tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1584636576248774252024-02-18T20:34:06.978-05:00The Muse and Views of a Mountain WriterA whimsical glance at small town life in the Smoky Mountains of western North Carolina. My escape from the insanity of urban-ity.Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-30057604976276119042016-11-08T12:39:00.003-05:002016-11-08T12:39:48.215-05:00Election Day! So what is the cost?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, it is finally Election
Day. I purposefully put off writing this
until now; I just returned from the polling place in the quaint Village of
Clyde and I assume all of you who are inclined to vote, have already voted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t want to
impose my political beliefs on you, but there is a huge dilemma that I have
been pondering. This has been like no
other presidential campaign in modern history, in fact, as Greg Gutfeld said
the other day, “This has been more painful than a prostate exam with unclipped
finger nails.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here is my
thought: This election has been fraught
with derisive personalities, rude accusations, and belittling comments hurled toward
the electorate (you and me). But the
bottom line is that it is the ideology behind these two disliked candidates
that will govern this nation. In the
next few hours, either Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton will be named President
Elect (although the election will not be over until January 6 when Congress
counts the Electoral College votes). In
any event, one ideology is going to win out over the other. <b>But at
what cost?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I invite each of you
to set aside the aversion you feel for the other side and carefully consider
the faults and criticisms of your own candidate. What cost are you willing to expend to see
your ideology win? This is something we
all have to answer over the next few years (or generations if you consider the
Supreme Court).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So if you believe
that half of the U.S. population is an irredeemable basket of ignorant deplorables,
led by an unpolished, bigoted, sexual predator, hot-head bent on war, or that the Utopian promise of progressive liberalism will be as successful and effective
here as it has been in Venezuela and that Secretary Clinton is above the law despite
being steeped in decades of dishonesty and corruption, be prepared to pay the
cost if your side wins. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-78554053382562622322016-10-07T18:13:00.004-04:002016-10-07T18:13:31.496-04:00To See or Not to See<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 13.3333px; padding: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">As Shakespeare said: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To see or not to see</b></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">(</span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">or something like that)</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
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The week before I moved from Florida to North Carolina, I had my eyes checked and prescription updated. Because it was convenient (and they had a sale on) I went to JC Penny’s and bought my glasses. In the course of unpacking here in North Carolina, I set my glasses down and inadvertently picked up a pile of bubble wrap (and my glasses) and threw it away. I went back to Penny’s where a rude optician said he could look in the computer and replicate what I had done in St. Petersburg (at full price of course). When my new-new glasses arrived, they were in the wrong frame. The grumpy optician said he would re-order the glasses and that I could keep the mistake until the replacement arrived. (I never gave him back the mistake; he was just utterly rude.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some time passed by and I came to realize that my vision was again changing. This time I went to Vision Works. The glasses came in and I couldn’t see worth a damn. I returned to the store wherein they told me that they were built to the script. I went back to the doctor who agreed that they were the right prescription. He rechecked my eyes and confirmed that I should be able to see fine. I, in desperation, wrote the corporate headquarters and surprisingly received a phone call from the president of the company. He asked me to again revisit the store on a particular date. There a corporate optometrist took my glasses into the back and came out announcing that the frames contained two different lenses, both cut to the correct prescription, but due to the variance of their shape, that is the reason I was having trouble seeing. I got new glasses and a total refund.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Time again passed and I decided to shun the drive all the way to Asheville and attempt my new glasses in my quaint adopted hometown of Waynesville. I got a new prescription, had the glasses made at Walmart Vision Center, and guess what, I couldn’t see. Back to the store, back to the doctor, the script was wrong, another new pair glasses (this is getting old -- hey, watch it -- I meant the routine).<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next script was pretty much uneventful, but that was the time that I realized I needed one pair of bi-focals to drive and a different pair to see the computer. A real pain-in-the-butt switching glasses all the time, but at least they were right the first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well a week-and-a-half ago, I went and had a new script made. I dutifully waited the seven days for the glasses to be made. I picked them up, and you guessed it, I can’t see. Back to the store, back to the doctor, another script mistake, and my new lenses should be in by the end of next week. What was that quote from Matthew 5:29? Nah, I think I’ll wait for the newest replacement before I go <i>plucking </i>anything out<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="0" style="background-color: white; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">David Kent</span><span lang="0" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.3333px;"><br /></span><span lang="0" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<img border="0" height="120" src="https://mail.aol.com/webmail/getPart?uid=30206911&partId=2&scope=STANDARD&saveAs=head%2520%26amp%3B%2520hat.jpg" width="120" /></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-38982222990834363582016-09-07T13:42:00.000-04:002016-09-07T13:42:17.904-04:00Don't you love the smell of early morning mountain air<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; margin-left: 0in; padding: 0px; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As most of you know, I keep odd hours; I awaken very early in the morning and go to bed early at night. I have often joked that I was born in the wrong time zone. That being said, what most of you don’t know is that I do not use an alarm clock, and never have. My body knows when it is time to awaken, and when I have important tasks at hand, my mind never goes fully asleep so that I won’t miss the needed morning hours of work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Last night I went to sleep knowing that I had an “overnight” job due in that needed to be completed very early in the morning. I slept as peacefully as a <i>mature</i> man can. (Don’t you hate middle-of-the-night pee breaks?) My last interruption was about 2:30 am. As I climbed back in bed, I recalculated how much time I needed to finish the job and figured a 4:00 am arousal would be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">From the depths of a deep REM sleep at about 3:30, all hell broke loose. The dogs were barking and running through the house as if someone was here. I couldn’t imagine I had missed the driveway alarm, but in the fog of sudden consciousness, I was uncertain if I had or hadn't heard a sound out on the deck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Trying to shake off the last of my sleep, I grabbed the secreted machete from its hiding spot and headed towards the front door. I threw on the outside lights to be sure there was no one standing in ambush as the dogs circled and barked at the unseen intruder. Seeing no obvious danger, I opened the door to meet an odoriferous affront equaled only by a sun-baked platter of rancid meat served with a generous nose of Pont L'Eveque cheese in the quaint surrounds of an uncleaned dog kennel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, one of our Carolinian Pole Cats (How did Shakespeare put it? “A <b><i>skunk</i></b> by any other name would smell as sweet.”) had traversed my property, and whether by merit of its defensive spray or its unrelenting residual fortification of odor, the trespasser had transformed the pleasant predawn mountain air into one of nature’s most offensive olfactory insults.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So how did your nose start the day: Perhaps some fragrant coffee (or tea) brewing, the aroma of an oven-fresh pastry, maybe the allure of bacon frying? I still haven’t eaten anything, and yes, like the BO left in Jerry Seinfeld’s BMW by the unbathed valet attendant, the morning visit still lingers in the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<img border="0" height="120" id="MA1.1387463655" src="https://mail.aol.com/webmail/getPart?uid=30185807&partId=1.2&scope=STANDARD&saveAs=head%2520%26amp%3B%2520hat.jpg" width="120" /></div>
</u></span></span></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-16251625477799539692016-04-14T11:50:00.000-04:002016-04-14T11:50:50.642-04:00Strange Thursday Morning Excitement<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I stayed up way too
late last night talking with friends, so my morning has been a prolonged struggle to stay awake. I have made numerous self-promises that if I manage to get my work done, I can
have a really special treat: an afternoon nap.
As I muddled my way through some entirely uninspired text, the quiet of
my mountain home gave way to what at first I assumed to be an airplane cresting
the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I continued my toiled
conflict between obligation and fatigue only to realize that the noise did
not subside as quickly as it would if a fixed wing aircraft was passing. Also the temper and texture seemed to
modulate in unusual patterns. I
continued working until the racket took on an odd, almost “lawn equipment”
sound, and it sounded like it was on or very near my property.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Curiosity got the
better of me, so I ventured downstairs and out on the upper deck to
investigate. Once I was outside where
the sounds were not muffled by the walls of the house, it was obvious that the
source of the disturbance was a rotary-wing aircraft, and one that was very
near. I surveyed the sky and the valley
floor below wondering if one of my neighbors had been hurt and in need of a
medi-vac. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly the noise crescendoed
and a helicopter rose from behind the near ridge across the valley. I began to wonder if it was perhaps another
search and rescue operation (we have hikers go missing as a regular part of
life in the Smoky Mountains), but as I watched I realized that there was a long
tether hanging from below the aircraft.
As it rose further, I saw that at the end of the tether was a 10 to 12
foot long, what can only be described as a hedge trimmer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The helicopter,
obviously piloted by a steady hand, was trimming away trees that were
encroaching on the power lines that keep us “up landers” connected, warm, and
fed. I watched with fascination as this
massive clipper swung just feet from live electric wires. I kept thinking that a single gust of wind or
an errant yaw of the controls would shear those power lines easier that it was
lopping the limbs from the trees and what the potential consequences would be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The noise has gone
now, as the aerial arborist has moved down the other side of the ridge tracing
the utility corridor across another valley and rise. I have often pondered the skill and ingenuity
required to get lines to some of these home sites. My own electric line is fed from a pole on a
grade so steep that it would be nearly impossible to stand there and would
require rappelling ropes to get to. Yet
someone dug the hole, erected a pole and strung wires on that ridge in a place
too far from any road or flat land to enable even the longest truck rig to
reach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The next time the
power goes out, I won’t swear quite so loud or long. Those guys have a particularly complex job. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-73935696534586630922016-04-08T12:50:00.001-04:002016-04-08T12:50:10.538-04:00The brave little dog<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For those of you
who have dogs, you know that they are an important member of the family. Like little children, they have diverse
personalities with mood swings that range from one extreme to the other. They can be affectionate or aloof, protective
or frightened, remorseful or stubborn, smart or clueless, cunning or naïve,
forgiving or vindictive, and at times, funny as all heck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This spring, April
is turning out to be more wintery than December was. In deference to the weather, I have dutifully
planted my herbs and started some early tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, but
the arctic air keeps blowing and every night as the afternoon sun begins to
wane, I have to carefully bring my tender plants into the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My four-legged son,
Sebastian, a constant companion, great protector and watchdog, the first bold sentry
to man (or dog) his post and sound the alarm if he even dreams someone is
approaching the house, was quietly asleep in my bed this morning. About 3:30 AM, I heard him stir, and I did my
best to remain as still as possible cherishing the warm blankets and some much
needed rest; it was below freezing and I really didn’t want to take him
out. My ruse didn’t work and soon he was
up kicking his back feet like some Spanish fighting bull about to charge the matador;
it is his signal that he needs to go potty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I swung my legs out
of bed and put on my warm slippers.
Cory, deducing what the early morning ruckus was all about, darted into
the kitchen to pounce on the basement door; that is <i>his</i> signal that he needs to go potty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I stumble into the
predawn darkness wishing I had the luxury of emptying my own bladder before bracing
the morning cold. Down the stairs and
opening the back door that leads into their run, I realize that Cory is the
only one with me. From the base of the
steps I called Sebastian to follow, but the only answer I got was a weak, pathetic
whimper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I panicked thinking
he had hurt himself or something. I flew
back upstairs and turned on all the lights.
