Merry Christmas

I've decided to add a few pictures as a special Christmas edition of the Blog. Here you'll see Mikki and I as we practiced our peace signs. It took me several tries to master it, usually only using one finger(driving in Idaho will do that to you) - I'm just kidding. You may notice a long line of foot prints going just to the right of Mikki. Those are the prints of the itinerant who took the picture. What you don't see is our tracks as we chased him down the beach trying to get our camera back. The picture you see is the evidence that we did catch him. He wasn't too fast, but he was wiry and put up a pretty good fight, but was no match for Mikki. I was very proud of her. She subdued him with an arm bar and had him tapping out in about a minute. Actually, this is a picture of our back yard looking West.

This is a picture from last year when Jake was in Sandcreek Middle School. This was taken just following his coming in second in the 50 meter free style at the fall swim meet. I think he could have had first place if he hadn't worn his football gear. That crazy kid! Many of you will recognize the pretty girl growing out of his arm pit - his sister, Katie. Actually, Katie is the accomplished swimmer and Jake is the football player. As many of you are aware, they both are excellent musicians. Jake plays percussion in the Hillcrest band and and sings in the Men's Choir. Katie sings in the Choral and plays guitar and bass.

These are the signs Katie and Jake took to the war protest we had last year. This brings back a lot of memories from the sixties when I was carrying signs. But mine said "Passing thru. Down on my luck. Can you help? God Bless." I carried one that said "Eat at Joe's", But I made more money with the other one.

This is from our trip to Monterrey, Ca to see Tyler Graduate from Language School. He learned Arabic so he could be stationed in North Carolina and keep an eye on the Arabs there. Just because there aren't any there doesn't deter the Marines. He is there in case some wander by. The slabs of rock behind them are actual pieces of the Berlin Wall taken from - well.....Berlin, where else? When we got there, the slabs were just plain, so we thought we'd jazz them up a bit. I thought it made them look more festive, but the Marines just didn't see it our way. Our trip was cut short after that. I really think they overreacted and didn't have to escort us off the base like that. And such language! I mean, really, they were only slabs of cement. You'll notice Jake's hair is a different color. That was part of his Halloween costume that didn't wear off like it was suppose to.

We often go down to the river to feed the geese. We ran out of bread, so Zach tried Carsten, but the geese didn't care for that fare and left him alone. We fished him out and dried him off, but Carsten didn't seem to appreciate the effort. We saw it as feeding the geese and a quick swim lesson. The other people there were huffed, but I thought calling the police was a bit over the top. After all, we fished him out. Truth is, this is Zach and our grandson, Carsten. We were feeding the ducks and geese at the river.

This is a picture of Katie and the warning sign we were forced to post on our house and in several different places about the city when she got her drivers license. The State Department of Transportation and the State Police required it. Personally, I didn't think the accidents were that bad and just because that certain driving instructor, who will remain nameless, will never teach again, shouldn't mean we have to drive in front of Katie at all times with a bull horn to let unaware drivers know she is on the road. It is very inconvenient. But, isn't she cute? Actually, she is a very excellent driver and we are very, very proud of her. She has been driving for a couple of years now.

This last picture is for me because I'm tired of winter already and I wanted a picture of something with color. This was taken in some one's back yard. I snuck back in the yard when I thought no one was home. As it turned out, they were home and seemed to be a bit miffed when they found me taking pictures in their back yard. Still, a day in jail just for taking pictures? Geez!!! Really, this is a picture of our Pergola. The ladder is for picking grapes from the top.

So much for pictures. I hope you liked them. And, I hope the season is good to you and that you all have a Merry Christmas.

Nine Words Women Use - A Primer for Men

I don’t know who wrote this, as it was given to me by a young lady in our office. It appears to be an email that was printed off. I thought some of you would get a kick out of it. I would hope this might be of help to some of the young men out there who haven't, as yet, discovered all the meanings of these nine words. I've added an addendum at the end as a post script contributing some additional advice. Ladies, if there are other words we men should know, please add them via comments at the end. We need all the help we can get!

1. Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

2. Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

3. Nothing: this is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in Fine.

4. Go Ahead: this is a dare, not permission. Don’t do it!

5. Loud Sigh: this is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of Nothing)

6. That’s Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long an hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

7. Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question or faint. Just say you’re welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - this is true unless she says, ‘Thanks a lot’ - that is pure sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say you’re welcome. That will bring on a ‘Whatever’.

8. Whatever: Is a woman’s way of saying ‘Stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, mister!’

9. Don’t Worry About It, I Got It: Another dangerous statement meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?" For the woman’s response, refer to #3.

Here is some extra advice:

Always, always, always, say you are sorry when you find yourself in an argument with a woman, even if you aren’t sure why she is mad at you and especially if you think you are right. This will possibly save you the worst thing that a woman can say to you - NOTHING!. When you get the silent treatment, you are definitely in deep do do and you better be apologizing as fast as possible and hope you can get back to ‘Fine’, or ‘Whatever’. Any other course will only bring you more grief and you will be suffering the repercussions long after your original sin, possibly for years, as women DO NOT FORGET.

I hope this is helpful.

Remember when........

Nostalgia is one of my favorite pastimes this time of year, since going outside requires thirty minutes of applying ten layers of clothes and, just as you have the last layer on, you have to go to the bathroom which requires removing several layers, thus negating any time advantage and removing all desire to go outside. Therefore, I sit inside and think about the good ol’ days when I was young and enjoyed winter and all the fun it entailed, because we were all young and stupid and thought being cold beyond numb was fun. So, dear reader, I remember when.......

