Priorities. It's how we live our lives, isn't it? In fact, we can't live our lives without them.
Which is more important? Go to the movies? Stay home and save the money? Stay home sick and risk losing one's job because they're not that understanding about such things? Or go to work and risk having it get worse and then you lose even more time?
Some priorities are easy. Some get complicated. To others, our complicated priorities generally aren't complicated at all. For some reason we can all see with perfect vision and clarity when it's somebody else confronted with a dilemma. But seldom when it's ourselves.
I have canceled most of my medical visits over the past eight months. Why? Because we don't have health insurance and we also don't have a lot of money. So I skipped my diabetes doctor. Canceled my heart scan. Canceled my colonoscopy (not a difficult decision). And have skipped going to the dentist.
The result is I now have at least two teeth with fillings falling out. One major. Back to that. A few years ago I went two years with broken teeth until we saved up the money to pay for repairs.
My feet have also swollen. My long, slender toes now look like stubby little sausages. The skin is stretched to where it actually hurts. The feet feel both warm and cold at the same time.
Now. Priorities.
Getting these things taken care of is important to me. PAYING somebody to help me deal with it is important to somebody. I have been in debt to medical facilities before. The only creditors worse are banks and the government. So, the choice: Go to the doctor when I know I can't pay for it and will then get phone call after phone call every night of the week for the rest of my life demanding payment; Or not go to the doctor and know that I am slowly but surely killing myself?
I have chosen the second of those two choices.
But that doesn't amaze me. For me, the choice was obvious and hardly worth debating. What amazes me is what took place this week.
Spouse and I stopped at the vet to get Firestar more food. He was out. And after he nearly died he's been on a special diet food only available at the vet. It's expensive, but it lasts a long time. Only it's prescription. So in order for us to continue to purchase it, we had to bring Firestar in to be examined.
So I did.
I spent $66 so Firestar could eat special food which prevents him from getting sick and dying. But I won't go myself.
Priorities.
I based this one on the truth that Firestar's condition is not of his doing. At all. All of my problems are my own fault.
Firestar has no choice in his life. His health is in my hands, not his paws.
I am responsible now for both of our lives. But it's easier to let mine slip than his.
Why is that? He's just a cat.
Except - he isn't. Is he?
Showing posts with label Animals and Nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Animals and Nature. Show all posts
Friday, February 26, 2010
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I've Been Chicken Most of My Life
I grew up in rural Minnesota. Our place was the original homestead of what had once been a large and thriving farm. By the time we got there the farm had long since ceased to be farmed. The property had been divided and sold off. And the original owners were dead. My parents had five acres – three which stood dormant most of the time.
We inherited half of the out buildings. The people my parents had purchased (were purchasing) the property from had built next door and had the cow barn and the horse barn. We had the machine shed, the milk shed, and the root cellar. And the original house.
Being so far from town (ten miles to what could be the closest ‘city’) allowed us certain freedoms people in the city did not enjoy. One of these freedoms was the right – and ability – to raise chickens.
One spring my mother ordered one hundred little chickens. Alive. We originally put them in the porch area because they arrived before the snows had melted. Eventually, we would fix up the milk shed for them. Ultimately, those which were not killed by other means would become supper.
There were four “other means” for our chickens to die. One of our dogs liked to kill them. Crazy Charlie, who mother refused to accept as a guilty party until he attacked her. He was her dog and she had defended him mightily. But the day after he tried to bite her he was dead. Don’t piss off my mother.
The second way was wild animals. Mostly hawks and owls. We were rural, but there were enough properties that fox and such stayed away. Too many dogs. But birds didn’t care about dogs. A few learned they should have cared about Crazy Charlie, who had learned how to take a bird down out of the air. I saw it done. Most impressive. Especially when you realize he had to teach himself the trick.
The third way was the neighbor boys. Three of them. They sat in a treehouse with B-B- guns and shot about fifteen before my sister Gayanne caught them. That became a messy scene with the police and everything.
And then there was the fourth way. A most unexpected way to die, I thought. At least, I thought so at first. By the time the chickens were all gone I had learned something about chickens. And about people, I think.
You see, the chickens would find the current weakest chicken in the flock – and peck the poor thing until it died. It would have few tail feathers because the stronger chickens had pulled them all off. It would be weak because whenever it tried to eat or drink the other chickens would come and harass it. I attempted to intervene on behalf of these poor creatures, but one can only be with a flock of chickens so long. When I wasn’t there it was constant harassment. Until it died. And then the hunt was on to discover the next in line.
The hawks and owls may have taken three. The dog got six. The neighbor boys got eight. The chickens themselves killed at least twenty. Of the one hundred we started with, we were only able to take a little more than 50% for ourselves. Maybe it didn’t matter. They were all doomed to die anyway. I don’t know.
But it has been my observation that people behave very much like chickens. Not each and every individual, but groups of people. And that is something else: A person may act one way when she (he) is by herself (himself). But put that same person in a group and you might see an entirely different behavior. Group mentality is powerful. It’s how riots are formed.
In school, at work, on ball teams, I have observed that there will be a ‘weakest’ member. And that member is going to be made fully aware that they are weakest. Many times this is in ‘good-natured fun’. But sometimes it can be quite cruel. I have seen people driven out of work for it. A friend of mine suffered a nervous breakdown.
It seems to be built into our nature to be a lot like chickens. We see weakness in someone else and we exploit it. We peck at them, keeping the wound open and alive, draining them of their capacity to heal and continue. They grow weaker and weaker and weaker, until they die. Sometimes for real, but always personally.
I thought of this when I read a posting by LaughingWolf. It’s interesting, and I have read and heard of things like this before. To be honest, I have also pulled my share of feathers throughout my life. But that was back when I was on the strong team. Now that my turn has come I am less disposed.
As a people we seem to have a hard time with charity. We can give money, food, and clothing. As we should. But at the same time we will mock and condemn the weak. They can easily become objects of our humor and our disdain.
We are not all that way, to be sure. In fact, not every chicken pecked at the weak. Like people, the chickens seemed to form their own ‘cliques’. That Gang Clique, as I used to think of them, was the one which actively sought out others to harass. Other cliques tended to be more passive, but did strike out should an ‘outsider’ approach. And then there were the loners. Some were tough, and even the Gang Clique left them alone. Most just went along, not bothering if another chicken came close.
I think people are like that. I also think that everything good – and bad – that a person can be and do is inside each of us. Various things in our makeup will cause us to turn one way or the other. Ultimately, we behave without thinking about it. That can be fine and good. But if we’re pulling feathers, perhaps not.
But sometimes it’s just hard to resist. Isn’t it?
We inherited half of the out buildings. The people my parents had purchased (were purchasing) the property from had built next door and had the cow barn and the horse barn. We had the machine shed, the milk shed, and the root cellar. And the original house.
Being so far from town (ten miles to what could be the closest ‘city’) allowed us certain freedoms people in the city did not enjoy. One of these freedoms was the right – and ability – to raise chickens.
One spring my mother ordered one hundred little chickens. Alive. We originally put them in the porch area because they arrived before the snows had melted. Eventually, we would fix up the milk shed for them. Ultimately, those which were not killed by other means would become supper.
There were four “other means” for our chickens to die. One of our dogs liked to kill them. Crazy Charlie, who mother refused to accept as a guilty party until he attacked her. He was her dog and she had defended him mightily. But the day after he tried to bite her he was dead. Don’t piss off my mother.
The second way was wild animals. Mostly hawks and owls. We were rural, but there were enough properties that fox and such stayed away. Too many dogs. But birds didn’t care about dogs. A few learned they should have cared about Crazy Charlie, who had learned how to take a bird down out of the air. I saw it done. Most impressive. Especially when you realize he had to teach himself the trick.
The third way was the neighbor boys. Three of them. They sat in a treehouse with B-B- guns and shot about fifteen before my sister Gayanne caught them. That became a messy scene with the police and everything.
And then there was the fourth way. A most unexpected way to die, I thought. At least, I thought so at first. By the time the chickens were all gone I had learned something about chickens. And about people, I think.
You see, the chickens would find the current weakest chicken in the flock – and peck the poor thing until it died. It would have few tail feathers because the stronger chickens had pulled them all off. It would be weak because whenever it tried to eat or drink the other chickens would come and harass it. I attempted to intervene on behalf of these poor creatures, but one can only be with a flock of chickens so long. When I wasn’t there it was constant harassment. Until it died. And then the hunt was on to discover the next in line.
The hawks and owls may have taken three. The dog got six. The neighbor boys got eight. The chickens themselves killed at least twenty. Of the one hundred we started with, we were only able to take a little more than 50% for ourselves. Maybe it didn’t matter. They were all doomed to die anyway. I don’t know.
But it has been my observation that people behave very much like chickens. Not each and every individual, but groups of people. And that is something else: A person may act one way when she (he) is by herself (himself). But put that same person in a group and you might see an entirely different behavior. Group mentality is powerful. It’s how riots are formed.
In school, at work, on ball teams, I have observed that there will be a ‘weakest’ member. And that member is going to be made fully aware that they are weakest. Many times this is in ‘good-natured fun’. But sometimes it can be quite cruel. I have seen people driven out of work for it. A friend of mine suffered a nervous breakdown.
It seems to be built into our nature to be a lot like chickens. We see weakness in someone else and we exploit it. We peck at them, keeping the wound open and alive, draining them of their capacity to heal and continue. They grow weaker and weaker and weaker, until they die. Sometimes for real, but always personally.
I thought of this when I read a posting by LaughingWolf. It’s interesting, and I have read and heard of things like this before. To be honest, I have also pulled my share of feathers throughout my life. But that was back when I was on the strong team. Now that my turn has come I am less disposed.
As a people we seem to have a hard time with charity. We can give money, food, and clothing. As we should. But at the same time we will mock and condemn the weak. They can easily become objects of our humor and our disdain.
We are not all that way, to be sure. In fact, not every chicken pecked at the weak. Like people, the chickens seemed to form their own ‘cliques’. That Gang Clique, as I used to think of them, was the one which actively sought out others to harass. Other cliques tended to be more passive, but did strike out should an ‘outsider’ approach. And then there were the loners. Some were tough, and even the Gang Clique left them alone. Most just went along, not bothering if another chicken came close.
I think people are like that. I also think that everything good – and bad – that a person can be and do is inside each of us. Various things in our makeup will cause us to turn one way or the other. Ultimately, we behave without thinking about it. That can be fine and good. But if we’re pulling feathers, perhaps not.
But sometimes it’s just hard to resist. Isn’t it?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Who Loves Ya, Baby
It's an odd thing about keeping animals around the place. Most of my life there have been animals around me. The exceptions were a few years after Daddy had died and we were moving from apartment (flat) to apartment. But they're living creatures and it doesn't take long for normal people to become attached to them. (If you do live in a place with animals - particularly dogs and/or cats - and you don't become attached to them, then I think you need counseling.)
For the most part, the animals we have kept have been dogs and cats. Any other animals we had were kept for food. There were exceptions. One year Helvie and I were given rabbits at Easter. We had had rabbits before, but those had been for food. Our two bunnies were meant to be pets.
It had been a long, cold winter that year, and I suppose Easter was early, too. In any case, we kept the rabbits in the house at first, in the big room, which had been curtained off. We spread sheets over the entire floor and let the bunnies run free. When the weather warmed enough, we set up a nice place for the bunnies in a out building. That lasted exactly one night. The dogs broke in after we went to bed and put an end to the bunnies.
There was another time Gayanne was given three baby chicks at Easter. Gayanne had never had any kind of personal pet before and so she took to the chicks more than anyone realized. And the chicks liked her, too. They would follow her around the yard as she walked, making sure they got exercise. But they didn't last either. It wasn't the dogs, though, which put an end to them. It was Mother. Sundays were baked chicken or roast days, and the day came when Mother decided Gayanne's chickens would be the daily meal. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who got to cook them? Right. Gayanne. Mother never did figure out why Gayanne was so upset, or why she refused to eat, or why it had been cruel to do what she had done. Mother had grown up on a farm. In her mind there were only two reasons to have chickens: they laid eggs; they were good to eat. What a pity that had not been conveyed to Gayanne when she had been given the chicks to take care of.
I suppose it's more parents who make taking care of pets odd. Spouse's family used to have a nice, fluffy cat. It was a fearful thing which hid from strangers. The first time I was brought home to meet Spouse's family I chanced a glimpse of it as it ran down the stairs into the basement. It took me nearly the entire weekend (it was Thanksgiving Weekend) to win the cat's confidence so that it actually came to me and allowed me to stroke its back. After I left the cat offended either Spouse's mother or brother (it's still not clear) and her brother killed it. Spouse was told the cat had run away, but she investigated further and learned the truth. You see, this wasn't the first time a pet had "run away".
There had been a dog. It, too, had mysteriously run away. Twenty years later Spouse's mother fessed up. She had brought it to the pound to be put down. She had grown tired of taking care of it after the children had grown and left home.
I suppose that's partially why I resent it when people put such a strong emphasis on money. To me, it seems that the more we do that the more likely we will make our pets "run away". Then we tell lies to cover our actions, as though we instictively know we've done something wrong.
Part of my not wanting to have our cat in the first place was knowing this day (having to move) was a very real possibility, and finding a place to rent which allows cats is not always easy. As it turned out, we did. But there's a responsibility in keeping a pet. No, they are not humans, and no I do not believe they should have all the rights of humans. But they do have the right to be taken care of. After all, we chose them.
It isn't always easy and it isn't always fun. But what is? Tell me. I'd like to know. Nothing that I have or do makes me happy all the time. But when a cat - or dog, or bird, or whatever - comes and wants to sit beside you because it likes you, that has to mean something to you. If it doesn't then I truly feel sorry for you, for you are missing out on life's greatest treasure: love.
For the most part, the animals we have kept have been dogs and cats. Any other animals we had were kept for food. There were exceptions. One year Helvie and I were given rabbits at Easter. We had had rabbits before, but those had been for food. Our two bunnies were meant to be pets.