Sebastian was sitting in the bedroom looking totally perplexed. I invited him again to come “go potty.” He approached the bedroom door, looked into
the hall, and retreated stealthily back into the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Apparently, the two
planters that have been stored in the hallway every night for a week, today
looked menacing beyond any canine fortitude my little boy could muster. I scooped up my vicious watchdog and carried
him to the basement steps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We all remember the
nightmares of a monster hiding under the bed or the boogeyman in the closet,
well, I guess to Sebastian, two yellow planters in the hall are just as terrifying. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-35564558033749973952016-03-22T06:06:00.001-04:002016-03-22T06:06:51.112-04:00White lies: relationships, politics and sports<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I am curious: Do you
suffer from cerebral echoes? I do, and
sometimes there just is no relief to be found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Case in point: I was
talking with a friend of the other gender last week and an innocent subject
breached the conversation to which her response was “<i>a little white lie</i>.” She
would have no way of knowing this, but I knew that her little fib was an
impossibility. I left it unchallenged,
but her words continue to echo through my head without decreasing in intensity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Why is it that people so readily expect dishonesty to be a
beneficial foundational choice in relationship building between people? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For those who are sports fans of any genre, we have all been
in the situation where a member of our preferred team commits a foul that goes uncalled. Do we stand and scream at the officials? No! But
let an uncalled foul happen on the other side, and we don’t stop complaining
for a week. This disingenuous nature
runs rampant throughout our society. Our
perception that what benefits our here-and-now outweighs the long term
consequences is dangerous and foolhardy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I could quite easily correlate this concept to the current
presidential campaign and point to the innumerable lies and broken promises
that has led to a divisive “<i>none-of-the-above</i>”
candidate to be leading in the polls, but I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t
let this stray into politics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the outside, we habitually cloak ourselves in garish costumes
and stage makeup to present our best appearance, and a significant part of that
charade is pretending to be someone or something other than the raw truth that
hides beneath our faux façade. How many
times have we seen or experienced relationships <i>grow apart</i>, when in reality, the people just gradually dropped the
pretense and showed themselves as they have always been? “<i>You
aren’t the person I fell in love with</i>.”
Maybe, maybe not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the Biblical sense, I am in no position to “cast the
first stone,” but I do think and consequently strive to live my life with
honesty as a forthright requirement in all of my relationships: business,
casual and romance. The dénouement to
this piece could easily circle back to sports or politics or relationships, but
I’ll leave the reverberation of <i>the
consequences of actions </i>to echo around in your cranium bouncing off of all
those indiscretions committed, ignored and forgiven, and then for you to decide
whether those <i>white lies</i> made your
relationships, you, or for that matter, anyone else, better or worse. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-2096440000696257662016-03-07T12:42:00.002-05:002016-03-07T12:42:23.341-05:00That was an interesting weekend<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That was an interesting weekend. Some of you may remember a week-and-a-half
ago my power went out for about four hours.
When it did come back on I noticed that I had lost about 50% of my water
pressure. I figured there was an air
bubble somewhere between the house and the wellhead and it would eventually
work its way out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I grudgingly lived with a weak shower and barely enough
pressure to wash the truck, but I did notice that at times the pressure would
be better suggesting a cure was inevitable.
Thursday afternoon, I was cleaning up the kitchen and decided to go
check the pressure gauge on the tank.
The pressure was holding, but I thought, I wonder what would happen if I
cut the power. As soon as I pulled the
disconnect, I heard the water start to siphon back to the well (that isn’t
supposed to happen).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Later that evening while getting ready for bed, I flushed
the toilet only to realize that I had NO WATER.
Fortunately, I am still in prep mode for winter storms that can at times
disrupt the power (and consequently the well pump), so I had a bathtub full of
flush water and several gallons of drinking water stored up for emergencies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Funny aside: While looking through a drawer to find the
paperwork on the well, I found this neat book.
The pages were all yellow, so it might have been old. Inside was the name, address and phone number
of every business in the county, and they were categorized according to the
type of business. I found the phone
number to the well company without looking at their invoice or even turning on
a computer. I don’t know who invented
it, but what a neat thing: Business
phone numbers printed up in a book!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Friday morning the well company said they would be right
over to get the water flowing again.
Four hours later, the truck pulls up.
(I had temporarily forgotten that everyone here works on <i>mountain time</i>. Four hours is actually early; good thing it
isn’t hunting season, it could have been four days.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">After an hour-and-a-half of studious diagnoses, he
determined that he had to pull the well (exactly what I had told him when he
arrived). He next discovered that 6
small pine tree saplings had grown up near the wellhead, and they had to be cut
down so he could get his crane in there.
He said he would find someone with a chainsaw, and if nothing else,
would come back “after work” and do it himself.
He left with the promise that I would have water in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I started calling about 10:30 AM (allowing for <i>mountain time</i>), but never reached him
until about 2:30 PM. He said, “Oh, I
thought you had worked something out.” <b><i>HUH??? </i></b>“Let me find someone to help me, and
I’ll be right out.” Nope, never heard
from him again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">After returning from the store with my truck bed full of
clear plastic jugs reminiscent of an episode of <i>Moonshiners</i>, I settled in for another night no running tap water
and the certainty that if he didn’t come on Saturday, there was no way he would
come on a Sunday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">To my surprise, he called me about 8:30 in the morning and
said he had finally found someone to help him.
He was going to meet him over at the business, pick up his truck and
would head out my way. 2:30 in the
afternoon, he starts up my driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the end, he found a busted coupling about 300 feet down,
replaced that and by about 6:30 last night, I had a hot shower. Today, well it’s a Happy Monday, so I better
get to work, just give me a few hours, it is <i>mountain time</i> after all.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-12422316454976650012015-12-21T12:37:00.000-05:002015-12-21T12:37:36.331-05:00A Christmas Parable <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The cadenced crunch of a hunter’s boots breaking the icy crust
of the sequined snow breached Nature’s silence in the muted forest. A young man fought the tumult in the back of
his mind, it was Christmas Day and with that came the feelings of hopeless
loss. Gone were the idealistic childhood
fantasies, and in its place the mandated orgy of a commercial x-mas. So gun in hand, he hid in the only safe place
he knew, his beloved woods. Sure the idea
of killing on Christmas, even for food, seemed an affront to his waning Faith,
but having checked the compendium of laws and finding no prohibition; the
alternative was manifest of far worse transgressions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The din of chaos back in town reverberated in his head. The partisan cheers and expletive laden rants
that his beer-lubricated uncles and cousins hurled at the televised games that
they could never have excelled in, entwined with the soprano chortles of his
gossiping mother and the female relatives as they busied themselves in
preparing a gluttonous feast. The shreds
of the decorative paper that had once secreted the obligatory tithes to the
doctrine of the all-American, conspicuous consumerism were quickly devoured by
flames, spewing their chemical laden smoke up the chimney egress of the
mythical Santa. Even last evening’s
church service had an air of a compulsory social appearance rather than any resemblance
of reverent observance of the Christ’s birth.
What of this is supposed to be the Christmas Spirit?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The pristine trail had led most of a mile from his rusty
truck and the unintentionally forgotten Thermos of coffee. Leaning against a tree, the lone sojourner
tapped a cigarette from its pack and inhaled the soothing wisps of
tobacco. He thought about his long
absent father and what he would have thought about the evolution of this
holiday; for that matter, what he would have thought about his son slowly injuring
himself with the tars that carried the addictive nicotine deep into his lungs. The conflicts of life were mental enigma that
defied resolution; there arose a discomforting understanding of why so many
veered to less pious paths. There is the
inevitability that every man is a sinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The cigarette dropped into a snowy boot track as muscle
memory and woodsman instinct brought the shotgun to its ready. A young tom stepped from the briars and
announced his presence with a loud gobble.
Without thought or hesitation, the safety was off, the trigger pulled,
and the turkey lain quivering; its blood staining the virgin blanket of white. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The disquieting ruminations abandoned, the huntsman set
about field dressing the bird to preserve the meat from the effects of gastric
fluids and bile. It was a small male,
less than half the size of the domesticated fowl his mother was basting in her
oven. But this was a gift of
nourishment, not a product of the purposeless life of inhumane farming; this
bird grew in the freedom of Nature and fed on the bounty of the forest, not caged
in the confines of fecal laden barns, feeding on antibiotics and growth
hormones. His head bowed, the hunter said
a prayer of gratitude, and then stood in the realization that life’s meaning
often transcends reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Retracing his steps back to the familiar trail, an
unexpected aroma of wood smoke piqued the interest of the seeker. In the snow, less than thirty yards from the
tree from where he had shot the turkey, there were unmistakable tracks of
someone who had come from deeper in the forest and then retreated along the
same course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The path led to a ramshackle campsite. A young husband and wife with their infant
child, too young to be exposed to the winter air, sat huddled near a fire
pit. The camp consisted of a modest
sized tent which housed sleeping bags and disorganized piles of clothing, there
was an axe left idle near a sizable wood pile of deadfall, some rudimentary cooking
implements, an oaken bucket used to fetch water from the nearby stream, and a
rusty but workable bicycle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Their story was not unheard of in these difficult
times. Eking out a modest two-earner
living, an unplanned pregnancy, an employer’s failed business, and the inefficient
snail’s pace of a secular welfare system left the couple with few viable
options. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The turkey was retrieved from the game pouch and presented
as a Christmas gift to the wayward couple.
With patient instruction, water was heated and the fowl cleaned of its
feathers, a spit was built of green wood and the meat set to roast. The hunter then gave his cherished Remington
to the husband so that his family might never go hungry. He emptied his wallet and pockets of all of
his cash and change, giving it to the wife so that baby might have its
necessities. And finally taking the
family by their hands and kneeling beside the fire, the young man bowed to the
child and recited what he could remember of the Gospel’s account of that first
Christmas more than two millennia ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The shadows had grown long as the shortened day began to
wane. Wary of the unarmed return trek in
darkness, the hunter bid the pilgrims farewell and left into the deepening nightfall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now the quintessence of any Christmas story is some defining,
feel-good miracle, but the true Christmas Miracle happened more than two
thousand years ago and still reverberates through the world today. Who doesn’t feel the Miracle whenever someone
leaves a gold coin or diamond ring in one of those “red kettles,” or the news
hits of a stranger paying off someone else’s layaway bill, or a soup kitchen
feeding the needy, or a motorcycle club gathering toys… The list goes on and on, not only during this
season of realization, generosity and charity, but throughout the year. The thing is, is that the “feel-good” Christmas
Miracle only becomes miraculous when it touches you and causes you to touch
someone else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This is not one of my autobiographical memoires that happens
to fit the time and message, but I will admit that its impetus was a “favor” I
did for someone I barely know, and the worry and insecurity I had over
potentially being scammed. In the end,
my deed did some good, and although it did not permanently solve the other
person’s dilemma, it did allay a portion of the emergent crisis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I would like to invite each of you to get involved in
Christmas, not only this week, but every week.