We wore mittens that were attached to each other insuring we lost both mittens instead of just one. When we would slide down the street near our house, on our American Racers or, you may know it as Flexible Flyer, the sled with two steel runners that would invariably run over your frozen fingers, never worrying about encountering an oncoming car because the traffic was nearly non existent. I remember building snowmen that lasted several months because the weather was so stinkin’ cold! I also remember coming in the house after having played outside, for what seemed like two weeks, and having my Mom put my hands under lukewarm water so that I could experience the pain associated with extreme child berth.

While inside, I would gather around the radio (I was an only and lonely child) and listen to many programs that required an imagination. The radio didn’t have fantastic graphics or surround sound. The special effects were dismal, to say the least. BUT, my brain had all those features and much more.

During the detective mysteries, I could feel the fog as it rolled into the city, shrouding everything in a cloud of mystery and intrigue. I could see the bad guy’s blonde girl friend as she walked into the room and sat across from the hero. I laughed so hard at the jokes of Charlie McCarthy and his stupid friends that my side would hurt for hours. Fiber Mcgee’s closet was as real to me as if it existed in my house, and every time he opened and the contents spilled out, I could see every piece scatter across the room. When Jack Benny wound his way down to his vault, I could see every lock on every door, and could feel the cool, stale air rush from his vault as he opened it.
I feel sorry for the kids today who have tv, XBox, Playstation, DVD’s etc. who don’t have the opportunity to develop their imaginations. But, we aren’t talking about now, we are remembering.

I remember when everyone could recognize every car on the road and could name them all. Chevy, Ford, and Chrysler each had one body style each year with just a few variations such as two doors versus four. Or, a hard top versus a convertible. I remember when high schoolers drove old cars that they fixed up with moon hubcaps and dice hanging from the mirror. Some of the older ones actually could afford a cheap paint job, or do it themselves, many with flames along the side of the hood. Some of the rebels would run wires to a spark plug attached to the tailpipe creating flames as they shot out of the school parking lot. All the cool boys wore their hair greased back in a DA (duck’s A ) held in place with Pomade or Butch Wax that left an interesting grease spot on the pillow case. The girls wore pony tails and skirts with Krenelin (sp) slips that held the skirts out. Until the girls were older, they wore bobby socks with saddle oxfords or low canvas tennis shoes. At an older age, they started wearing tight skirts with nylons and dressier shoes. The latter option was the boy's favorite.

I remember ‘Sock Hops’ after school and all the girls would dance with each other because most of the boys were too shy to get out on the dance floor and dance. That was, until the advent of the Slide and another similar dance that I don’t remember the name of, perhaps it was the ‘Shuffle’, where the boys lined up along side each other facing a similar line of girls and then the couple at the end would dance their way between the lines, down to the other end. This would repeat as long as the song lasted. I’m sure the girls invented this style of dancing so they could get the dough brain boys to interact with them. Little did they know that they were playing with fire and they were about to create some ugly monsters that would come back to bite them in later years,(not literally, of course......well, maybe sometimes.). First the women couldn’t get he guys to pay attention to them, then they couldn’t get them to leave them alone. You just can’t win with guys.

I remember a coach that had a paddle with holes in it and if you got out of line, you ended up on the wrong end of that paddle. And, I can speak from experience that the coach didn’t hold back because you were on the football team, in fact, I think he laid it on with more gusto. He hit me into next week. I was only taught that lesson once, being a fast learner, and also enjoying setting down at least once a week, I didn’t need another lesson. There was no talk of abuse or assault or anything like that, it was simply effective discipline that the kids didn’t mention to their parents for fear of a second application of the same curriculum at home. Consequently, we never had discipline problems at school, no one had ADHD or behavioral problems, we never heard swear words in the halls or on the school grounds, teachers weren’t afraid to discipline their students and students treated the teachers with respect. I also remember we had to perform in school or hazard repeating the same grade, which was a real possibility if you under performed. The teachers weren’t so concerned with our self esteem as they were in teaching us something. If we performed, our self esteem would take care of itself, if we didn’t, too bad. Life was simple then.

I remember movies that ran continually, not having a starting time. Everyone just went to the movies and if they wandered in at the middle of the movie, they just stayed until the part of the movie came back around where they came in, then they left. I remember Saturday matinees that had serials, fifteen minute shorts that continued every Saturday, with cliff hanger endings designed to bring you back the next week. We would always go as a large group of kids and stay all day, watching the serials, cartoons, newsreels and coming attractions at least twice each.. We would scream at the screen when the good guys were in peril, and cheer when the bad guys got their comeuppance. We thought nothing of yelling instructions at the characters when they were doing something we saw as stupid, always telling them who we thought were the bad guys.

Back then, we could afford to go to the movies several times a week, if we wanted to, because they were affordable, even with the low wages people were paid. We would fall in love with all the actresses, and identify with the heroes. We would leave the theater thinking we were Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry, John Wayne, or Jim Stewart, pretending to ride our horses, shooting at outlaws or Indians as we rode hard for home. We learned about life in the movies, about honor and honesty, how to be fair and the results of unfair practices. We learned how to treat women and to show respect to them. We learned how to fall in love, and the heart break that could accompany that emotion.

I remember when tv first started in Idaho Falls, starting at three in the afternoon and ending at midnight. Shows like Howdy Doody, Rin Tin Tin, Superman, Dragnet, Lassie....the list goes on. Jack Benny and Charlie McCarthey came to life and looked nothing like I had imagined. We had two stations and no remote - the kids were the remotes. "Change the channel." Why do I have to change it?" "Because you’re younger." was an exchange heard in every household in America, in a variety of languages. Obesity was kept in check just by that one phenomenon.

