Latest Event Updates
Laid back missive …
Late Sunday morning finds me sated after a waffle and sausage breakfast. Sunday is my day to cheat on the diet. I don’t even take my blood sugar reading unless I am not feeling well. Still, I try to not be totally insane, and go light on the syrup. I am off of fruit juices entirely, unless you consider tomato juice a fruit juice.
It has warmed to 45° already, and the weatherman says it will get all the way up to 46°. Blast! I have a flat on the tractor, and my air-compressor quit. So I got a new one with a shiny red tank, and I haven’t been able to use it. Shiny new tools are an embarrassment, and I can hardly wait ’til it warms up to start wearing it out.
I took a short hiatus from the rescue/transport hobby. I sure do love the people who are on the front lines. One group spent a week trapping a frightened poodle from a freeway, and another group has spent days trying to capture a stray in an abandoned lot. They will get him too. They are a truly dedicated and tough breed. I’ll start gleaning the newsfeeds looking for opportunities to spirit dogs away to new owners and transporting rescues to safe havens next week.
I have started feeling much more alert and upbeat these last few weeks. I still fear the dreaded winter blues that seem to start around Thanksgiving and don’t end ’til February. I am hoping to skip them this year.
A new wave of fighting has broken out in many of my social sites. It seems to come and go in flushes. I am wondering if blogging encourages poor social skills, or if only people with poor social skills blog. Interesting question. Hopefully, I can sit on the sidelines and observe the dynamics rather than participating this year. But oh how I love a good fight!!
The news is .. well … trouble here, and trouble there, and trouble most everywhere. A writer today opined that this new distrust in government is because we are better informed than we were before. I think that may be true. J. Edgar Hoover’s snooping would have not fared well in todays climate, and JFK’s womanizing would have been censored. It is harder today for the ‘elites’ to hide behind privilege today.
But for the moment, the tummy is sated, the coffee pot has been emptied, and I lay back in very bad posture typing out this morning’s communiqué. Mavis Beacon, the typing tutor, would not approve. And I wouldn’t care. There is peace here if there isn’t anywhere else in the world.
A late good morning!
OK … one more copy/paste and I am done for awhile.
This election season has been particularly grueling. With so much on the line, Republicans had to earn each and every vote and Democrats, sensing the loss of the Senate, did similarly but, ultimately, came up short.
It’s natural to take a breather after all is done and the votes are counted. Many politicians and politician-elects take a moment to be with the family they have likely neglected for months. Some might go on vacation or even just relax at home for some much-needed R&R.
However, for one newly elected Senator, Iowa Republican Joni Ernst, it has back to the business of serving America in the most literal of ways.
For Lt. Col. Ernst, reporting for duty is how she spent the day following the election.
Ernst is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Iowa National Guard and commands the largest battalion in the Iowa Army National Guard, the 185th Combat Sustainment Support Battalion at Camp Dodge.
Ernst is the first woman elected to the Senate from Iowa, the first woman elected statewide in Iowa and the first female veteran elected to the Senate.
Lt. Col. Ernst is a 21-year veteran, having served in the Army Reserve and the Iowa National guard, and spent 14 months in Kuwait in 2003-2004 as a company commander during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
While women like Sandra Fluke posture and pretend that it is a “war on women” when Republicans insist that individuals, not taxpayers, purchase their own birth control, Ernst is one of many women serving this nation who understand what real war is, what real challenges are and what it means to truly take responsibility for oneself and others and lead by example.
Mz Muze returns …
I was minding my own business and reading the blogs when SFMystery had to bring up the subject of muses. I hadn’t talked to min in a good long while, and *pop!* … there she was, perched on my monitor, chubby legs crossed daintily at the knee. Normally, that would be charming, but MzMuze has never been to charm school. The only time I heard her laugh was when she put the idea of a story in my head where an elephant grabbed up a man and dashed the brains out of him on the cage bars.
She was still wearing her too tight tweed skirt, and a pink Rayon blouse, and a pair of scuffed mules completed the outfit. And she was scowling at me. But then, she always scowled at me.
“So there you are. I don’t think I’ve talked with you since Thanksgiving, last year.”
“You haven’t wanted me around.”
“Mmmm. Wonder why that is? It couldn’t be because you were overly charming.”