There is not one of us who alone, can save the world, but even the
tiniest pebble makes a ripple. Do
something you can be proud of, even if it feels a little scary or uncomfortable. Make a little ripple in the continuum of
humanity, and maybe together we can join to form a tsunami of good. Together, just maybe, we can save at least a
part of the world. Go make someone’s day,
and have a Merry Christmas.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-54374223146863319862015-10-08T10:44:00.001-04:002015-10-08T14:05:45.863-04:00Autumn: Mother Nature's Menopause<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJjkCz05nj98NDlgw6fT5yM0RdX14fgYsQcp0bDwDUXHGHKGsTjVBfWXvB7mGk1Jyg93CbnofzLpHiI7DdoI7WQiFkiW-qCbewvWy1ceZuCTjYsZGOkw7ihtLmfby-HSiPGpuv2CBmFJW/s1600/IMG_20151008_095544181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJjkCz05nj98NDlgw6fT5yM0RdX14fgYsQcp0bDwDUXHGHKGsTjVBfWXvB7mGk1Jyg93CbnofzLpHiI7DdoI7WQiFkiW-qCbewvWy1ceZuCTjYsZGOkw7ihtLmfby-HSiPGpuv2CBmFJW/s200/IMG_20151008_095544181.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> The view from my front deck is awe inspiring. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Although much of my beloved forest canopy is still
clothed in the <i>couverture verte</i> of
late summer, balloons of vibrant hues bespeckle the vista near and far. Mother Nature has come to the end of her
reproductive season and has begun her annual <i>change of life</i>. Yes, the
dear Mother of our Northern Hemisphere has entered her yearly <i>menopause</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Autumn is such a visually beautiful time of year in the Great
Smoky Mountains as the foliage dons its brilliant fall <i>Joseph’s Coat</i> of reds, purples, amber and orange. But the seasonal change in the Womb of the World
has its more fickle side. Recently, we
mere mortals that live in the majestic Southeast were tormented with Mother’s
emotional mood swings that started with several days of gentle weeping and
built itself up into a torrent of bawling that left many towns awash in a flood
of tears. Some lost their lives and many
others lost their homes; there are many whose lives are still disrupted,
floundering in need of assistance. To
them, I send my heartfelt prayers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I am fortunate to live far enough north and west of her most
recent wrath, only to have mildly suffered through a week and a half of wet,
gray, cold days, with mornings of blinding fog and evenings trying to appease
my suffering dogs that were equally tortured by bloated bladders and their disdain
for rain soaked feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> With the new season, the dawn breaks a little later each day
and the evenings seem impatient to arrive compelling the need for cold artificial
lighting that lacks the life-energizing radiance of the sun-god who is chased
from his sky-throne ever earlier each afternoon. Life slows as Mother enters her <i>change</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Each morning I awake to her cold shoulder and quickly wrap
myself in my favorite cowl-neck sweater for the warmth and comfort I used to glean
from Ms. Nature. (<i>Sweater? I hate that word; can’t we come up with something for those
warm over-wraps that doesn’t involve perspiration?</i>) By the afternoon, her inevitable <i>hot flashes</i> will have me shedding layers
of clothing, opening windows and turning on ceiling fans. I tolerate her climatic fluctuations without
complaint. In her current state of emotional
turmoil, it is not advisable to rile the Mother’s angst; it was only last year
when she cast an angry blanket of snow across the region to spoil the Halloween
of our youngest mountain dwellers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Yet as the emerald days of summer slip past the fleeting </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5u4UrjTaLdVgAZg2-iKdmE1qVT6U8j_VCfx0DtPZ2L-J01RXLYyfecBIZxFo8D8gjIaIvLJzhQAOzNQ67iNyc2qtytSQxlLP6JjS7cl7PBE4HOrl8BqhcKIhgKztZFsvFP_kgVVa8Wri/s1600/IMG_20151008_095819832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5u4UrjTaLdVgAZg2-iKdmE1qVT6U8j_VCfx0DtPZ2L-J01RXLYyfecBIZxFo8D8gjIaIvLJzhQAOzNQ67iNyc2qtytSQxlLP6JjS7cl7PBE4HOrl8BqhcKIhgKztZFsvFP_kgVVa8Wri/s200/IMG_20151008_095819832.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">kaleidoscope
of autumn colors and into the barren browns of her winter’s sleep, we
reverently rejoice in all that the Mother provides. The farmer’s markets are still laden with the
late harvest, and like the squirrels and chipmunks gathering their cache of walnuts,
acorns and chestnuts, kitchens everywhere are busy canning and freezing the
tastes and nourishment of her bounty to tide us over until she once again warms
the sky and the Earth to begin the new growth of next year’s spring. It is a glorious day, and I am grateful to be
here to enjoy it.</span><o:p></o:p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-65485828551193178062015-09-21T17:17:00.002-04:002015-09-21T17:17:25.202-04:00Was the Lion King really a Chipmunk?<div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Was the Lion King really a Chipmunk?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: large;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday afternoon I witnessed something that you would ordinarily only see on a National Geographic nature special. Well, except on National Geographic it would have ended with the requisite <i>circle of life</i> meal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started with my dogs barking on the front deck. I could tell by their voices that it wasn’t a visiting dog or anyone else, besides my driveway alarm had not sounded to alert me of an approaching entity. After a few minutes with my boys not calming down, I ventured outside to see what had captured their attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were both sitting close up against the gate that keeps them confined to the second story porch, but they were looking down along the front of the garage doors. I walked over to follow their gaze, and there about 30 feet away, sitting on a short rock wall in the garden alongside the driveway was a sizable black snake. Now my snake expertise is limited to, “<b>Ahhh! Snake! Run!</b>” I do know that we do not have any venomous black snakes in North Carolina. Still, all in all, a four-foot long snake sunning on the rocks less than ten feet from my garage door was not making me happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched with curiosity as the serpent lifted one of the rocks with its head and slithered down into what is obviously a known crevice deep within the stones. I kind of smiled that the last four inches of his tail did not follow him inside. As I considered whether I should ( <i>eew, eew, eew</i>) intervene with its chosen lair, I noticed higher up on the wall there was a very pissed off chipmunk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chipmunk, with his tail slapping his back in rhythmic warnings, climbed down the wall and stealthily crept in a wide circle up to the legless one’s hiding place. He positioned himself atop a rounded stone, a mere three inches from the serpent tail and looked like he was going to pounce upon the obviously more abled foe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I really wanted to run and grab a camera, but I was sure that the absurd confrontation would not last long enough for me to fetch my zoom lens. I was seriously concerned that the snake’s head may have been curled around toward the opening and my furry rodent neighbor might end up as an <i>Alvin Tartar </i>entrée.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bizarre, death defying dance of the chipmunk continued for more than ten minutes as he neared and then backed off from his death-wish. Eventually I guess he decided that the snake was not going to join in his suicidal game and he climbed back up the mountainside, stopping every few feet to see if his <i>friend</i> was following him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning there was no sign of the snake, <i>Alvin</i> or any echoes of Rafiki’s lyrics (as written by Elton John), but I’m keeping my eyes peeled.</div>
</div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-50587233679216735812015-08-20T08:38:00.000-04:002015-08-20T09:31:09.702-04:00Sometimes my mind wanders<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">If you see my mind run by, please try and stop it. I think Adrianna’s brain wandered off, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning following a promotional piece about Highland
Brewing hosting Banjopalooza this weekend (yeah, I’d have to be drunk too), there
was a tragic story on the news about a police involved shooting here in my
quiet hamlet (you’ll get the pun later) of Waynesville, North Carolina. Apparently police were called to a scene of <i>shots fired</i>. They discovered a lone gunman hiding in a
church; gunfire was exchanged. The news
reported that there was no word on the condition of the gunman who was shot by
the police. This was being said while in
the background a video showed the coroner carrying a body bag out of the
church. I guess they didn’t want to jump
to conclusions, I mean maybe the gunman was shy and hid in the body bag to
avoid having his face on TV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This, of course, spawned a conversation between Adrianna and
I about reusable body bags and whose unfortunate job it is to wash them out, which obviously
led to a discussion on the growing popularity of rental caskets, the age-old conundrum
of cremation versus burial, and finally to the Danish practice of temporary
interment. Apparently in Denmark, unless
you pay an annual fee, you only get to use your grave for ten years, after that they
dig up what’s left and evict you. (<i>That gives a whole new meaning to, “Your
time is up.”</i>) Come to think of it,
that is probably why Hamlet delivered his soliloquy while holding Yorick’s
skull. The poor court jester had to give
up his grave to the next corpse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Adrianna was at a loss to explain to me what the Danes do
with the disinterred remains. We joked
about grieving families finding an unexpected package at their front door or the
possibility of a truly gruesome corner of the local dump, but we decided that
the remains were probably cremated. Which,
of course, is ironic, since the family had incurred the expense of a
traditional burial only to have their loved one cremated later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This led two writers’ minds to ponder what happens if those
underpaid grave-digger-uppers unearth a zombie or vampire. But then we remembered the Midsummer Danish
Holiday, <i>Sankt Hans Aften</i> (or Saint
John’s Eve) where those wily Danes build bonfires and roast witches on stakes
(I’d rather roast steaks and s’mores).
Perhaps this celebration, often blamed on those scapegoats of Western
Civilization, the Pagans, is really a masquerade to dispose of the annual cache
of the <i>undead Danish</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I realize it is spurious speculation, but I think
the gunman is dead. I doubt that Brevard
resident, Steve Martin, is going to make an appearance at Banjopalooza. And I would rather be cremated than dumped in
a hole. <br />
<br />
Did you ever wonder what editors do with their time?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-31180274285969748072015-08-08T16:33:00.002-04:002015-08-08T16:33:28.387-04:00Is Sponge Bob Square Pants edible?<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
Is Sponge Bob Square Pants edible?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
Yesterday, I was exhausted from too many 12 hour days of editing, so I scratched out a short shopping list, gathered up some recyclable cardboard and took it downstairs to the basement. When I switched on the light I realized that my less-obedient dog had decided that the morning rains had left the yard too wet for his delicate feet and peed on the side door instead of walking through the opening and doing his business outside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
I was pissed (forgive the pun). I washed down the puddle and disinfected the concrete floor before stomping upstairs to let Cory know just how upset I was. Both dogs were bouncing around in joyous anticipation of a ride in the truck, but my mood soon turned their puppy-upper into a doggy-downer. They knew there was not going to be an open-window, tongue-flapping delightful trip down the mountain that day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
I grabbed my hat and keys, locked the boys in the house and started down the steep grade of my driveway. I made it to the gate before I realized I had left the list on the kitchen counter; I swore at myself, but was still so mad at my canine son, I decided to press on relying solely on my memory. I reached the mailbox at the foot of the mountain and retrieved a couple of checks. It was there that I discovered that I had also forgotten my glasses. I wasn’t going back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
I managed my shopping successfully, although I did not buy any meat because I couldn’t make out the pricing. However I could see well enough that while picking up some cheap macaroni and cheese, I could make out that the brand name was on a Buy-One-Get-One special making it cheaper than the store brand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
Upon arriving back at the house and reminding Cory that I had not forgotten his so-called accident, I began preparing my supper and the mac-n-cheese from which I use a few morsels to convince the dogs that they’re eating <i>people food</i>. When the water began to boil, I opened the box and to my surprise, out came Sponge Bob Square Pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
Just below the “Don’t go grocery shopping when hungry” line on my list things to remember, I added, “Don’t go shopping without your glasses or you may end up with a trouser wearing Porifera for dinner.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
And by the way, do Canadian football players have bad breath? As evening settled across the mountains, I retired to my bedroom, switched on the TV and found an in-progress game from the CFL. I figured what the heck; it’ll do until the real football starts in another month or two. I noticed that the offensive and defensive lines, position themselves TWO FULL YARDS (<i>or is it meters?</i>) apart from one another. How are you supposed to insult the parental lineage of the other players or threaten bodily harm to the other team’s quarterback if you’re not allowed to get any closer than six feet? Is it really football without the trash talk? I say we take up a collection for some toothpaste and mouthwash, and teach the Canadians how the game is supposed to be played. Maybe we should gather up our national stockpiles of Kraft’s Sponge Bob Square Pants and Cheese and ship that up north while we’re at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">
<br /></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-18823387569151059112015-07-22T06:38:00.000-04:002015-07-22T06:38:07.648-04:00Let's Make a Deal<div class="MsoNormal">
As you may or may not know, when I sit down to write some of
these posts, I think back over my week and try and come up with some small
kernel of humor or irony from which I can expound. Today I got to thinking about Monty Hall and
the old <i>Let’s Make a Deal</i> TV show. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week something happened to me from which I am still
suffering a hangover of consequences.