Even with tv, our lives were filled with time outdoors. In the summer, we would play all day outside. If we weren’t playing baseball in the parking lot of Highland Park where the Russets played, we were walking on our stilts, or riding bicycles, trying new and bolder stunts until someone crashed and went home crying. We played hide and seek at night, or a myriad of other games, staying out until ten or so, when someone’s mom or dad would yell for them to come home, then we’d all wander home, promising to meet the next day to continue. Some of us, the more evil bunch, would play Devil on the Doorstep periodically, with one quietly walking up to the door, ringing the door bell, then all or us running as fast as we could to keep from getting caught. I’m not sure why we thought that was so fun, but we did - at least until we got caught. Then it the fun ran out real fast.

Well, I’ve remembered enough for now, and this has become some what lengthy as it is. But, I remember when reading was one of those pastimes that we all had time to do. I rememeber.........

Martin's Law of Falling Toast

Here is a blast from the past, written, in part, while I was in Oregon. At least the genisis of the original story finds its roots in Oregon. I've embellished some parts and added others, but the heart of the story remains unchanged.

I awoke to a down pour. The weather could only be explained as Babe, Paul Bunyan’s giant ox, peeing on a flat rock just outside my window. Wow, another Oregon summer day! I performed a breach birth from my blanket womb and padded off to the bathroom. After dressing, I wandered into the kitchen to fix breakfast. Visions of fried eggs, bacon and toast floated through my brain as I shuffled around the kitchen gathering utensils, food and a final resting place for the finished product.

I fished the toaster out of the cupboard, added a new layer of electrician tape to the splice in the cord, and plugged it in. As was my custom, I jumped back in case the cord threw sparks again. No light show this time. I threw in the last piece of bread that wasn’t growing something, pushed down the knob, grabbed a nice heavy book to prop against the knob since it wouldn’t stay down anymore, and started singing Jaded Lover - a Jerry Jeff Walker song - which was just the right amount of time for a perfect piece of toast. As soon as I finished the song, the toast was ready. Who needs modern technology?

Big finish.......tag the last line and, voila, toast! I removed the book, pulled the knob up and pulled the toast out of the toaster. I spread on some butter then some of Smucker’s best grape jam, and turned to place the freshly spread toast on the plate. But, as I turned, the toast jumped from my hand. Yes, jumped. It is the only explanation. It was a desperate act, unplanned I’m sure, but well executed and with perfect timing. The toast fell to the vinyl, landing, as you would expect, gooey side down. I stood there, staring at the fallen toast between my feet, wondering what could have gotten into that piece of toast. Why would it want to end things like that? So sad and senseless. Plus, why did it have to land slick side to the floor? Had it landed the other way, the five second rule would have come into play and I could have rescued it and all would have ended well. But, noooooooo, it had to land slimy side down, negating the five second rule and invoking the, Trash It, Pal, you lose, rule. And that I did, trash it, I mean. But, it got me to thinking. Why does the stupid toast always fall jam side down? Days and weeks later, after extensive research at the local library (before the internet), I had the answer.

But, before I go into the physics of falling toast, let me add some of the history I uncovered while researching this phenomenon. I’m sure there are many, like me, who have wondered where jam came from. Who was the first to discover it? And why? Well, I found the answers to these two worrisome questions. The story:

The beginning began at the beginning, .........of time, I mean. At the dawn of recorded time - The Stone Age. Perhaps a quick treatise on Ages is in order here. As you know, first, there was the Stone Age, where all the men would go off on extended business trips to bring back the bacon, so to speak, well actually, that is exactly what they did. The women, who weren’t real happy about their husbands leaving them home alone and going off and doing, who knew what and certainly getting into as much trouble as possible, had to stay home and gather roots and berries, twigs and leaves to make up the stew for the meat the men would drag home. The women weren’t happy about the gathering thing either, and they let the men know how unhappy they were as soon as they returned from their business trips. This complaining and nagging resulted in a shift of ages, sliding everyone into the Agricultural Age. In the Agricultural Age, the men stayed home and, through animal husbandry, raised the animals instead of going off on extended trips to hunt and kill them. In addition, the men also tilled the ground, sowed and harvested crops of vegetables, tended orchards of fruits and generally kept busy all day. The women were happy with this arrangement, so the nagging slowed to a crawl.

Now, there was a brief period before the Ag Age where we found the Bronze Age. But other than something to do with baby shoes, there isn’t much known about that age.

The Agriculture Age lasted for many centuries until the time the women were tired of having to live on the farm and, due to lack of funds, not being able to go to town and shop like they would like, and that they knew was their birth rite. The nagging and complaining rose to new heights. So, the dawn of the Industrial Age was upon man. Everyone moved to the cities where there were jobs and stress and mortgages and stores and more stores and plenty of things to buy. The women were happy once again. At least, until men started going off on extended business trips and it started all over again with the nagging and complaining.

Sometime around the mid sixties, we had the Age of Aquarius, but there wasn’t much money in that age, and it quickly faded. But, I have digressed from the original story, the beginning of jam. As I mentioned, it was in the Stone Age we find the genesis of jam.

Mulut, son of Numbutt, was a middle aged man living, in what is now thought to be Ohio, at the dawn of civilization. Mulut, though he was only twenty two, was indeed middle aged for that time. Men didn’t live long then, due to the dangers of their extended business trips. The men would often band together for safety as they ventured forth to hunt their favorite prey - the mighty mastodon, the hairy elephant. On the occasion that is credited for the creation of jam, Mulut was out hunting alone. He was spirited out of his warm cave by his wife, who was tired of left overs and wanted something freshly killed to eat. Unfortunately for Mulut, there wasn’t a planned business trip on the calender, so he found himself hunting alone.