It had been a long, cold winter that year, and I suppose Easter was early, too. In any case, we kept the rabbits in the house at first, in the big room, which had been curtained off. We spread sheets over the entire floor and let the bunnies run free. When the weather warmed enough, we set up a nice place for the bunnies in a out building. That lasted exactly one night. The dogs broke in after we went to bed and put an end to the bunnies.
There was another time Gayanne was given three baby chicks at Easter. Gayanne had never had any kind of personal pet before and so she took to the chicks more than anyone realized. And the chicks liked her, too. They would follow her around the yard as she walked, making sure they got exercise. But they didn't last either. It wasn't the dogs, though, which put an end to them. It was Mother. Sundays were baked chicken or roast days, and the day came when Mother decided Gayanne's chickens would be the daily meal. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who got to cook them? Right. Gayanne. Mother never did figure out why Gayanne was so upset, or why she refused to eat, or why it had been cruel to do what she had done. Mother had grown up on a farm. In her mind there were only two reasons to have chickens: they laid eggs; they were good to eat. What a pity that had not been conveyed to Gayanne when she had been given the chicks to take care of.
I suppose it's more parents who make taking care of pets odd. Spouse's family used to have a nice, fluffy cat. It was a fearful thing which hid from strangers. The first time I was brought home to meet Spouse's family I chanced a glimpse of it as it ran down the stairs into the basement. It took me nearly the entire weekend (it was Thanksgiving Weekend) to win the cat's confidence so that it actually came to me and allowed me to stroke its back. After I left the cat offended either Spouse's mother or brother (it's still not clear) and her brother killed it. Spouse was told the cat had run away, but she investigated further and learned the truth. You see, this wasn't the first time a pet had "run away".
There had been a dog. It, too, had mysteriously run away. Twenty years later Spouse's mother fessed up. She had brought it to the pound to be put down. She had grown tired of taking care of it after the children had grown and left home.
I suppose that's partially why I resent it when people put such a strong emphasis on money. To me, it seems that the more we do that the more likely we will make our pets "run away". Then we tell lies to cover our actions, as though we instictively know we've done something wrong.
Part of my not wanting to have our cat in the first place was knowing this day (having to move) was a very real possibility, and finding a place to rent which allows cats is not always easy. As it turned out, we did. But there's a responsibility in keeping a pet. No, they are not humans, and no I do not believe they should have all the rights of humans. But they do have the right to be taken care of. After all, we chose them.
It isn't always easy and it isn't always fun. But what is? Tell me. I'd like to know. Nothing that I have or do makes me happy all the time. But when a cat - or dog, or bird, or whatever - comes and wants to sit beside you because it likes you, that has to mean something to you. If it doesn't then I truly feel sorry for you, for you are missing out on life's greatest treasure: love.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Lessons Learned the Hard Way
Back in the 1960s political correctness had yet to arrive. That alone made the decade worthwhile in my opinion. Other than that it was a nasty time. There were racial tensions all over the place. There was a war nobody understood or liked. Poverty was a big deal. People were being overwhelmed by technology.
It's a good that things have changed so much in the past forty years, isn't it?
But back then it was totally appropriate for children to play with toy guns. It was encouraged. There were entire aisles in the toy sections of bigger stores devoted to hand guns, rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, etc. And where I grew up it wasn't just the boys who played gunfighter and war. The girls were just as prone to violence as the boys.
The cool thing about playing guns was that you only missed when you wanted to miss, and you were only shot when you wanted to be - or everyone else insisted you were. And if you were the socially dominant one that meant never. I was never the socially dominant one. Got shot lots of times.
It was frustrating, though, to be told I had been shot when I knew for a fact that my "enemy" hadn't even managed to point their weapon at me. You see this on the old western shows all the time. There's a gunfight, and the hero fires his weapon at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. The bad guy puts his hand over his heart and falls dead. Heart attack, I guess. It's a good reason not to be a bad guy. Apparently it causes heart problems.
Chris's dad owned a cabinet shop, and as a treat he made wooden guns which fired rubber bands. Chris was thrilled. Now he would have positive proof of his prowess with weapons. The rubber bands would not lie.
He and his brother and cousin all had them, giving them what the rest of us considered an unfair advantage. We were horribly jealous. Chris and Dale had pistols, and all three had rifles. The only difference between the pistols and the rifles was that the pistols weren't rifles and the rifles weren't pistols. No difference in accuracy or distance.
The pistols were quickly abandoned after Chris and Dale shot themselves in the foot several times. The rifles worked fine - if they could get closer than ten feet to their target - and it wasn't windy.
I was lucky enough to get my own version of a projectile firing weapon. It was an oversized pistol which had one redeeming value: it fired bullets.
The bullets were plastic, of course. But they had the added benefit of being loadable. One just took off the back, filled the tube with baby powder, replaced the back, put the bullets in the gun and went off to shoot something. The rounded point was open so that the bullet would leave a powder mark as proof of accuracy. The other kids hated this weapon. Why? I was good with it.
You see, Daddy had taught me to use guns when I was five. I learned to respect them like I would a butcher's knife. Real guns would really kill. And they didn't care who they killed. Even when I played with toy guns I was not allowed to treat the weapons indiscriminately. I was allowed to point my weapons at people on one condition: I intended to shoot them. That went for play time as well as real time.
That taught me to be careful on my fast draw. I could outdraw anyone. And with the projecting bullets I had proof of my accuracy. Of course, it was hard to miss when one was only six feet away from the enemy. Plastic bullets had a similar problem with distance as rubber bands.
The biggest problem I had was that holsters were generally made to be worn on the right side. I wore my gun on the left. This required a bit of fanangling, and the result was my gun refused to remain holstered when I wanted it to be. This meant many accidental drops to the ground and eventually a broken gun. So much for the fastest gun alive.
I've always liked shooting guns. Just not at living things. Never been much for hunting. Went a few times without killing anything. Then, the last time I went, I did. I remember hesitating before firing my weapon. I didn't want to do it. Then logic worked in my brain. What the h*ll was I doing out there if I wasn't going to complete the mission? Others were depending on me to do this. So I fired.
I felt sick, and distant from myself. Almost numb. I didn't like the feeling of remorse. This was not play time. I had killed something. On purpose. Just so I could eat it. I made a promise that I would not hunt again, and I haven't.
Son has some toy guns. Spouse got them for him. It never occurred to me to buy them. I have placed the same rule upon him that Daddy did to me: do not point the gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. And that includes the cat.
I knew some kids in school who had taught their dog to fall over and play dead when they pretended to shoot it. Don't waste your time trying that with a cat. Cats just like at you like you're nuts. I think they're right.
For myself, my shooting days are over.
It's a good that things have changed so much in the past forty years, isn't it?
But back then it was totally appropriate for children to play with toy guns. It was encouraged. There were entire aisles in the toy sections of bigger stores devoted to hand guns, rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, etc. And where I grew up it wasn't just the boys who played gunfighter and war. The girls were just as prone to violence as the boys.
The cool thing about playing guns was that you only missed when you wanted to miss, and you were only shot when you wanted to be - or everyone else insisted you were. And if you were the socially dominant one that meant never. I was never the socially dominant one. Got shot lots of times.
It was frustrating, though, to be told I had been shot when I knew for a fact that my "enemy" hadn't even managed to point their weapon at me. You see this on the old western shows all the time. There's a gunfight, and the hero fires his weapon at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. The bad guy puts his hand over his heart and falls dead. Heart attack, I guess. It's a good reason not to be a bad guy. Apparently it causes heart problems.
Chris's dad owned a cabinet shop, and as a treat he made wooden guns which fired rubber bands. Chris was thrilled. Now he would have positive proof of his prowess with weapons. The rubber bands would not lie.
He and his brother and cousin all had them, giving them what the rest of us considered an unfair advantage. We were horribly jealous. Chris and Dale had pistols, and all three had rifles. The only difference between the pistols and the rifles was that the pistols weren't rifles and the rifles weren't pistols. No difference in accuracy or distance.
The pistols were quickly abandoned after Chris and Dale shot themselves in the foot several times. The rifles worked fine - if they could get closer than ten feet to their target - and it wasn't windy.
I was lucky enough to get my own version of a projectile firing weapon. It was an oversized pistol which had one redeeming value: it fired bullets.
The bullets were plastic, of course. But they had the added benefit of being loadable. One just took off the back, filled the tube with baby powder, replaced the back, put the bullets in the gun and went off to shoot something. The rounded point was open so that the bullet would leave a powder mark as proof of accuracy. The other kids hated this weapon. Why? I was good with it.
You see, Daddy had taught me to use guns when I was five. I learned to respect them like I would a butcher's knife. Real guns would really kill. And they didn't care who they killed. Even when I played with toy guns I was not allowed to treat the weapons indiscriminately. I was allowed to point my weapons at people on one condition: I intended to shoot them. That went for play time as well as real time.
That taught me to be careful on my fast draw. I could outdraw anyone. And with the projecting bullets I had proof of my accuracy. Of course, it was hard to miss when one was only six feet away from the enemy. Plastic bullets had a similar problem with distance as rubber bands.
The biggest problem I had was that holsters were generally made to be worn on the right side. I wore my gun on the left. This required a bit of fanangling, and the result was my gun refused to remain holstered when I wanted it to be. This meant many accidental drops to the ground and eventually a broken gun. So much for the fastest gun alive.
I've always liked shooting guns. Just not at living things. Never been much for hunting. Went a few times without killing anything. Then, the last time I went, I did. I remember hesitating before firing my weapon. I didn't want to do it. Then logic worked in my brain. What the h*ll was I doing out there if I wasn't going to complete the mission? Others were depending on me to do this. So I fired.
I felt sick, and distant from myself. Almost numb. I didn't like the feeling of remorse. This was not play time. I had killed something. On purpose. Just so I could eat it. I made a promise that I would not hunt again, and I haven't.
Son has some toy guns. Spouse got them for him. It never occurred to me to buy them. I have placed the same rule upon him that Daddy did to me: do not point the gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. And that includes the cat.
I knew some kids in school who had taught their dog to fall over and play dead when they pretended to shoot it. Don't waste your time trying that with a cat. Cats just like at you like you're nuts. I think they're right.
For myself, my shooting days are over.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
An Easy Way to Fish
As I've written before, I am not, and never have been, real keen on fishing. But before Stephen and I would drive and hike to the Rum River, or Cedar Creek, I would sometimes be up at my uncle's cabin near Grand Rapids. The cabin was high on a hill overlooking Little Wabanna Lake. Little Wabanna was one of those tiny pond-like lakes, great for pan fish and a few northern pike. Only catching the big fish was difficult. The reason was the lake was so inundated with small fish the big fish hardly bothered with bait on a hook.
We used to sit on the big pontoon raft about thirty yards from shore in fifteen feet of absolutely clear water. You could see the bottom. You could also see hundreds of pan fish swimming in the pontoon's shadows. We would row out to the raft with cane poles and a carton of worms. Then we would fish.
This kind of fishing was incredibly easy. Hooks would barely enter the water before six or eight fish would swarm upon them. A quick jerk of the pole and up came the catch - generally a pitifully small sunfish. Sometimes it would be an even smaller perch. The bigger fish were deeper down, but getting the hooks down there was a trial. We would put six or eight lead sinkers on the lines and drop them in. But with all of the small fish the odds of catching a "keeper" were fairly slim. Yet it was not catch and release. The lake was so overstocked with fish that the rule was keep everything. What you didn't eat yourself would be fed to the hogs, or buried in local gardens for fertilizer. There were just too many fish in the lake.
I found this out first hand when Helvie and I were fishing. We ran out of bait and as a joke I just dropped an empty hook into the water. I caught a fish. We thought it was so funny we sat and caught a dozen more. From that day on we never used bait. We just went out with hooks and caught fish. For eight and nine-year-olds it was great.
What I remember, though, is how the fish quit biting around sunset. That was when the lake's surface became covered with water spiders, gnats, and other insects. At that point the fish would ignore even the best of bait and head to the surface to eat bugs. We would sit and listen to the popping sounds all around us. It sounded like a room full of gum chewers smaking their lips. It would last until dark. Then the fish would be done until the morning.
Eventually the lake's overpopulation of pan fish dwindled. I haven't fished there in at least forty years. My aunt still lives there, but I think she's gone most of the year now. The bug population is still high. Mostly mosquitos.
We used to sit on the big pontoon raft about thirty yards from shore in fifteen feet of absolutely clear water. You could see the bottom. You could also see hundreds of pan fish swimming in the pontoon's shadows. We would row out to the raft with cane poles and a carton of worms. Then we would fish.
This kind of fishing was incredibly easy. Hooks would barely enter the water before six or eight fish would swarm upon them. A quick jerk of the pole and up came the catch - generally a pitifully small sunfish. Sometimes it would be an even smaller perch. The bigger fish were deeper down, but getting the hooks down there was a trial. We would put six or eight lead sinkers on the lines and drop them in. But with all of the small fish the odds of catching a "keeper" were fairly slim. Yet it was not catch and release. The lake was so overstocked with fish that the rule was keep everything. What you didn't eat yourself would be fed to the hogs, or buried in local gardens for fertilizer. There were just too many fish in the lake.
I found this out first hand when Helvie and I were fishing. We ran out of bait and as a joke I just dropped an empty hook into the water. I caught a fish. We thought it was so funny we sat and caught a dozen more. From that day on we never used bait. We just went out with hooks and caught fish. For eight and nine-year-olds it was great.
What I remember, though, is how the fish quit biting around sunset. That was when the lake's surface became covered with water spiders, gnats, and other insects. At that point the fish would ignore even the best of bait and head to the surface to eat bugs. We would sit and listen to the popping sounds all around us. It sounded like a room full of gum chewers smaking their lips. It would last until dark. Then the fish would be done until the morning.