Although there is more than one of you who know what I am talking about,
the specifics are somewhat personal, include another individual and are not
entirely germane to the point of this little muse. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, to lay some small foundation, I was ensnared to
help with a problem by someone who by mutual consent, I have no contact with. I was faced with the quandary of my
instinctive desire to help anyone in need, juxtaposed to my concern over a
prolonged unhealthy communication and potential confrontation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monty kept asking me if I wanted Door #1, Door #2 or Door #3,
so I weighed my options.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Door #1: I could surrender
to my innate ire at the unexpected incursion into my peaceful existence. I knew there was no chance at reciprocity;
this was not a favor between friends, but an exploitive one-way street paved
with the remnants of a distant troubled history. Inside my anger grew, but I was in no mood
for an altercation. I passed on Door #1.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Door #2: I could
swallow my pride with hope that it might digest my anger. If I could solve the problem, the irritant
factor might retreat back into the desolation of ignored existence and my life
could maintain its status quo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Door #3: Or I could bow
out politely leaving a defined implication that I was not interested in being
listed as one of her problem solving resources.
This of course could result in a retaliatory response not unknown to
this person.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chose Door #2 because I thought I had conceived a simple fix
to the request for help. Unfortunately, a
few hours passed and I was called again and informed of the failure of my
solution, that the problem was now augmented by additional difficulties and a
re-plead urgent appeal for my assistance.
The new wrinkles in the dilemma immediately suggested an alternate plan
of action that contained a small, finite number of variable postulates
guaranteeing its success. Confident that
I had solved not only the distant issue but my own interpersonal predicament, I
retired to my bedroom for some late TV and much needed rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few hours, my phone lit up with a text explaining
the incomprehensible failure of my new plan, the suggestion that I should
accept the transfer of the problem to my own computer, that I should solve the
scenario without the participation of the other person and the announcement of
an impending face-to-face visitation. I,
rightly or wrongly, perceived this as a bridge-building ploy; a tactic not
unknown to the arsenal of my adversary, and one that I have fallen prey to on
more than one occasion. I closed Door
#2.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day, I composed a brief text that explained that I
had no additional time to devote to the problem at hand, and that due to the
years of our estrangement I could foresee no benefit in meeting again face to
face. My reply was met with angered
declarations that every transgression ever committed against mankind, including
those she committed, were the result of my personal actions and all the sins of
the world were, of course, my fault.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I allowed those words to piece my skin like the venomous
fangs of a snake and spent two days in the torture of self-doubt and
insecurity. As is my habit, I sought
cathartic relief in my writing, starting and stopping a half dozen formats
whereon I thought I could bleed a little for the mutual benefit of my readers
and my health. Each attempt was met with
insurmountable obstacles of wordless feelings and incompetent
construction. I could not find my safety
valve to release the pressure building inside me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fearing yet another failure, I persevered on this piece,
discovering only as I started this final paragraph, that my quest for
resolution lies not within me, but within my antagonist. For if I was as vile and unworthy as her
words suggest then why her persistent need to reconnect. I am far from perfect and perhaps my faults
do merit occasional derision, but I am unashamedly me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
All these
things are who I am,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I am me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
It’s who I
am.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I stand
here now<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
both humble
and proud,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
for I have
sinned<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
and I have
failed,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I’ve known
Grace<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
and tasted
victory,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I have
disappointed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
and been
let down,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I’ve
learned knowledge<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
and shown
great ignorance,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I have
loved<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
and been
loved,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
In some
eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I shine bright,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
in others,<br />
I am but a tarnished relic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
All these
things are who I am,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
I am me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
It’s who I
am.<o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-60491853475553682012015-07-10T10:25:00.001-04:002015-07-10T16:28:09.835-04:00Excuse me, I found a nickel.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning, while proofreading a particularly boring
transcript of a municipal hearing on the suspension and termination of one of
the village's high-ranking employees, I was surprised by my mind’s instinctive
fight-or-flight response. From the dark
recesses of useless memory came a flash of my kindergarten days in the Gertrude
C. Folwell School in good old Mt. Holly, New Jersey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">During a recess I had fortuitously found a nickel on the
path that led from the back fence up into the school yard. There was not a moment’s hesitation in my
intentions; I took the five-cent piece to the Principal’s Office and turned it
in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The grey-haired smiling faces behind the impossibly tall
counter filled out a 3x5 index card with my name, date, value of the treasure
and my teacher’s name, and informed me that if no one claimed the fortune in
the next two weeks, I could reclaim it and keep it all to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now before you judge my naiveté, please keep in mind that
growing up in a family of five children being supported by an enlisted Air
Force NCO’s salary, I was likely pulling down a hard 25 cents per week in
allowance. This windfall I had discovered
amounted to about 1/5 of my weekly income.
If you were to find someone’s misplaced money that equated to 20% of
your weekly income and not consider attempting to find the rightful owner,
well, I think that would say more about you and how you might feel if it was
your money that was accidentally lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I had a hardy laugh at myself as I remembered my
youthful angst waiting for the two weeks to elapse so that I could retrieve my
fortune and head over to the Little Green Mount Store and buy some Red Hots or
Good-n-Plenty. But as the innocent
pleasures of childhood raced through the empty environs of my cranial cavity, I couldn't help but wonder if one of those kindly old schoolmarms wasn't secretly
wishing the tiny towheaded boy would forget the nickel amid the vast
distractions of primary education/playtime and she might slip the riches into
her pocket and abscond with my much-deserved wealth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Wow, what a half-century of life can do to an innocent mind! </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-21295628972564929262015-06-21T13:42:00.000-04:002015-06-21T13:42:48.978-04:00Don't you love new technology? Maybe too much?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Are we too much in love with technology? There seems to be not only unintended
consequences affecting human life with our beloved technological advances, but
an inane futility in our never ending pursuit of the next great invention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The impetus of this post was my recent trip to the newly
renovated Wendy’s in town. There I
encountered Coca Cola’s Freestyle, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25MtYPsagl4nfAAN-il6SSt1eUoRz38-CH_cHO8S7W0gydZqLsYIeUEIqTfZsfBcvi1aYig6-XEtDtglScaAkyyNUXFlXDUBAqwW2Fj7-m0zCReYrXHF3Vf0hyphenhyphenuP8Lni_jxPmoVEliCRi/s1600/coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25MtYPsagl4nfAAN-il6SSt1eUoRz38-CH_cHO8S7W0gydZqLsYIeUEIqTfZsfBcvi1aYig6-XEtDtglScaAkyyNUXFlXDUBAqwW2Fj7-m0zCReYrXHF3Vf0hyphenhyphenuP8Lni_jxPmoVEliCRi/s200/coke.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The</i>
<i>Fountain of the Future, </i>soft drink
dispenser. The monstrosity is controlled
by a giant smartphone-like touchscreen that enables the indoctrinated user to
navigate through the not-so-user-friendly menus that feature every flavor
variation in Coke’s repertoire. </span><div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The incredible
unsanitary premise of a machine that has every patron in the busy restaurant
smearing their fingers across a communal surface-capacitance control device
without regard to when <i>or if</i> anyone has washed their hands, prompted enough
concern that I wrote Coca Cola, Wendy’s, the machine’s manufacturer, our local
TV news and posted on multiple social media sites. These dispensers have the very real potential
to be ground zero in the next pandemic of infectious disease. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My concern was met with everything from, “Leave your food
and go wash your hands before eating” (yeah, right!), to a suggestion that I carry
disinfectant clothes to wipe the screen first, to “I love those things, they
are great!” to “Ask the cashier to get your soda from the drive-thru.” There was a unanimous tacit agreement that
eating a hamburger and fries with your bare hands after swapping sweat with the
general unwashed public is not a good idea, but no one was ready to admit that
the <i>cool new technology</i> might not be
a good idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The unintended consequences of adaptive technology are
changing the face of civilization. How
often do you see (perhaps even at home) a family dinner </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegZbvXCIyfJCAOkJfXpWT9qzB3GpHoQ-5of1sr40rrYqu0ecdT9_M9FzClbhg5OT0XiW6gRUyykBbz1_qJvGoRBcWlWKer3EkNbW41jMLV5d5wAl2LYeEw-qVn2W_uJ_oSUSE0qKIyby2/s1600/smartphones-at-table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegZbvXCIyfJCAOkJfXpWT9qzB3GpHoQ-5of1sr40rrYqu0ecdT9_M9FzClbhg5OT0XiW6gRUyykBbz1_qJvGoRBcWlWKer3EkNbW41jMLV5d5wAl2LYeEw-qVn2W_uJ_oSUSE0qKIyby2/s200/smartphones-at-table.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">eaten in silence as
people stare into the screens of their smartphones? This week there was a medical report released
emphasizing the sedentary effects on health and antisocial behavior by the
users of computers, tablets, phones and video games. All of these essential gadgets are celebrated
technological achievements, but unfortunately they are proving, in part,
detrimental to their users.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dqDmldGycZH_td-XxHAJwSWnEfEGtZmECVHkh7bPZzxv18sDOC2IIsUvB0QHRIMd7UgSoELAb3i7HJurIhyTcSkjtV2j3O-al8_VfmBAWHsRSWcVOyTABYZ0sYx2oDub3x-4C1kWf5-E/s1600/glasses-that-are-pierced-to-your-face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dqDmldGycZH_td-XxHAJwSWnEfEGtZmECVHkh7bPZzxv18sDOC2IIsUvB0QHRIMd7UgSoELAb3i7HJurIhyTcSkjtV2j3O-al8_VfmBAWHsRSWcVOyTABYZ0sYx2oDub3x-4C1kWf5-E/s200/glasses-that-are-pierced-to-your-face.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Google Glasses and the Apple Watch are leading the way in wearable
technology, perhaps usurping the potential worthiness of pierced eyeglasses and
the subdural watch (I mean really, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbeu9dJgbiP76btRlCSc0QK4jnd2BFWOj6zyPXnlSwWjgp5g-ORz93EZiL91FcntYs335ydY-cwj4gLivWXVP-2Ja2AA9P1ae9Mj_zUo6tDyWoozKqWy6FA86IvBRGcS38ujotvflCQgF/s1600/subdermal+watch.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbeu9dJgbiP76btRlCSc0QK4jnd2BFWOj6zyPXnlSwWjgp5g-ORz93EZiL91FcntYs335ydY-cwj4gLivWXVP-2Ja2AA9P1ae9Mj_zUo6tDyWoozKqWy6FA86IvBRGcS38ujotvflCQgF/s200/subdermal+watch.GIF" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">who wouldn't want their glasses screwed permanently
to their nose or their watch surgically implanted in their arm?)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Kraft foods and Intel have </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw9aHfAkfDLAIlLM96oJpMxfD5zfLY2O0mP0QZDuZt7eROEn0kJYLtum4wrFywF9nF69k3PfPs2ejkMIGlCEPSmUg6zX3PhGdOCsXGDdaaWIxinAC5O_nFmImKCPpbXEDnZxBxbrba35A/s1600/4-a-self-service-kiosk-that-scans-customers-faces-and-tells-them-what-to-eat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw9aHfAkfDLAIlLM96oJpMxfD5zfLY2O0mP0QZDuZt7eROEn0kJYLtum4wrFywF9nF69k3PfPs2ejkMIGlCEPSmUg6zX3PhGdOCsXGDdaaWIxinAC5O_nFmImKCPpbXEDnZxBxbrba35A/s200/4-a-self-service-kiosk-that-scans-customers-faces-and-tells-them-what-to-eat.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">collaborated in a kiosk
technology that uses facial recognition and an interactive video interface to
tell passers-by what they should be eating for dinner. I doubt it will ever get as popular as the
vending <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitTJTbN6f-EBmWFwcRhWAkCCD8LT_PvLYmJ55x_ii-lLScN82hGCfXeaj9HYhkfPs-8wMqvq7IcnF96DCIa6HKHBFBKzAD06dXFozLAgf9HtC-BjNwt7eTSnGC_5D1EAAIAEQAYzR7grE/s1600/a-vending-machine-for-kimchi-finally-you-can-have-korean-cabbage-on-the-go.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitTJTbN6f-EBmWFwcRhWAkCCD8LT_PvLYmJ55x_ii-lLScN82hGCfXeaj9HYhkfPs-8wMqvq7IcnF96DCIa6HKHBFBKzAD06dXFozLAgf9HtC-BjNwt7eTSnGC_5D1EAAIAEQAYzR7grE/s200/a-vending-machine-for-kimchi-finally-you-can-have-korean-cabbage-on-the-go.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
machine that dispenses Korean Kimchi.