“You’re the one whom your buddies took up a collection to send you to charm school. As I recall, they four dollars and sixty cents. It wasn’t even enough for a round of drinks, and that was 1960 dollars!”
“I am sure that they were just being light hearted with me.”
She recrossed her legs, exposing what looked like white mushroom tops squeezing out of her hose, and tried a little flounce that didn’t quite work on top of the new LED monitor. The CRT finally died and I had to upgrade, but it was broad enough to hold that chubby butt.
“Hey, butthead. I can read you mind, remember?”
Quickly recovering, I shot back, “Garter belts went out five decades ago.”
“Hey, I’m your fantasy, heartthrob. Dress me anyway you like!” she sniffed.
“I need a muse, not a girlfriend.”
“You need a slave driver, King sloth.” She sneered.
“I just haven’t been in the mood.” I lamely retorted.
“You are never in the mood, from what I hear Snookums say.”
“Leave Snooks out of this!” I growled.
“Well, she’s the one who said it. She also said you spend entire days on the PC, and merely write drivel.”
“Yeah. I just can’t seem finish anything.” I answered dejectedly.
“That King Wendell piece showed some promise.” She said brightly.
“Yeah. But it turned out to be another epic. I just want to crank out thousand word essays. But there is only so many ways you can describe morning coffee.”
“Why not start a less ambitious project?”
“I tried short stories, but where do you market short stories these days?”
“Yeah. That is a rather archaic form. What about a formula novel? It might be an interesting write, and possibly one that you could complete.”
“You mean ‘boy meets girl’ ‘boy does something stupid and loses girl’ ‘boy rescues girl’ ‘they have passionate sex and live happily ever after’?”
“Yeah. Something like that. It is too late for you to write a new “The Sun Also Rises”. Hairy chested beer guzzling authors are out now anyway.
Well, do something besides lay around licking your ….”
“Hey!” I warned her.
“Well, it’s true, and you know it!” She said, gloating. She knew when she scored.
“I am sort of blogging again.” I whined.
“Yeah. I can tell. You almost write in complete sentences now.”
“It is called writing dialogue.” I corrected.
“It is called crappy grammar. But I barely concede that it is better than no grammar at all.” She said, waving me off.
“I’ll try to put something out after the Shabbat meal. Interested?”
“I am always interested, lover …”
Shamelessly boosted …
I don’t like copy/pasting … but this is one of the iconic photos of my youth. Pubescent young boys salivated over them bosoms on two continents. I shamelessly boosted the copy from ABC News
~geo
She’s got the look.
Fifty-seven years after Sophia Loren was captured glaring at Jayne Mansfield during a glitzy night out, the Italian actress has finally explained what was actually happening in the iconic snapshot.
“Paramount had organized a party for me. All of cinema was there, it was incredible. And then comes in Jayne Mansfield, the last one to come. For me, that was when it got amazing,” Loren, 80, told Entertainment Weekly from her home in Switzerland.
“[Mansfield] came right for my table. She knew everyone was watching. She sat down. And now, she was barely … Listen. Look at the picture. Where are my eyes? I’m staring at her nipples because I am afraid they are about to come onto my plate. In my face you can see the fear. I’m so frightened that everything in her dress is going to blow — BOOM! — and spill all over the table.”
While there may be other photographs from that moment, “This is the one that shows how it was,” Loren said.
But despite the image’s popularity, Loren’s side-eye is something she won’t celebrate.
“Many, many times I am given this photo to autograph it. And I never do. I don’t want to have anything to do with that. And also out of respect for Jayne Mansfield because she’s not with us anymore,” she said.
The fork in the road …
The new day dawned. Soft words were spoken over the morning’s coffee. A painful fork in the road had appeared from nowhere. “When you get to the fork in the road, take it!” said Yogi. So, and in hand, we step into the fork. Do we believe our map, or not?
“I never watch Fox News. That is why I can tell you what all is wrong with it!”
“I never watch Fox News. That is why I can tell you what all is wrong with it!”
I have been cruising some my feel-more/ care-more-than-thee Liberal blogs and websites this morning. A few of them I actually maintain friendship with in spite of our sharply opposing views. The news is rather grim for their side this electoral season, but perhaps had they as much open mindedness as they pride themselves in, they should have seen this train wreck coming.