Eventually the lake's overpopulation of pan fish dwindled. I haven't fished there in at least forty years. My aunt still lives there, but I think she's gone most of the year now. The bug population is still high. Mostly mosquitos.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Life of an Ant
When I was young I used to enjoy watching the ants around the yard. Not the entire yard. There there small red ants along the sandy driveway. These would make what I am sure were lavish tunnels below surface, bringing up the grains of sand one at a time and piling them around their little escape holes. The uniformity of the mounds they created was beautiful. Occasionally, there would be a two- or three-level place. In a very short time there would be dozens of this little mounds spread across that portion of the yard where grass just refused to grow.
As the giant in their world I felt compelled to inflict tornadoes and rain upon them. Having no control of the real weather I would use the hose for rain and an inverted hoe or rake for the tornado. Undaunted by my cruelty, the ants returned to work and rebuilt their little city time and again.
My behavior reminded me of a Charlie Brown (Peanuts) comic I once read. Lucy is talking to Charlie Brown. She describes the work of ants and how they built this incredible structure. Then, in a moment, it was gone. Aghast, Charlie Brown asks what happened. Lucy replies, "I kicked it over." Yeah. That's what kids do.
In the back yard some larger ants had made their nest in the side of a large oak, where Daddyhad hung the tire swing. There were red ants here, too, but mostly black ants. These ants were harder to annoy as they had built their home in a tree. No self-made tornado was going to bother them. And rain didn't go much into that hole they had made. But they took their lives in their hands (feet) every time they crossed the space below the tire swing. We didn't pay any attention and I'm sure more than a few lost their lives crossing that grassless plain. Why they just didn't go around I'll never know.
There was a third place where ants had built a home in our yard. It was in an area we didn't go to much, although it was close to the house. A large tree had once stood on this spot, but at some point in time, for some reason, somebody had cut it down with a chainsaw. In, and around, this stump was a monstrous colony of giant black ants. There had to have been thousands upon thousands of them, constantly milling about like the churning of a bubbling hot spring. The activity was so immense it looked random and aimless. Yet the colony could not have survived such a long time without each ant having a purpose in its work.
Disrupting this mass was easy to do, but hard to notice effect-wise. The whole pile was just a disgusting, churning mess anyway. Occasionally, we would toss in leaves and things like that, just to see what the ants would do with them. If an object was small enough, the ants would remove it. But some twigs were just too large for a single ant to move, and they didn't collaborate in this regard, so larger sticks (two or three inches long) remained.
I suppose watching ants back then was kind of like having an aquarium, or living beside a deep flowing river. The endlessness of activity was hypnotic, and I would periodically find myself going to the hideous mass of black and just watch without intruding. Once, Ranger, my idiot part shepherd part lab mutt dog, found the ant pile and dug in it for a bit. Then I got to see the giant white eggs being hauled back to safety. I suppose Ranger thought it must be interesting since I was staring at it but, finding nothing on his own, he left it alone after that.
After the house burned the ants were gone. I doubt they were all destroyed, but where they had maintained their houses was just as gone as ours. The heat from the house destroyed the grass through the roots for a nearly fifty foot radius. This may have eliminated the little red ants. They were too close. The ants in the tree probably survived the fire's direct impact, but their tree was killed, and it was pulled down by a large piece of demolition equipment and pushed out to the back field and buried. Maybe they survived that. Maybe they didn't.
The ants in the giant mass simply left. As far as I could tell their home had not been directly affected by the fire. But after The Old House was gone, so were the giant black ants. It's like they were somehow connected. Don't know where they went.
The New House always seemed sterile to me. There was no place where nature could find its way in without using a door or window, such as been true with The Old House. Insects, snakes, rodents. The Old House was a safe harbor for all of them.
There were still red and black ants about the yard, but not like before. And the giant ants were gone completely. As was the lush yard we had maintained. (It was lush on three sides of the house. On the north side the grass just didn't want to grow.) It seems ironic now, looking back. The only things we ever did to maintain the yard was mow it ever other week in spring, summer, and fall, and burn it off once a year to remove thatch. That made it the finest yard within miles. Then, fire destroyed it. Too much fire lasting too long with too much heat. The root system was gone. Like the giant ants.
I had occasion to return to the site a couple of months ago. The yard never did come back. It still looks thin and weedy, although the property looks less sterile now. Trees and shrubs have filled in a lot in the past thirty years. But apart from the plants it all looks like decaying junk. It hasn't been kept up well.
I wonder if the giant ants ever came back.
As the giant in their world I felt compelled to inflict tornadoes and rain upon them. Having no control of the real weather I would use the hose for rain and an inverted hoe or rake for the tornado. Undaunted by my cruelty, the ants returned to work and rebuilt their little city time and again.
My behavior reminded me of a Charlie Brown (Peanuts) comic I once read. Lucy is talking to Charlie Brown. She describes the work of ants and how they built this incredible structure. Then, in a moment, it was gone. Aghast, Charlie Brown asks what happened. Lucy replies, "I kicked it over." Yeah. That's what kids do.
In the back yard some larger ants had made their nest in the side of a large oak, where Daddyhad hung the tire swing. There were red ants here, too, but mostly black ants. These ants were harder to annoy as they had built their home in a tree. No self-made tornado was going to bother them. And rain didn't go much into that hole they had made. But they took their lives in their hands (feet) every time they crossed the space below the tire swing. We didn't pay any attention and I'm sure more than a few lost their lives crossing that grassless plain. Why they just didn't go around I'll never know.
There was a third place where ants had built a home in our yard. It was in an area we didn't go to much, although it was close to the house. A large tree had once stood on this spot, but at some point in time, for some reason, somebody had cut it down with a chainsaw. In, and around, this stump was a monstrous colony of giant black ants. There had to have been thousands upon thousands of them, constantly milling about like the churning of a bubbling hot spring. The activity was so immense it looked random and aimless. Yet the colony could not have survived such a long time without each ant having a purpose in its work.
Disrupting this mass was easy to do, but hard to notice effect-wise. The whole pile was just a disgusting, churning mess anyway. Occasionally, we would toss in leaves and things like that, just to see what the ants would do with them. If an object was small enough, the ants would remove it. But some twigs were just too large for a single ant to move, and they didn't collaborate in this regard, so larger sticks (two or three inches long) remained.
I suppose watching ants back then was kind of like having an aquarium, or living beside a deep flowing river. The endlessness of activity was hypnotic, and I would periodically find myself going to the hideous mass of black and just watch without intruding. Once, Ranger, my idiot part shepherd part lab mutt dog, found the ant pile and dug in it for a bit. Then I got to see the giant white eggs being hauled back to safety. I suppose Ranger thought it must be interesting since I was staring at it but, finding nothing on his own, he left it alone after that.
After the house burned the ants were gone. I doubt they were all destroyed, but where they had maintained their houses was just as gone as ours. The heat from the house destroyed the grass through the roots for a nearly fifty foot radius. This may have eliminated the little red ants. They were too close. The ants in the tree probably survived the fire's direct impact, but their tree was killed, and it was pulled down by a large piece of demolition equipment and pushed out to the back field and buried. Maybe they survived that. Maybe they didn't.
The ants in the giant mass simply left. As far as I could tell their home had not been directly affected by the fire. But after The Old House was gone, so were the giant black ants. It's like they were somehow connected. Don't know where they went.
The New House always seemed sterile to me. There was no place where nature could find its way in without using a door or window, such as been true with The Old House. Insects, snakes, rodents. The Old House was a safe harbor for all of them.
There were still red and black ants about the yard, but not like before. And the giant ants were gone completely. As was the lush yard we had maintained. (It was lush on three sides of the house. On the north side the grass just didn't want to grow.) It seems ironic now, looking back. The only things we ever did to maintain the yard was mow it ever other week in spring, summer, and fall, and burn it off once a year to remove thatch. That made it the finest yard within miles. Then, fire destroyed it. Too much fire lasting too long with too much heat. The root system was gone. Like the giant ants.
I had occasion to return to the site a couple of months ago. The yard never did come back. It still looks thin and weedy, although the property looks less sterile now. Trees and shrubs have filled in a lot in the past thirty years. But apart from the plants it all looks like decaying junk. It hasn't been kept up well.
I wonder if the giant ants ever came back.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Movie Review
It's been quite a while since I've posted about a movie (I think). When I started this blog it had been my intent to regularly recommend films. Instead, I tend to drone on and on about my personal history.
Well, today I shall return to my film critique, and I shall do it with a film I had never meant to go see. Randy took me. Randy was very into "artsy" films. So was Stephen, but this was at a time when Stephen wasn't around, so Randy just took me.
The film is called, Dersu Uzala, written by Akira Kurusawa and based on a book written by Vladimir Arsenyev. Kursusawa also directed the film.
It's a Russian Film, made back in 1975. It stars Maksim Munzuk as Dersu Uzala, and Yuri Solomin as Captain Vladimir Arsenyev.
The blurb on the VHS box reads thus: This exhilarating film tells the story of the friendship between Vladimir Arsenyev, a well-known Soviet explorer, and his guide, Dersu Uzala. They share a primal understanding and mutual respect for the beauty of nature. Dersu Uzala has a very deep wisdom for nature and knows how to survive in the wilderness. But Dersu has grown old and his eyesight is failing. After ther perilous journey, Arsenyev implores him to live with his family in the city. But city ways do not make sense to dersu, and he must return to his home, the forest, forever. It's the story of man's unity with nature and of the struggle for survival in the vast and predatory wilderness.
It is a very low-action film, often omitting dialogue entirely. It follows the friendship from its inception to
its conclusion. We watch as two men discover a bond of love and friendship.
Like I said, I was not keen on going to the film the first time I saw it, but I found myself caught up in it and never noticed how long it is (142 minutes). I expect it is the film's closeness with nature, and the presence of simple friendship, based on nothing but friendship, which captured me. I purchased the film on VHS a number of years ago and will watch it every few months when I have a day alone. It's not the kind of movie Spouse likes at all, but I think Son is getting old enough to tolerate the lack of action.
The movie has no strong social statement to make, although modern civilization and city living are not presented in fair light. If you can rent this movie, or get it from a library, I think you will enjoy watching it.
I do.
Well, today I shall return to my film critique, and I shall do it with a film I had never meant to go see. Randy took me. Randy was very into "artsy" films. So was Stephen, but this was at a time when Stephen wasn't around, so Randy just took me.
The film is called, Dersu Uzala, written by Akira Kurusawa and based on a book written by Vladimir Arsenyev. Kursusawa also directed the film.
It's a Russian Film, made back in 1975. It stars Maksim Munzuk as Dersu Uzala, and Yuri Solomin as Captain Vladimir Arsenyev.
The blurb on the VHS box reads thus: This exhilarating film tells the story of the friendship between Vladimir Arsenyev, a well-known Soviet explorer, and his guide, Dersu Uzala. They share a primal understanding and mutual respect for the beauty of nature. Dersu Uzala has a very deep wisdom for nature and knows how to survive in the wilderness. But Dersu has grown old and his eyesight is failing. After ther perilous journey, Arsenyev implores him to live with his family in the city. But city ways do not make sense to dersu, and he must return to his home, the forest, forever. It's the story of man's unity with nature and of the struggle for survival in the vast and predatory wilderness.
It is a very low-action film, often omitting dialogue entirely. It follows the friendship from its inception to
its conclusion. We watch as two men discover a bond of love and friendship.Like I said, I was not keen on going to the film the first time I saw it, but I found myself caught up in it and never noticed how long it is (142 minutes). I expect it is the film's closeness with nature, and the presence of simple friendship, based on nothing but friendship, which captured me. I purchased the film on VHS a number of years ago and will watch it every few months when I have a day alone. It's not the kind of movie Spouse likes at all, but I think Son is getting old enough to tolerate the lack of action.
The movie has no strong social statement to make, although modern civilization and city living are not presented in fair light. If you can rent this movie, or get it from a library, I think you will enjoy watching it.
I do.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Sometimes We Don't Know Ourselves At All
Judayl, my sister, was over to help with the garage sale last week. She missed Hectic Wednesday, when several hundred people showed up and we made nearly as much in one day as all of the previous week. But she was in time for Slow Friday, when 25% of our sales was to ourselves. (We had made hot dogs on the grill again, but with no one showing up we had to eat them or let them go to the garbage. I hate throwing food away.)
While she was here one of our conversations turned to cats. Judayl has a cat. Used to have two, but one suffered a stroke. It came up again that people who don't like cats usually tend to be people who aren't that nice in general. That has been my experience. However, before you get yourself all up in arms and critical of this "rule", let me point out something else: there are a lot of people who THINK they don't like cats, but really do.
One case in point is my brother, Mickey. Mickey always said he didn't like cats. But then, he was really never around them. Oh, we had cats as kids, but Mickey didn't pay them any mind. If he wasn't playing sports he was cleaning the house. He never had time for cats. Our cats were all permenently outside. No lap cats in our house. To interact with a cat at our place one had to seek them out. Mickey never did. He said he didn't like them. So what happens?
Years after leaving home and starting his own family, Mickey's wife wants a cat. She likes them. Mickey is confronted with an awful choice. One we all make often. Accept something you don't like because you love someone, or offend the person you love most in the world. Mickey accepted the cat into his house.
When we visited his house afterward, it was not unusual to see Mickey petting the cat. And later, when a large tom showed up at his place, Mickey let it stay. The tom eventually became Mickey's favorite, and when he grew old and had a stroke it was Mickey who cried like a little boy for having to see his friend put down. People who hate cats don't act like that. They continue to hate cats no matter what. Further, they don't seem to show that much compassion toward people either.
It's like law enforcement tells us: people who torture animals eventually torture people. There is something wrong with them.
People who hate cats - and I mean really hate them, and don't just think they do because they've never interacted with them - generally hate other animals, too. And people.
I've known dog lovers who claim to hate cats. But these people seldom have cats, so how do they know? It's like I told my son as we were coming home from the dentist the other day. I used to think I hated mushrooms. I had never eaten a mushroom. But I knew the people who liked them and the foods they tended to like. They liked radishes, onions, turnups, cabbage and the like. These were all foods I knew I didn't like, so I saw no reason to even attempt eating a mushroom. Then Stephen convinced me to try some with my spaghetti. (It's hard to say no to those we love.) What I learned was that mushrooms are great. Now I eat them all the time.