Of course after a meal of fermented and <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8N4WZighAcsYi6CztLgf4Y_qfKBPcKOC1RqvwCI00zGcGZGHXziWfDuAqfitUVD7idVSa-o6MiGqzNP7GfcC99CjgG2auUukb70GtnHekz2WyKa73QGhtQ2i5iEX0KPJ9FaIb8H-LAaD/s1600/gas+grabber1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8N4WZighAcsYi6CztLgf4Y_qfKBPcKOC1RqvwCI00zGcGZGHXziWfDuAqfitUVD7idVSa-o6MiGqzNP7GfcC99CjgG2auUukb70GtnHekz2WyKa73QGhtQ2i5iEX0KPJ9FaIb8H-LAaD/s200/gas+grabber1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
highly spiced cabbage, you might
also need the patented Gas Grabber to avoid the potential of social olfactory offenses.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes the next great thing is </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEN2vXLx1pcsAGWi1dB0vER3f55QqJYgrK6cALOSCrZaoTPpScZIyTVMMF5JaDPlwoEW2IAuzGNXUPa5fX592gblbmgPmKawLcGShB0L5L4I0kyvu-FN1zwVxwsop1dLs8my13rZgUYBS/s1600/dine+in+the+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEN2vXLx1pcsAGWi1dB0vER3f55QqJYgrK6cALOSCrZaoTPpScZIyTVMMF5JaDPlwoEW2IAuzGNXUPa5fX592gblbmgPmKawLcGShB0L5L4I0kyvu-FN1zwVxwsop1dLs8my13rZgUYBS/s200/dine+in+the+sky.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">not necessarily
great. Sure you can eat dinner in the
sky, but before you get hoisted, you had better use the restroom. There is no plumbing up there. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You can download the latest iPhone app that will cross
reference Facebook “check-ins” and Yelp posts to point you in the </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZ8PCBrx2EY8L37OtqiLHlHw-TRMxja6d_LAGiaxpgWS_nDTSoKLsSzcqnC7UXn3e1Z03zHdbVPx0d4pJNfQTKH0TY5qlU9yQJmCJavISUhALQP5dN4Ff11Trye9HrTgHGuFiLWhyZTrt/s1600/where+are+the+women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZ8PCBrx2EY8L37OtqiLHlHw-TRMxja6d_LAGiaxpgWS_nDTSoKLsSzcqnC7UXn3e1Z03zHdbVPx0d4pJNfQTKH0TY5qlU9yQJmCJavISUhALQP5dN4Ff11Trye9HrTgHGuFiLWhyZTrt/s200/where+are+the+women.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">direction of
the nearest female (I must be really old fashioned; I use my eyes), but be careful
if Elbo Room points you towards the men’s lavatory, there’s new <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUPqfwuGD_lke2gYN82Xf5JUaRLGMqQn32g9q6RJzhGp71uLsNjHhzG_dAhQ6MDQaRTiQcIZrd8IphWetFxivhVuUWfEX2x8suqalncLKJu4dCD_2RuDmWWTpJ4F6lfUnHOCTwOfQYFHq/s1600/a-funnel-that-helps-women-urinate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUPqfwuGD_lke2gYN82Xf5JUaRLGMqQn32g9q6RJzhGp71uLsNjHhzG_dAhQ6MDQaRTiQcIZrd8IphWetFxivhVuUWfEX2x8suqalncLKJu4dCD_2RuDmWWTpJ4F6lfUnHOCTwOfQYFHq/s200/a-funnel-that-helps-women-urinate.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
technology now that
allows women to pee standing up. (What
do they do with the funnel when they're done?
I hope they already got their soda.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yes, technology is fun, but beware of the eventuality of its
benefits. Have you ever had your
computer crash, television quit or your automobile break down? Technology is not exactly reliable. It makes me laugh when I hear friends and
relatives speak of their paranoia of flying in an aircraft (and in the shadow
of recent events, riding in a train) because they feel like they are not in
control. As an example, last night I was
watching a movie with a lady-friend; there was the requisite car chase wherein
the good guy had a partner riding with him as he crashed through the streets of
Moscow. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwsVcW9jII7JOmi0PAoaaHOwZVx7nyRP_dVnDfrvwI6MUlBJFbMT6wskrijOMIVoNp90VNzTYEM7i3A05X9WqlZEL8FeqUabdh3FJdliPke0ohrnOqaGnhI41YXTfab8Yflrj-GOu9mkUX/s1600/driverless+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwsVcW9jII7JOmi0PAoaaHOwZVx7nyRP_dVnDfrvwI6MUlBJFbMT6wskrijOMIVoNp90VNzTYEM7i3A05X9WqlZEL8FeqUabdh3FJdliPke0ohrnOqaGnhI41YXTfab8Yflrj-GOu9mkUX/s200/driverless+car.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My friend remarked, “Oh my God,
I could never ride shotgun during something like that.” So what is technology’s answer: Google’s driverless
cars? Yup, I see nothing wrong with
that, I mean the circuitry would never fail leaving the passengers helpless and
without control.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">All in all, I love technology as much as the next person; I
just view it with enough skepticism that I am not blind to its pitfalls. I would be the one looking behind the curtain
when I had an audience with the <i>Great and
Powerful Oz</i>, </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSFY6WEEI4hthtDcwmrKnouQVAqp5lImSJbjNRLHQghhuv2qWtkhGSpg_caZ2ovG0Z97BYYeflUH-A1hUoiP0iu_cTO4xz9JNUwnyOvA65AcHXcRxCbTZiy1XNqdeaPKN1uJFuZ8EJkk6/s1600/wizard_of_oz_1092_wizard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSFY6WEEI4hthtDcwmrKnouQVAqp5lImSJbjNRLHQghhuv2qWtkhGSpg_caZ2ovG0Z97BYYeflUH-A1hUoiP0iu_cTO4xz9JNUwnyOvA65AcHXcRxCbTZiy1XNqdeaPKN1uJFuZ8EJkk6/s320/wizard_of_oz_1092_wizard.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">and I am also the one who looks at the hands of the kid in
front of me dispensing his cup of Cherry Coke, and wonder what he’s been doing
since the last time his hands saw soap and water.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-62571218699515508102015-06-07T11:57:00.002-04:002015-06-07T11:57:30.315-04:00The Lonely Man<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It was not his intention to go adventuring there. He had confidants and advisors beckoning him
to get out and socialize. <i>The solitude
of his circumstances could only be cured by the company of people not yet
met.</i> So reluctantly, he went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The familiar streets were crowded with unfamiliar faces, all
looking past him as if he were invisible.
The passersby attentions all trained on their companions; there was no
room for the lowly stranger in their midst. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The town was alive with revelry; noise came from all
directions. The din was both unbearably
loud and totally indecipherable.
Laughter, shrieks, distant calls combined with the music of a dozen
venues and a thousand muttered conversations to become a mélange of nerve
challenging dissonance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> His deliberate smiles and tacit hellos met empty eyes and
averted glances; he ruminated that had he had ventured out completely nude, he
was certain that his presence would have gone just as unnoticed. <i>He found no friends.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Transecting the calamity of tourists and locals, the need
for a strong drink entered his mind.
Loitering with the unwitting expectation that a rescue squad of forgotten
and neglected acquaintances from his previous life might somehow salvage the
night, the possibility of an empty discourse with a professional
conversationalist drove him to the nearest watering hole. The unseeing crowd gave no yield to his
incursion, and when by a series of widening detours, the lone man gained
proximity to the bar, there were no voids for which he could fill. Standing three back from his intended goal
and gesturing in direct line-of-sight, his discomfort grew as the mute bartender
proved as blind as the pedestrians on the street to his presence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Backtracking through the inattentive throngs, he
found the sidewalk equally as stifling as the dram shop.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Evasively </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">wandering</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> amid the swirling currents
of street musicians, young lovers, generational families and cliques of back-slapping
comrades enrapt in their secret mottled words and gestures, the lone man opened
every unlocked door only to find over and over again, the same disconcerting crowd,
each time wearing different faces.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Nary a single smile could he garner, and the scant few
moments of eye contact were colored with undertones of pity and
misunderstanding. <i>He was alone not by
choice, but yes, he was alone.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> At last the Heavens granted him some respite; the skies
opened above the quaint town and dowsed it with a cleansing rain. He now had unquestionable reason to slink
back to the comfort of his lonely hovel, justified with his earnest attempt to
appease the admonitions of those who bade him to go. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-50743835888428332212015-05-25T14:31:00.000-04:002015-05-25T14:39:07.993-04:00A Toast to Tomorrow<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The weight
of the morning sat heavy on his chest.
