with respect, with confidence, with meaning. I'm no psychologist nor psychiatrist, but I think I do know what is socially acceptable in a "normal" society, and what is not.
Why am I writing this? I saw a news item with the following lead-in: Atlanta Considers Banning Baggy Pants - Associated Press - Aug 23 09:39 AM US/Eastern. The story goes on to say
Baggy pants that show boxer shorts or thongs would be illegal under a proposed amendment to Atlanta's indecency laws.
It goes on about how little kids see the BPS and want to emulate it. I personally think if the parents would get inside the heads of their own children, the time and effort of city councils would not be wasted on such trivialities, by passing laws and enforcing such laws as this. There are far more important things to be dealt with on a daily basis than BPS.
However, the purveyors of BPS obviously have lower self-esteems than the rest of the crowd, and one way to get the attention they are missing at home is to dress the dress, walk the walk, act the act. It's really too bad that the carefree attitude of the parents has allowed such moral depravity as BPS and its consequences.
Put them in some sort of boot camp, please? Teach them right from wrong, left from right, up from down, in from out. Build their confidences, build their self-esteems, build on their conforming-to-society skills rather than their screw-the-man idealisms.
Parents and/or caregivers need to step up to the plate, put their feet on solid ground, do what is right, at home.
Moving along a little ways in the same story is this:
The proposed ordinance would also bar women from showing the strap of a thong beneath their pants. They would also be prohibited from wearing jogging bras in public or show a bra strap, said Debbie Seagraves, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia.
So, of course the ACLU has gotten in on the act, not unexpected. I wonder, though, if Ms. Seagraves lets her own bra strap or thong show? She goes on:
Seagraves said any legislation that creates a dress code would not survive a court challenge. She said the law could not be enforced in a nondiscriminatory way because it targets something that came out of the black youth culture.
"This is a racial profiling bill that promotes and establishes a framework for an additional type of racial profiling," Seagraves said.
How insane! This is just like the argument there are more blacks than whites in prison. Why? Because the blacks get caught easier, I suppose. But I'm not going there, other than to say I wonder how many white folks will step up to the prison gates and volunteer to be incarcerated to even out the balance.
Lastly:
Makeda Johnson, an Atlanta mother of a 14-year-old girl, said she is glad (city councilman) Martin introduced the proposal. She does not want to see a law against clothing, but said she thinks teenagers are sending a message with a way of dressing that is based in jailhouse behavior.
Well, that statement carries hope. To me, anyway. Perhaps not all is lost, eh?
posted by Fletch @ 4:51 PM 0 comments 
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Mid-Life Crises
Mid-Life Crises - © Kent Fletcher
August 21, 2007
I was browsing the web a couple of days ago and came across this one: http://www.thegeminiweb.com/babyboomer/. It's really quite an interesting place, but mostly a good place to go to read the junk of a blogger. I read one yesterday, though, about mid-life crises (MLC) that apparently a lot of boomers are going through. Here's a list of some possibilities:
* Discontent with life and/or lifestyle that may have provided happiness for many years.
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
* Feeling adventurous and wanting to do something completely different.
* Questioning the meaning of life, and the validity of decisions clearly and easily made years before.
* Confusion about who you are or where your life is going.
I remember one case of a boomer have a spell of MLC. He was my boss at the Council of Government in Arlington, TX. I'd guess Bob was in his mid to late 40s. Quite a dynamic person, but he really wasn't a people person. Wife, two kids, humongous house in Southlake, north of Fort Worth. I went out there once for a barbecue or something he put on for his staff. I wasn't impressed.
Bob was going through a period where it appeared he was attempting to regain his youth. I remember his going on and on about in-line skating, how he would don the skates after work and just go sailing around his neighborhood. He lived in a relatively new subdivision, not too many houses around and hardly any traffic, so he was able to go wild and all over the streets.
One day when he came to work, he was grinning ear to ear, yakking it up about his new toy. Of course, he invited his staff and anyone else out to the parking lot to see the toy. It was a Mitsubishi Miata, a tiny car. Red. Convertible. Two-seater. Cutesy. Ticket grabber. He was talking about how he could weave in and out of traffic, going a bit better than the posted speed limit, which was still 55 at the time. On clear days he would drop the top and let the wind blow through his hair, reveling in the "freedom" of reliving either his youth, or his perceived youth.
Heck, at the time I was driving either an ancient Toyota van or an 83 Volvo station wagon, and I was quite comfortable in one or the other. I didn't need flash and dash capabilities, just utility to get me from point A to point B in an orderly and safe fashion. I guess the only time I had a MLC situation was when I purchased my 73 Volvo 1800ES. Drove it from Oklahoma City to Cleveland, MS, to New Orleans, to Pensacola, to Atlanta, finally arriving in Norfolk, VA. I've driven the thing to Colorado and back, to Hattiesburg, MS, and back. Quite a thrilling car. Speedometer disintegrated several years ago, so now I just run on the tachometer. It also draws attention, a lot of attention. Seems I remember reading only some 3,000 were manufactured. 1973 was the last year Volvo produced anything made in the United States. There is not a single metric screw or bolt on the car, all SAE. Makes working on it a pleasure, most of the time.
But why did I even buy it? Good question. Actually I first saw it in 1986 on a trip to Colorado. I had just gotten into AMSOIL (synthetic lubricants) and wanted to meet my up-line on the way. The car was sitting in his backyard. Every couple of months the fellow would go out and crank 'er up, let it run for a few minutes, shut it down, go back inside. In early 1990, the lease on my 85 Volvo 740 Turbo was about to run out, and I got to thinking about this little car.
So I called the fellow, asked him how much he wanted for the car. $4,800. I thought about it for a day or two, called him back, committed myself to buying it.
I flew out to Oklahoma City one Saturday in March 1990. The fellow had been working on the car, fixing it up as best he could. There were a few quirks about the thing, but nothing that would make me hesitate on the purchase. I finally drove out on April 1, April Fool's Day. It was a long drive back to Norfolk, but that's another story altogether.
Through November 1990, I was constantly, and consistently working on the car. The leased Volvo went back to Volvo, so I had no choice but to work on it. Had to get a "new" gas tank out of North Carolina, change out the plugs, wires, fuel injection lines. Added a by-pass oil function. When I left Norfolk heading for Texas, the car was on a dolly behind the moving van.
So, I guess that was my own MLC for the time. I was 44 yoa, had me a cutesy car, on my way to my last duty station, and was a happy camper for the most part.
I was looking over the list on the Boomer Blog above, thinking long and hard if any of the five instances fit my bill. One does. This one:
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
As much as I love woodworking, I'm beginning to get bored with it. When I lived in Arlington, TX, I had my own little workshop, 8' by 16', tight, efficient. I turned out some good stuff there, too. Cradles, blanket chests, flag cases, retirement cases, any number of things. Did some fret work with a scroll saw making letter openers of exotic woods like bubinga, cocabola, even mesquite. Did a couple of pine spice cabinets, complete with milk paint and hand-punched tin or copper inserts in the doors, key boxes. All give-aways except the flag or retirement cases. I spent many a late night in that workshop, very content to be doing the work I had latched on to after my divorce in 1987.