A very common theme is: “Ug! Fox News. Never watch it!” … but they sure do know what it is all about. How is that? I guess they have some opinion makers that feed them the ideas they need. Many on the right end up having to watch such left wing pundits like Chris “tingles” Matthews simply because liberal outlets outnumber conservative outlets five to one on TV, and far more in legacy media.
Looking like deer caught in the headlights, they just don’t understand why almost half the people in the US do not think their ideas are all that good. They crammed down the throats of people a healthcare ‘fix’ that wasn’t wanted or needed, nor did they feel it was necessary to do it without bringing the great unwashed aboard. They actually could have done it had they swallowed some of their hubris. The United States Government is not the sole repository of all things good.
A more modest plan financed and conducted by the States would have kept the Constitutionalists aboard their grand train.
A less ambitious plan could have legitimately left those who had good private insurance to keep their plans. And allowing for non-taxed medical savings accounts could have kept the professional class on board.
The left was done in by hubris and elitism, not bad ideas …
Jonas Salk … a forgotten hero …
Today’s Google Doodle is Jonas Salk, whose work gave us polio vaccine.
It got me to thinking back. I am old enough to remember the polio scares of the 50’s. They were real, not like the politicized AIDS and Ebola B.S. floating around right now. No one knew what polio was, nor how it spread then. Public swimming pools and theaters were off limits to many kids of that generation.
Ron, my friend, contacted polio as a five year old, and it caused the atrophying of his extremities. He had one semi strong arm, and one that through much effort, was made strong enough to propel his wheelchair. Ron was afraid to use a powered wheelchair for fear that he would deteriorate. When he reached his sixties, Social Security gave him one after his weak arm gave out. He was right. His arms and chest wall atrophied, and he died in his mountain cabin.
I had another childhood friend who was in an iron lung. That was his whole world as a child. I lost contact with him when I was eight, but I presume that he lived a reasonably long life afterwards. Since then, the clunky iron lung was replaced by a tube inserted into the neck, allowing for more mobility, and no more are iron lungs are being manufactured, although they are still used for people who have spinal deformities. When one is needed, they quickly repair it and put it into service.
This recent Ebola thing shows me that our press, health care system and government is not prepared for a viral outbreak. The CDC was politicized during the Clinton administration to carry forth a gun control agenda, and it did with zeal. I think it was at the expense of developing a plague strategy to contain the outbreak. We have grown cocky, and I think some future generation is going to pay for this malfeasance.
Anyway. Back to Salk. What a national godsend he was, and we dutifully lined up for the vaccinations, as painful as they were. The medic would put a blob of the vaccine on your arm, and then puncture the skin repeatedly with a needle to let the vaccine soak in. Later the sugar cubes came on the market, and finally, an injection. I received all of them.
So today, polio is a byword. It means no more to later generations than the war of 1812 means to me. People reject lifesaving vaccines like those for smallpox and measles without so much as a backward glance. Odd how you can have such negative opinions on diseases once they are eradicated. Sometimes I wish that people could see a pockmarked face of a young girl who survived small pox, or a child confined to a huge tank because of the poliovirus.
Yeah. I am pro inoculation.
Twin Peaks is returning!! All new!!
I hardly ever watch bandwidth hogging videos. But! Twin Peaks is returning!!
A blue bonnet
I had written a similar piece years ago that was lost when multiply® went south. I don’t have the original because once I write something, I usually lose all interest in it afterwards. It is a true story as seen through my eyes as a nine year old, though I am guilty of a tiny amount of dramatization. It is one of those stories that never is fully told, even though it may told many times.
… ninety eight, ninety nine, one hundred!
Betty (Miz Beatrice to me) released the pump handle of the little vertical hand pump that watered her vegetable garden, and fanned herself. That would probably be the last time this year that she would have to water it from the well. She didn’t mind the pumping, though. Frank had brought the pump from Montgomery Wards and it pumped water from the well that he hand dug when they were young marrieds and moved to New Mexico to build their dream.
When she had rested a little bit, she walked over to the towering Alamo tree where Frank was buried. The day she lowered his casket into the grave was just as fresh in her mind as it was 20 years ago when he was killed by a cave in in his molybdenum diggings. She and her ten year old daughter dug his body out of the fallen rocks, washed it, built a casket of unfinished spruce, and lowered it into the grave with the help of the pastor and deacons.