He had carried the bags of a dozen months of cohabitation down to her
car, and then watched as she drove off. It
is not often that one gets to watch their memories leave in such a physical
manner. There were so many memories; much
more history than the past year might suggest.
The two had been co-workers, friends, co-conspirators, mutual consolers during
each one’s breakup, but more than anything, they were the anchor that held the
other from drifting into turbulent waters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> There had
been plenty of good times, a few not-so-good, but nothing really bad, at least
not that he could think of, but then good, bad and indifferent are always a
matter of personal perspective. Whatever
they had had in the past was moot; she took her things under the guise that
their two lives could no longer be blended, and that both of them carried too
much destructive baggage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The house felt
abandoned while a satellite radio station spewed a steady stream of music from
the 70s; he had hoped that old memories might quell the pain of the newer ones,
but Hall and Oates, Jimmy Buffett and Rod Steward kept lamenting about broken
hearts and lost loves. The music didn’t
do justice to the ebbing weekend. The
past few days had been spent smiling and laughing, drinking libations alfresco with
quiet conversations and intimate dinners.
There had been no unreasonable expectations; they both knew the visit
was to retrieve the balance of her belongings and to close the doors left ajar
when she suddenly disappeared so many months ago. It was intended as a happy ending, and in
spite of the weight, it had been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The weekend’s
evenings, mottled by wine and the fatigue of unpracticed activities, ended in
bed together as always, and as always, without the intimacy they both needed
and were both too afraid to let happen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Their time
together was over; she was gone and he set about straightening the house to
fill the void. It was an easy decision
to leave the sheets until tomorrow; another night with her scent to stir his
dreams would be good. But he closed the
bathroom door in a vain effort to ignore the barren vanity bereft of its collection
of creams and lotions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Washing her
favorite coffee cup and placing it back in the cupboard, the mental echo of her
parting promise to visit again brought a smile to the corner of his lips. It was, as he knew, an empty promise; one
meant to assuage the sadness of their goodbye and not something to dwell on
with anticipation. Yes, there would be
phone calls, texts and emails, but like the oil and vinegar that tastes so good
together on tossed greens, in stillness, they can’t remain together. Their days were over, and like the waning light of a sunset, their conversations would soon fade into the stillness of
night. She had been right; he could no
more live her life than she could his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Rikki, don’t lose that number, </i>sang in
the background as he pulled a pizza from the freezer. Life again would return to wordless nights of
sophomoric television, meals eaten over the sink and a lonely, cold bed. If blame needs to be laid, the target was not
obvious. Pouring a first glass of wine,
he stepped onto the deck to watch the sun creep toward the horizon of
experiences not yet lived; he wondered where she was, and if in her heart, she
felt deflated or relieved. With the revelation
that she was no longer his worry, some of the heaviness lifted. He raised a glass to the distant vista, “<i>To the good times past, and to lives not yet
lived</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Rikki, don't lose that number,<br />
You don't wanna call nobody else;<br />
Send it off in a letter to yourself.<br />
Rikki, don't lose that number,<br />
It's the only one you own.<br />
You might use it if you feel better<br />
When you get home.</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-12640493206581608062015-05-05T08:32:00.001-04:002015-05-05T08:58:53.195-04:00Star Wars Day, Cinco de Mayo and canine organized sports<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Cinco de Mayo!
Yeah, I know, sort of anticlimactic after yesterday’s Star Wars
festivities (<i>May the Fourth be with you!</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But I celebrated a little differently. Have you ever stood on a cliff face and
wondered what it would be like to step over the edge? Okay, I know that sounds a little too morbid,
especially coming from somebody who is chronically depressed, but in a way,
that's what I did yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was on the way to town; I had to drop off a bank deposit
and pick up a couple of essentials from the grocery store. It was a beautiful warm day; I had both dogs
with me and I thought why not (eerie music plays: <i>bum bum bummmm</i>), let's stop
at the dog park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">OMG! Trying to get
two leashed dogs from the appropriately named <i>park</i>ing lot into the park was like
trying to unbraid a Rastafarian's hair.
The tethers were going in every direction at once, and of course, every
blade of grass, tuft of shrubbery, tree trunk and fence post had to be individually sniffed and then peed on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I at last got them both going in the same direction and
we crossed the bridge that separates the skateboard park from the dog park, I
was pleasantly surprised that there were only two dogs in the huge
enclosure. This was Cory’s first outing,
and I had some mental reservations about how he would socialize with other
dogs. I had little to worry about; after
the requisite butt checks, the four little guys set about frolicking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was conversing with two mommies about breeds, adoption and
personalities when another mommy came with her two dogs. Then another arrived, and then two more, and
two more, and then three parents simultaneously, each with two of their own. Soon there were in excess 30 canines running
about the park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The dogs eventually broke out in four or five packs, each
with a self-elected alpha quarterbacking the activities. There were the occasional skirmishes within
the squads; sometimes a parent would have to intervene as a referee, but most
of the time it was settled by a negotiated trade with one of the other teams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The fun came as each new arrival would enter through the
double gated sally port. All the teams
would rush the new recruit and vie to draft him or her onto their team. This frequently ended in loud arguments
between multiple alphas, and often involved a parent or two venturing into the
swirling tempest of snarling muzzles in order to separate the running backs
from the defensive linemen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the more entertaining sights was when my Sebastian
would be taunting a big dog (he loves to play with dogs at least four times
as large as he), and he would get in the big guy’s face (literally, he stands
on his back feet and puts his front paws on the other dog’s face), sometimes
the bigger dog would react with an end around blitz that would knock poor
Sebastian to the ground. It would not
deter my little guy; he is confident that his 20 pounds of spry, cunning offense is no match for any 100 pound defensive linebacker. But every time Sebastian was knocked over,
Cory would sprint from whatever third string practice squad he was assigned to, and pounce on the big dog to defend his brother.
I would have to jump in and tell Cory it was okay, that Sebastian and his friend were only playing and that he’d better get back to his own team or he would get cut
(again) and have to sit on the bench during the games.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually the length of their tongues dangling from their
mouths told me it was time to get the leashes reattached and head back to truck
where I had a cold bottle of water waiting to quench their well-earned thirst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was good for all of us to get out, and I think I enjoyed
it <i>almost</i> as much as they did. There is
little doubt that we will be visiting the park again soon.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-68970259137902245852015-02-22T14:46:00.004-05:002015-02-22T14:46:54.928-05:00Jedidiah the Mountain Man, part two<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The footpath up the mountain was
well worn, but appeared to end abruptly at the high rock outcropping from which
Jedidiah first emerged. What was unseen
from my vantage below was the narrow space between the limestone boulders. This shadowy crevice wove back through the
rock face with a serpentine series of switchbacks, rising in crests and dropping
into troughs. The canyon path was deprived
of direct sunlight by the towering walls of stone. The hike, climbing up and down through blind
twists and turns, soon bewildered both my sense of direction and perception of elevation. At the crest of a steep climb, the path
appeared to split in two directions. Jed
turned with a sly smirk and said, “You’en dun neber go dat way; not lest you
gots a parachute.” A glance to my left
revealed wide open space and a bright sunlit trail. Curiosity got the better of me and I ventured
a few steps in the direction of his warning. The trail ran alongside a cliff, it was
graveled, but looked entirely navigable.
As I scanned the terrain in search of the forewarned peril, a rock,
several inches in diameter, flew past my head landing 15 or 20 feet ahead of me
on the path. Its concussion started a
sizable avalanche of gravel cascading down the mountain and over the
cliff. Jed’s voice filled with laughter,
“Dats why.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The old mountain man led me back
into the dark maze of crevices emerging eventually onto a forested slope that
led down to a primitive hand-hewn log cabin.
The ancient shelter appeared no larger than 20 foot long and its greyed
timbers were chinked in red clay so that from a distance it took on the
resemblance of a weathered flag. There
were two small out buildings, one chinked and one open, as well as what looked
to my unindoctrinated eyes to be a bricked barbeque pit emitting a wisp of
bluish smoke from a short chimney. I
could hear but not see a stream running nearby, but the sound blended with the view
of his shaded homestead giving the entire scene the air of a nineteenth century
John Muir narrative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was winded from the trek and had
trouble keeping pace with my strange and aged guide. My legs and buttocks burned with fatigue and
I was looking forward to a much needed respite.
Making our way into the campsite, I dropped the weight of the stowage I
carried from the 4-wheeler and began to notice the pioneering craftsmanship of
the homestead. The bricks on the chimney
were kiln dried clay and straw; there were numerous seats and tables made of
poplar wood shaped by a skilled hand and adze; there were cords upon cords of
ax-split firewood; a rocking chair of tied bent birch sat on the covered porch;
and the barbeque revealed itself, even to my novice eyes, as a mash pot cooling
after last evening’s run.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Jedidiah lives his life in near
seclusion with no neighbors, no electricity, no running water (except for his
icy stream), no sanitary sewer, cell phone or Internet. The prospect of living wholly connected to
the Earth and isolated from everything else seemed frightening to me to say the
least, but then as Jed began to teach me his ways, I came to understand that it
is our on-the-grid society that is lacking.
The gadgetry and innovation of connectivity has left our <i>civilization</i> exiled from the true essence
and spirit of life. We have gorged
ourselves on the fruits of the <i>tree of
knowledge</i> for so long that we now suffer from a collective forgetfulness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-53818088745886508032015-02-07T09:51:00.000-05:002015-02-07T09:58:04.243-05:00Jedidiah the Mountain Man, part one<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Meeting Jed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I considered turning back more than once; the torrent of well-meaning
ridicule never weakened my resolve until I was miles from any known trail, deep
in the virgin forest and growing wary of the less docile denizens of these
steep mountains. The planning process
was full of chest-puffed bravado and childishly imagined death-defying
adventures, now I had to face my unexpected trepidation at being alone and
isolated from any modicum of aid and assistance. To protect the privacy of this <i>Holy Grail</i> of folktale writing, I had
not disclosed to anyone my exact destination or the timing of my sojourn; I was
totally alone without any hope of rescue should it be needed, and that thought
began to bother me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I idled my four-wheeler for a sip of not-so-cool water and
yet another check of my sidearm; I said a secular prayer that my pawnshop
purchase would indeed fire if called upon.