In 2002, I made a fateful mistake and moved south to a bungalow outside Grandview, TX. Can you imagine attempting to get "stuff" that was in a 1,000 sq ft mobile home into a 400 sq ft bungalow? I was constantly running into myself there. But I did have access to a 20' by 20' pole barn for a shop. Man, I had room to roam. The only problems I really had, though, was the floor of said shop was gravel (easy to "lose" things in gravel) and the roof leaked like a sieve. When it was raining outside, it was nearly as bad inside. Couldn't get much work done that way.
In 2004, I made a better move back north about 10 miles, to Alvarado, TX. I left all my tools and equipment down at Grandview for a while, returning every now and then to do something, anything. But it just wasn't the same, for sure. I got word from my former landlord the place was for sale and that I needed to fetch my stuff out of there. I told my current landlady about the situation, and she finally agreed to let me use a shop on an adjacent property. I had to clean it out first, being ever mindful to watch closely what I threw away.
The building has a concrete floor and is constructed of a solid frame with a metal roof. In other words, the only decent time to work out there is early morning this time of year. And here I sit writing this at 0930. I have a large fan mounted in the window, but when the temps outside get up around 85-90F, no amount of fans can keep me comfy. To add insult to injury, I had back surgery in March of 06, and my stamina just has not returned.
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
So, quite frankly, I'm nearly bored to tears from not having anything really constructive to do at the moment. The temps of August round here keep me inside the house most of the day, under the a/c unit. I play on the puter all day, roaming around, visiting my favorite websites for woodworking, for news, for weather, and play a few games. I voraciously procrastinate on a lot of things I need to get done around the property. Instead of getting up and out in the cooler mornings, I wait until mid-morning or later and suffer the consequences. But it's nice in the house, now. No noise unless I turn on the radio, which is rare; no television because of no antenna, mainly. The only constant noise is my tinnitus, which has grown excessively loud in the past couple of months. On the days I have a doctor's appointment in Mansfield or Fort Worth, or even Arlington, I actually look forward to the event, as it gets me out of the house for a little while, get to mix with folks I don't know for a bit.
It's not like I don't have any friends around here, I know a neighbor or two and yak with them when I see them, if I have to, if I want to. I have a daily phone call from my blind friend, George, and approximately three days a week, I'll haul him around the countryside going places he wants to go, and for my services he buys me lunch. Not a bad deal, and I'm in an air-conditioned car or truck.
This morning my restful sleep was rudely terminated when my cat decided to see what was with the picture on top of the dresser. It was not attached to the wall, and he likes to sleep up there. I suspect he pushed a little harder than usual and the thing tipped over, crashed to the floor, shattered the glass all over the floor. So now, at least, I've got something constructive to do. In a little while. Later today. It was funny, too, how he reappeared after I got up and peered around the corner at the destruction he had caused, eyes wide open, ears forward. Then he saw me and took off. At least the picture itself was not damaged. Another pane of glass won't cost much, anyway.
Oh, nearly forgot something. Out of all the *'s on the list at the top, I'm only afflicted with the second one. I'm basically content with where I am at the moment.
In a way I guess my boredom is of my own making. I wish I had more room in my workshop to do the things I want to do. I could clean the place up, again, and be a happy camper. Maybe I'll do that later, today. Or tomorrow.
August 21, 2007
I was browsing the web a couple of days ago and came across this one: http://www.thegeminiweb.com/babyboomer/. It's really quite an interesting place, but mostly a good place to go to read the junk of a blogger. I read one yesterday, though, about mid-life crises (MLC) that apparently a lot of boomers are going through. Here's a list of some possibilities:
* Discontent with life and/or lifestyle that may have provided happiness for many years.
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
* Feeling adventurous and wanting to do something completely different.
* Questioning the meaning of life, and the validity of decisions clearly and easily made years before.
* Confusion about who you are or where your life is going.
I remember one case of a boomer have a spell of MLC. He was my boss at the Council of Government in Arlington, TX. I'd guess Bob was in his mid to late 40s. Quite a dynamic person, but he really wasn't a people person. Wife, two kids, humongous house in Southlake, north of Fort Worth. I went out there once for a barbecue or something he put on for his staff. I wasn't impressed.
Bob was going through a period where it appeared he was attempting to regain his youth. I remember his going on and on about in-line skating, how he would don the skates after work and just go sailing around his neighborhood. He lived in a relatively new subdivision, not too many houses around and hardly any traffic, so he was able to go wild and all over the streets.
One day when he came to work, he was grinning ear to ear, yakking it up about his new toy. Of course, he invited his staff and anyone else out to the parking lot to see the toy. It was a Mitsubishi Miata, a tiny car. Red. Convertible. Two-seater. Cutesy. Ticket grabber. He was talking about how he could weave in and out of traffic, going a bit better than the posted speed limit, which was still 55 at the time. On clear days he would drop the top and let the wind blow through his hair, reveling in the "freedom" of reliving either his youth, or his perceived youth.
Heck, at the time I was driving either an ancient Toyota van or an 83 Volvo station wagon, and I was quite comfortable in one or the other. I didn't need flash and dash capabilities, just utility to get me from point A to point B in an orderly and safe fashion. I guess the only time I had a MLC situation was when I purchased my 73 Volvo 1800ES. Drove it from Oklahoma City to Cleveland, MS, to New Orleans, to Pensacola, to Atlanta, finally arriving in Norfolk, VA. I've driven the thing to Colorado and back, to Hattiesburg, MS, and back. Quite a thrilling car. Speedometer disintegrated several years ago, so now I just run on the tachometer. It also draws attention, a lot of attention. Seems I remember reading only some 3,000 were manufactured. 1973 was the last year Volvo produced anything made in the United States. There is not a single metric screw or bolt on the car, all SAE. Makes working on it a pleasure, most of the time.
But why did I even buy it? Good question. Actually I first saw it in 1986 on a trip to Colorado. I had just gotten into AMSOIL (synthetic lubricants) and wanted to meet my up-line on the way. The car was sitting in his backyard. Every couple of months the fellow would go out and crank 'er up, let it run for a few minutes, shut it down, go back inside. In early 1990, the lease on my 85 Volvo 740 Turbo was about to run out, and I got to thinking about this little car.
So I called the fellow, asked him how much he wanted for the car. $4,800. I thought about it for a day or two, called him back, committed myself to buying it.
I flew out to Oklahoma City one Saturday in March 1990. The fellow had been working on the car, fixing it up as best he could. There were a few quirks about the thing, but nothing that would make me hesitate on the purchase. I finally drove out on April 1, April Fool's Day. It was a long drive back to Norfolk, but that's another story altogether.
Through November 1990, I was constantly, and consistently working on the car. The leased Volvo went back to Volvo, so I had no choice but to work on it. Had to get a "new" gas tank out of North Carolina, change out the plugs, wires, fuel injection lines. Added a by-pass oil function. When I left Norfolk heading for Texas, the car was on a dolly behind the moving van.
So, I guess that was my own MLC for the time. I was 44 yoa, had me a cutesy car, on my way to my last duty station, and was a happy camper for the most part.
I was looking over the list on the Boomer Blog above, thinking long and hard if any of the five instances fit my bill. One does. This one:
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
As much as I love woodworking, I'm beginning to get bored with it. When I lived in Arlington, TX, I had my own little workshop, 8' by 16', tight, efficient. I turned out some good stuff there, too. Cradles, blanket chests, flag cases, retirement cases, any number of things. Did some fret work with a scroll saw making letter openers of exotic woods like bubinga, cocabola, even mesquite. Did a couple of pine spice cabinets, complete with milk paint and hand-punched tin or copper inserts in the doors, key boxes. All give-aways except the flag or retirement cases. I spent many a late night in that workshop, very content to be doing the work I had latched on to after my divorce in 1987.