After Baby Boy died I did not want another cat. When Spouse brought Firestar home I was angry and didn't talk at all. I tried to ignore the new kitten. Why? Because I knew what would happen the minute I started to pay attention to him. I would fall in love again, which meant that one day I might suffer tremendous pain again because this kitten would grow old and die before me. That is such an awful thing to bear.
Perhaps you are one of those people who says they hate cats. I expect you believe it, or you wouldn't say it. Yet you say you are a decent person. No better and no worse than most people. It it is true that you are a decent person, then my guess is that you just don't know. Which is fine. Just don't be cruel to cats.
If, however, you say you have no trouble torturing cats (and I mean not just imagining it, but doing it), then I would say you aren't so decent as you think. Cats, dogs, birds, horses, cows, pigs - the ability to love any creature means you have the ability to love them all. Love is not selective. It's all-encompassing. But it's hard to love what we don't know.
Often the grumpy and mean people we see in life are actually hiding behind a facade. It's a defense mechanism from being hurt. If they make themselves unloveable, they will not get close enough to another person and be hurt when that person goes/is taken away from them. It's kind of a last defense against emotional pain. Sometimes, they are exactly what they portray themselves to be. But often I think they are just hurting people. A cat could do them wonders. But it does hurt when they die.
While she was here one of our conversations turned to cats. Judayl has a cat. Used to have two, but one suffered a stroke. It came up again that people who don't like cats usually tend to be people who aren't that nice in general. That has been my experience. However, before you get yourself all up in arms and critical of this "rule", let me point out something else: there are a lot of people who THINK they don't like cats, but really do.
One case in point is my brother, Mickey. Mickey always said he didn't like cats. But then, he was really never around them. Oh, we had cats as kids, but Mickey didn't pay them any mind. If he wasn't playing sports he was cleaning the house. He never had time for cats. Our cats were all permenently outside. No lap cats in our house. To interact with a cat at our place one had to seek them out. Mickey never did. He said he didn't like them. So what happens?
Years after leaving home and starting his own family, Mickey's wife wants a cat. She likes them. Mickey is confronted with an awful choice. One we all make often. Accept something you don't like because you love someone, or offend the person you love most in the world. Mickey accepted the cat into his house.
When we visited his house afterward, it was not unusual to see Mickey petting the cat. And later, when a large tom showed up at his place, Mickey let it stay. The tom eventually became Mickey's favorite, and when he grew old and had a stroke it was Mickey who cried like a little boy for having to see his friend put down. People who hate cats don't act like that. They continue to hate cats no matter what. Further, they don't seem to show that much compassion toward people either.
It's like law enforcement tells us: people who torture animals eventually torture people. There is something wrong with them.
People who hate cats - and I mean really hate them, and don't just think they do because they've never interacted with them - generally hate other animals, too. And people.
I've known dog lovers who claim to hate cats. But these people seldom have cats, so how do they know? It's like I told my son as we were coming home from the dentist the other day. I used to think I hated mushrooms. I had never eaten a mushroom. But I knew the people who liked them and the foods they tended to like. They liked radishes, onions, turnups, cabbage and the like. These were all foods I knew I didn't like, so I saw no reason to even attempt eating a mushroom. Then Stephen convinced me to try some with my spaghetti. (It's hard to say no to those we love.) What I learned was that mushrooms are great. Now I eat them all the time.
After Baby Boy died I did not want another cat. When Spouse brought Firestar home I was angry and didn't talk at all. I tried to ignore the new kitten. Why? Because I knew what would happen the minute I started to pay attention to him. I would fall in love again, which meant that one day I might suffer tremendous pain again because this kitten would grow old and die before me. That is such an awful thing to bear.
Perhaps you are one of those people who says they hate cats. I expect you believe it, or you wouldn't say it. Yet you say you are a decent person. No better and no worse than most people. It it is true that you are a decent person, then my guess is that you just don't know. Which is fine. Just don't be cruel to cats.
If, however, you say you have no trouble torturing cats (and I mean not just imagining it, but doing it), then I would say you aren't so decent as you think. Cats, dogs, birds, horses, cows, pigs - the ability to love any creature means you have the ability to love them all. Love is not selective. It's all-encompassing. But it's hard to love what we don't know.
Often the grumpy and mean people we see in life are actually hiding behind a facade. It's a defense mechanism from being hurt. If they make themselves unloveable, they will not get close enough to another person and be hurt when that person goes/is taken away from them. It's kind of a last defense against emotional pain. Sometimes, they are exactly what they portray themselves to be. But often I think they are just hurting people. A cat could do them wonders. But it does hurt when they die.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Watchful Faces in the Night
I like to fool myself by saying I'm brilliant. Do have a high I.Q., but sometimes this bulb shines dimly.
Back when I was in first grade my parents tried to purchase a house which was far too expensive for them to keep. We only lasted a two or three months and then we found ourselves living like Ma and Pa Kettle in a ramshackle house. I always thought my mother looked a bit like Marjorie Main, but Daddy bore no resemblance to Percy Kilbride. Well, maybe in attitude sometimes.
Well, the place we purchased was a hobby farm, complete with animals.
The house didn't have enough bedrooms for all of us to have our own room, so the big room in the basement was curtained off (with bedsheets instead of curtains) to make three rooms. Lynahr and Judayl got the far back area. Gayanne and Helvie got the middle area. I got the front area. The one with the window.
This was a full basement, so the basement window was one of those small things up by the ceiling. No egress or anything safe like that. Just the small window up by the ceiling.
We were allowed to stay up later than usual because it was a special day, but soon I found myself tucked in my bed and trying to sleep. That was when I heard the noise. And looking up, I saw the faces. There there at least three, but as many as five or six. Ghosts. They were peering down at me in my bed.
Quick as a flash I was out of there. (All of this predates The Old House, in which far more spooky things occurred.) Mother and Mickey came down to investigate, but the window was dark. Of course they didn't believe me. I crawled back into bed, watchful of the window.
Sure enough, it wasn't long and the faces returned. Again I raced away, and this time the entire family came to investigate. But this time the faces hadn't left. Everyone saw them. And everyone but me laughed. They were faces, all right. Goat faces. The hobby farm had come with Sanaan goats, which are white. For years afterward I had to endure the ridicule of being afraid of a handful of goats. Thought they were ghosts, you know.
Back when I was in first grade my parents tried to purchase a house which was far too expensive for them to keep. We only lasted a two or three months and then we found ourselves living like Ma and Pa Kettle in a ramshackle house. I always thought my mother looked a bit like Marjorie Main, but Daddy bore no resemblance to Percy Kilbride. Well, maybe in attitude sometimes.
Well, the place we purchased was a hobby farm, complete with animals.
The house didn't have enough bedrooms for all of us to have our own room, so the big room in the basement was curtained off (with bedsheets instead of curtains) to make three rooms. Lynahr and Judayl got the far back area. Gayanne and Helvie got the middle area. I got the front area. The one with the window.
This was a full basement, so the basement window was one of those small things up by the ceiling. No egress or anything safe like that. Just the small window up by the ceiling.
We were allowed to stay up later than usual because it was a special day, but soon I found myself tucked in my bed and trying to sleep. That was when I heard the noise. And looking up, I saw the faces. There there at least three, but as many as five or six. Ghosts. They were peering down at me in my bed.
Quick as a flash I was out of there. (All of this predates The Old House, in which far more spooky things occurred.) Mother and Mickey came down to investigate, but the window was dark. Of course they didn't believe me. I crawled back into bed, watchful of the window.
Sure enough, it wasn't long and the faces returned. Again I raced away, and this time the entire family came to investigate. But this time the faces hadn't left. Everyone saw them. And everyone but me laughed. They were faces, all right. Goat faces. The hobby farm had come with Sanaan goats, which are white. For years afterward I had to endure the ridicule of being afraid of a handful of goats. Thought they were ghosts, you know.
Monday, June 8, 2009
The House of My Youth
Part 12 - Storms
Back when I was young it seemed we were constantly beset by fierce thunderstorms. Some people called the area where we lived Tornado Alley. Of course the tornadoes we get in Minnesota are nothing compared to what they get in Oklahoma. I've seen pictures of those monster things down there. Some are a half mile wide on the ground. We seldom get anything like that up here, although it does happen at whiles.
For all the storms, though, The Old House remained standing. Many of the trees suffered. Mighty oaks felled by horrific straight line winds. We would climb on the skeletons until Daddy either brought someone in to cut it up, or borrowed a chain saw and did it himself.
I remember one year, perhaps a year or two before the house burned. It was Helvie's birthday party and everyone was there except Daddy, who was working. All day I had been watching the clouds. They were gathering to the north and I was warning everyone that a storm was coming. Everyone told me I was out of my mind. Storms didn't come from the north. They came from the west. But the clouds were coming. Surely they saw? They did. But preconceptions had them convinced it was nothing to worry about.
Not that it mattered anyway. There was no place to hide from a big storm in The Old House. The only real shelter was the root cellar, about fifty yards away. But even that wasn't safe. Should the roof be torn off the people inside would be exposed.
The storm took it's sweet time in coming. It didn't arrive until after sunset. Thus we didn't actually realize how bad it was. The television was off by reason of the party. (That was kind of an unwritten rule in our house. No television during family functions.)
When the kitchen window blew out we still didn't put two and two together and get four. We got twenty-two, and so we remained unconcerned. Mother grabbed a blanket and had me hold it over the window while she nailed some lathe boards over it to hold it in place. The blanket was bowed in like a giant watermelon. And then we heard it - the sound of a train.
Now hearing trains in The Old House was nothing new. The tracks marked our property's western border. But this wasn't the normal rumbling sound we heard, which shook the entire house. This was like a whistle, blowing off in the distance. Mother told me to listen. Then she said it was a tornado.
We stood silent and still for several minutes, as though that was going to do any good. Then the sound faded away. It had skipped us. Tornadoes do that. They jump. Forward, backward, and sideways. You can never count on what they're going to do.
We finished boarding up the window and then went to the big room, where everyone else was sitting and talking, oblivious to what had just occurred. When Mother told them, Dave, Lynahr's husband, laughed about us trying to lock out a tornado with blanket.
"Ain't no tornado going to get in here," he said, and we all laughed.
That's the cool thing about my family. They were often cruel in their teasing, and totally unsupportive of a person's dreams, but they could laugh off all forms of stress. Maybe that's why most of us have lived so long. I don't know. I do know this: Sometimes you just have to laugh.
Back when I was young it seemed we were constantly beset by fierce thunderstorms. Some people called the area where we lived Tornado Alley. Of course the tornadoes we get in Minnesota are nothing compared to what they get in Oklahoma. I've seen pictures of those monster things down there. Some are a half mile wide on the ground. We seldom get anything like that up here, although it does happen at whiles.
For all the storms, though, The Old House remained standing. Many of the trees suffered. Mighty oaks felled by horrific straight line winds. We would climb on the skeletons until Daddy either brought someone in to cut it up, or borrowed a chain saw and did it himself.
I remember one year, perhaps a year or two before the house burned. It was Helvie's birthday party and everyone was there except Daddy, who was working. All day I had been watching the clouds. They were gathering to the north and I was warning everyone that a storm was coming. Everyone told me I was out of my mind. Storms didn't come from the north. They came from the west. But the clouds were coming. Surely they saw? They did. But preconceptions had them convinced it was nothing to worry about.
Not that it mattered anyway. There was no place to hide from a big storm in The Old House. The only real shelter was the root cellar, about fifty yards away. But even that wasn't safe. Should the roof be torn off the people inside would be exposed.
The storm took it's sweet time in coming. It didn't arrive until after sunset. Thus we didn't actually realize how bad it was. The television was off by reason of the party. (That was kind of an unwritten rule in our house. No television during family functions.)
When the kitchen window blew out we still didn't put two and two together and get four. We got twenty-two, and so we remained unconcerned. Mother grabbed a blanket and had me hold it over the window while she nailed some lathe boards over it to hold it in place. The blanket was bowed in like a giant watermelon. And then we heard it - the sound of a train.
Now hearing trains in The Old House was nothing new. The tracks marked our property's western border. But this wasn't the normal rumbling sound we heard, which shook the entire house. This was like a whistle, blowing off in the distance. Mother told me to listen. Then she said it was a tornado.
We stood silent and still for several minutes, as though that was going to do any good. Then the sound faded away. It had skipped us. Tornadoes do that. They jump. Forward, backward, and sideways. You can never count on what they're going to do.
We finished boarding up the window and then went to the big room, where everyone else was sitting and talking, oblivious to what had just occurred. When Mother told them, Dave, Lynahr's husband, laughed about us trying to lock out a tornado with blanket.
"Ain't no tornado going to get in here," he said, and we all laughed.
That's the cool thing about my family. They were often cruel in their teasing, and totally unsupportive of a person's dreams, but they could laugh off all forms of stress. Maybe that's why most of us have lived so long. I don't know. I do know this: Sometimes you just have to laugh.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Animal Rights Alert: This is Real Mink Fur
About sixteen or seventeen years ago Spouse and I were renting the downstairs of a split-level house. It wasn't a great place, and in fact had something wrong with the air. But we could afford it and so we were content to be there.
One evening I was home along reading a book near the fireplace - which we were not allowed to use. Suddenly, I hear this crash, which sounds like it came from the fireplace. I turned around and investigated, but found nothing to show what it was. Eventually, I forgot about it.
Two days later, both B.J.Honeycat and Baby Boy (our two cats) were very interested in the cupboards in the kitchen area, which was open to the living room. As I stood to see if they had trapped a mouse or something, a big head pokes out from a hole near the floor and this creature begins screaming at the cats. Then it retreats back under the cupboards. Spouse comes running to see what's going on, and about that time the creature comes out by the refrigerator.
It's a mink, which looks like a weasel. It was mostly white, or light colored anyway. My guess is, it had been hiding for a day or two under the cupboards, but now the need for food and water was driving it to search for a way to escape. It saw the cats and retreated back under the cupboards.
