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Torpedo levels and over full bladders …
A dewy Wednesday morning greets me at a comfortable 72°. Snookums had the coffee brewed, and my cup was prefilled. Talk about convenience! Down the hallway, thru Snooks sewing room, thru the connecting bathroom to my studio. See that Snook has already prepared Kippurs bath, which is good. The mist on the windows blocks her view outside.
I think that she is having an affair with a brown and white finch of some sort. The finch preens on the porch handrail outside while Kippur crawls around her cage bars closest to the window. A few time, the finch will land on the window, and they’ll raptly stare at each other for awhile. But I don’t promote juvenile romances, and Kippur remains chastely ensconced in her cage.
I can see the top of my computer desk peeking through some of the bare spots as I continue my cleaning of it. I am quiet messy. Snookums likens it more to a pigsty. I have things from two years back on it that need to be tossed, filed, sorted or acted upon. But you never know when you might need to lay your hands on a two year old clinic statement, an Amazon.com packing list, or a torpedo level.
For you non technical types, here is a torpedo level. It is useful for keeping pictures and pancake griddles level when you don’t want to bring out the 4′ framing level.
Anyway. Times awastin’. Tempus fugits. The coffee is ready for a refill, and my bladder is bladdering.
Good morning!
Anti-Semitism and Birdbaths
Monday begins with the soft heat of the summer morning. Birds put aside their natural wariness around other species of birds at the bird baths. Doves cannonball into the baths without any concern for the other birds, while more timid birds flit a few feet away from the rim, and return. Even the brassy mocking birds are too needful of a quick dip to run other birds off first.
Snookums is out mowing while Kipper and I watch the morning unfold. Ever so often Kippur will spot her as she roars by with the mower, and lets out a shriek. “I know her!!!”
A mildly busy week is ahead. Some more tree trimming, learning to update the congregational website, a thorough cleaning of the studio, sterilizing the car and pet carriers for another pet rescue, starting the old pickup before the battery goes flat, and taking a small drive in it to keep the seals and stuff pliable … pretty scary stuff. But we have a rule, here. Two cups of coffee first. THEN labor. So I stretch out the moment with smaller sips. With age comes perfection.
On the Israel side … a flood of commentaries, a drought on facts. Israel sets about its task with grim resolve. HAMAS blusters. Obama and Kerry sputter. The UN convenes. One of Iran’s leaders reveals his anti-Semitism as HAMAS gets the ugly end of Israel’s stick. But I was never fooled anyway. I always knew that Zionist was code for Jew hatred.
It is a nasty streak in me that rises when I hear some flannel mouth say it isn’t about Jews, but rather them “Zionist pigs”. I start persistently needling them to the point of anger, and they invariably end up cursing Jews. Once they are caught out, they can really let the venom fly, and I walk away whistling … It is a terrible witness to my faith, though. I wish I could just shrug it off as so many of my friends do.
I need to cut a couple more limbs away from the acacia tree and drag the trimmings to the burn pile today. And … mow. It is summer. I mow. That is the nature of things. But I wanted land when we retired down here. I didn’t want my neighbor’s bedroom window to overlook my porch. So, mowing goes with the territory.
But … I got a fresh cup. My second one of the morning. Snookums is doing a quick shower after mowing her part of the lawn and kennel/back yard. Soon breakfast …
Good morning!
~r
Wars and rumors of wars. Oy vey!
Bleary eyed and full of bladder I stagger down to my studio to browse the news feed to discover what is happening to my friend, Israel. Nothing. My newsreader that collects almost every English speaking newsfeed in the Middle East was barren.
Odd, I think. Then I remember. It is late Shabbat afternoon there, and the observant news sources will not be posting for another four hours. I remember the passage that Israel recites when it goes to war. Oyeychah it is called, and it comes from the start of the passage “When you go out (to war)“. You probably hear it in its shortened form when Jewish women discuss their family trials and tribulations. “Oy!”