In 2002, I made a fateful mistake and moved south to a bungalow outside Grandview, TX. Can you imagine attempting to get "stuff" that was in a 1,000 sq ft mobile home into a 400 sq ft bungalow? I was constantly running into myself there. But I did have access to a 20' by 20' pole barn for a shop. Man, I had room to roam. The only problems I really had, though, was the floor of said shop was gravel (easy to "lose" things in gravel) and the roof leaked like a sieve. When it was raining outside, it was nearly as bad inside. Couldn't get much work done that way.
In 2004, I made a better move back north about 10 miles, to Alvarado, TX. I left all my tools and equipment down at Grandview for a while, returning every now and then to do something, anything. But it just wasn't the same, for sure. I got word from my former landlord the place was for sale and that I needed to fetch my stuff out of there. I told my current landlady about the situation, and she finally agreed to let me use a shop on an adjacent property. I had to clean it out first, being ever mindful to watch closely what I threw away.
The building has a concrete floor and is constructed of a solid frame with a metal roof. In other words, the only decent time to work out there is early morning this time of year. And here I sit writing this at 0930. I have a large fan mounted in the window, but when the temps outside get up around 85-90F, no amount of fans can keep me comfy. To add insult to injury, I had back surgery in March of 06, and my stamina just has not returned.
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
So, quite frankly, I'm nearly bored to tears from not having anything really constructive to do at the moment. The temps of August round here keep me inside the house most of the day, under the a/c unit. I play on the puter all day, roaming around, visiting my favorite websites for woodworking, for news, for weather, and play a few games. I voraciously procrastinate on a lot of things I need to get done around the property. Instead of getting up and out in the cooler mornings, I wait until mid-morning or later and suffer the consequences. But it's nice in the house, now. No noise unless I turn on the radio, which is rare; no television because of no antenna, mainly. The only constant noise is my tinnitus, which has grown excessively loud in the past couple of months. On the days I have a doctor's appointment in Mansfield or Fort Worth, or even Arlington, I actually look forward to the event, as it gets me out of the house for a little while, get to mix with folks I don't know for a bit.
It's not like I don't have any friends around here, I know a neighbor or two and yak with them when I see them, if I have to, if I want to. I have a daily phone call from my blind friend, George, and approximately three days a week, I'll haul him around the countryside going places he wants to go, and for my services he buys me lunch. Not a bad deal, and I'm in an air-conditioned car or truck.
This morning my restful sleep was rudely terminated when my cat decided to see what was with the picture on top of the dresser. It was not attached to the wall, and he likes to sleep up there. I suspect he pushed a little harder than usual and the thing tipped over, crashed to the floor, shattered the glass all over the floor. So now, at least, I've got something constructive to do. In a little while. Later today. It was funny, too, how he reappeared after I got up and peered around the corner at the destruction he had caused, eyes wide open, ears forward. Then he saw me and took off. At least the picture itself was not damaged. Another pane of glass won't cost much, anyway.
Oh, nearly forgot something. Out of all the *'s on the list at the top, I'm only afflicted with the second one. I'm basically content with where I am at the moment.
In a way I guess my boredom is of my own making. I wish I had more room in my workshop to do the things I want to do. I could clean the place up, again, and be a happy camper. Maybe I'll do that later, today. Or tomorrow.
posted by Fletch @ 8:22 AM 0 comments
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Off The Cuff - A Bone-Chilling Video
A Bone-Chilling Video - © Kent Fletcher
August 11, 2007
A couple of days back an old friend from Mississippi sent me a video from USA Wake Up dot org, http://www.usawakeup.org/. While the video is a bone-chilling video, there are many, many more videos for consumption on the web as depictive as this one, some even more so. The problem is, out of all the people who do watch these videos, how many are going to "take action", confront their elected officials, demand said officials to pay attention to what is going on, and quit the hyperventilating about being reelected next term?
I would dare say very few folks are bold enough, are proud enough to confront the very politicians whom they have elected to office. Why? Because these elected officials seem to accept the fact that they were, in fact, elected to their respective offices and are therefore above their constituency. Wrong answer.
Today, I received yet another email from yet another old friend in Mississippi, this time with the question, "Can a good Muslim be a good American?". The answers run through various aspects of the Muslim world vs the notions we US citizens proclaim, such as theologically, religiously, socially, politically, and several others, each answered in the negative. The final statement is thus,
"Therefore after much study and deliberation....perhaps we should be very suspicious of ALL MUSLIMS in this country. They obviously cannot be both "good" Muslims and good Americans."
In part I can agree with all the statements written in that email; however, it does present some disturbing angles to me going back to other immigrants of this great country, all the way back to the Vikings.
One should remember we are all of some kind of faith, even the atheists and hard-core agnostics. A Muslim is no different, he/she simply worships a different aspect of religion. It is the fanatics who use the religion as a way, as a means to an end, the end being the destruction, annihilation, total obliteration of the West, the United States in particular. The fanatics, the brainwashed, the ones who live in a state of poverty and no where else to go, nothing else to believe in but the mullahs who preach the hate, who ascribe to the literal meanings as supposedly spoken by the prophet Mohammed, who are our enemies, not Muslims across the board. I've met a few, and I wasn't intimidated by them.
I would dare say the Catholics were treated much the same way in the fledgling US way back when, as were the Lutherans, even the Methodists. I don't claim to be a theological expert, I'm just going by what I've read and heard over the years. Any one religion or sect can overrule another if it is large enough, strong enough, carries enough weight, has enough fanatical followers.
Life does bother me, concern me, however, when the true Muslims will not confront the fanatics, will not speak up for their own concerns and denounce the actions and the means of the fanatics, the fascists who proclaim Mohammed has spoken from death, to tell them this suicide mission is their only choice to get into heaven, to have their virgins. What a great idea by the fanatics, by Mohammed, in which to control the little people.
And in the face of declaration upon declaration of the hate these Islamofascists have toward anything and everything Western, how can the politicians who have been duly elected to office deny these same declarations. Have they no conscience, have they no free will to demand of the other politicians the security and dreams of this nation?
It tires me greatly to see the same old emails cross my page, with an occasional petition thrown in for good measure, always extolling the horror coming our way if the Islamofascists have their way with us, and I'm not saying they can't, but when will it happen? Sooner rather than later, I'm afraid, if the politicians don't get off their dead asses and get their heads out of the sand, take a look around, quit worrying about the "next election cycle", and start worrying about tomorrow, next week, next year.
First, and most important to me is our security. Border security, transportation security, freedom of the press security, wage security, any number of securities, for without these securities, what is the US? Nothing, absolutely nothing but an island ripe for conquering forces to do as they please.
Concerning border security, it is my understanding that the US Border Patrol is in charge of halting illegal immigration, illegal smuggling, illegal drug trafficking, etc., to the ability they are given the authority to do. In the cases of the two US Border Patrol officers who were doing their job, and who halted a Mexican attempting to smuggle drugs into this country, and who shot the man in the buttocks as he was escaping, through some quirk in the processes, these two men are now incarcerated in federal prisons. Why? Not because they were doing their jobs, what they were hired for, but for shooting an illegal Mexican in the buttocks as he was running away. What the hell, over?