Of course I doubt the mink realized it, but it could have shredded both our cats without taking any injury whatsoever. Even Baby Boy, who was a killer regarding mice, would not have stood a chance against those razor sharp teeth.
Spouse wanted to take the cats away but I said no. The mink was still afraid of the cats, and the cats couldn't get to it as long as it hid. What we had to do was figure out how to get the mink out of the house without any of the five of us getting hurt. (Two cats, two people, one mink.) I came up with a plan.
I propped the door open. Of course it was on the exact opposite side of the double room. Then I cleared a path along the wall leading from the refrigerator and to the door. Then I had spouse take the cats away and lock them in the bedroom. Then we waited.
It didn't take long for the mink to realize the cats were no longer there. I came out hesitantly. When it had put enough distance between itself and its two-day hide-out, I moved to block its way back. It turned and considered me and I feared I made blundered. What a stupid way to die, I thought. Shredded up and bled to death by a creature not much bigger than my hand. But the mink knew it didn't have to fight and turned and headed away from me. As I hoped, it stayed close to the wall, feeling protected by the freedom to not have to worry about every direction at once. When it saw the door it took off and escaped into the night.
Since I never got close enough to be bitten I do not know if it was a male or a mother with kits wondering where she was. I felt good about her/him/it getting out without being physically damaged. I'm sure there was some stress involved. Hopefully, the silly thing now knew better than to much about with chimney tops. Some people actually use their fireplaces.
The cats, of course, spent the next week sitting by the big hole at the floor waiting for the mink to show itself again. I'm sure in their minds they had been cheated of a potentially fun game. I don't think they would have enjoyed their new playmate much.
I should have taken a picture. It would have made an excellent addition to Firestar's Virtual Image Zoo.
One evening I was home along reading a book near the fireplace - which we were not allowed to use. Suddenly, I hear this crash, which sounds like it came from the fireplace. I turned around and investigated, but found nothing to show what it was. Eventually, I forgot about it.
Two days later, both B.J.Honeycat and Baby Boy (our two cats) were very interested in the cupboards in the kitchen area, which was open to the living room. As I stood to see if they had trapped a mouse or something, a big head pokes out from a hole near the floor and this creature begins screaming at the cats. Then it retreats back under the cupboards. Spouse comes running to see what's going on, and about that time the creature comes out by the refrigerator.
It's a mink, which looks like a weasel. It was mostly white, or light colored anyway. My guess is, it had been hiding for a day or two under the cupboards, but now the need for food and water was driving it to search for a way to escape. It saw the cats and retreated back under the cupboards.
Of course I doubt the mink realized it, but it could have shredded both our cats without taking any injury whatsoever. Even Baby Boy, who was a killer regarding mice, would not have stood a chance against those razor sharp teeth.
Spouse wanted to take the cats away but I said no. The mink was still afraid of the cats, and the cats couldn't get to it as long as it hid. What we had to do was figure out how to get the mink out of the house without any of the five of us getting hurt. (Two cats, two people, one mink.) I came up with a plan.
I propped the door open. Of course it was on the exact opposite side of the double room. Then I cleared a path along the wall leading from the refrigerator and to the door. Then I had spouse take the cats away and lock them in the bedroom. Then we waited.
It didn't take long for the mink to realize the cats were no longer there. I came out hesitantly. When it had put enough distance between itself and its two-day hide-out, I moved to block its way back. It turned and considered me and I feared I made blundered. What a stupid way to die, I thought. Shredded up and bled to death by a creature not much bigger than my hand. But the mink knew it didn't have to fight and turned and headed away from me. As I hoped, it stayed close to the wall, feeling protected by the freedom to not have to worry about every direction at once. When it saw the door it took off and escaped into the night.
Since I never got close enough to be bitten I do not know if it was a male or a mother with kits wondering where she was. I felt good about her/him/it getting out without being physically damaged. I'm sure there was some stress involved. Hopefully, the silly thing now knew better than to much about with chimney tops. Some people actually use their fireplaces.
The cats, of course, spent the next week sitting by the big hole at the floor waiting for the mink to show itself again. I'm sure in their minds they had been cheated of a potentially fun game. I don't think they would have enjoyed their new playmate much.
I should have taken a picture. It would have made an excellent addition to Firestar's Virtual Image Zoo.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Freedom of Riding a Horse
You know, it only seems like a short time ago that we owned horses. But the truth is that we gave the horses away nearly twenty years ago. My, doesn't time fly by?
We got the horses through Spouse's brother and sister-in-law. They had a hobby farm and owned a few horses themselves. Spouse has always liked horses and wanted one for years. The opportunity came in the early 80s for me to buy one and I did. Spouse got him as a birthday present and was immediately thrilled. Decca was a small, fat, Spanish Barb type horse who arrived in a panic. He was roan, with a small blaze and three white socks. And apart from his hysterical arrival, he was one of the lazier horses on the place. And he pretty much did whatever he wanted when Spouse rode him. B showed Spouse how to pull the horse's head back in order to turn it - when the horse refused to follow leg commands. This worked for everybody. Except Spouse. I watched Decca walk off (he never ran off) with Spouse on his back trying to get him to go in another direction. Since his head was pulled back he would actually crash into bushes. He only did this with Spouse. With everyone else he did what was expected of him.
My horse, Liebschen, was half Percheron and half Quarter Horse. She got the worst of both breeds, I guess, regarding appearances. She was a bay, and a lot smarter than anyone but me gave her credit for. My sister-in-law hated her. She ate more than any other horse. She was messier than the other horses. And she only obeyed me.
I rode Liebschen a lot. We would ride the four miles to the old train path which was now a biking, hiking, and horse trail. Then we would ride a few miles in one direction or the other and return.
There are several stories I could tell about riding Liebschen. And Decca. And the third horse we purchased: Brandy. But there is one which took place on the Luce Line near the town of Watertown.
Liebschen and I were on our way back after a ten mile ride out. It was late in the day and we were ready to go home. I was letting her walk slowly because it was hot.
Up ahead I saw a young girl between sixteen and twenty struggling to get her horse to cross a small patch of flowing water which had crossed the trail. It was spring, and the flood waters were still high in places. When Liebschen and I had come out she had stopped at the same place, very concerned about the water which wasn't supposed to be there. It was so small a five-year-old child could step across it without getting their feet wet. But it was different, and horses don't take to different sometimes. (I've known people like that.)
I saw no reason to hurry. For one thing, a horse rushing up might just frighten the other horse even more, and the girl was already struggling. No need for anyone to get hurt. I already knew how to solve the problem - assuming the girl didn't get the horse to cross on her own.
As I neared the girl on her horse I noted that there was a man standing down in the low area where the water was draining to. As I neared the man turned and greeted me. I was about to greet him back when I realized he was stark naked. No wonder the girl was distressed. At least she was on a horse. Should the looney try to reach her, she could at least turn and gallop back the way she had come, even if it was the wrong way. But there was no need for that.
While I never got to be an expert with horses, I had learned a few things. One was that horses are herd animals. They will instinctively group together. Also, horse greet each other by touching noses. That was how I got Decca to finally accept me. (When we first got him, he was terrified of me. I was taller than he was.) I would stoop so his head was higher and breath into his nose and let him do the same to me. In time, he came to accept me as non-threatening. A third thing is that horses have a difficult time concentrating on more than one thing at a time.
So as Liebschen and I came close, the girl's horse quit paying attention to the water and focused on Liebschen. She wanted to greet my horse. I let Liebschen stretch out her head to the other horse, which reciprocated the gesture. Then, just before they touched, I turned Liebschen using my legs. This made the other horse follow, hoping to complete the greeting. Before it knew it, it had crossed the water.
As soon as it did, the girl dug in her heels and galloped away. Liebeschen and I continued on our way. We still had ten miles ahead of us. Never saw the looney again. Or the girl. Hope she was spared, too.
We kept horses for maybe ten years. Seems like it should have been longer, but it wasn't. I haven't ridden a horse now in nearly twenty years. Don't know if I could anymore. The truth is, they are not that expensive to purchase. But they are expensive to keep. Monthly boarding bills can cost more than the horse itself.
One really needs to be in the country to have horses. Living near a managed horse trail like the Luce Line is an advantage, too. I miss it. Riding a horse through the trees put me in touch with my imagination in ways I have not been able to duplicate.
I still wonder, sometimes, whatever happened to our horses after we gave them away. Twenty years. Decca and Brandy are no doubt dead. Both were over ten when we got them, and they probably wouldn't have made it to thirty. Liebschen was only two when I got her, so she would be old - assuming she is still alive. I doubt she is. I was the only one who really liked her. Pity. I doubt we'll ever have horses again.
We got the horses through Spouse's brother and sister-in-law. They had a hobby farm and owned a few horses themselves. Spouse has always liked horses and wanted one for years. The opportunity came in the early 80s for me to buy one and I did. Spouse got him as a birthday present and was immediately thrilled. Decca was a small, fat, Spanish Barb type horse who arrived in a panic. He was roan, with a small blaze and three white socks. And apart from his hysterical arrival, he was one of the lazier horses on the place. And he pretty much did whatever he wanted when Spouse rode him. B showed Spouse how to pull the horse's head back in order to turn it - when the horse refused to follow leg commands. This worked for everybody. Except Spouse. I watched Decca walk off (he never ran off) with Spouse on his back trying to get him to go in another direction. Since his head was pulled back he would actually crash into bushes. He only did this with Spouse. With everyone else he did what was expected of him.
My horse, Liebschen, was half Percheron and half Quarter Horse. She got the worst of both breeds, I guess, regarding appearances. She was a bay, and a lot smarter than anyone but me gave her credit for. My sister-in-law hated her. She ate more than any other horse. She was messier than the other horses. And she only obeyed me.
I rode Liebschen a lot. We would ride the four miles to the old train path which was now a biking, hiking, and horse trail. Then we would ride a few miles in one direction or the other and return.
There are several stories I could tell about riding Liebschen. And Decca. And the third horse we purchased: Brandy. But there is one which took place on the Luce Line near the town of Watertown.
Liebschen and I were on our way back after a ten mile ride out. It was late in the day and we were ready to go home. I was letting her walk slowly because it was hot.
Up ahead I saw a young girl between sixteen and twenty struggling to get her horse to cross a small patch of flowing water which had crossed the trail. It was spring, and the flood waters were still high in places. When Liebschen and I had come out she had stopped at the same place, very concerned about the water which wasn't supposed to be there. It was so small a five-year-old child could step across it without getting their feet wet. But it was different, and horses don't take to different sometimes. (I've known people like that.)
I saw no reason to hurry. For one thing, a horse rushing up might just frighten the other horse even more, and the girl was already struggling. No need for anyone to get hurt. I already knew how to solve the problem - assuming the girl didn't get the horse to cross on her own.
As I neared the girl on her horse I noted that there was a man standing down in the low area where the water was draining to. As I neared the man turned and greeted me. I was about to greet him back when I realized he was stark naked. No wonder the girl was distressed. At least she was on a horse. Should the looney try to reach her, she could at least turn and gallop back the way she had come, even if it was the wrong way. But there was no need for that.
While I never got to be an expert with horses, I had learned a few things. One was that horses are herd animals. They will instinctively group together. Also, horse greet each other by touching noses. That was how I got Decca to finally accept me. (When we first got him, he was terrified of me. I was taller than he was.) I would stoop so his head was higher and breath into his nose and let him do the same to me. In time, he came to accept me as non-threatening. A third thing is that horses have a difficult time concentrating on more than one thing at a time.
So as Liebschen and I came close, the girl's horse quit paying attention to the water and focused on Liebschen. She wanted to greet my horse. I let Liebschen stretch out her head to the other horse, which reciprocated the gesture. Then, just before they touched, I turned Liebschen using my legs. This made the other horse follow, hoping to complete the greeting. Before it knew it, it had crossed the water.
As soon as it did, the girl dug in her heels and galloped away. Liebeschen and I continued on our way. We still had ten miles ahead of us. Never saw the looney again. Or the girl. Hope she was spared, too.
We kept horses for maybe ten years. Seems like it should have been longer, but it wasn't. I haven't ridden a horse now in nearly twenty years. Don't know if I could anymore. The truth is, they are not that expensive to purchase. But they are expensive to keep. Monthly boarding bills can cost more than the horse itself.
One really needs to be in the country to have horses. Living near a managed horse trail like the Luce Line is an advantage, too. I miss it. Riding a horse through the trees put me in touch with my imagination in ways I have not been able to duplicate.
I still wonder, sometimes, whatever happened to our horses after we gave them away. Twenty years. Decca and Brandy are no doubt dead. Both were over ten when we got them, and they probably wouldn't have made it to thirty. Liebschen was only two when I got her, so she would be old - assuming she is still alive. I doubt she is. I was the only one who really liked her. Pity. I doubt we'll ever have horses again.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Dumb Clucks
In the Bible, God refers to us as sheep. This is because we are so easily led. We think we're not, but we are. We tend to follow fashions. We watch popular television shows. So many of us are so keen to be part of what most everyone else is doing - all the while claiming our individuality.
Mad Magazine once did a spoof on advertising. I remember one they did for cigarettes.
Joe Schluff is his own kind of man. He smokes Goober Cigarettes because everyone else does.
So, we're sheep. But you know what? I've got another animal humans behave like: chickens.
Have you ever raised chickens? We did. Just for the one summer. It was Mother's idea. She ordered 100-chicks from some nursery and they came special delivery. We didn't have a chicken coop, so we let them run free in the porch. Guess who got to take care of them?
Most were white, but there were three reds and one grey speckled. Naturally, the grey speckled became my favorite. After all, it was the only one I could tell apart from the others.
It all would have been fine, I suppose, had we just moved some things out of the porch. But we didn't. That would have been too intelligent. So we left all kinds of implements and things there to be pooped on. And they were. Including our huge freezer chest. Imagine going out to get meat or something out of the freezer and having to bring a towel so you didn't get chicken poop on your hands? We were hillbillies. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.