Mulut’s wife threw him a new berry bag as he stepped out of the cave door. He was ordered to pick up some berries while he was out. The freshly made berry bag was similar to all the berry bags of the tribe - made from the mammary of a female mastodon. These were just the right size, not too big, not too small. A leather draw string kept the bag shut and the berries in. Mulut was set for his trip.

Mulut’s luck was running strong and he fell into a large patch of berries a few miles from his cave. He filled the berry sack to capacity in a few short minutes. He was quite happy with himself and knew his wife would be happy as well. Mulut’s euphoria was short lived. His preoccupation with his good fortune in the berry patch fogged his small but agile brain and he let his guard down for just a minute. A minute too long, as it turned out.

A large, male mastodon, attracted to the scent of the berry bag Mulut was carrying and filling with berries, had lumbered up to within charging distance of Mulut. Before Mulut knew it, the male mastodon, smack dab in the middle of his annual rut - mating season, enamored by, what he thought was a female mastodon, was charging toward the object of his affection. Unfortunately for Mulut, that object happened to be him and his mammary berry bag!

Mulut was rudely shaken out of his euphoria by the sounds of the aroused mastodon rumbling toward him. Mulut took off running at his top speed, which, as you may imagine, wasn’t near the speed of an enamored mastodon. Mulut was losing ground at a rapid rate. He reluctantly jettisoned the heavy berry bag in an attempt to gain some much needed speed. The mastodon, fixed on Mulut, didn’t see the berry bag, which was actually what should have been his focus. The big, hairy beast stepped squarely on the bag, smashing it and its contents. Mulut, finding a small cave in a little patch of trees, dove in and hid from the mastodon, saving himself from a fate worse than death. The frustrated mastodon snorted and stamped and rooted around, looking for Mulut, hoping that he wasn’t going to go home alone. But, finally, the mastodon gave up and headed off to a bar down the street named Hairy's.

After the mastodon had left, Mulut came out and looked for his berry bag. When he found it he looked inside and saw that the berries were all smashed. His head slumped as he imagined what his wife would say when she saw the gooey mess. But, he knew he had to take the whole mess back. On the trip back, he concocted a story that he could tell his wife. Upon arriving home, he explained how he had decide to smash the berries so they could be spread on a piece of bread, that way making it easier on his wife when she prepared dinner. She bought it and jam was invented.

And now, the Law. Martins Law of Falling Toast states: An object, coated on one side with some type of gooey substance, will land sticky side down due to the added gravitational attraction of the gooey substance. This attraction is directly proportional to the amount of sticky goo applied to the object, and inversely proportional to the available supply of objects.

Well, I hope this little story will enlarge you appreciation for jam and what went into its creation. The next time you drop something with a side slathered in something gooey and sticky, and it lands slick side down, you’ll then remember this small article and will know why things ended as they did. Any thanks can be expressed in twenties or hundreds.

Bits of Wisdom from across the years

"However noble in its intentions, public charity is fatally flawed, Tocqueville finds, because it denies the most basic fact of human nature: that men will work only to sustain life or to improve their condition. Unfortunately, it is the first motive that impels the vast majority of men, and to deprive them of that by giving them a legal right to charity is to condemn them to a life of idleness and improvidence." (Gertrude Himmelfarb )

He argues, "people have always learned more from their mistakes than from their success; but when the 'price' of mistakes is eliminated, the result is confusion and a loss of motivation to do better."Dr. Karl Menninger

Jim Black said, "For most of our history, Americans placed greater stock in a man's character than in his possession. The American Dream held that, by hard work and self-discipline we could achieve success. And success was not measured in material possessions alone...The common wisdom of the day taught that greed, luxury, and self-indulgence were the passions of weak character. And the frugal nature of the pioneers taught that the treasures to be valued most were the virtues of honesty, good character, and moral strength."

"The issue here is of selfishness or unselfishness. Is the individual to be governed by the principle of what he likes, or what other people like; what he considers desirable or what others consider desirable? If he allows himself to be governed by the former and does always the things which will please him, his personality will shrink, his range of friendships will narrow, his likes will decrease while his fears and dislikes will increase; whereas the person who acts on the principle of what will help or please others, even to the extent of undertaking activities which he dislikes or finds awkward, will develop new skills and in time even convert his aversions into enjoyment. The growth of a personality and the growth of a person's range of interest, skills and pleasures, are one and the same thing...Personality and its rewards are a by-product of converting one's energies into habits and skills which interest and serve other people."
"Let us assume that your analysis of the causes of your failure is substantially correct, and that you have been the victim of these outside forces in your environment. The one important question now is: What are you going to do about it? The only person in the world who can solve this problem is you. We may help you to map out a plan of action, but only you can carry this plan into effect. Only you can assume the responsibility for its success. The more time we spend analyzing the causes, which are in the past, the less time and power you will have to practice the new habits and skills which you need to take you out of this situation. The time for talk has ended. From now on the emphasis must be on action, struggle, painful practice, embarrassing moments, self-sacrifice, discipline, patient and persistent effort." (The Rediscovery of Man)

"One man of tolerable abilities may work great changes and accomplish great affairs among mankind, if he first forms a good plan and ...makes the execution of that same plan his sole study and business" – Ben Franklin – hero

"System in all things should be aimed at; for in execution, it renders every thing more easy." – George Washington – hero