I'm more upset with the President at the moment than incarcerating two men for doing their jobs in the first place. The President of the United States is sworn in and bound by the Constitution of the United States to preserve and protect the United States from all people who wish harm. However, the President has pardoned or commuted the sentence of one "Scooter" Libby, a sentence of but a couple of years, and has turned his back on two Border Patrol agents who were doing their jobs, as prescribed by their superiors. These two men are now in prison for 10 and 11 years, and are at the mercy of the prison population already incarcerated. And guess who is going to be attacked more violently than any other prisoner? Yep, former law enforcement officials. What the hell, over?
When the President's request for open immigration failed in Congress, only then has he begun to take the border security seriously. Or at least he's saving face at the moment by having the Department of Homeland Security address the issues surrounding border security. What the hell, over?
The time has come, for me anyway, to stop sitting on the sidelines, shaking my head in wonder at the actions those men and women I voted for are partaking in. The time has come for me to take an active stance, to send emails, to write letters, to call if need be, to demand my representatives DO THEIR JOBS! Period. There is no other reasonable thing to do. And if they refuse to do their jobs, if they refuse to protect the American way of life, well, hit the door, Jack.
I am but a simple man, a military retiree, but this is the country I dedicated 20+ years of my life to. When I've had enough of something, I come out fighting. How about you? Are you going to continue to sit on the sidelines, watching the daily parade run by, watching all the sacred ideals this country has protected for the past 200+ years to fall by the wayside, being politically correct instead of calling a spade a spade, and holding the government's feet to the fire?
Disgusting.
August 11, 2007
A couple of days back an old friend from Mississippi sent me a video from USA Wake Up dot org, http://www.usawakeup.org/. While the video is a bone-chilling video, there are many, many more videos for consumption on the web as depictive as this one, some even more so. The problem is, out of all the people who do watch these videos, how many are going to "take action", confront their elected officials, demand said officials to pay attention to what is going on, and quit the hyperventilating about being reelected next term?
I would dare say very few folks are bold enough, are proud enough to confront the very politicians whom they have elected to office. Why? Because these elected officials seem to accept the fact that they were, in fact, elected to their respective offices and are therefore above their constituency. Wrong answer.
Today, I received yet another email from yet another old friend in Mississippi, this time with the question, "Can a good Muslim be a good American?". The answers run through various aspects of the Muslim world vs the notions we US citizens proclaim, such as theologically, religiously, socially, politically, and several others, each answered in the negative. The final statement is thus,
"Therefore after much study and deliberation....perhaps we should be very suspicious of ALL MUSLIMS in this country. They obviously cannot be both "good" Muslims and good Americans."
In part I can agree with all the statements written in that email; however, it does present some disturbing angles to me going back to other immigrants of this great country, all the way back to the Vikings.
One should remember we are all of some kind of faith, even the atheists and hard-core agnostics. A Muslim is no different, he/she simply worships a different aspect of religion. It is the fanatics who use the religion as a way, as a means to an end, the end being the destruction, annihilation, total obliteration of the West, the United States in particular. The fanatics, the brainwashed, the ones who live in a state of poverty and no where else to go, nothing else to believe in but the mullahs who preach the hate, who ascribe to the literal meanings as supposedly spoken by the prophet Mohammed, who are our enemies, not Muslims across the board. I've met a few, and I wasn't intimidated by them.
I would dare say the Catholics were treated much the same way in the fledgling US way back when, as were the Lutherans, even the Methodists. I don't claim to be a theological expert, I'm just going by what I've read and heard over the years. Any one religion or sect can overrule another if it is large enough, strong enough, carries enough weight, has enough fanatical followers.
Life does bother me, concern me, however, when the true Muslims will not confront the fanatics, will not speak up for their own concerns and denounce the actions and the means of the fanatics, the fascists who proclaim Mohammed has spoken from death, to tell them this suicide mission is their only choice to get into heaven, to have their virgins. What a great idea by the fanatics, by Mohammed, in which to control the little people.
And in the face of declaration upon declaration of the hate these Islamofascists have toward anything and everything Western, how can the politicians who have been duly elected to office deny these same declarations. Have they no conscience, have they no free will to demand of the other politicians the security and dreams of this nation?
It tires me greatly to see the same old emails cross my page, with an occasional petition thrown in for good measure, always extolling the horror coming our way if the Islamofascists have their way with us, and I'm not saying they can't, but when will it happen? Sooner rather than later, I'm afraid, if the politicians don't get off their dead asses and get their heads out of the sand, take a look around, quit worrying about the "next election cycle", and start worrying about tomorrow, next week, next year.
First, and most important to me is our security. Border security, transportation security, freedom of the press security, wage security, any number of securities, for without these securities, what is the US? Nothing, absolutely nothing but an island ripe for conquering forces to do as they please.
Concerning border security, it is my understanding that the US Border Patrol is in charge of halting illegal immigration, illegal smuggling, illegal drug trafficking, etc., to the ability they are given the authority to do. In the cases of the two US Border Patrol officers who were doing their job, and who halted a Mexican attempting to smuggle drugs into this country, and who shot the man in the buttocks as he was escaping, through some quirk in the processes, these two men are now incarcerated in federal prisons. Why? Not because they were doing their jobs, what they were hired for, but for shooting an illegal Mexican in the buttocks as he was running away. What the hell, over?
I'm more upset with the President at the moment than incarcerating two men for doing their jobs in the first place. The President of the United States is sworn in and bound by the Constitution of the United States to preserve and protect the United States from all people who wish harm. However, the President has pardoned or commuted the sentence of one "Scooter" Libby, a sentence of but a couple of years, and has turned his back on two Border Patrol agents who were doing their jobs, as prescribed by their superiors. These two men are now in prison for 10 and 11 years, and are at the mercy of the prison population already incarcerated. And guess who is going to be attacked more violently than any other prisoner? Yep, former law enforcement officials. What the hell, over?
When the President's request for open immigration failed in Congress, only then has he begun to take the border security seriously. Or at least he's saving face at the moment by having the Department of Homeland Security address the issues surrounding border security. What the hell, over?
The time has come, for me anyway, to stop sitting on the sidelines, shaking my head in wonder at the actions those men and women I voted for are partaking in. The time has come for me to take an active stance, to send emails, to write letters, to call if need be, to demand my representatives DO THEIR JOBS! Period. There is no other reasonable thing to do. And if they refuse to do their jobs, if they refuse to protect the American way of life, well, hit the door, Jack.
I am but a simple man, a military retiree, but this is the country I dedicated 20+ years of my life to. When I've had enough of something, I come out fighting. How about you? Are you going to continue to sit on the sidelines, watching the daily parade run by, watching all the sacred ideals this country has protected for the past 200+ years to fall by the wayside, being politically correct instead of calling a spade a spade, and holding the government's feet to the fire?
Disgusting.
Labels: Border Patrol, GWOT, Islam, Muslim
posted by Fletch @ 3:58 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Dis Is Why We Celebrates De Foth of July!
Dis Is Why We Celebrates De Foth of July! - © Kent Fletcher
July 4, 2007
I don't think I'll ever forget the subject line of this short reminisce. I was working on the campus of the University of Mississippi, with the grounds crew, just making some bucks for groceries while passing time until the summer school session began in 1981. The fellow who spoke those words was a local black man, a very young man, who I seriously doubt even had a high school diploma. And he firmly believed in what he said, that he believed George Washington had freed the slaves and that was the reason for the Fourth of July celebrations. Sad, very sad, but for some folks whose histories are so jumbled, well, at least he was celebrating something on the official birthdate of these United States.