It is a curious passage that first excuses men who have just married from the warriors. Then it excuses men who are too terrified to fight. There are a few more excuses, but these are the main two. By the time all the excusing is made, the warriors are down to 1/3 strength.
Same with Israel. 40,000 regulars and 18,000 reservists, yet it is likely less that 10,000 are actually in Gaza right now. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t more ready to take on HAMAS, and probably doesn’t include Navy and Air Force personnel who go in, then quickly leave. Still, urban warfare is a treacherous deal. The worst of Europe’s casualties in WWII was in urban fighting.
Israel is an expert in urban strategy, and advised the US when we went into Fallujah, Iraq. The enemy had kill lanes and other traps to degrade an attacking enemy, and so the coalition forces went in the hard way, through the buildings rather than the streets, and won over a shocked enemy.
Good thoughts for a peaceful Shabbat morning, eh?
The sun is out in bright yellows and vibrant greens after the welcome rains. The land responds guardedly after several years drought. In some ways the drought is good in that it forces the vegetation to go deeply into the soil. It wasn’t enough for some of my trees and shrubs, and my front walkway has been cleared of flowering plantings and such. I must adapt the realities of climate here. It has always been a land of fierce droughts followed by short periods of even fiercer flooding.
I have a half hour of coffee sipping left before showering and preparing to leave for services this morning. I am going to spend it watching a mocking bird try to confuse a cardinal.
Good morning!
~r
Pampers and Jihadists
Monday afternoon finds me sitting here covered in wood chips from the electric tree saw. It is so disappointing to take three days to do what I used to do in a morning. But that is one of the indignities that sooner or later befalls all of us.
One problem with my studio is that it sets at one end of the house, and the central air pipes are not big enough to keep the room chilled when it hits 99° outside. I wanted to get further along, but tomorrow rain is in the forecast, so the tree trimming will be set back a few days. Not that we gripe about rain these days. Five years in a persistent severe drought has taught me a little humility. This time last year we had two weeks of unending 100+ weather, and no rain since January.
I had to give up my little contribution to the synagogue as the janitor. It was a pretty good way to enter the Shabbat by preparing the shul, as we affectionately call our little place. But some rather unsavory developments in my overall health has forced me to scale back my public participations as well. Another indignity.
So anyway … I sit here coated in chips from the chain saw, and try to pound out a little journal. What does one talk about late in the day? Sunlight dappling through the bowers? More like blasting holes in the trees as it burns its way through them!
News in Israel is both optimistic and grim. As usual, the Palestinians and their jihadists are more talk than results oriented. Already, they are asking for someone to deliver them … as long as they don’t have to make any concessions. Israel cannot let them continue to rain rockets down on them, and almost have to go in and pacify Gaza. I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth already. I am unmoved.
And … the border. *sigh!* … the one thing this administration was legally and Constitutionally obligated to do, and could have been done without Congressional approval, was to secure the borders. Enough said.
But perhaps it matters not. In a few short years, they’ll be changing my Senior Pampers at the Longhorn Senior Care facility. They probably will do it for about one fourth the cost of a surly unionized citizen, but will buy my diapers from Mexico. Señor Pañales they’ll call ’em.
~r
A conspiracy and a confession
A sunny day greets me as I rise a little late this morning. Ran out of the normal allergy meds and had to use Benadryl before bedtime. It works well, but the side effects are a deep but not so restful sleep, late awakening and drowsiness for the first couple of hours.
I am just finishing my first cup at a quarter past nine. 9:15 for you who are post digital, and filled it for the completion of this little morning missive. So with a fresh cup where do we go?
The news? A local 26 year old man is charged with rape of a consenting 13 year old. My thoughts are all over the place on this one. No he shouldn’t have. But a rape charge? Don’t they have a sex with a minor child law here? I dunno …
More rockets in Israel. More targets in Gaza. HAMAS is acting badly, and my hope is that the Palestinian people will weary of these jihadist and toss them out. Yeah. False hope.
Obama can’t catch a break. I don’t think he deserves a lot of the abuse he gets, and perhaps I gloat a bit too much when he does get caught out. I do think he expanded the executive way beyond what he should have, no matter how noble it seems to him and others.
Yeeps. I am beginning to see what happens when I don’t write. The quality of my words and sentences goes down dramatically.
If I don’t practice one day, I know it; two days, the critics know it; three days, the public knows it.
~ Jascha Heifetz
Lois Learner. I think that there is so much pressure on the IRS upper echelon that some bureaucrat is going to crack. And an old saw goes:
“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
– Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanack
And with that, time goes by … the smell of ersatz sausage wafts by the studio, and soon Snookums will signal breakfast is ready. Today is preparation day. A day to get ready for a day of rest. All the food is cooked today. The Shabbat table is laid, awaiting candle lighting. In my not so orthodox home, Shabbat always arrives at 6 PM instead of sundown. I guess that makes me a heretic of some sort, but *shrug* ….
Good morning!
~r
Grainnuel
This was originally posted on multiply.com, but I wanted to save it on this blogsite. My apologies to most of you who have already read and commented on it.
Granuaile woke on the featureless plain this morning. She knew that it was that time before she went to sleep in the rude bed she shared with her husband, and had prepared for this day by setting her crude dulcimer on the rocking chair on the porch. The words spread through the community like fire when they espied that omen. It meant change for good or for evil, was nigh.
They natives of that old Arkansas community were afraid of Granuaile, severe in her plain dress and fiery red hair, and frail to near emaciation. But her looks were deceptive. She was not frail at all, and her eye saw clearly that which the people feared. Calvinism ruled the valley, and many believed that Granuaile was a witch. But Granuaile was not a witch. Granuaile saw things with a different eye. Her vision was as sharp as an owl at night, and she could see the spirits that worked order in the universe.
She was not aware of the cabin, nor was she aware of crowd that had gathered out her door as she arose that morning. Donning her simple dress, she padded barefoot to the porch, picked up the dulcimer, and placed it across her knees as she sat down in the rocker. All she could see was a featureless plain, filled with shadowy, almost human wisps going about their obscure tasks in studied disarray when she struck the first discord on the dulcimer. That chord rippled across the plan in concentric ripples, the spirits stopped their relentless walking.
All the rural community could see was her grim visage; jaw clenched in determination as she strummed the dulcimer with strong, unadorned chords and rigid rhythm. Then she began to sing, not with beauty and grace, but with a flat intonation devoid of modulation and accent. She sang old dirges for long gone relatives. Songs of unrequited love. Songs of young men gone to war who never returned. Songs of women dying in childbirth. Songs of droughts, and withering suns, and of locusts and pests. The people of the village heard her words as if they were a judge’s verdict. The spirits in the plain reordered their paths. The slate sky rippled with the strong cords and piercing voice, each ripple magnifying and nullifying interfering ripples in a chaotic, yet paradoxical predictable pattern.
Time stood still on that hot Arkansas day, the village people perspired in the blistering sun, but did not move. They heard the words, but could not cipher the meanings. Granuaile played and sang with determination. She had songs that needed singing, and she was determined to sing them all.
In time, the singing and strumming stopped. The people looked around sheepishly. Granuaile returned to her cabin to rest, dulcimer in hand. The slate skies were again calm and the spirits resumed their resolute walking.
One of the villagers remarked to another as they arose one by one to return home: “That woman is crazy!”
The spirits pondered to themselves. “Who is this being to order us around as if she were God?”
Her secret love ached in the loneliness of silence that followed her departure. Could no one hear?
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.
Smarter’n smart ….
I was making the rounds between some WordPress and Blogster pages today. There is really quite a war going on between the various factions. Conservatives call Liberals stupid. Atheists call Believers stupid. Peaceniks call warmonger stupid. Everybody is stupid but them.
“Ahm smarter’n you. You stoooopid. If’n you don’t think like me, youse gots to be stoooopid.”
~To the tune of I’ve been workin’ on the Railroad
Oh, I’m more smarter than you, babe
I’m more smarter than youuuuuu!
I’m more smarter than you babe!
I’m more smarter than youuuuuu!
(repeat once)
Now that I’ve given you all this little earworm, maybe I can read a well thought out piece that doesn’t exalt the writers self-sense of intelligence at the expense of others.
~r
Living free
“Does Job fear God for nothing? Have you not put a fence around him and his house and all that he has, on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands, and his possessions have increased in the land. But stretch out your hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face.”
When I focus on the nation and the world about me, I grow very discouraged. There is a relentless march to trade risk for tyranny. The cowards lead, demanding a king to set all things right for them, and call it seeking freedom. Gun control is only a very small part of this exorable march to live under a beneficent régime where all is set right by a simple fiat from the king.
The other day we were discussing the issue of gun bans. It is a charged issue, but most people do not see it as an issue of living free and being responsible for your own welfare. One moron even tried to make the case that since she has the ability to get pregnant, I should succumb to her womb. “It’s all about mah babieeeees” she wails. Then she had the chutzpah to get offended because I don’t give a rip about her babies, her womb, nor her safety. I didn’t hire on as her champion. Then she huffs “I am done talking about it!”
OK … tell me the conversation is over, and it is over. But this ignorant ass continued on with her bleating in other threads to other people, so this in a way is my rebut. I do not want to live in her ignorant, weak Utopia, where her safety is entirely dependent on a wise king and loyal law abiding citizens. I’ll take my chances at defending my own family. I don’t give a rip about her babies. Really.
But she is just a mere microcosm of a great evil that has befallen us. I don’t blame Obama for the morass, and Bush didn’t do it either. Weaklings did it. Weaklings who cannot exist without entrapping others into their cocoon of perceived safety and correct speech. All goodness come from government seems to be their creedo, yet when you look at the government, especially in the macro, you find that it does nothing well.
I find myself wishing I could sit out on the front porch after I heard her screaming for help, and calling 911 as any citizen is obligated to do. But damned if I would run over there with one of my {{{ shudder }}} guns to help her. We got a king for that, don’t you know.
So, now that I got this weak sister off my chest …
Bleedin’ diabetes is gaining on me again. Just put a call into the doc about the high readings for the last few days. I had to forgo one of the more useful drugs because of arteriosclerosis, but hopefully I can still medicate it down rather than going to insulin.
Not much else happening on the homestead. The grass grows, we take care of each other and try to stay out of sight of the kings revenooers. Snookums prepares for her day at the food bank. And I sigh because slaves cannot learn to live free …
~r
A study in simplicity … or … p’shat
I love the idea of p’shat, or reading holy books looking for the simple, plain meaning and seeking no other. Not that there aren’t deeper levels to plumb, they indeed are. Some are so sublime that almost everyone misses them.
One if the earliest experiences I had when I began this walk with religion was meeting a young man who was retarded, as we said back in that era before the euphemismists renamed it ID, or intellectual disability.
Jim was his name. He wandered the streets around a city section we called Capitol Hill, an area that had sunk into urban decay. Slums they were called then. Hippies, drunks and sex addicts all filled the streets almost every hour of the day, along with a smattering of Jesusfreak storefronts that you could amble into for a cup of coffee, a doughnut and an ear beating. Some famous Christian evangelists started out there as street people.
Jim had fallen in with a group of hippies who thought it rather cool to load him up with weed, hash oil, LSD or whatever else was around at the time, and watch him amble off into what must have been a hell on earth experience. But they continued to feed and housed him, so I guess they should get some misguided brownie points.
Then one day Jim wandered into one of the Christian storefronts, and found Jesus. His life changed, and he disappeared off the street. I hardly noticed his absence. People came, people went, people died, people went to prison. Jim was simple another lost soul out of the hundreds around me then.
A couple of years later, I ran into Jim again. Life had changed greatly for me, and apparently, it had for Jim as well. Neither of us were on the streets, but rather steadily employed. When I talked to him, he was rational, but there was not one ounce of sophistry about him. I asked him what happened, and he began his tale.
He talked in mysterious vignettes, snatches of disjointed images of sleeping in doorways and being gang raped in a homosexual nightclub/bathhouse. He talked of drugs with an insanity that only another drug user would understand. The confusion coming from his mouth caused confusion and suffering in me.
Then Jim met Jesus. No, not some preacher. Not some sandal clad street evangelist. But Jesus.
Those of you who know me know how uncomfortable I am with that word, Jesus. It means something far different to me than it probably does you, and most of it isn’t good. But Jim’s Jesus was a different sort of Jesus. Jim was healed instantly. His voice became even, calm, and ordered. He spoke of how he dared not even move unless Jesus told him to.
Jim went to work as a custodian, and was paid rather well for it. He began visiting Bible studies and home groups. He was always a study in humility, never offensive, never in ones face. But so many time he would level the sophistry of the study group with two or three sentences of such a divine and irrefutable sureness that it left us gasping in amazement.
Over the years, I have learned that much of what I learned was not what I was supposed to learn. Much of what I read is contradicted by some sage telling me that what I just read isn’t what was really meant, that I would have to read another passage in a different book to get a handle on why the writer really didn’t say what he said. I am getting much too sophisticated, and long for a Jim to come back into my life.
Bulldozing old haunts
It is cool this morning at 66°, light breezes gently sway through the tree, and the humidity is moderately high. Today is rehab day, and the departure time looms ominously as I sit down to compose a morning missive.
I took an interesting bunny trail yesterday. Someone asked if my childhood home was still standing. Indeed it was. At least the home I had through high-school. It was half a block away from the roundhouse, where little steam engines that ran between Alamosa and Durango were housed, and the car shops that maintained the rolling stock.
Many was the night that I was lulled into sleep by the whine of the steam turbines of the engines, the chuffing of the air compressors, the rumble of the idling diesels awaiting the morning train to Denver.
But now, the roundhouse, car shops, coaling stations and all the trackage have been removed and graded flat. The team tracks in front of the house is now used by a local builder for storage, and my old home is 
unrecognizable after extensive remodeling.
The artesian well next door that watered a huge cottonwood and my dad’s rhubarb row has dried up, and the honeysuckle thicket in that vacant yard has been removed. We had caves and forts in that thicket, and it wasn’t a place adults could go into without difficulty.
It was a spooky thicket at night, though. Frogs ribbited, feral cats rustled, and other mysterious noises cautioned. Many was the dark evening when I would be walking home by that thicket, and a sudden noise would cause me to break out into a hard run to get by it.
The corner was lit by a single bulb streetlight that almost put out enough light to see the intersection, but didn’t spill down the street much. The lamp swayed with the breezes, casting menacing shadows across the honeysuckle. But a mad dash up the sidewalk got me home.
The front of the house had a glassed in porch that lit the yard with welcoming light, and where I set up my surplus two way radios that I used in the Civil Air Patrol. One was a low band unit that allowed me to converse with other CAP installations across Colorado, and one that I could use to communicate with local aircraft and occasionally military aircraft that needed to use our remote airfield.
But all that is gone now, along with the memories. A non-descript house with a detached garage, a plumbers workshop next door, a couple of low rent apartment houses, and a huge swath of cinders graded to a uniform flatness.
I mourn the loss. But then the early denizens probably mourned the loss of vast seas of timothy grass, the cotton woods along the Rio Grande river from which the town received its name, Alamosa.
And life goes on.
Good morning!
~r
Rusty's Armory 