"We are always equal to what we undertake with resolution...It is part of the American character to consider nothing as desperate; to surmount every difficulty by resolution and contrivance." – Thomas Jefferson – hero

"First was the creation of a 'natural aristocracy,' as Jefferson put it, of genius and virtue. This would be no aristocracy of wealth, caste, or privilege. Because genius and virtue are not limited to any particular class, but scattered randomly throughout the polity...By separating the 'wheat from the chaff,' as Jefferson starkly put it, he hoped to elevate worthy persons to guard the sacred rights of liberty." – Bill Bennet, summarizing Thomas Jefferson – hero


"Circumstances may be difficult, but instead of becoming their victim I shall rise above them. My reason may be inadequate but my faith can be strong. I have faith in my powers as a free will agent, able to choose between right and wrong. I have faith in a moral and spiritual order higher than any comprehended by science or reason. By faith I can accept a super-human concept of personality which gives me confidence in my potentialities. I will not accept defeat, I will struggle to achieve. I may fall but I will rise again. I may not win wealth, but I will win mastery over myself." (Henry Link)

From time to time, I'll add a few more pithy sayings - food for thought - to keep us all thinking and growing. Especially, on those days when I can't think of anything interesting to write about.

I thought these were very topical given the economic climate and the failure of major corporations and their leadership. We can now see the importance of effective leadership, especially leadership based on moral and ethical principles. Today's crisis was brought on by the greed and avarice of incompetent leaders whose only desire was for riches and power and who had no moral compass to guide them through the storm. Bailing these buggers out with our hard earned money is ill conceived at best and a crime at worst. But, I'm not going to get political here and stand on a soap box. I've said enough, maybe too much, already. Besides, getting too serious would besmirch the untarnished reputation of this blog and send all three of its readers scurrying off. I can't have that!

Famous people

I would like to open this up to all that are reading this blog, (yes, both of you) and invite you to add your comments when you feel moved to do so. I’ve changed the parameters to allow anyone (this means you) to make a comment. Before, one had to sign in to comment, but not now. Any passing cyberist can stop by and leave a message now without having to identify themselves. Anonymity rules the day here at blog city! While I’m in the urge mode, let me urge all of you to write a blog of your own, in that way, we can all keep up with each other’s lives, staying connected, so to speak.

Now, I know some of you are going to say you don’t write. But, as you can see, that hasn’t stopped me from blogging, even in the face of several requests to stop - I’m going to call them requests, though, technically they should be categorized as threats. And, I don’t really think that kind of language is necessary, not to mention I don’t think that is humanly possible to do that with a computer - it just won’t fit. So, I’ll continue to write!

Finding things to write about is the real challenge for this writer, as you can tell from previous posts. I’ve had some suggestions to write about episodes from my past, but, most of the statutes of limitation aren’t up yet, so, I’d better not admit anything at this point. Besides, I can’t imagine that things that happened thirty to forty years ago would have any interest to anyone today. And, since my life now is beyond boring, I have little to write about. Perhaps I could write about the famous people I’ve had the occasion to meet. Why not? Let’s start at the beginning - Cheetah!

Who’s Cheetah? Well, my friend, Cheetah was the most famous chimpanzee in the forties and fifties, perhaps, of all time. Cheetah was Tarzan’s friend in all of the Tarzan movies and he was one of my heroes - Tarzan, not Cheetah. But, Cheetah knew Tarzan and that fact made him a person of interest to me. I was only three or four at the time I met Cheetah. My mother and I had traveled to California, as was our custom on many occasion, and someone had suggested we could see Cheetah who was on display somewhere near where we were staying. I don’t remember where, since I was too young to drive. Let me digress here a bit. On those occasions we found ourselves in Southern California in the forties and fifties were some of my most fond memories of my childhood.

Southern California was a paradise then. Driving in over the Cajon pass, one could smell the ocean and magnolias, along with the citrus orchards. It wasn’t until the seventies that the smell of oil, smog, cars, people and every other dirty thing was able to over-smell those original smells. From Riverside, we drove through hundreds of orchards and cultivated fields before arriving at the beach towns where the smell of salt in the air let you know you were near the ocean. I can still remember that smell and the feel of the air, the warm dampness that seemed to wrap around us like a security blanket, making us feel at home. The trips we’d take down to the beach and the Pike, the amusement park on the beach, were always memorable. At some other time, I’ll write about the trips there. For now, I’ll stick to the subject at hand, famous people I’ve met.

I’m not sure if Cheetah was staying in LA, or Long Beach, I think it was LA. I vaguely remember riding the El - the elevated train, more like a street car - between Long Beach and LA, when we saw Cheetah. Before seeing him, we had stopped at a novelty store and I had bought a rubber weenie. I bought it so I could play tricks on Grandma and Grandpa when we got home to Idaho. We finally arrived at the Cheetah home, actually it was just him in a cage on display somewhere. I stood at the cage facing Cheetah, the real friend of Tarzan. He sat there, staring back at me, or, more accurately, at my weenie. Not my weenie, but the rubber one that I had purchased. He reached out of the cage, trying to grab my weenie. I stepped back, saving the weenie and me from the grasp of the chimp. Cheetah took offense at my refusal to share my weenie with him, so he spit on me! Cheetah, the companion of Tarzan, king of the jungle, spit on me! I was devastated. How could someone with those credentials behave like that in public? My faith in the rich and famous was shaken, and remains so to this day. I’ve never watched a Tarzan movie with the same gusto since. Fortunately, my experience with other famous people was more positive, though there was that one time with that famous singer, who must remain nameless, for reasons that also must not be spoken of, who broke my heart. I can’t say anything more about that, having to take the fifth ammendment on the entire affair.