Yesterday, I was in dreamland myself, thinking (always thinking of past dates and events) about the various celebrations of the Fourth of July in my lifetime, some 60 years. Some were very eventful, some rather drab, most just another day in my life. I remember my ex had a friend who was teaching in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when we were living in Colorado. Ellen was her name, and she invited us to Santa Fe to partake in the 200th year celebration of this great nation. 1976. Two centuries of democracy, sometimes shaky, sometimes firm, but always there, here. Not too bad for a system of government that so many have iterated can never last, can never survive, will eventually implode. I wonder how close we the people are to that day of implosion. It's scary, ain't it?
So we ankled off to Santa Fe for the weekend, for the celebration, for the drinking and strolling around the center and off-shooting streets of that quaint city's Plaza. It was here I was introduced to green chili, but I was not really fond of it, then. Now I am, and it's so hard to find in Texas. But the revelry in Santa Fe was unique, with Anglos, Hispanics, Indians, with parades on the Plaza, with banners held high, with a unison that was expected and symbolic of the unity of our diversified cultures. I've not been back to Santa Fe for the Fourth of July celebrations, and I wonder what it's like now.
I also thought about the time I was stationed at the Pentagon and the celebrations of the Fourth of July there. The celebrations on the National Mall with all manner of people from all over the United States, even all over the world, regaling in the so-far-successful story of these United States of America, all culminating in a wild and amazing fireworks display that lasted around an hour or so, beginning at 9 p.m. I remember being close to ground zero for the display, laying down on the ground, and only needing to keep my eyes open for the sights of the explosions occurring high above me, with the colors of the explosions - green, white, red, blue - and not worrying too much about my hearing at the time. The end of the display was about 15 minutes, maybe more, of nothing but the explosions and resounding echoes off brick, concrete, and steel throughout the DC area, about as close to the sounds of war I've ever heard. I wonder as I type this if the explosions at the Pentagon on 9/11/01 sounded anywhere near as loud.
All that is history, now, but what a wonderful time it was. The United States was still enduring the Cold War, and while I can't remember specifically, I'm sure the US was engaged in skirmishes around the world, attempting to further the cause of democracy in a mostly-undemocratic world. But the US citizens were free to do nearly anything they wanted on the Fourth of July, to have picnics, to go to the zoos, to gather in small communities to hear bands playing patriotic songs, to go to the lake for the day, to ski and swim, or simply to stay at home. The activities of the day were as varied as the people themselves, and for the most part, were free of worry about some fool or fools tossing a bomb into a crowd out of sympathy for the "oppressed" in the world. Lord, have times changed.
In just the past week, the ugliness of global war on terror reared its ugly head once again, in the "free" world. Eight folks of Islamic persuasion and empathy and sympathy created havoc in Great Britain, attempting car bombings on the streets, attempting to drive a Jeep through airport doors with bombs onboard, attempting to bring terror and fear to that great land. And these eight folks are educated human beings, five or six of them doctors or at least medical professionals. Did they succeed in their plight? Did they cause concern for safety? Undoubtedly they did, but they were all apprehended within a very short length of time, and for the most part their pursuits were squelched from the outset.
While I fear for the lives of all of us, for the Brits, the Spaniards, the Germans, for all in the European Union, I am most happy, glad those same attempted attacks did not take place in these United States. In squelching the attacks, had they happened within our borders, I fear there would have been political ramifications galore to yet divide the citizens more and more. I'm so tired of the politicians I could just scream. However, that is the way it is in these United States.
But today, July 4, 2007, is a day like no other day in the history of the greatest nation in the world. Today is the celebration of the birth of the greatest nation in the world, number 231. That number, my friends, is unequivocal in the histories of any nation in the world. The United States is the leader of the pack when it comes to individual freedoms in the world and each and every one of us should rejoice in that fact alone. We are free to do as we please, at least within the context of the laws and rules and regulations that we and our forefathers and foremothers have made for ourselves. The citizens of the United States are at the forefront of most every conceivable idea, invention, medical breakthrough, et al, in the world today. Foreigners of every ideation come to the people of the United States for help and we give it, and then we get stabbed in the back for our generosity. Ah, it's just like a Mobius strip, forever twisting and turning, always coming around and around, no beginning, no end.
Hey, I'm so glad I am a citizen of the United States. There is no place better to live, even with all the imperfections we have put upon ourselves. I cannot imagine living, working, dying anywhere else in the world.
This is why I celebrate the Fourth of July. This is why I fly the flag of the United States. How about you?
July 4, 2007
I don't think I'll ever forget the subject line of this short reminisce. I was working on the campus of the University of Mississippi, with the grounds crew, just making some bucks for groceries while passing time until the summer school session began in 1981. The fellow who spoke those words was a local black man, a very young man, who I seriously doubt even had a high school diploma. And he firmly believed in what he said, that he believed George Washington had freed the slaves and that was the reason for the Fourth of July celebrations. Sad, very sad, but for some folks whose histories are so jumbled, well, at least he was celebrating something on the official birthdate of these United States.
Yesterday, I was in dreamland myself, thinking (always thinking of past dates and events) about the various celebrations of the Fourth of July in my lifetime, some 60 years. Some were very eventful, some rather drab, most just another day in my life. I remember my ex had a friend who was teaching in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when we were living in Colorado. Ellen was her name, and she invited us to Santa Fe to partake in the 200th year celebration of this great nation. 1976. Two centuries of democracy, sometimes shaky, sometimes firm, but always there, here. Not too bad for a system of government that so many have iterated can never last, can never survive, will eventually implode. I wonder how close we the people are to that day of implosion. It's scary, ain't it?
So we ankled off to Santa Fe for the weekend, for the celebration, for the drinking and strolling around the center and off-shooting streets of that quaint city's Plaza. It was here I was introduced to green chili, but I was not really fond of it, then. Now I am, and it's so hard to find in Texas. But the revelry in Santa Fe was unique, with Anglos, Hispanics, Indians, with parades on the Plaza, with banners held high, with a unison that was expected and symbolic of the unity of our diversified cultures. I've not been back to Santa Fe for the Fourth of July celebrations, and I wonder what it's like now.
I also thought about the time I was stationed at the Pentagon and the celebrations of the Fourth of July there. The celebrations on the National Mall with all manner of people from all over the United States, even all over the world, regaling in the so-far-successful story of these United States of America, all culminating in a wild and amazing fireworks display that lasted around an hour or so, beginning at 9 p.m. I remember being close to ground zero for the display, laying down on the ground, and only needing to keep my eyes open for the sights of the explosions occurring high above me, with the colors of the explosions - green, white, red, blue - and not worrying too much about my hearing at the time. The end of the display was about 15 minutes, maybe more, of nothing but the explosions and resounding echoes off brick, concrete, and steel throughout the DC area, about as close to the sounds of war I've ever heard. I wonder as I type this if the explosions at the Pentagon on 9/11/01 sounded anywhere near as loud.