Next to Frank’s headstone, Betty had dug a new grave for herself in the hard caliche soil, and carefully covered it with boards and canvass. She did not want to be beholden to people, even in death. Under another tarp was an identical spruce coffin for her. She even put the nails into the lid so that whoever buried her wouldn’t have to buy them.
We don’t know how she supported herself, but it was believed that Frank had put money aside for her somehow. Growing up in the Depression did not engender much trust in banks with Frank. Betty lived very frugally with spot, a non-descript mutt who was always at her side, even at the little church.
Every Sunday morning, Betty dressed in blue a blue gingham dress, one of two she owned. But she never wore one that was carefully folded and wrapped in brown paper and packed to keep rodents out of it. That was the dress that Frank saw her last in.
Each dress had a bonnet made from the same material. Sturdy black lace up shoes from JC Penny’s completed the outfit. One pair for daily work, one pair for Sabbath and burial.
Sunday she would haul water out to the old Reo pickup truck to fill the radiator. It was a 1920’s model, than my grandfather kept running for her. It didn’t have an electric starter, just a hand crank that she have developed a rather refined familiarity with. The truck sputtered to life in a cloud of blue smoke, and Spot and her clattered off to church.
But today was not an ordinary day for her. Normally, after watering the vegetables, she would sit under the Alamo with Spot and refresh herself. But today, the angina did not go away, but rather burned with a new fury. She knew time was short, so she forced herself up, went into the house, washed her face and brushed her hair before taking the dress down out of the closet. She apparently knew time was short.
The following Sunday, people at her church noticed she wasn’t there, and several made a mental note to stop by and check on her. But life waits for no one, and they quickly forgot after services were done. Life was hard in that forgotten part of New Mexico in 1950, and there were fences that needed mending, hay that needed to be put up, sermons needed to be prepared, and so Betty’s absence was forgotten.
And Sunday rolled around again, as it always does. And once again, Betty was absent from services. This time, the congregation knew something was wrong, and they all drove up the narrow road to her home nestled at the feet of the Sangre de Christo mountains, and found Betty, laying on her bed, dressed in the gown Frank had last seen her in. Next to her, curled up in a ball, old Spot had passed too.
Neatly stacked on the bed were several yellowed pages of instructions, and a sheaf of bills. I don’t remember how much it was, but it was enough to pay the stonecutter for chiseling the dates into the headstone and a few extras for the laborers to cover the grave.
They discovered under the tarp that she had also made a dog sized casket, and some more money in a cookie tin to cover Spot’s keep. Of course, Spot probably had died of heartbreak we supposed. We really don’t know. We never located her daughter. Rumor had it that she met with a bad fate in a far off City. We know nothing of Franks family, nor Betty’s last name.
Betty, even in death, would not allow herself to be beholden to anyone. Many years later, the State dug up the bodies, being that it wasn’t a properly registered grave, and moved them to a dry, barren cemetery out in the sagebrush. The headstone was broken in two pieces, one for each grave. Most of those who knew Betty had long died by then so no one protested. The old Reo truck, now a rusted hulk, was towed away somewhere. And Spots remains disappeared, because law would not allow an animal to be buried in a cemetery. Rumor was that he was left in Betty’s grave.
And life goes on.
Time and Space on Five Acres
Finally, after sitting in front of my PC a couple of hours going over the days news, facebook posts and emails, my fingers get around to writing. Some days are like that. Don’t wanna days, I call them. I am not a real social person by nature, being a bit shy and awkward. A couple of events at the end of the week are pushing me out of the house and into doing things, and I sit here in mild resentment over those demands on my precious time.
I have lost track of time and space. I seldom get the day of the week right. Today is Wednesday, yet my mind insists it is Thursday, a day that I have committed myself to make another puppy run for one of the tireless rescuers in a nearby big city. I gripe about 180 miles once every so many days. She easily runs 500 miles a week and never complains about it. Not me, though. I bitch about everything.
Finally got my Sukkah down yesterday, but now the problem of storage comes up. I don’t know where I am going to put it. I might just get a couple of sawhorses and put the pieces on that, and wrap it all up in a tarp.
So that is the day today. Action packed and exciting, eh?
Good morning!!
Rusty's Armory 