The next famous person I met was Trampus, or, more accurately, Doug McClure the actor who played Trampus on the very popular tv show, The Virginian. The year was 1963 and I was in Hawaii attending the University of Hawaii. Naturally, I was surfing as well. Actually, the reverse was true, I was surfing in Hawaii and attending the University of Hawaii, as well. My priorities were in that order. The Virginian was, as I said, very popular and Doug McClure was very popular at that time. I had watched the show every week while I was in California, but hadn’t seen it for a few months as I had no tv in Hawaii. On the day I met him, I was out surfing at a spot called Threes, just Ewa of Waikiki beach straight out from the Reef Towers and the Halakalani Hotel. I was the only person out for awhile, then another surfer came paddling out. In Hawaii, most all breaks are out on the reef, in this case, about a quarter of a mile out. I continued to surf, catching some nice five to six foot waves. The other surfer was doing the same, and we’d occasionally pass as one of us caught a wave and the other would be paddling out. I kept thinking I knew him since he looked really familiar. Finally, during a lull in the waves, I paddled over - we were only about ten to twenty feet apart since the line up on the waves was usually in the same place- and asked him if we had met. He said no and introduced himself - Doug McClure. It took a few seconds for that to sink in. Doug McClure!!!! I was surfing with a star! We talked for a few minutes, surfed a few more waves, talked some more, etc. I don’t remember what we talked about, probably surfing in California versus Hawaii, but I do remember we hit it off. He was probably happy that he could have a reasonable conversation with a fellow surfer about regular things and not have to put up with all the star stuff he was accustomed to. As the light faded, we decided to paddle in and give it up for the day. I said goodby and headed off to my pad. Somehow, we had decided to meet up the next day at the beach. I don’t remember the details, but at any rate, I met him the next day and we wandered around Waikiki beach together. As we walked up and down the beach, people, mostly girls, would come up to us and ask Doug for his autograph. They would look at me, trying to figure out who the heck I was and if I was worth getting an autograph from. Many decided not to take a chance on missing someone famous and asked me for my signature. I obliged, happy in the thought I’d made a young girl happy thinking she had autographs from two famous people. Doug and I hung out a day or two after that, then he had to return to California. At least he didn’t spit on me.

At a later date, I’ll continue with some of my Hawaii stories. Until then, aloha.

Snow!!! and other swear words

It snowed today and I’m ready to move away! The thought of another winter here is maddening, and there, dear reader, you have a clue to some of the posts in this blog. If some seem a bit disjointed or, at best, out of touch with reality, it is because as the approaching winter nears, my lunacy increases exponentially. Some of you may beg to differ with that analysis thinking that I’m always ‘off’, or odd, or unbalanced, or ‘different’, or sick, or whatever the euphemism is currently. Mai non, mon ami. It is the winter.

But, on a happier note, we attended an excellent concert Friday (December 5, 2008) in which Katie and the Hillcrest Choral sang with the Idaho Falls Symphony. The Choral was, as always, perfect and the Symphony sounded as good as any I’ve heard. All in all, it was an excellent evening.

You have to love the English language. Choral, pronounced like corral, which has a whole other meaning. Imagine listening to some one speaking saying "we let the cows out of the corral", and thinking they were talking about a choral.

"We’re going to let the cows out of the corral," John said, answering Aja’s question about what he was doing Saturday.
"You call them ‘cows’?" Aja said.
"Sure, that’s what they are."
"But, don’t they care?" Aja asked, aghast at John’ s cavalier attitude toward the women who sang in the choral. "Besides, do they not like being in the choral?"
"No, they hate it. They are always belly aching to get out." John answered.
"Then why did they get in there to begin with?" Aja asked.
"We put them in to keep them out of trouble," John explained.
"To keep them out of trouble?" Aja said, repeating John’s statement to try to make some sense of it all.
"You betcha," John said. "Just last week, one got out of the corral and wandered around in traffic for about a half hour. We finally threw a rope on her and towed her back to the corral behind a truck. She was mighty angry after that."
"Well, I would imagine so," Aja said, understandingly.
"And, we’re gonna be branding them so we have to let them out of the corral so we can get them in the branding chutes," John added.
"Branding? What is that?" Aja asked, not familiar with the term.
"That’s when you heat up an iron with a symbol on it, then place it on them so it burns your brand on them. That way you know they are yours," John explained.
Aja just stared at John for a moment. "We do not brand in India. Especially not those in the choral."
"Well, it would be hard in the corral. You get them out of the corral and put them in a branding chute first. That way, they can’t get away, or kick you, or what ever," John said.
"I would kick too if you did that to me," Aja said
"Sure you would, but we don’t do that to men, just the cows. We also milk them," John added.
"You milk the .....cows....in the choral?" Aja asked, stumbling over the word 'cows'. He wasn't accustomed to calling women 'cows'.
John shook his head. "Of course not, we let them out of the corral and put them in the barn. That way we can put their heads between the slats in the feed chute so they don't start jumping around when we attach the milker to them."
"A milker?" Aja asked, afraid to hear the answer.
"It's a machine that you attach to the cow and it sucks the milk out of 'em. Just slick as a whistle, and fast too," John explained.
"So, do you milk them by hand in India?"
"No, we do not milk them in India," Aja said.
"Oh yeah, that's right. I forgot they are special in India. Around here we don't treat 'em as nice as you do there," John said, smiling.
"America is too weird for me. I don’t think I will ever understand you here," Aja said, shaking his head and walking off.