I had foolishly never test fired the old Smith and Wesson. My friends and family were unanimous in their
declaration that my quest was pure folly, but Butch, who supplied me with my
annual plastic jug of <i>Mountain Water</i>,
swore he knew the old man. A chance to
meet and interview a genuine “wild man” was too… Ha, I don’t have a good word for it, but
everything I have and everything I am made it worth the chance. And that’s what I did; I bet everything on an
undiscovered artifact of old Appalachia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> All I left the house with was a light-weight tent, a
sleeping bag, two changes of clothing, a couple cans of stew (and yes, I did
remember a can opener), some store-bought jerky, two gallons of water, a
five-gallon can of gas, my used ATV, and a gun.
I did carry my cell phone and two of those “emergency” charge packs, but
honestly, I knew they wouldn’t be worth a shit for communication; I needed the
phone strictly for its GPS function. My
biggest realized dilemma was that the coordinates that Butch gave me put the
old man’s cabin in a deep swale surrounded on all sides by craggy ridges, and I
had no idea from which direction to attempt the approach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There were no trails to follow; I never even identified what
some more “woodsy” kind of person might call a game trail. I had little doubt that the contraband liquor
that I have come to love had its genesis in these remote hills; it would take
one bold son-of-a-bitch lawman to hunt a still site this deep in the woods. After five hours of working around deadfall, fording
spring-fed streams, blazing new switchbacks in order to climb the steep grades,
all the while constantly shifting my weight to prevent what would likely be a
fatal rollover, I had come to hate the staccato popping of the Honda engine
between my legs. If I were a younger man
(and maybe in a whole lot better shape), I think I would have been tempted to
leave the bike and work my way in on foot.
The sound from the muffler was the only unnatural sound under the
arboreal canopy; it was an affront to thousands upon thousands of years of
nature. I felt like an unforgivable
sinner despoiling <i>Paradise</i>. And then he appeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The initial movement I more sensed as an uneasy feeling
rather than something in a direct line of sight. I knew I was not alone in the forest, my incursion
had scattered a myriad of game and in all but two fortuitous happenstances, the
animals’ retreats were heard rather than observed. I had spotted two whitetail does’ flags arc
over an ancient fallen hemlock with a coincidental glance, and I had also seen something
large and dark between the pillars of flora that I had hoped against hope was
not aggressive enough to challenge my marksmanship or the stopping power of a
short-barreled .380. But this was
different; high above me there had been movement and it seemed to be shadowing
my progress along the hillside. I eased
the slide back on the pistol and felt for the safety cursing myself for
accepting the assurances of the tattooed pawnbroker. In the comfort of retrospection, the
investment was unnecessary and to this day, the pistol remains untested, locked
in a box in my closet. The first glimpse
of Jedidiah was not what I expected; he stepped from an outcrop of boulders and
waved at me. What appeared before me was
a broad grin on a grizzled face of indeterminable age, atop a slim, muscled
body clad from his leggings to his head cover in varying hues of rough stitched
animal pelts. I had assumed he’d be a
cautious recluse who would need much cajoling to permit a visit and an
interview by some no-name starving writer; I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Jedidiah climbed effortlessly down the grade and greeted me
with a hearty laugh and an accent of long-drawn vowels and shorted consonant
sounds. His first words were, “Cay mi
Jed; whad dey cay yuz.” After being
congratulated on a <i>fine ole timey Bible
name</i>, he told me to leave the four-wheeler (<i>daggum noisy ‘trapson</i>) and proceeded to help me offload and tote my
provisions (<i>grubz an tuff</i>) up over
the top of the ridge. He said, “Yuz want
be needin’ ‘em, bot id keps da baaars frum ‘aving a goo ole time. Dems rascals
when id cooms to fooodz.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The next three days would change my life in more ways than I
have words to explain. He endowed me
with unimagined riches when all I wanted was a story…</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-26817006707791536122015-01-21T17:34:00.000-05:002015-01-21T17:34:19.980-05:00There will be no Super Bowl XLIX<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I am sure there will be a game played, but it won’t be
watched by me and it won’t be a “Super Bowl.”
The Deflate-gate of the New England Patriots has sullied the glamour of
this year’s big game, and it is an insult to every football fan in the
country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> What should be the punishment for a team cheating to win
their way into the Super Bowl? Well, it
should be disqualification, but we can expect that from a league that turns a
blind eye to head coaches paying bounties to players who purposefully injure
opposing players, or players who engage in domestic violence, or fight their
pet dogs to death, or defensive linemen who (after seven previous dirty hits) intentionally
step on the injured calf of a downed quarterback; no, to this league, the game
(translation: money) is far more important than fair sportsmanship, on or off
the field.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I know I am generating hate mail as I write this, but ask
yourselves, in the words of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, does this, “<i>Teach Your Children Well</i>”? Think about the money that changed hands last
Sunday in both legal and illicit gambling.
Think about the Fantasy Football games won and lost on fictitious
statistics. And for those who say, “You
can’t take the W off the board,” or “What’s the difference,” or “At Least the
Pats are in,” I say if you condone this, then you forfeit your right to cry, “No
Fair!” next time some misfortune befalls your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I hear the whisperings of those who say, “You can’t fault
the whole team for what some equipment handler did” (I am sure the Patriots are
at this moment lining up a patsy to take the blame), but the whole issue was
brought to life when D’Qwell Jackson intercepted Tom Brady’s pass and
instantly knew the ball was under inflated.
Now he handled the ball one time, so you think the center, Ryan Wendell,
the quarterback Tom Brady, all of the running backs and all of the receivers
didn’t know? And what about the one ball
kept at full pressure so the kickers had a hard ball to kick? This is a team conspiracy, plain and simple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There is hardly a sportswriter that does not tout the
greatness of Tom Brady and the stellar career he has had leading the Patriots, but
I say this tarnishes his greatness forever.
In an era where Pete Rose is banned from his much deserved place in
Baseball’s Hall of Fame, where Barry Bond’s records now have to be discounted
due to his illegal doping, where Lance Armstrong had to cede his Tour de France
championships, what do we do with Belichick and Brady? This Win-no-matter-what-the-cost ideology
that permeates the American culture needs to be stopped. If Commissioner Goodell allows the Patriots
to play (and you know he will), what does that say about us as a society, and
as a civilization?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> No, there will be no Super Bowl XLIX on February 1st, at
best, the game played will become the first Asterisk Bowl. I feel sorry to the ancillary people hurt by
this, the concessionaires, the innkeepers, the advertisers, the sportswriters
and broadcasters, and all of the other people who depend on the money
transacted as part of the biggest sports event in the United States, but the
New England Patriots organization is at fault and need to be punished. No, I won’t watch, and I extend my apology to
the restaurateur and bar-keeper where I had intended to go, and the waitress
who won’t get my tip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is an affront to every one of us who watch and enjoy
football. Something needs to be
done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There is no “good” solution or
punishment. Maybe the league should
access an Unsportsman-like Penalty against every rostered player on the
Patriots: 15 yards times 46 dressed players = the Patriots have to gain 690
yards before they can score their first touchdown. And as an extra layer of punishment, suspend
Bill Belichick and Tom Brady for the game and all of next season. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> This ruined this year’s Super Bowl for me, and it should (if
you were honest) ruin it for you too. I
ask, no I dare you to pass this along to every football fan you know and ask
them to pass it along to everyone they know.
Maybe if we, the fans, stood together and made enough noise, the
Patriots and teams everywhere will know we have seen enough cheating and want
to see honest sports for a change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> And to Commissioner Roger Goodell, think very carefully about
what you need to do, the right to call the NFL “a <b>professional</b> sports entity” as well as your legacy as commissioner,
hangs in the balance.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-84763227890356391592014-12-21T14:48:00.004-05:002014-12-21T14:48:47.116-05:00Season's Greetings<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ah, winter has arrived!
Tis the season of parties, parties, and
parties! The winter solstice has arrived
and whether that event is a reminder to get your garlic planted so that it
matures in time to pair with next summer’s tomatoes, or is your time for a
Feast of Juul in tribute to Thor (<i>didn’t
he just star in a movie?</i>) and the return of the sun’s cycle of life, light
and warmth; it is a time of anticipation, sharing, fellowship and celebration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, we honor the
shortest day/longest night of the year in many different traditions. The Inuits have their Quviasukvik or winter
feast where everyone brings some meat and drink, and all is shared by everyone
simultaneously while contemplating their favored deity (<i>Bless this food, Father</i>), later exchanging gifts in quiet family
gatherings (<i>sounds like my house</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Western Europeans burn a
Yule log and scatter the ashes on their farm fields as fertilizer each day until
the Twelfth Day (<i>On the twelfth day of
Christmas, my true love gave to me… <b>Ashes</b></i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Our Wiccan friends
celebrate twelve days of the Lesser Sabbat known as Alban Arthan (<i>12 days again?</i>), or the rebirth of the
sun god (<i>Son of God</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Romans had their
feast of Saturnalia, where all grudges and arguments were temporarily
forgotten, warring armies issued a cease-fire (<i>peace on Earth, goodwill toward men</i>), slaves became the masters,
and all businesses, schools and government offices were closed. This eventually degenerated (<i>as only the Romans could do</i>) into an
annual period of debauchery, gluttony and greed (<i>hmm? Kind of sounds like mall
shopping</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Mayans came to celebrate
the solstice with polo voladore (<i>or
Flying Pole Dance</i>). They climb a
fifty foot pole while playing a drum or flute, then tie a rope around one ankle
and jump off. To land on one’s feet was
considered a sign of good luck -- well, duh!
(<i>I have no idea what that has to
do with modern traditions, but it sounds like fun, doesn’t it?</i>) It’s no wonder why their calendar stops right
before the solstice of 2012 -- it wasn’t predicting the end of the world, they
were just tired of bungee jumping. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t mean to
shortchange the celebrants of Hanukkah, Brumalia, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, Makar
Sankranti, Pongal, Jól, Chaomos, Gody, Kwanza, <i>Festivist </i>or the Norse Boar’s Head Feast (<i>nothing to do with the lunchmeat</i>), but there are only so many
parties I can get to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">You can see how this
all ties in. It wasn’t until 354 AD that
the Church fathers realized that the birth of the Christ Child was an important
event to be remembered in worship and praise.
With little historic or Biblical guidance, they set December 25th as the
date of the Nativity of the Savior. It
did, and I’m sure not by accident, coincide with the winter solstice and the
myriad of long-held traditions that existed worldwide across so many cultures and
allowed for an easy conversion and transition for those of us who came to
believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This snidbit of anthropological
history is not meant to debase any ancient or modern tradition or belief, but
the next time you hear, “Tis the season,” whether you share my religious
beliefs or not, I hope you’ll understand that it <b><i>IS</i></b><i>,</i> <i>and always <b>HAS BEEN</b>, </i>the season; the coming of
the Son and the coming of the sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">However you celebrate,
may Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, or the Holy Spirit of God grant you and yours,
a Very Merry Christmas.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-37618489035504907892014-12-07T18:00:00.001-05:002014-12-08T06:47:53.494-05:00A Surprising View from on High<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I hear continual comments of envy over the spectacular views
I enjoy from my perch high on this mountain.
The ever changing pastels of the sunrises and sunsets, the glittering
vista of the valley below, the majestic crests of the Great Smoky Mountains
National Park on the horizon, and the breath taking array of the flora and
fauna of the forest canopy keep my interest and curiosity piqued. It is, and always will be, my quiet respite
from the computer screens and intellect deprived television programming. The views are never the same, even from
minute to minute. I can’t count the
number of times that I stepped outside and saw something so unique that I scrambled for a camera only to miss the lighting by mere seconds. So it has become habit to carry my phone, if
not my camera, each and every trip to the second floor deck that adorns my
mountain abode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Several nights ago, having spent the last reserves of my ocular
energy on a tedious trial transcript, feeling pretty low and rather lonely, I
poured a glass of wine and stepped outside to enjoy my world as the sun set on
the Tennessee side of the ridges and the valley lights began to mark the arrivals
of the worker ants returning from their daily labors. The December weather has been comfortably temperate
(especially after the frigid and snowy November we endured), so I stood
sweaterless as I looked out across the lowlands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My dogs had followed me out to keep me company, and although
I love their companionship, I must confess that their conversational talents
are far from entertaining. I asked them,
as I frequently do, what was going on in the world this beautiful night. They responded with a curious and
non-understanding stare, so I teased them with a, “I wonder if Angel is coming?” That kept their attention for some minutes as
they watched through the darkness for the nomadic dog that comes almost daily
for a visit and play date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Turning my attention back to the darkened valley, I notice a
plumb of smoke rising from a small knoll about three miles from my house. As the night sky grew deep, I could see
multiple glows from a circumference of fire and thought it was an odd time,
much too dry, and a wee bit windy for someone to be burning brush outdoors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I stepped in and grabbed my always-at-the-ready binoculars
to be sure there was a vigilant attendant, but there was no one in sight. I
widened my scan looking for emergency lights, and found them equally absent. Admittedly, there was some hesitation in me
about calling the authorities knowing that there were so many houses on that
hillside that someone either had noticed the fire, or it was a controlled burn
with the human factor simply hidden from view in the darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I finally succumbed to that inner voice whispering, “But
what if….?” I dialed 911 with an
apologetic, “I’m sure someone has already reported this,” and explained my
distant vantage point and the approximate location of the fire. 911 stated there had been no report and even
asked that should it be necessary, could the fire department come up to my
house to help them spot the location. I
assured the dispatcher that the fire would be clearly visible from the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My view from on high became a different experience that
night. In the far distance I can see the
fire station on Carolina Boulevard, I watched as the volunteers arrived and
launched the tanker. I could hear the shrill
sirens as they wound their way back along Thompson Cove Road and made the turn
onto Hideaway Creek. The fire continued
to spread to the point where trees ignited and the flames cast an eerie orange
glow in the forest below. The brave
firefighters arrived in the nick of time.
It did not take them long to extinguish the flames, but I am sure it
felt like an eternity to the people who dwell on that hillside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> In the days since, I have looked, both through the
binoculars from my deck, and from the roadside on the way to town, I cannot see
the scars of the errant flames. All is better
now; as I finish these words, the sun is painting glorious colors in the west,
my dogs are playfully wrestling, and the home lights are beginning to dot the
landscape. There are no mysterious
plumbs rising from the forest floor, and that’s just the way I like it. The only illuminations I care to see in the trees are Christmas lights. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-77703762279533287482014-11-08T09:29:00.002-05:002014-11-08T12:14:06.739-05:00Fall has fallen<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It appears as though fall has fallen. We were basking in the autumnal spectrum of color
when an unwelcomed and extraordinarily rare snowstorm swept through the Smoky
Mountains on Halloween night. By
Saturday night when the snow and high winds abated, my little corner of
Paradise was blanketed in a frosty six inches of white. The storm dropped anywhere from 4” as far
south as Columbia, South Carolina, up to 22” in the tallest North Carolina mountains
near the Tennessee border. The freakish
weather managed to strip the glorious array from almost all of the trees. Fall didn’t last long enough, I hope that
this is not a presage of a difficult winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The snow came less than two weeks from when my oldest and
dearest friend was supposed to arrive for a rare visit. News of the weather kept her snug in her <i>second</i> home in New Jersey (her first
home is in Kauai in Hawaii). I am hoping
for a makeup day sometime in the more temperate days of spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> In other news, after a hard week of storm prep and incessant
expedited jobs, I found myself in a stupor of physical exhaustion. Fighting a desperate need to sleep, I
realized I had to go down the mountain for no other reason than to retrieve the
mail and pick up some dog food. I invited
my two four-legged sons to ride with me (by inviting, I mean I picked up my
keys). Cory, the new addition and
suspected caffeine addict, never does anything that isn’t at full speed. He stands on his hind legs and does a happy
dance at the slightest provocation, and never goes from one room to another at
anything less than an all-out dash.
Between his leaping axels and excited wind-sprints, getting Cory on or
off a leash is always a challenge. After
successfully completing our errands down in the village, I guided us back up
the mountain looking forward to getting the boys fed, finishing a few pages I
needed to get done for Kelly, and then crawling into a much needed bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> By the time I got the dogs re-leashed, Cory was spinning to
get out of the truck and pee. He thinks
you are supposed to pee getting into and out of a vehicle, without regard to
how long the ride may have taken. After
his short respite, Cory bolted up the stairs to the front deck, pulling
Sebastian and me behind him. By the time
I got the gate open and their leashes off, he was again doing pirouettes at the
front door (I have no idea why, everything is so exciting to him). I unlocked the door, got them inside and fed,
and decided to go back out to view the sunset before returning to the computer. Did I mention I was exhausted? I had not latched the gate all the way; both dogs
seized the opportunity and took off like Greyhounds chasing the mechanical
rabbit at a racetrack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Sebastian has escaped enough times that I was not too
worried (at first) that he would eventually come back, Cory, on the other hand,
was new and does not know my mountain at all.
There was no way I had the energy to attempt a chase, so all I could do
was watch from my perch high above the mountain roads below. I watched as they ran down the driveway and
disappeared into the forest. After about
ten minutes I caught a glimpse of both of them coming at full speed down Daly
Drive (the road that services the crest of the mountain). Cory turned onto Norman Road and into my
driveway. Without slowing he ran the 800
feet of my driveway, came straight up the steps and into the house. I quickly shut the door with him inside and
went to watch for his brother to join him.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Sebastian had better ideas, he hadn’t been to all the
houses, explored the woods, or visited the other dogs on the mountain. Three hours later, in the pitch black dark of
night, he climbed the stairs to the deck.
All over, right? Nope, if I asked
him to come in the house, he’d turn and bolt down the steps and back into the
ebony shadows of the forest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> He did finally get tired and come back, but only after I was
so spent that I couldn’t even scold him for his <i>bad-boy</i> behavior. He knew he
was in trouble, and knows how bad that was, but I guarantee you if I went and
opened the gate tonight, he’d be gone again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I never got back to the computer which spurred Kelly to
email her Royal Highness, the PITA of Denmark, Adrianna Joleigh, to check on my
wellbeing. I, of course, had no idea I
was missed and being worried over until the veil of a comatose sleep lifted
from my eyes the next morning. I guess I
owe a debt of thanks to my two friends for caring about my hapless
disappearance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Speaking of Adrianna, please remember to wish her a happy
birthday on Tuesday, November 11<sup>th</sup> and congratulate her on her
newest commission for her art work.
Before too long, she will be too rich and famous to deal with us mere
commoners. You can see some of her
paintings at <a href="http://adriannajoleigh.com/">http://adriannajoleigh.com/</a> Be sure to scroll over the thumbnails for a
preview of her masterful use of colors and click an image for details of the
paintings. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158463657624877425.post-13921017430435515562014-10-23T08:02:00.002-04:002014-10-23T08:02:58.223-04:00Samhain, souling, guising and Shakespeare: A brief history of Halloween <div class="MsoNormal">
The leaves are turning, the temperature is dropping, most of
the summer crops have gone to seed and the days are growing shorter, that can
only mean one thing: It is almost time for Samhain (pronounced
"sah-win"). What? You don’t celebrate Samhain? But it is the end of the harvest season, and
time to check your stores for the coming winter, and then on the 31<sup>st</sup>
dress in scary masks and make a large bonfire to attract insects which lure in
the bats all to appease the spirits rising from the dead so they don’t bring
sickness and ruin next year’s crops.
Well, what do you call that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, that’s pretty much where it all started. It was a Gaelic pagan tradition that evolved
with the spread of Christianity into All Hallows’ Eve that has its roots in the
practice of “souling.” Indigent
villagers would go house-to-house on Hallowmas (November 1) and in return for
some form of confectionary, would pray for the family’s deceased members on All
Soul’s Day (November 2<sup>nd</sup>).
The practice of souling or begging, started in medieval Ireland, but
spread through Britain and as far eastward as Italy. It infected Western Culture even to the point
of a 1593 Shakespeare reference in <i>The
Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>, when Speed accuses his master of "puling (whimpering)
like a beggar at Hallowmas."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tradition that would eventually become
“Trick-or-Treating” immigrated to North America with the Irish influx during
the great Potato Famine in the mid-19<sup>th</sup> Century. But it would take generations before it would
take the form we all have come to know. The
first “American” celebrations, dating to the turn of the 20<sup>th</sup>
Century, were small parades of children dressed in costumes giving performances
in the early evening. This was known as
guising, and quickly became the genesis of receiving treats from merchants and
onlookers as a reward for their songs and dances. The trick part came much later, with the
first known print reference to the term “trick or treat” in 1930. Soon the practice of costumed children
receiving sweets grew (well, except during the sugar shortages of WWII) and
spread from North America back across the ocean into its ancestral Europe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adults, not wanting to be left out of the fun, started
“costuming” on Halloween at their favorite bars and pubs. Soon rewards for the “Best,” “Scariest,” and
“Most Original” costumes eroded the practice of donning funny makeup and
tattered clothes and grew into an American-sized industry of professionally
created costumes that range from gruesome, to political lampoon, to the aesthetically
sublime, to the raciest of vice and perversion. And with the combination of intoxicants and
the free-spirited absence of inhibitions from the anonymous disguises,
Halloween has spawned a Mardi Gras-like atmosphere of debauchery in many of the
most popular watering holes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Americanized Halloween (or <i>Beggars’ Night</i> as it is referred to in parts of Ohio, Iowa and
Massachusetts) is looked on with suspicion by many European countries, and the
expressed threat of “tricks” have spurred some police forces in the United
Kingdom to threaten to prosecute parents who allow their children to carry out
the "trick" element. In other
parts of Europe, the commerce-driven importation of Halloween is seen with even
more skepticism, and in light of numerous destructive or illegal "tricks,"
suspicions about this trick-or-treat game and Halloween in general have been further
raised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is sometimes fun to pull back the curtains of innocence
and peek at the naked roots of our ever evolving culture. A simple children’s holiday that rose from
the superstitions of zombie-like mischief-makers, to medieval pay-for-prayer
begging, to guising on parade, and finally the debaucheries of over-imbibed
adults, our commercialized version of Halloween now dominates the month of
October and marks the onset of the holiday season.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Samhain, everyone! <o:p></o:p></div>
Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978305165473526381noreply@blogger.com1