There was another problem with the freezer. It wasn't flush against the wall. Couldn't be. If it were, you couldn't open the top. So there was roughly one foot of space between the freezer and the wall. And every time someone walked into the porch the chickens would panic and run to hide. Well, the best place they found was behind the freezer. Now the freezer couldn't have been more than six or eight feet long and three or four feet high. This hardly is enough room for 100 chickens. So they piled one on top of the other - smothering those on the bottom.
The chickens also chose this place to roost at night. In less than a month our chicken population dwindled by at least thirty. Every morning it was my job to flush out the living chickens and throw the dead ones on the garbage pile. And one day it was my lonely task to pull out my speckled grey.
When the weather was nice we fixed up a small shed for the chickens. We also let them run free over the yard during the day. This was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, playing backyard baseball, tag, or anything else was no fun when one had to avoid the poop. On the other hand, our yard was notorious for wood tics. One could not walk fifty feet without picking up at least six. The record was eleven. However, once the chickens began roaming the yard, the wood tic population went down to nearly nothing.
There is another thing about chickens I wonder if most people are aware: they're cannibals and murderers. Let any chicken become weak or injured and the others will begin pecking at it. Constantly. No compassion. No help. Just harassment. The poor chicken will be worried to death. Literally.
Out of the 100 chicks we began with we finished with about fifty. They killed themselves. Well, mostly. Three neighbor boys, including my friend, Chris, shot about a dozen. They thought it was funny. Even after Mother called the police. Chris hung out with some really stupid and cruel boys sometimes. Eventually, he would grow up and they wouldn't. They stopped hanging out together. But that didn't help our chickens that summer.
We didn't do chickens again. Too much of a bother.
I wonder if God thinks something similar about us.
NEVER going to do people again. Never.
Mad Magazine once did a spoof on advertising. I remember one they did for cigarettes.
Joe Schluff is his own kind of man. He smokes Goober Cigarettes because everyone else does.
So, we're sheep. But you know what? I've got another animal humans behave like: chickens.
Have you ever raised chickens? We did. Just for the one summer. It was Mother's idea. She ordered 100-chicks from some nursery and they came special delivery. We didn't have a chicken coop, so we let them run free in the porch. Guess who got to take care of them?
Most were white, but there were three reds and one grey speckled. Naturally, the grey speckled became my favorite. After all, it was the only one I could tell apart from the others.
It all would have been fine, I suppose, had we just moved some things out of the porch. But we didn't. That would have been too intelligent. So we left all kinds of implements and things there to be pooped on. And they were. Including our huge freezer chest. Imagine going out to get meat or something out of the freezer and having to bring a towel so you didn't get chicken poop on your hands? We were hillbillies. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.
There was another problem with the freezer. It wasn't flush against the wall. Couldn't be. If it were, you couldn't open the top. So there was roughly one foot of space between the freezer and the wall. And every time someone walked into the porch the chickens would panic and run to hide. Well, the best place they found was behind the freezer. Now the freezer couldn't have been more than six or eight feet long and three or four feet high. This hardly is enough room for 100 chickens. So they piled one on top of the other - smothering those on the bottom.
The chickens also chose this place to roost at night. In less than a month our chicken population dwindled by at least thirty. Every morning it was my job to flush out the living chickens and throw the dead ones on the garbage pile. And one day it was my lonely task to pull out my speckled grey.
When the weather was nice we fixed up a small shed for the chickens. We also let them run free over the yard during the day. This was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, playing backyard baseball, tag, or anything else was no fun when one had to avoid the poop. On the other hand, our yard was notorious for wood tics. One could not walk fifty feet without picking up at least six. The record was eleven. However, once the chickens began roaming the yard, the wood tic population went down to nearly nothing.
There is another thing about chickens I wonder if most people are aware: they're cannibals and murderers. Let any chicken become weak or injured and the others will begin pecking at it. Constantly. No compassion. No help. Just harassment. The poor chicken will be worried to death. Literally.
Out of the 100 chicks we began with we finished with about fifty. They killed themselves. Well, mostly. Three neighbor boys, including my friend, Chris, shot about a dozen. They thought it was funny. Even after Mother called the police. Chris hung out with some really stupid and cruel boys sometimes. Eventually, he would grow up and they wouldn't. They stopped hanging out together. But that didn't help our chickens that summer.
We didn't do chickens again. Too much of a bother.
I wonder if God thinks something similar about us.
NEVER going to do people again. Never.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
My Career in Movies
Back in the 70s Stephen, Randy, and I would make super 8mm films. Stephen began it. He made friends with a pair of brothers who were doing that. He told me of a film they made based on an old gas station commercial in which it appeared people were driving without vehicles. The brothers did that on a dirt road, shooting one frame at a time and kicking up dust behind the people to simulate movement. They even included a wreck.
Stephen and one of the brothers teamed up to make what Stephen always felt was his crowning achievement in film: Fate. Randy was given a bit part in it, but he got killed right off. It was a snowmobile film in which a hunter mistakes Randy for a deer and shoots him. They put ketchup on his face. They only got about five seconds of film because Randy started laughing. The rest of the film was about Stephen trying to exact revenge. The musical score was the Theme From The Exorcist.
Well, after Fate, Stephen wanted to make more movies, and he included me. Unfortunately, Stephen's idea of making a movie was much like Paul McCartney's. He just wanted to take a camera and film whatever happened. Like Magical Mystery Tour, nothing ever did.
I wanted a script of some sort, but Stephen insisted that would stifle his creativity. (He starred in fate, but he didn't control the production.) In the end, I got him to compromise. Mainly because I had come up with an idea he thought was fantastic. We would do our own version of - The Flintstones.
My sister, Judayl, had once owned a Ford Falcon. She drove it thirty miles while it was overheating in order to bring it to Daddy d to fix. I remember her diving into the yard, the car gasping, and then shuddering, and finally going silent. Daddy went out, opened the hood, and declared it dead. Judayl sold it to Stephen for ten bucks.
Stephen's dad worked at a Ford dealership. He would bring home parts (I'm sure he paid for them [grin]) and together, he and Stephen put the car back together. Eventually, Stephen sold the car to Randy for $100. Randy eventually parked the car in a field because it had rusted out so bad he was afraid he would fall down on the road while driving. That was my plan.
We would take the car, kick out the bottom, and then tow it behind Randy's new car. Filming from the side, we would show the feet running and the arms hanging out the window. It would great. I thought so. So did Stephen. Even the stoic Randy considered it a good idea. All we had to do was get one more group on board and away we would go. Unfortunately, that group happened to be a nest of yellow-jackets which had taken up residence in the Falcon.
Using his superior intellect, Randy had already made one attempt at evicting the mighty stingers. Knowing that honey bees go docile in smoke, he decided to light a fire under the car. It was a brillliant idea. Lit up the entire sky when the car itself caught fire and burned. When we came to take the car for our film it was entirely burned out, except for one section at the right front fender. Guess where the hornets were nesting?
We tried various methods to get the hornets to depart, but none worked. Then, I offered a new suggestion. It had been my experience that hornets weren't that keen on rain. What if we flooded them out? So Randy got the hose and began showering the car with water. The hornets didn't like it and chased at us, but wouldn't come through the water. After a half hour or so, they left. The car was ours again.
I remember walking to the driver's door and looking inside. What had been a pile of dusty ashes on the seat was now a mess of sludge. Nobody wanted to sit in that. We had no ideas about the cleanup. Besides, we'd exhausted our day getting rid of the hornets. So, giving up all ideas of making a film, we went to Keno's Pizza and ate.
This was a fight to make any military historian proud. A tremendous battle of forces over a small piece of property. And after winning, walking away to let the vanquished return and lay claim to it once again. That's kind of how it works, isn't it?
The beauty of war.
I still feel bad for those hornets. That was their home.
NOTE: Before the Falcon died, I got to play the hero in Falcon Man. A film that would have been good had Stephen just relented and used a script. Alas, my film career came to an unhearalded early end. Sigh.
Autographs are ten dollare apiece.
Stephen and one of the brothers teamed up to make what Stephen always felt was his crowning achievement in film: Fate. Randy was given a bit part in it, but he got killed right off. It was a snowmobile film in which a hunter mistakes Randy for a deer and shoots him. They put ketchup on his face. They only got about five seconds of film because Randy started laughing. The rest of the film was about Stephen trying to exact revenge. The musical score was the Theme From The Exorcist.
Well, after Fate, Stephen wanted to make more movies, and he included me. Unfortunately, Stephen's idea of making a movie was much like Paul McCartney's. He just wanted to take a camera and film whatever happened. Like Magical Mystery Tour, nothing ever did.
I wanted a script of some sort, but Stephen insisted that would stifle his creativity. (He starred in fate, but he didn't control the production.) In the end, I got him to compromise. Mainly because I had come up with an idea he thought was fantastic. We would do our own version of - The Flintstones.
My sister, Judayl, had once owned a Ford Falcon. She drove it thirty miles while it was overheating in order to bring it to Daddy d to fix. I remember her diving into the yard, the car gasping, and then shuddering, and finally going silent. Daddy went out, opened the hood, and declared it dead. Judayl sold it to Stephen for ten bucks.
Stephen's dad worked at a Ford dealership. He would bring home parts (I'm sure he paid for them [grin]) and together, he and Stephen put the car back together. Eventually, Stephen sold the car to Randy for $100. Randy eventually parked the car in a field because it had rusted out so bad he was afraid he would fall down on the road while driving. That was my plan.
We would take the car, kick out the bottom, and then tow it behind Randy's new car. Filming from the side, we would show the feet running and the arms hanging out the window. It would great. I thought so. So did Stephen. Even the stoic Randy considered it a good idea. All we had to do was get one more group on board and away we would go. Unfortunately, that group happened to be a nest of yellow-jackets which had taken up residence in the Falcon.
Using his superior intellect, Randy had already made one attempt at evicting the mighty stingers. Knowing that honey bees go docile in smoke, he decided to light a fire under the car. It was a brillliant idea. Lit up the entire sky when the car itself caught fire and burned. When we came to take the car for our film it was entirely burned out, except for one section at the right front fender. Guess where the hornets were nesting?
We tried various methods to get the hornets to depart, but none worked. Then, I offered a new suggestion. It had been my experience that hornets weren't that keen on rain. What if we flooded them out? So Randy got the hose and began showering the car with water. The hornets didn't like it and chased at us, but wouldn't come through the water. After a half hour or so, they left. The car was ours again.
I remember walking to the driver's door and looking inside. What had been a pile of dusty ashes on the seat was now a mess of sludge. Nobody wanted to sit in that. We had no ideas about the cleanup. Besides, we'd exhausted our day getting rid of the hornets. So, giving up all ideas of making a film, we went to Keno's Pizza and ate.
This was a fight to make any military historian proud. A tremendous battle of forces over a small piece of property. And after winning, walking away to let the vanquished return and lay claim to it once again. That's kind of how it works, isn't it?
The beauty of war.
I still feel bad for those hornets. That was their home.
NOTE: Before the Falcon died, I got to play the hero in Falcon Man. A film that would have been good had Stephen just relented and used a script. Alas, my film career came to an unhearalded early end. Sigh.
Autographs are ten dollare apiece.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
I Fought the Turtle - And the Turtle Won
Stephen and I used to hang out by Cedar Creek a lot. Sometimes we would follow it downstream and enjoy the heat of day. Sometimes we would fish for carp, implementing the catch and release program because eating carp never occurred to us. I loved these times. Hanging out with Stephen was about the most wonderful thing I ever did.
Sometimes we would bring Randy along. Now Randy was about as serious and studious as Stephen was artistic and free. I often felt like the center between to extremes. Sometimes I found myself agreeing more with Randy, and sometimes I sided with Stephen. Randy had fun doing things which focused on thinking. Stephen had fun being physically creative.
I remember one day we had forced Randy to come with us to the creek. Randy wasn't keen on outdoor things and seldom had much fun on these excursions. But we liked him. He was part of our trio. (I always found it fascinating that the first initial of our last names made up my initials. I'm sure it wasn't significant, but it always intrigued me.) So we would make him come along on some of our escapades. He, in turn, would force us to do things we found frightfully dull.
We stayed only an hour or so. Randy just wasn't having a good time and was getting crabbier and crabbier by the moment. Unfortunately for Randy, his mood had annoyed Stephen to the point where Stephen was now deliberating doing things to antagonize him. Stephen could get this way. He did it to me a lot. Most of the time it resulted in me laughing and getting over my mood. But that was because I loved him. Randy's affections did not run so deep and so he only got angrier. Finally, I suggested we go find a good pizza place. We had three we frequented. Randy was always up for a good pizza and so we started back.
On our way we chanced to spot a giant snapping turtle trying to reach the creek from a spot of tall grass. Having never seen such a large reptile in the wild before Stephen and I immediately became engrossed with it. The turtle, seeing us as threats to its well-being found a nearby puddle and began to dig itself down, dropping lower and lower from the surface.
Stephen wanted to see more of it, so he got a good-sized stick and set it before the turtle. The turtle obliged by biting it and Stephen began to pull it out of the pond. The turtle, having more sense than either Stephen or I, realized it was losing it protection and let go. Undeterred, Stephen and I continued efforts to get the turtle out of its hole and out where we could get a good look at it. In our brilliance we failed to recognize that the turtle was now quite p*ssed off and was more than willing to come out of that hole to let us know about it. As it began its own assault Randy had had enough. He started to walk away.
"Can't you just leave it alone? It isn't hurting anyone?"
That was what he said, but Randy wasn't paying any attention to the turtle he was walking past. The thing hissed like a snake and lunged (as only a turtle can do) for Randy's leg. Its long neck stretch out and its mouth gaped wide. Randy escaped by perhaps a finger's width. I looked at Stephen and guessed my eyes were as wide as his. The turtle, having made up its mind to deal with stupidity head on continued its assault. Stephen backed off and ran around to where I was kneeling. When the turtle turned I got up and Stephen and I followed Randy to the car.
Then I got to sit and listen while Randy and Stephen had one of their many arguments all the way to J's Pizza. Once there, the argument, the turtle, and bad things in general disappeared. It was time to relax and have fun.
Memory. It's kind of like time travel, isn't it? I remember those days, and when the memory ends I realize I'm feeling like I was there. Maybe in some sense of the word I have gone back. Maybe that's why I cling so desperately to my past. I can relive it almost at will.
The Magic Three, as I called us, are separated now, except in memory.
Oh, I never mucked about with snapping turtles again.
Sometimes we would bring Randy along. Now Randy was about as serious and studious as Stephen was artistic and free. I often felt like the center between to extremes. Sometimes I found myself agreeing more with Randy, and sometimes I sided with Stephen. Randy had fun doing things which focused on thinking. Stephen had fun being physically creative.
I remember one day we had forced Randy to come with us to the creek. Randy wasn't keen on outdoor things and seldom had much fun on these excursions. But we liked him. He was part of our trio. (I always found it fascinating that the first initial of our last names made up my initials. I'm sure it wasn't significant, but it always intrigued me.) So we would make him come along on some of our escapades. He, in turn, would force us to do things we found frightfully dull.
We stayed only an hour or so. Randy just wasn't having a good time and was getting crabbier and crabbier by the moment. Unfortunately for Randy, his mood had annoyed Stephen to the point where Stephen was now deliberating doing things to antagonize him. Stephen could get this way. He did it to me a lot. Most of the time it resulted in me laughing and getting over my mood. But that was because I loved him. Randy's affections did not run so deep and so he only got angrier. Finally, I suggested we go find a good pizza place. We had three we frequented. Randy was always up for a good pizza and so we started back.
On our way we chanced to spot a giant snapping turtle trying to reach the creek from a spot of tall grass. Having never seen such a large reptile in the wild before Stephen and I immediately became engrossed with it. The turtle, seeing us as threats to its well-being found a nearby puddle and began to dig itself down, dropping lower and lower from the surface.
Stephen wanted to see more of it, so he got a good-sized stick and set it before the turtle. The turtle obliged by biting it and Stephen began to pull it out of the pond. The turtle, having more sense than either Stephen or I, realized it was losing it protection and let go. Undeterred, Stephen and I continued efforts to get the turtle out of its hole and out where we could get a good look at it. In our brilliance we failed to recognize that the turtle was now quite p*ssed off and was more than willing to come out of that hole to let us know about it. As it began its own assault Randy had had enough. He started to walk away.
"Can't you just leave it alone? It isn't hurting anyone?"
That was what he said, but Randy wasn't paying any attention to the turtle he was walking past. The thing hissed like a snake and lunged (as only a turtle can do) for Randy's leg. Its long neck stretch out and its mouth gaped wide. Randy escaped by perhaps a finger's width. I looked at Stephen and guessed my eyes were as wide as his. The turtle, having made up its mind to deal with stupidity head on continued its assault. Stephen backed off and ran around to where I was kneeling. When the turtle turned I got up and Stephen and I followed Randy to the car.
Then I got to sit and listen while Randy and Stephen had one of their many arguments all the way to J's Pizza. Once there, the argument, the turtle, and bad things in general disappeared. It was time to relax and have fun.
Memory. It's kind of like time travel, isn't it? I remember those days, and when the memory ends I realize I'm feeling like I was there. Maybe in some sense of the word I have gone back. Maybe that's why I cling so desperately to my past. I can relive it almost at will.
The Magic Three, as I called us, are separated now, except in memory.
Oh, I never mucked about with snapping turtles again.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sometimes I Have Not Been Nice at All
Animal Day, huh? Well, this probably isn't what you had in mind when I wrote that, but here goes.
I grew up in rural Minnesota. No big deal. We had electricity and a telephone. For a while it was party line, but Daddy's job required he have access to a telephone and so my parents sprung the extra money and got a private line. I still recall the number: 5008. Didn't have to use the prefix if you called within the area.
There were various wildlife creatures about, but nothing exotic. Supposedly, a black bear took up residence near my house, but I think that was foolish child's talk. I never heard an adult say they saw one. I don't recall even seeing that many deer. Mostly, the wildlife consisted of birds, squirrels, and a few other miscellaneous rodents. Generally, if one were to see an animal larger than a squirrel it would be a pet or a farm creature.
We did not have much for farm creatures at The Old House, despite the place originally being a farm. We got rabbits once, for Easter. But the dogs broke into the shed where we kept them and killed them all. We had chickens, too. And ducks. The chickens were nice because they walked the yard and took out the wood tics, of which the area was well inundated. Before we got the chickens you couldn't walk across the yard without picking up a half dozen. The first thing you did when you got inside was use the bathroom to sift through your clothes. After the chickens, no wood tics.
When Daddy was diagnosed with cancer, my parents sold the place and moved into the city. Roseville. A suburb north of St Paul, near the State Fair Grounds. That fall I was to be a senior in high school. I wanted to graduate in the school where I had spent most of my growing up. (I was afraid to go anywhere else. "The H*ll That You Know.") So my parents arranged for me to board at a retired minister's placed about five miles from the high school. The man was a control maniac and I didn't particularly enjoy my stay. In fact, shortly before Daddy died, I left that place and went to Roseville to live. I drove the thirty or forty miles distance daily for the rest of the year.
So what has all of this to do with animals? Well, Mr Minister (not his real name) fancied himself a part-time farmer. He raised cattle and planted hay. Well, one day I come home from school to find Mr Minister had forgotten to close the pasture gate. As I drove up the lane I could see the monsters milling about on the yard. Now I had never had anything to do with cows. All I knew about them was: a) they gave milk; b) chopped up, they made excellent burgers; c) the smallest of them weighed twice what I did.
I drove my car as close to the house as possible and then dashed inside. Safe, I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to write.
About an hour later Mr Minister comes home and ushers the cows back into the pasture. Then he comes upstairs and proceeds to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am for not noticing the cows were out. I told him I had noticed. He asked why I hadn't put them back in the pasture. I responded by saying there were thirty cows and one me. And since most of them weighed more than a thousand pounds and I weighed less than two hundred I didn't like the odds. He told me I was stupid. Everyone knew cows were slovenly creatures who wouldn't hurt anyone. Well I didn't know that, and I told him so.
He made me feed the cows in the pasture after that. You can make teenagers do things, you know? If he tried to do that today I'd tell him where he could put his feed. Well, he's probably long gone now. He was older than I am now when I was seventeen. But I drove the tractor (now that was a treat) into the fields, pulling a wagon filled with hay. The cows saw me coming and began to hurry to intercept me. I didn't like that. Tame or not, I didn't particularly relish getting squished between the cows and the wagon, or knocked to the ground under their feet. So I climbed across the hitch and tossed hay down for the bovines and then drove away.
Mr Minister wasn't really a bad man. He was just a control freak. He hated it that I had a car. He hated that I could drive to Stephen's house without having to ask him permission. He hated it that I never showed him my homework. (I never showed it to my parents, why should I show it to him? Ah, for the record, though. Spouse and I keep close tabs on Son's homework. He's straight 'A'. I was straight 'C', which pissed off teachers and counselors alike.)
I tolerated his meddling until Daddy began to get worse. Then Mr Minister's meddling became an interference and I left shortly after Thanksgiving. That Christmas I took all of my money (I had a job at a pizza shop) and spent it all on Christmas presents. Stephen was with me and kept insisting I buy Mr Minister a gift. I didn't want to. I thought he was a horse's a*s, and I told Stephen so. But Stephen kept pestering me, so I finally relented. And here is where my sense of humor took over.
Against Stephen's wishes, I found a little plastic statuette. They were popular back in the 1970s. They were about six inches tall, made of hard plastic, and completely tan. The figures were of all sorts of things, and on the bases were inscriptions. You know the kind? "I Love You." "You're My Friend." "All The Best." Fun stuff. And some of it quite silly.
I chose a little man with an incredibly fat belly. He stood with his arms spread wide. And stuck - right in the middle of his belly-button - was a giant screw. The inscription? "Thanks For Everything!"
I bought that.
Stephen was beside himself with distress. At first he thought I was only joking. But then I paid for it and put it in a little brown paper bag. He fussed and worried as I drove out to where Mr Minister lived. He kept begging me not to give that to the old man. By chance, Mr Minister was at the end of the lane, clearing snow, as I drove up. He smiled and said, "Hello, Bevie." I smiled and said, "Hello." He asked what I was up to. I said I had bought him a Christmas present, and then I handed him the bag. He thanked me and I drove away, never to see him again.
Every so often I think about that and wonder: how did he react when he saw the gift? Did he understand what I was trying to tell him? Or was I just another teenage punk?
I grew up in rural Minnesota. No big deal. We had electricity and a telephone. For a while it was party line, but Daddy's job required he have access to a telephone and so my parents sprung the extra money and got a private line. I still recall the number: 5008. Didn't have to use the prefix if you called within the area.
There were various wildlife creatures about, but nothing exotic. Supposedly, a black bear took up residence near my house, but I think that was foolish child's talk. I never heard an adult say they saw one. I don't recall even seeing that many deer. Mostly, the wildlife consisted of birds, squirrels, and a few other miscellaneous rodents. Generally, if one were to see an animal larger than a squirrel it would be a pet or a farm creature.
We did not have much for farm creatures at The Old House, despite the place originally being a farm. We got rabbits once, for Easter. But the dogs broke into the shed where we kept them and killed them all. We had chickens, too. And ducks. The chickens were nice because they walked the yard and took out the wood tics, of which the area was well inundated. Before we got the chickens you couldn't walk across the yard without picking up a half dozen. The first thing you did when you got inside was use the bathroom to sift through your clothes. After the chickens, no wood tics.
When Daddy was diagnosed with cancer, my parents sold the place and moved into the city. Roseville. A suburb north of St Paul, near the State Fair Grounds. That fall I was to be a senior in high school. I wanted to graduate in the school where I had spent most of my growing up. (I was afraid to go anywhere else. "The H*ll That You Know.") So my parents arranged for me to board at a retired minister's placed about five miles from the high school. The man was a control maniac and I didn't particularly enjoy my stay. In fact, shortly before Daddy died, I left that place and went to Roseville to live. I drove the thirty or forty miles distance daily for the rest of the year.
So what has all of this to do with animals? Well, Mr Minister (not his real name) fancied himself a part-time farmer. He raised cattle and planted hay. Well, one day I come home from school to find Mr Minister had forgotten to close the pasture gate. As I drove up the lane I could see the monsters milling about on the yard. Now I had never had anything to do with cows. All I knew about them was: a) they gave milk; b) chopped up, they made excellent burgers; c) the smallest of them weighed twice what I did.
I drove my car as close to the house as possible and then dashed inside. Safe, I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to write.
About an hour later Mr Minister comes home and ushers the cows back into the pasture. Then he comes upstairs and proceeds to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am for not noticing the cows were out. I told him I had noticed. He asked why I hadn't put them back in the pasture. I responded by saying there were thirty cows and one me. And since most of them weighed more than a thousand pounds and I weighed less than two hundred I didn't like the odds. He told me I was stupid. Everyone knew cows were slovenly creatures who wouldn't hurt anyone. Well I didn't know that, and I told him so.
He made me feed the cows in the pasture after that. You can make teenagers do things, you know? If he tried to do that today I'd tell him where he could put his feed. Well, he's probably long gone now. He was older than I am now when I was seventeen. But I drove the tractor (now that was a treat) into the fields, pulling a wagon filled with hay. The cows saw me coming and began to hurry to intercept me. I didn't like that. Tame or not, I didn't particularly relish getting squished between the cows and the wagon, or knocked to the ground under their feet. So I climbed across the hitch and tossed hay down for the bovines and then drove away.
Mr Minister wasn't really a bad man. He was just a control freak. He hated it that I had a car. He hated that I could drive to Stephen's house without having to ask him permission. He hated it that I never showed him my homework. (I never showed it to my parents, why should I show it to him? Ah, for the record, though. Spouse and I keep close tabs on Son's homework. He's straight 'A'. I was straight 'C', which pissed off teachers and counselors alike.)
I tolerated his meddling until Daddy began to get worse. Then Mr Minister's meddling became an interference and I left shortly after Thanksgiving. That Christmas I took all of my money (I had a job at a pizza shop) and spent it all on Christmas presents. Stephen was with me and kept insisting I buy Mr Minister a gift. I didn't want to. I thought he was a horse's a*s, and I told Stephen so. But Stephen kept pestering me, so I finally relented. And here is where my sense of humor took over.
Against Stephen's wishes, I found a little plastic statuette. They were popular back in the 1970s. They were about six inches tall, made of hard plastic, and completely tan. The figures were of all sorts of things, and on the bases were inscriptions. You know the kind? "I Love You." "You're My Friend." "All The Best." Fun stuff. And some of it quite silly.
I chose a little man with an incredibly fat belly. He stood with his arms spread wide. And stuck - right in the middle of his belly-button - was a giant screw. The inscription? "Thanks For Everything!"
I bought that.
Stephen was beside himself with distress. At first he thought I was only joking. But then I paid for it and put it in a little brown paper bag. He fussed and worried as I drove out to where Mr Minister lived. He kept begging me not to give that to the old man. By chance, Mr Minister was at the end of the lane, clearing snow, as I drove up. He smiled and said, "Hello, Bevie." I smiled and said, "Hello." He asked what I was up to. I said I had bought him a Christmas present, and then I handed him the bag. He thanked me and I drove away, never to see him again.
Every so often I think about that and wonder: how did he react when he saw the gift? Did he understand what I was trying to tell him? Or was I just another teenage punk?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
An Expression From the Past
Stephen receives a lot of exposure on this blog. He gets honorable mentions on a couple of other blogs, too. Daddy is another. It is entirely right and proper that I should do so, I think. They are both gone and I love them both dearly.
I have referenced my new friends more than once here, too, confessing my love for them.