Tune in next week, fans, to hear Aja say, "Does it smell like curry in here?"

Well, dear reader, you can see what happens to me when I have to go out and shovel snow, all my blood drains down into my feet in a hopeless attempt at keeping them warm, and therefore, not leaving enough for my brain. I should apologize, but ego compels me to move on and forget the apology. Well talk later.

Oops Quick retraction

Oops!! This is a quick retraction for some, off the cuff remarks made in my last post about the New Guinea Aboriginal Face Mutations. When I first thought of the subject, New Guinea Aboriginal Face Mutations, I was just making it up as a joke to go along with the Aggressive Worm Farming theme of one of my previous posts (November 21, 2008). I didn’t really know that the Aboriginal natives of New Guinea really did mutate their faces. When I started writing this last post, I thought it would be a great idea to find some pictures of New Guinea natives to illustrate the post. I found one, very unattractive picture of four natives, three men and one woman, on the internet and placed it on the post. In a misdirected attempt at humor, I mentioned that some may have thought it was a picture of my in laws. And, as you would imagine, some of the in laws took exception to that reference. In an attempt at reconciliation, I will post some real pictures of the in laws here.

This is Mike, my father in law. He may seem a bit familiar to some of you. That is because he has one of those faces that remind everyone of someone they know. He is an avid skydiver, rock climber, surfer, kite flyer, knot tier, Knickerbocker fan, and entomologist. He has been around the world more times than you can count and is on a first name basis with most of the world leaders.

This is a snap shot of my sisters in law, Missi, Richie, and one of Missi’s friends, along with their traveling body guard, as they toured London. The airline had lost their luggage and all they had to wear was the bathing suits they had bought as gag gifts for their nieces and nephews. Needless to say, they were watched as much by the locals, as the local attractions were watched by the tourists. But, all ended well as they were approached by an English producer and offered a picture deal remaking Charlie’s Angels.

So, as you can see, these pictures present a much different look to my family than the previous post. These, of course, are far more accurate and reflect the real in laws. I hope this clears up any confusion that may have been unintended and, I especially hope this gets me off the hook with my inlaws.

Until next time, ta ta for now.

New Guinea Aboriginal Face Mutations

I mentioned in one of my previous posts where I addressed the subject of worm farming, that I would talk about one of my other passions, New Guinea Aboriginal Face Mutations. Since I have had several requests to expose this little known ritual, I’ll take the time here to do so. Actually, I may have overstated when I said I’ve had several requests. It was more like some......well, maybe one or two.........ok, none,.... so what? I’m going to write about it anyway. The picture above, is not of my inlaws, as you may be thinking, although I can see how you may be confused, but, is rather, a rendering of some natives showing off their gender markings.

Where does one start when writing about New Guinea Aboriginal Face Mutations? I suppose the beginning would be a logical place since starting at the end would be more than confusing. But, before we delve into the history of, for brevity we’ll call NGAFM, let’s take a quick look at what it is. NGAFM, is a form of face mutating long thought of as extinct. It is rarely seen anymore, but is sometimes still practiced in the depths of the New Guinea jungle. The practice is a form of the rites of passage for young men and women as they reach marrying age and are starting out on the jungle dating circuit. As one would imagine, the male and female disfigurement differs by gender, allowing the casual observer the ability to differentiate between the sexes. Since the women in the New Guinea jungle wear nothing above the waist except a smile, one may wonder why a different method of determining gender is required. These are simple folks and some things just elude them. So, a difference in face mutilations is required. To save time, and for some of you who may be a bit squeamish, we’ll look only at the male mutilation.

The young man, as he comes of age, which many of you may know in the New Guinea jungle is at the age of twelve years and three months, is taken from his family and placed in a small sweat hut, where he is left for three days, sweating. This prepares him for the coming rituals by making him stinky, hungry and dehydrated, not to mention extremely irritated. Once he is pulled from the sweat hut, he is shackled and tied to a long pole stuck into the ground near the middle of the village. This is done because of the, afore mentioned, extreme irritation. After he is secured, he is prepared for the mutilation ceremony. This preparation consists of an application of a poultice of herbs prepared by the village witch doctor who also doubles as the latrine security officer and chief mutilator. After the herbs and assorted witch doctory things take their effect, rendering the young man’s face and torso devoid of feeling, the witch doctor returns to the young man stuck on the pole and begins the ceremony. The entire village population forms a circle around the young man, who resembles an angry center piece, and chants. I’d include the words here, but they are not to be repeated outside of the circle under the penalty of really bad things happening to the blabber. But, suffice it to say, they are words of encouragement - not for the boy, but for the witch doctor/ latrine security officer / chief mutilator. The wiry little man works himself into a dither by dancing around chanting phrases such as, "Nactose, woambo, botsa, which is roughly translated as "I hope this works this time." He then adeptly applies his magic and messes up the face of the young man.

Cheers fill the air as the young man, dazed and shaken, is untied and reunited with his family. All the young women surround him, admiring his new, mutilated face, giggling as they whisper among themselves about how handsome the new victim is. Many of the young women, their own faces mutilated, are hoping for a chance to date the new male on the circuit. As is the custom, a young woman attaches a large mud ball covered with hundreds of tiny mirrors to a tall tree limb and the entire tribe dances under the ball for hours into the night. This, as you are no doubt aware, was where disco started.

I hope this brief essay will elicit some excitement about this ancient practice found in the New Guinea jungle. Then, I’ll have someone to talk to about the intricacies of a strange, but fascinating ritual. So, dear readers, study and delve into this amazing subject and we’ll talk later.