All that is history, now, but what a wonderful time it was. The United States was still enduring the Cold War, and while I can't remember specifically, I'm sure the US was engaged in skirmishes around the world, attempting to further the cause of democracy in a mostly-undemocratic world. But the US citizens were free to do nearly anything they wanted on the Fourth of July, to have picnics, to go to the zoos, to gather in small communities to hear bands playing patriotic songs, to go to the lake for the day, to ski and swim, or simply to stay at home. The activities of the day were as varied as the people themselves, and for the most part, were free of worry about some fool or fools tossing a bomb into a crowd out of sympathy for the "oppressed" in the world. Lord, have times changed.
In just the past week, the ugliness of global war on terror reared its ugly head once again, in the "free" world. Eight folks of Islamic persuasion and empathy and sympathy created havoc in Great Britain, attempting car bombings on the streets, attempting to drive a Jeep through airport doors with bombs onboard, attempting to bring terror and fear to that great land. And these eight folks are educated human beings, five or six of them doctors or at least medical professionals. Did they succeed in their plight? Did they cause concern for safety? Undoubtedly they did, but they were all apprehended within a very short length of time, and for the most part their pursuits were squelched from the outset.
While I fear for the lives of all of us, for the Brits, the Spaniards, the Germans, for all in the European Union, I am most happy, glad those same attempted attacks did not take place in these United States. In squelching the attacks, had they happened within our borders, I fear there would have been political ramifications galore to yet divide the citizens more and more. I'm so tired of the politicians I could just scream. However, that is the way it is in these United States.
But today, July 4, 2007, is a day like no other day in the history of the greatest nation in the world. Today is the celebration of the birth of the greatest nation in the world, number 231. That number, my friends, is unequivocal in the histories of any nation in the world. The United States is the leader of the pack when it comes to individual freedoms in the world and each and every one of us should rejoice in that fact alone. We are free to do as we please, at least within the context of the laws and rules and regulations that we and our forefathers and foremothers have made for ourselves. The citizens of the United States are at the forefront of most every conceivable idea, invention, medical breakthrough, et al, in the world today. Foreigners of every ideation come to the people of the United States for help and we give it, and then we get stabbed in the back for our generosity. Ah, it's just like a Mobius strip, forever twisting and turning, always coming around and around, no beginning, no end.
Hey, I'm so glad I am a citizen of the United States. There is no place better to live, even with all the imperfections we have put upon ourselves. I cannot imagine living, working, dying anywhere else in the world.
This is why I celebrate the Fourth of July. This is why I fly the flag of the United States. How about you?
posted by Fletch @ 9:59 AM 0 comments
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Father's Day - 2007
Father's Day - 2007 - © Kent Fletcher
June 17, 2007
Well, I wasn't going to say anything about today, cause I ain't one of ya. Not in the biblical sense, not in the literal sense, nor even the figurative sense. And yet, I suppose I am one of ya, in that I do truly care for the animals who have cohabited with me in times past, and in the present as well.
As with the real fathers, and mothers, too, in the world today, there is a certain satisfaction seeing an animal grow and mature to adulthood, to see it learn how to behave around humans, to interact in daily goings-on, to get on a schedule of meal-times, play-times, sleep-times. Of course, the animals the human race has decided to domesticate - cats, dogs, ferrets, hamsters, small and large furry ones, and some not so furry - have become as dependent on the human race as a human child in the formative years. How so, you may ask?
Domesticated animals have slowly lost a lot of their natural instincts of survival, such as preying on other animals for food, seeking shelter where they can find it, fighting tooth and nail for territory. Some of these traits can still be seen in feral animals, and even in border-line domesticated animals. For instance, at my present abode, I cohabit with three inside cats, and God-only-knows how many outside ones. Some of the outside ones are quite tame, others are a bit more skittish. When a litter is hatched, I make a concerted effort to at least handle the kits some, not much, to get my scent in them so they won't scatter at sight or sound. However, sometimes this is not good, in that the skittish ones may take the traits I pass along as humans are not a dangerous sort. And we all know about that statement, eh?
One thing is for certain at my abode: there ain't no mice or rats anywhere around. While I'm not going to permit the outside cats - even the tame ones - to starve, all they get is dry food, the cheaper the better. If they want meat for dinner, they find it on their own. I also feed the birds and squirrels, and I'm sure a bird or squirrel has paid the ultimate price.
At times the outside cats also serve as a make-shift alarm. If they see something, or someone strange approaching the yard, they scatter. Course, it helps if I'm outside at the time to see the alarm. As the heat keeps rising out here in TX, I only go out on the stoop in the evening, and even then sometimes it's just not comfortable.
Enough about cats. I've got them, I take care of them, and I care about them. Nuff said.
Dogs. What can I say? Domesticated dogs have a devotion to human beings that cats, at least the cats I've known in my short life, will never exhibit. There are exceptions, such as Prook, my mother's Siamese cat, and maybe Zack, my own Siamese, or Felix who passed last September. Prook loved to ride, windows down, anywhere, anytime. In fact, he got so bold as to get in any open window and lounge until the driver at least took him around the block. Many times he went to Arkansas with the family, to visit my mother's folks. Zack would walk with me when I took Zeke and Hercules, my two cockapoos, around the blocks. But no leash for him, just a fly-swatter. That was his calling card. He had his own fly-swatter, too, and would bring it to me to beat him. Seriously.
Felix would come to a whistle in his later years, and would ride, albeit begrudgingly, to the vet. I don't know if he ever got a vet, but he did get me on more than one occasion. And not love-bites either, but defensive bites. He let a human know where the boundaries were in no uncertain terms.
Well, I digressed a bit, fell back on the cats. Sorry bout that, so let me continue on about dogs. The first dog I remember was a collie of some kind. I was very young then, probably three or four. The second dog was Spooky, who actually lived across the street with the Albrittons. But Spooky was waiting for me every day as I walked into the yard from an arduous day at the Hill Demonstration School. He and I played for hours outside, my constant companion, a typical boy-and-his-dog relationship. Don't know how the Albrittons felt about it, but they never said anything. One time he swallowed one of those little red rubber balls. My father paid to get Dr. Wiggins to slice him open, retrieve what was left of said ball. I can't remember for sure what happened to Spooky, but I think he got nailed there on College Street. He was a cutey, too, a terrier mix, white with brown spots. I run across the one picture I've got of him on occasion.
Next was Blue, 1/4 Spitz, 1/4 Beagle, ½ Labrador. Smart. Quick. Cunning. My father's dog. They went hunting a lot together, for squirrels, rabbits, and one time a skunk. A very stinky result when my father shot the skunk and Blue dived in for the kill. I think my father could have killed him for that stupid act. But he survived for several years, only to be nailed on College Street. I've never come across another dog like Blue, faithful to the end.
I didn't cohabit with any animals in my adult life until I was marred and living in Colorado. The ex was aching for a pooch. The pooch - a cockapoo - came from a puppy mill in Kansas via a pet shop in Pueblo, CO. When we took him in, the vet told us if he lived six months, he would make it. He made it from 1978 to 1993. He done good. We had a couple of other dogs along the way, a cocker spaniel from a pound in Lakewood, CO, who evidently had a major heart attack while we were out one evening and died (he was still warm when I opened the door) and a terrier mix, also from Lakewood, who got nailed by some bahstad outside Oxford, MS, in 1981. Shortly thereafter along came Hercules, another cockapoo, who was absolutely, emphatically the best dog I've ever owned.
It was Zeke and Hercules who helped me keep my sanity after my divorce in 1987, who gave me something to live for, as I was really on the edge of ending everything for a very short period of time. They were my constant companions, traveling around Virginia, always, always ready to go for a ride anywhere. They helped me get to Texas in one piece back in December, 1990. They helped me acclimate Felix when he came into the fold in May, 1991. I've written about all three of these clowns elsewhere. I was torn apart when Zeke passed, but I was absolutely devastated when Hercules left me in February, 1994. I miss him to this very day, Father's Day, 2007.
My last constant companion was Lil Darlin. After Hercules passed, I had no desire for another pooch. The good Lord had other ideas, however, in November, 1998. Radar, as Lil Darlin was first known, was an ugly but cute little pup, I'd say in the vicinity of six-month-old when I first saw her. She was being drug around a yard by a five-year-old kid, literally, with a rope around her neck. The kid and his mom had just picked her up at a humongous flea market in Grand Prairie, TX. Seems as though a couple "passing through" had given her up for free, but I suspect a puppy mill ordeal. Regardless, she was soft and fuzzy, full of pith and vinegar, and just as cute as a bug in a rug. She had a little top-knot of sorts, pure white, right on the top of her head. As she got older this top-knot would raise when her hackles did.
In short order, I had another small companion, one who really required nothing more than a pat on the head, some food, some water, a little daily play-time, and a ride to anywhere. Happy times once again settled in my household. LD went everywhere with me, knew when to get off my lap, and knew when to get on it, too. She never complained about anything. She required no schooling, no obedience classes, no training. She was a constant companion, and I miss her as much today as I miss Hercules.
So, while I'm not a biological father, I suppose I can accept the moniker of a pseudo-father for all the animals in my care, and in my company. It breaks my heart to see animals tortured, brutalized, whipped, and otherwise mistreated, and I'll do all I can, physically and financially to ensure the well-being of my animal companions.
So, for all you real, human fathers out there in the world, who read this simple words of wit, a very much appreciated Happy Father's Day to you! Be thankful for who you have, or had in some instances, you are all wonderful to someone!
June 17, 2007
Well, I wasn't going to say anything about today, cause I ain't one of ya. Not in the biblical sense, not in the literal sense, nor even the figurative sense. And yet, I suppose I am one of ya, in that I do truly care for the animals who have cohabited with me in times past, and in the present as well.
As with the real fathers, and mothers, too, in the world today, there is a certain satisfaction seeing an animal grow and mature to adulthood, to see it learn how to behave around humans, to interact in daily goings-on, to get on a schedule of meal-times, play-times, sleep-times. Of course, the animals the human race has decided to domesticate - cats, dogs, ferrets, hamsters, small and large furry ones, and some not so furry - have become as dependent on the human race as a human child in the formative years. How so, you may ask?
Domesticated animals have slowly lost a lot of their natural instincts of survival, such as preying on other animals for food, seeking shelter where they can find it, fighting tooth and nail for territory. Some of these traits can still be seen in feral animals, and even in border-line domesticated animals. For instance, at my present abode, I cohabit with three inside cats, and God-only-knows how many outside ones. Some of the outside ones are quite tame, others are a bit more skittish. When a litter is hatched, I make a concerted effort to at least handle the kits some, not much, to get my scent in them so they won't scatter at sight or sound. However, sometimes this is not good, in that the skittish ones may take the traits I pass along as humans are not a dangerous sort. And we all know about that statement, eh?
One thing is for certain at my abode: there ain't no mice or rats anywhere around. While I'm not going to permit the outside cats - even the tame ones - to starve, all they get is dry food, the cheaper the better. If they want meat for dinner, they find it on their own. I also feed the birds and squirrels, and I'm sure a bird or squirrel has paid the ultimate price.
At times the outside cats also serve as a make-shift alarm. If they see something, or someone strange approaching the yard, they scatter. Course, it helps if I'm outside at the time to see the alarm. As the heat keeps rising out here in TX, I only go out on the stoop in the evening, and even then sometimes it's just not comfortable.
Enough about cats. I've got them, I take care of them, and I care about them. Nuff said.
Dogs. What can I say? Domesticated dogs have a devotion to human beings that cats, at least the cats I've known in my short life, will never exhibit. There are exceptions, such as Prook, my mother's Siamese cat, and maybe Zack, my own Siamese, or Felix who passed last September. Prook loved to ride, windows down, anywhere, anytime. In fact, he got so bold as to get in any open window and lounge until the driver at least took him around the block. Many times he went to Arkansas with the family, to visit my mother's folks. Zack would walk with me when I took Zeke and Hercules, my two cockapoos, around the blocks. But no leash for him, just a fly-swatter. That was his calling card. He had his own fly-swatter, too, and would bring it to me to beat him. Seriously.
Felix would come to a whistle in his later years, and would ride, albeit begrudgingly, to the vet. I don't know if he ever got a vet, but he did get me on more than one occasion. And not love-bites either, but defensive bites. He let a human know where the boundaries were in no uncertain terms.
Well, I digressed a bit, fell back on the cats. Sorry bout that, so let me continue on about dogs. The first dog I remember was a collie of some kind. I was very young then, probably three or four. The second dog was Spooky, who actually lived across the street with the Albrittons. But Spooky was waiting for me every day as I walked into the yard from an arduous day at the Hill Demonstration School. He and I played for hours outside, my constant companion, a typical boy-and-his-dog relationship. Don't know how the Albrittons felt about it, but they never said anything. One time he swallowed one of those little red rubber balls. My father paid to get Dr. Wiggins to slice him open, retrieve what was left of said ball. I can't remember for sure what happened to Spooky, but I think he got nailed there on College Street. He was a cutey, too, a terrier mix, white with brown spots. I run across the one picture I've got of him on occasion.
Next was Blue, 1/4 Spitz, 1/4 Beagle, ½ Labrador. Smart. Quick. Cunning. My father's dog. They went hunting a lot together, for squirrels, rabbits, and one time a skunk. A very stinky result when my father shot the skunk and Blue dived in for the kill. I think my father could have killed him for that stupid act. But he survived for several years, only to be nailed on College Street. I've never come across another dog like Blue, faithful to the end.
I didn't cohabit with any animals in my adult life until I was marred and living in Colorado. The ex was aching for a pooch. The pooch - a cockapoo - came from a puppy mill in Kansas via a pet shop in Pueblo, CO. When we took him in, the vet told us if he lived six months, he would make it. He made it from 1978 to 1993. He done good. We had a couple of other dogs along the way, a cocker spaniel from a pound in Lakewood, CO, who evidently had a major heart attack while we were out one evening and died (he was still warm when I opened the door) and a terrier mix, also from Lakewood, who got nailed by some bahstad outside Oxford, MS, in 1981. Shortly thereafter along came Hercules, another cockapoo, who was absolutely, emphatically the best dog I've ever owned.
It was Zeke and Hercules who helped me keep my sanity after my divorce in 1987, who gave me something to live for, as I was really on the edge of ending everything for a very short period of time. They were my constant companions, traveling around Virginia, always, always ready to go for a ride anywhere. They helped me get to Texas in one piece back in December, 1990. They helped me acclimate Felix when he came into the fold in May, 1991. I've written about all three of these clowns elsewhere. I was torn apart when Zeke passed, but I was absolutely devastated when Hercules left me in February, 1994. I miss him to this very day, Father's Day, 2007.
My last constant companion was Lil Darlin. After Hercules passed, I had no desire for another pooch. The good Lord had other ideas, however, in November, 1998. Radar, as Lil Darlin was first known, was an ugly but cute little pup, I'd say in the vicinity of six-month-old when I first saw her. She was being drug around a yard by a five-year-old kid, literally, with a rope around her neck. The kid and his mom had just picked her up at a humongous flea market in Grand Prairie, TX. Seems as though a couple "passing through" had given her up for free, but I suspect a puppy mill ordeal. Regardless, she was soft and fuzzy, full of pith and vinegar, and just as cute as a bug in a rug. She had a little top-knot of sorts, pure white, right on the top of her head. As she got older this top-knot would raise when her hackles did.
In short order, I had another small companion, one who really required nothing more than a pat on the head, some food, some water, a little daily play-time, and a ride to anywhere. Happy times once again settled in my household. LD went everywhere with me, knew when to get off my lap, and knew when to get on it, too. She never complained about anything. She required no schooling, no obedience classes, no training. She was a constant companion, and I miss her as much today as I miss Hercules.
So, while I'm not a biological father, I suppose I can accept the moniker of a pseudo-father for all the animals in my care, and in my company. It breaks my heart to see animals tortured, brutalized, whipped, and otherwise mistreated, and I'll do all I can, physically and financially to ensure the well-being of my animal companions.
So, for all you real, human fathers out there in the world, who read this simple words of wit, a very much appreciated Happy Father's Day to you! Be thankful for who you have, or had in some instances, you are all wonderful to someone!
Labels: animals, father's day
posted by Fletch @ 11:36 AM 0 comments
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Off The Cuff - Dimmit, Dammit!
Dimmit, Dammit! - © Kent FletcherMay 24, 2007
There was some discussion on USADS this morning about cussing' out in a nice way. Ye Editor had her own version of how, in high school (a loooooooong time ago, by the way), she and her running buddies would put someone down. Really nonsensical, pretty bland stuff unless you were on the receiving end and had "virgin" ears. Delta Dawns recounted how one of her early bosses would use the term "shuckins" in lieu of "s**t", and that Billie had told her that four "shuckins" equaled one "s**t", so she may as well just go on and say it. Bayou Bill chimed in about one Grady Nutt, one of the characters on Hee-Haw, that venerable laugh-fest from the 1970s through the late 1990s, who would explain how a preacher would cuss.
Now, the fellers would attempt to use more guttural and violent speech when cussing someone out, and I'll not even attempt to reiterate those notions. Except for one. And this happened to me in high school, also way long time ago.
In the evenings most all us high-schoolers with vehicles would cruise the streets of Cleveland, MS, smoking and drinking and listening to the radio, talking on the CB radios, looking for the girls who had snuck out of their homes under false pretenses. We would meet others on the streets, hollering and taunting with languages and actions that were sometimes really crude and rude. No Southern Gentlemen were we when in the company of our peers, and not the Southern Belles like Ye Editor and Delta Dawns.
One evening I was out in my rusty, trusty 1939 Plymouth, a.k.a., The Bomb. The Bomb ran on a 6-volt system, so the headlights weren't really bright enough to blind anyone approaching, but enough to at least see what was coming on. I met a feller while driving on Leflore Avenue who was a couple or few years older than me, Sammy Mitchell. Sammy had a 1954 (or thereabouts) Chevy two-door, really a slick car, all shiny and purty, lotsa chrome, nice paint job. Sammy was driving with his high beams on (his car was on a 12-volt system) and were those headlights bright! I flicked my own headlights up and down several times, but either Sammy didn't see my actions, or he ignored my actions. Whatever.
As he passed, I yelled out my window, "Dimmit, would ya?" Oops! Wrong statement at the wrong time!
Being the hothead he was, Sammy slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt, he and his riding companion (I know not who it was) were whoopin' and hollerin', turned around, and started after me. When I heard the squealing tires on the pavement, I decided to find a safe place to pull over. I ended up in front of 900 College Street, my home, and literally "stood" on my brakes.
Within a minute or two, here came Sammy, and he wasn't going to stop. Bang! Then Sproing! He backed his car up a bit, rammed me yet again. Bang! Sproing! After one more Bang! and Sproing!, he pulled out around me, he and his passenger hollering at me, calling me all sorts of vile and vulgar names. After letting my heart settle a little, I got out of the car to look at the damage his car had done to mine.
And what did I discover? Nothing, no dents, no drips, no errors. That Plymouth had the old-styled spring bumpers, hard to collapse if hit. I don't think there was any damage to Sammy's car, either, but at the moment, that was the least of my worries. I had to face that sucker the next day at school.
When we finally got face-to-face, I told him what I had yelled at him, "Dimmit, would ya?" Of course he pontificated around his friends that I had yelled, "Dimmit, Dammit!", and he was going to kick my butt. Well, I don't know what happened to escape this whuppin' he was wanting to dish out, but he never laid a hand on me. Sammy thought he was going to be a bad-ass, turned out he was just a blow-hard, after all.
Sammy died some time back. I wonder if he ever got over that incident?
Labels: reminisces
posted by Fletch @ 11:06 AM 0 comments
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Off The Cuff - Have You Ever Had...?
Have You Ever Had...? - © Kent FletcherMarch 11, 2007
Yesterday was not a particularly fun day. I've been working at changing out the U-joints in my 82 Volvo for a solid week, now, and I thought I'd be able to put a wrap on the deal in the late afternoon. Let me go back a few days, and you'll be able to see my frustration.
Last Saturday I removed the driveshaft in toto. Not a particularly easy task as I could only get the rear of the car off the ground to a workable height. The bolts to the differential weren't that difficult to remove, just a tight space. Thankfully I'm not claustrophobic, cause the driveshaft was literally in my face for the entire process.
Long and boring story, short, it's taken me a week to get the driveshaft repaired and ready to reinstall. Lots of running up and down the road, lots of frustration.
Yesterday - Saturday - got the driveshaft all put back together, assembled my needed tools and nuts and bolts and went back under the car. I didn't get very far, however, as I've got to find a way to support the shaft while I'm attempting to get the nuts and bolts in. That's for later today, once I finish this little epistle.
So I was sitting and watching the boob tube for a bit last evening, just about ready to go to bed, when a very pregnant cat - Miss Sophie - hopped into my lap, all lovey-dovey, purring to beat the band, wanting her belly rubbed. Such a tiny thing anyway, she was moving around every few minutes, getting a more comfortable position in my lap, sucking up to that belly-rubbing, when the last time she rolled over, I felt a warm fuzzy on my left thigh. Her water had broken in my lap! And then I watched her sides and I could see the contractions beginning. "This isn't going to work," says I. So I moved her to a chair with several layers of blankets, got her settled down for the long haul - for her - and finally went to bed.
I got up this morning and asked my roomy if we had kittens yet. She said Miss Sophie had been up earlier, had drunk a lot of water, and had disappeared again. She also mentioned her rear end was not a pleasant sight. Imagine that! I think she birthed under the dining room table, back in some dark corner. I'm sure she'll reveal her brood to us in time. However, I'm concerned that because she is so small anyway, that her first litter may not make it. The same thing happened to another cat outside, she lost the first litter but soon birthed another, and cute ones, too.
Hah! Another "first" for me, having an animal in my lap and her water breaking! Has anyone ever had this experience? Made my day, that's for sure! Forgot all about the driveshaft for a little while. Ain't life grand!
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