Today, despite it being Animals and Nature Day on A Voice in the Wind, I will confess my love for Spouse. Included with that is Son, for he came from us, at least in part. His spirit comes from God, but the shell it lives in came from us, as well as a few personality quirks, good and bad.
Spouse isn't too keen on frequent mentions on-line. Not keen about Son being mentioned, either. Anything to hide their identity. But I can hardly post without referencing one and/or the other at least sometimes. And because this blogging thing has turned from a selfish display of words to myself into a selfish interactive with others, things slip, and I find myself compelled to reveal more to friends than I did to an empty and impersonal cyberspace. (Hence the addition of gender on my profile.) Spouse is mostly fine with this. I have friends again. It's been a few years.
Anyway, I have been listening to this particular song several times a day for the past five days. It's one of about a dozen I'm replaying over and over again. All take me back at least two decades in time. Some as far back as 1969. Some make me cry. Some make me feel hopeful. Others remind me of Stephen, being young, foolish, and without any cares. This song, also linked at the bottom of the blog, brings me back to the early 1980s. We (Spouse and I) were still in our twenties. We were both thin then (now it's just Spouse). And healthy. And hopeful. And poor. We both worked at the same place (which is how we met). As I drove us to and from work we would listen to radio stations (I'm a station turner). When this song would come on I would sing it. It's been more than twenty years since I remember hearing it last. Stumbled across it the other day. I can still sing it. Just not as well.
The song is important to me because I have watched what has happened to many other families - just in this neighborhood - in which the husband has lost work and can't get/keep another job to replace the one lost. In nearly every other case the wife has taken the children and left. Spouse did not do that. Not even when we lost the house.
It's no fun being undeserving. But it is comforting to be loved. And so my friends, not to take anything away from the love I bear for you, and you know I love you, this expression of love is for Spouse, though she will not read it. If you wish to listen to it, I have a YouTube link at the bottom of the blog. (Today, anyway. That will change at some point in the future.)
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
Ive been in love with you
I am in love with you..
For better and for worse. In sickness and in health. Wasn't sure I believed it at the time. Now, coming up on 30 years later, time has shown the truth.
I have referenced my new friends more than once here, too, confessing my love for them.
Today, despite it being Animals and Nature Day on A Voice in the Wind, I will confess my love for Spouse. Included with that is Son, for he came from us, at least in part. His spirit comes from God, but the shell it lives in came from us, as well as a few personality quirks, good and bad.
Spouse isn't too keen on frequent mentions on-line. Not keen about Son being mentioned, either. Anything to hide their identity. But I can hardly post without referencing one and/or the other at least sometimes. And because this blogging thing has turned from a selfish display of words to myself into a selfish interactive with others, things slip, and I find myself compelled to reveal more to friends than I did to an empty and impersonal cyberspace. (Hence the addition of gender on my profile.) Spouse is mostly fine with this. I have friends again. It's been a few years.
Anyway, I have been listening to this particular song several times a day for the past five days. It's one of about a dozen I'm replaying over and over again. All take me back at least two decades in time. Some as far back as 1969. Some make me cry. Some make me feel hopeful. Others remind me of Stephen, being young, foolish, and without any cares. This song, also linked at the bottom of the blog, brings me back to the early 1980s. We (Spouse and I) were still in our twenties. We were both thin then (now it's just Spouse). And healthy. And hopeful. And poor. We both worked at the same place (which is how we met). As I drove us to and from work we would listen to radio stations (I'm a station turner). When this song would come on I would sing it. It's been more than twenty years since I remember hearing it last. Stumbled across it the other day. I can still sing it. Just not as well.
The song is important to me because I have watched what has happened to many other families - just in this neighborhood - in which the husband has lost work and can't get/keep another job to replace the one lost. In nearly every other case the wife has taken the children and left. Spouse did not do that. Not even when we lost the house.
It's no fun being undeserving. But it is comforting to be loved. And so my friends, not to take anything away from the love I bear for you, and you know I love you, this expression of love is for Spouse, though she will not read it. If you wish to listen to it, I have a YouTube link at the bottom of the blog. (Today, anyway. That will change at some point in the future.)
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
Ive been in love with you
I am in love with you..
For better and for worse. In sickness and in health. Wasn't sure I believed it at the time. Now, coming up on 30 years later, time has shown the truth.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Stories, Heroes, Writing, Critiques
Supposed to talk about writing assignments today. Nothing new to say about them save that Quest is moving along nicely. Too nicely, in a way. I tried writing with Spouse and Son offering up one interruption after another. It's hard to keep focus when one is being inundated with a host of questions. I wound up skipping a mess of idea and not thinking others through.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
What Can We Learn From Birds
"Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?" Matthew 6:26 New King James Version
So there I go, introducing scripture into a supposedly secular blog.
I sometimes wonder if people read certain of my blog posts, and then see me spouting off scripture and talking about faith and love and such, only to say to themselves, "Why the bloke's a filthy hypocrite! Foul language. Fears. Selfishness. Bevie's as neurotic as I've seen - and I've seen some bad ones."
Don't know. I've yet to attract anyone who would say that. So far, only decent people have commented. The whackos have yet to discover me. That will come, I'm sure. Got some spam comments, though.
So why the thing about birds? Well, today is "Nature Day" on A Voice in the Wind. I can't recall the last time I posted about animals. I've been so off my schedule (more hypocrisy, they cry) for so long.
Life as an animal in the wild must be horrendous. I mean, think about it. For most of them, life is entirely precarious. Starvation is a constant threat. Especially in the high heat of summer or the cold freezing of winter. Clean water is often a scarce commodity. Storms, earthquakes, floods, volcanoes. And it seems no matter what you are, something thinks of you as food. And then there is the human problem. If they are not killing you outright, they are destroying the places where you sleep, eat, and drink. Life kind of s*cks as an animal in the wild, I think.
Yet wild animals are seldom neurotic, I believe. (Animals in human control often become strange.) Around here the Kildeer get weird should you go near their nests. We have at least two nesting pair around the perimeter of our yard. We bordered our lot with speckled rocks which bear an uncanny resemblance to Kildeer egg.s. There will be at least six hatchings around the yard every year. It's hysterical to watch the tiny things run about chasing mom or dad. Last year one nest hatched three. Two were terrified at the prospect of leaving mom's side. One was bold and adventurous. The sad thing was Spouse and I knew that was the one which was going to die first. Too bold for its own good. Sure enough, after just a couple of weeks there were only two birds with mom and dad.
We feel bad when a baby bird is taken by a predator. Sometimes we find ourselves hating the predator, and wishing it harm. But the predator is just another animal, doing what animals do to survive. The reason Kildeer hatch so many eggs each year is to feed the predators - and still have enough survivors to continue the race. And animal predators are there to keep the Kildeer population low enough so that it doesn't eat itself into oblivion.
There's a famous question which I first heard when I was in high school. It goes something like this:
If you were to put 20 deer on a plat of land which could only support 15 deer, how many deer would starve to death?
I remember my first reaction was to do math. Then I caught myself in time. Wait a minute, I thought. All of the animals will be eating and drinking at the same time and at the same rate. So when there is no longer any food for one, that means there won't be any food left whatsoever. ALL of the deer will starve.
And so populations must be kept in check. We assume nature does this on its own with unerring accuracy. That is not true. Plenty of animals go extinct without any help or cause of man, thank you very much. Not that humans are free of guilt. But I don't accept that we are the cause of ALL the extinctions. We just don't seem to do much to help those on that path now. And we DO cause extinctions which would otherwise not happen for hundreds, thousands or perhaps millions of years.
Why don't humans - as a group - help? Because we have yet to learn the lesson.
"Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?" Matthew 6:26 New King James Version
So there I go, introducing scripture into a supposedly secular blog.
I sometimes wonder if people read certain of my blog posts, and then see me spouting off scripture and talking about faith and love and such, only to say to themselves, "Why the bloke's a filthy hypocrite! Foul language. Fears. Selfishness. Bevie's as neurotic as I've seen - and I've seen some bad ones."
Don't know. I've yet to attract anyone who would say that. So far, only decent people have commented. The whackos have yet to discover me. That will come, I'm sure. Got some spam comments, though.
So why the thing about birds? Well, today is "Nature Day" on A Voice in the Wind. I can't recall the last time I posted about animals. I've been so off my schedule (more hypocrisy, they cry) for so long.
Life as an animal in the wild must be horrendous. I mean, think about it. For most of them, life is entirely precarious. Starvation is a constant threat. Especially in the high heat of summer or the cold freezing of winter. Clean water is often a scarce commodity. Storms, earthquakes, floods, volcanoes. And it seems no matter what you are, something thinks of you as food. And then there is the human problem. If they are not killing you outright, they are destroying the places where you sleep, eat, and drink. Life kind of s*cks as an animal in the wild, I think.
Yet wild animals are seldom neurotic, I believe. (Animals in human control often become strange.) Around here the Kildeer get weird should you go near their nests. We have at least two nesting pair around the perimeter of our yard. We bordered our lot with speckled rocks which bear an uncanny resemblance to Kildeer egg.s. There will be at least six hatchings around the yard every year. It's hysterical to watch the tiny things run about chasing mom or dad. Last year one nest hatched three. Two were terrified at the prospect of leaving mom's side. One was bold and adventurous. The sad thing was Spouse and I knew that was the one which was going to die first. Too bold for its own good. Sure enough, after just a couple of weeks there were only two birds with mom and dad.
We feel bad when a baby bird is taken by a predator. Sometimes we find ourselves hating the predator, and wishing it harm. But the predator is just another animal, doing what animals do to survive. The reason Kildeer hatch so many eggs each year is to feed the predators - and still have enough survivors to continue the race. And animal predators are there to keep the Kildeer population low enough so that it doesn't eat itself into oblivion.
There's a famous question which I first heard when I was in high school. It goes something like this:
If you were to put 20 deer on a plat of land which could only support 15 deer, how many deer would starve to death?
I remember my first reaction was to do math. Then I caught myself in time. Wait a minute, I thought. All of the animals will be eating and drinking at the same time and at the same rate. So when there is no longer any food for one, that means there won't be any food left whatsoever. ALL of the deer will starve.
And so populations must be kept in check. We assume nature does this on its own with unerring accuracy. That is not true. Plenty of animals go extinct without any help or cause of man, thank you very much. Not that humans are free of guilt. But I don't accept that we are the cause of ALL the extinctions. We just don't seem to do much to help those on that path now. And we DO cause extinctions which would otherwise not happen for hundreds, thousands or perhaps millions of years.
Why don't humans - as a group - help? Because we have yet to learn the lesson.
"Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?" Matthew 6:26 New King James Version
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Royal Nicholas and Lady
I had two Norwegian Elkhound dogs. Actually, I had three. The first I have already written about. He was Royal Nicholas of Winona. Years later, after I was married, Spouse talked me into visiting a kennel which had Norwegian Elkhound puppies. Spouse wanted a dog. I was not keen about it. I didn't want to go through losing another pet.I can still recall going to the place and being shown the area where the puppies were. There were eight. One was very fearful and shy. She was the runt of the litter. Spouse felt sorry for her and picked her up. I stood apart, trying keep emotional distance. Then the largest of the litter, a big roly-poly boy, came stalking up to me. I moved, and he changed course. He wanted to get to me. So I let him. Big mistake.
We went home with two dogs on that day I planned on getting no dogs. I named the male Royal Nicholas Zwei. The female became Lady Nicole.I think I've written about this Nikki before, too. He was the one who figured out the most excellent plan to take corn on the cob meant for the squirrels to himself. He was a very jealous dog, and probably the most eager to please animal I've ever been associated with. Lady remained timid and shy all of her life. She was absolutely terrified of summer storms.
Both dogs were able to do a variety of tricks. Lady was difficult to teach because she got confused very quickly, and then she would just cower. I never understood this, because it wasn't like we beat on her or anything. But she always acted like we did. It was kind of embarassing (and concerning) when people visited. Nikki, I think we could have beat him and it wouldn't have made any difference. He just wanted to please. He also wanted to eat. He would pretty much do anything if he thought there was a meal at the end.
I taught them both to stand up on their hind legs and spin. Well, Lady spun. It was very pretty and graceful. She enjoyed the treat afterward. Nikki spun, but not like you think. Instead of using his feet to step in a circle, he would jump, and land with a turn. It took him roughly six jumps to complete a circle. And he was so heavy.
Lady lived sixteen years. We had to have her put down after she had a severe stroke in the spring of 2001. That was the year Lynahr died. Lynahr and Lady loved each other. So much so that we let Lynahr take Lady for a year.
Nikki didn't make it so long. I think he was also suffering from a health problem, but before we found out he became "unpredictable". When a neighbor was standing by our fence holding his son and petting Nikki, who was paws up on the fence, his son's mitten fell and he snatched it before it could fall to the ground. Nikki bit him, taking skin off his finger. He told us it was his own fault. He should have known better than to make such a sudden movement. But I was concerned.
There were no more incidents and I began to think all was well. Then, during a severe storm when we were huddled in our utility room, Nikki snapped at Son. Son had fallen on him, but that should not have resulted in the reaction Nikki gave. We were in contact with the vet at this time. Just a short time after that, Lynahr came by and was petting Lady. Nikki realized someone had come to the property and ran around the house and attacked Lynahr's arm. He drew blood.
We lived on a cul-de-sac. There were nine houses in close proximity. In those nine houses were no less than 15 children - all under the age of six. Nikki was a nightmare just waiting to happen. We had to have him put down.
I remember his last day. We were getting ready to leave. I went outside and found him sitting in the yard staring into the horizon. In my creative imagination it seemed to me that he understood that he would die this day. I sat beside him, my arm around him, until it was time to leave. Then I kissed him. Not on the lips. I don't normally kiss animals, but it seemed appropriate.
We brought him to the vet and gave him his last hugs. The vet asked if I wanted to hold him while they did the injection. I suspect it may have helped him, but I didn't have the heart. I was already crying. I couldn't bear it. We left.
Since Nikki and Lady I have not owned another dog. I do not plan to. But then I didn't plan on having them. Neither did I plan on having another cat. The future will bring what it does.
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