Winter - ain't it great!

Ok, snow fans, I thought I'd post this picture for you so you can begin your euphoric glee fest before the first flake falls (nice alliteration, don't you think?). Could that be, the First Flake Fall Fest? I've never really understood how anyone over the age of eleven could be excited about snow and its many evils. Of course, I understand the farmers and their thirst for water (nice phrase, huh?) since it can mean a great deal to them in terms of crop yield and, ultimately, money, but what excuse could a city dweller have for wanting to see a blanket of white covering everything? There is another one of those sentences that start out as a statement and end up as a question. How is it that I can continue to write those? Anyway, going on.

Of course, the first snow is very beautiful and serene, but that soon fades when you have to drive somewhere and you discover you can't stop at the first stop sign you come to. After that, the novelty has worn off and the panic that you had repressed throughout the summer returns with a vengeance and engulfs you in its icy fingers. As you drive, you hear other drivers echoing the same chant you have screamed many times - WHY DO I LIVE HERE????? Well, you can list all the positives of living in Idaho Falls, like low crime, low population, low expectations, low wages, lowing of cattle, lower education, low down dirty rotten scoundrels, Lerner and Lowe musicals, low cost of living - HAH!, low riders, low slung britches, ....... wait, wasn't I supposed to be listing the positives of living her. I guess I should stop this attempt at humor and really list the reasons people live here. Like, ...................................well, there is...........................no, really, I can list some things. For instance there is........................................and....................................ok, so I'm having a bit of a problem listing some of the many reasons we live here. This time of year, as we prepare for winter, it is difficult to remember why we live here. But, there really are a myriad of reasons, just none of them come to me right now. Actually, that isn't completely true. We live in one of the greatest places to live in the world.....nine months out of the year. The other three are not so great.

For the skiers, snowmobilers, and other lobotomy candidates, winter is a welcome respite from the beautiful weather we have here during the spring, summer and fall. Those masochistic masses that look forward to cold, wet, gray, ....did I mention cold?.......nasty weather love this time of year. Go figure! I, for one, don't, in case you hadn't picked up on that yet. But, we endure and eventually, we get through and find ourselves back to the happiness spring brings and we forget, for another season, the ravages of winter. We forget our rants, our pledges to find a decent place to live, our promises to ourselves to never spend another winter here, the frozen feet and hands, the slipping and sliding, the falls, the misery that is winter, and we go on, thinking that next year, maybe winter won't be so bad. Yeah, right.

So, those of you, who read this, who don't have to suffer those maladies of winter, will look at this picture and think how beautiful the snow is. Those of us who had to endure last winter's ravages, recognize it for what it really is, a pain in the patute! That's all I'll say about that....at least for now.

The Monday After

Well, here we are at the beginning of December and I am just now able to move after consuming more than my share of turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy, sweet potatoes, rolls, coconut pie, pumpkin pie, cherry cheese cake, and assorted side dishes. Gluttony ruled the day last Thursday along with excellent company and conversation, chasing grand kids around, and, for some, ping pong. Thanksgiving has to be my favorite holiday, with all the best parts of holidays such as great food, spending time with family, watching football, and none of the pressure of gifts and worrying if you got that special gift for your loved ones that they will cherish for a long time. Usually, I miss on that regard and end up getting just the wrong thing at just the wrong time, making everyone uncomfortable and wondering what I was thinking.

Like the time I bought Mikki that new Weed Whacker so that she could do a better job of trimming when she mowed the lawn. I think I could have gotten away with that if I hadn’t included a hand written note explaining how to use the machine and just how I liked to see the lawn trimmed. Until that time, I didn’t know a Weed Whacker could actually tear the pants off of a grown man and how loud that thing is in the house! I think I still have some of the scars.

The next year I bought her a book titled "Be The Wife He Deserves" by Cherish De Bumme. The only thing I can say about that is I’m certainly lucky it wasn’t a very large book since even that edition left a sizable dent in my head. There is no pleasing that woman! So, what am I to get her this year? I’m staying away from yard tools and books since they obviously aren’t her favorites. Maybe something in the realm of lingerie would be nice. That’s always a safe bet. Or, I could get her a gift certificate from Sportsman’s Warehouse or The Spinning Reel. I’ll bet she’d like something like that. She claims she doesn’t like camping or fishing, or even hunting, but I know she is just saying that to throw me off the trail of what she really wants. She is sneaky that way.

I remember one year, when I was still smarting from the Weed Whacker and book debacle, I decided to go with clothes. I found a great buy on nice ensemble consisting of an hunter orange vest with matching gloves, hat, and scarf. I figured it would help entice her to reconsider her adamant refusal to go hunting. It didn’t. I even threw in a special edition of the calendar with the bikini clad women fishing - kinda going with the outdoors theme - but, it wasn’t much of a hit either, even though they had Miss July fly fishing right here on the South Fork of the Snake River. What is a guy to do?? As hard as I try, you’d think I wouldn’t be in the dog house so often. I JUST DON’T GET IT!!!

One year, she said she thought she’d like a deck, so I got her a really nice hammer and Skill saw and a book on how to build decks. The next year, she mentioned she was thinking of a patio, so I bought a neat little electric cement mixer and a small trowel. None of those gifts were appreciated. So, I’m really at a loss for this year. Maybe a new lawn mower would hit the spot. But, considering how the Weed Whacker went over, perhaps I should rethink that. Well, I’m really in a quandary, and I only have a few more weeks to make a decision. If anyone is reading this, perhaps you can suggest something. I’ll wait here.

So now, you can see why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday