BABIES ARE THE NEATEST CREATURES

Blog number sixty-six                                    31 Dec. 2006

So this morning Teresa needs to refill a prescription so we hie ourselves down to Safeway.  Standing in line at the prescription counter, I hear a boy of about four years of age, sitting in a "car-cart," saying to his dad, "I don't like..."  I couldn't hear the last of it so I went to the father and asked him what the boy didn't like.  He said, "the sour ones."

I say, "ah," and go back to where Teresa waits.

Teresa drops off her prescriptions and we pass by the little boy.  I say, "You don't like the sour ones, eh?"

"No, I like those," as he points to a candy rack.  I point to the ones I like and tell him so.  He points to another and says, "I like those."

I point to licorice and say, "I like those."

We talk about the candy rack for a while longer, then I go to rejoin Teresa who is down the aisle, shopping.  We wander awhile and wind up near the little boy who calls me and motions me to come over, so I do.

"Are you a trainter?"  I hear him say.  I ask him, "what?"  He repeats what he said.  I still don't understand, so I ask him, "What's a trainter?" and as soon as I say it, I ask him, "You mean a 'stranger?' " He nods yes.

I tell him, "yes, I'm a stranger."   He averts his eyes and from then on he will not talk to me.

I am sitting at a table drinking coffee when his family and he walk by on their way out.  I say, "bye!"  He waves, but he still will not talk.
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We were at the mall last week and we saw the cutest girl sitting on her daddy's shoulders.  Teresa said, "oh, can we have her?"  As they walked off, we heard the little girl say, "Daddy, why do they want me?"
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WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, HUH?

Blog number sixty-six                                                 24 Dec. 2006

I was watching a nature show where this group of lions had made a kill close to a Watusi village late at night. Two men came out of the village, attracted by the noise, to see if the lions had killed any of their cattle. While the men were still quite a ways off, the lions slunk away from their feast.

I was struck by the fact that a pride of lions surrendered their kill like that. Usually, they will fight until it seemed to be too dangerous, and never, against any other animal, will they give it up without at least a show of bravado. But here, "humans coming, let's beat feet."

I got, from another nature program, that the Watusi used to, maybe still do, would prove their manhood by hunting out a lion with only shields and spears. When they came upon one, they would surround it and one guy would take his spear and shield and approach the lion until it charged him and he would fall on his back with the shield over him, stabbing the lion as it came upon him. At this point, all would attack, killing the lion.

It seems really strange to me that of all the dangerous animals in Africa, lions are more afraid of humans that anything else.

House cats love to watch people. I have seen them take what they see and repeat it to their advantage, like standing on top of each other three deep in order to hit a door latch to open it and come in where it's warm.

I once watched my cat watching me reading and it came to me that the cat could not, even in it's wildest imagination, guess what I was doing. It had no frame of reference. None.

No other animal but man has hair or fur situated as do we. All animals except humans have other animals that look and behave somewhat like them. Foxes have dogs, lions have house cats, seals have walruses. And even with these animals, there are different species of foxes, dogs, tigers, whales, different varieties. But humans are unique. There is no other animal that approaches what we are. No other animal comes close do being able to do what we have done.

Dogs, wolves, cats, bury their scat. Dogs, wolves, cats, kill and eat uncooked meat. No animal except man reads or writes. No animal except man creates civilizations and histories. No animal except man has consciously flung themselves into space or built a vehicle out of dirt that carries him at speeds exceeding traveling sound.

In a very real way, humans are alone here. There is nothing with which we can compare ourselves.

We are unique.

No one on earth knows how to make a chain saw from dirt. Yet they exist.

What's that all about?

DO TEETH KNOW WHY THEY EXIST?

Blog number sixty-four                                    12 Dec. 2006

I like to eat...

Milk toast.

Fried corn meal mush with butter and syrup.

Bullheads fried in lard.

Sour cream pie made with cream soured on a window sill.

Cinnamon crisps.

Scalloped potatoes like my mother made.

Toffee candy sold at traveling thespian shows.

I don't like to eat...

Squid in any form.

Tacos.

Burritos.

Herbs of any kind in my bread.

Vanilla ice cream bores me.
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I read a book many, many years ago called, "Man's Presumptuous Brain."  One of the things it told was that the sphincter muscle called the "duodenum," which connects the small intestine to the stomach, would not open unless it was told to by a small amount of acid.  Not opening, this caused any food eaten to back up into the esophagus.  I had this "disease," but I thought it was acid reflux.  My cure was suggested to me by my daughter-in-law.  It consisted of a tablespoon of unpasteurized vinegar taken before eating.  Worked like a dream.  The only bad thing was that you had to make sure to drink water before you swallowed the vinegar, otherwise you would probably choke on it.  The fumes, I think.

I have since discovered, maybe - I haven't done a full scale experiment, that buttermilk will have the same effect except it is easier to swallow.

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I used to make the most delicious bread using honey, buttermilk and several different flours made from different grains.  Now, you can make delicious bread using only water, flour, yeast and sugar.  Delicious bread.  Now tell me -- why is commercial white bread so tasteless?  I mean, flour, water, yeast, sugar -- you need these and only these to make bread.  What is missing or added that makes Wonderbread so yukky?  Like they do it on purpose -- making an effort to make bread tasteless.

THE PEN IS NO MATCH FOR A SWORD

Blog number sixty-four                                          10 Dec 2006

I haven't been writing in my blog.

 

Back when I was painting, I used to have five or six paintings in various stages of completion at any one time.  I used to spend all my spare time, weekends, late into the night, painting.  I spent all my spare energy on painting, totally engrossed in it.

 

One day I found some photos of some beautiful murals this guy was doing and he said that he made clay statues, shone a light on them from one side and used this as models for his paintings, creating beautiful patterns of shadows.  I decided to try that.  I got some clay, made my models, but instead of painting, I got so interested in the making of clay figures that I turned my energy into that. From there I went into wood and stone carving, leaving painting in the past.

 

One day Derek, my youngest son, asked me to paint him a painting for his new house.  When I tried to do it, I found I couldn't.  It was like losing a talent, but as I looked at it, what had happened was that I lost my passion for painting.

 

In the same manner, I have lost my passion for writing at the moment, but I am sure it will return, 'cause I like to talk about things.

 

This entry originally began as an e-mail to my nephew Mark as a response to his comment about my not writing in my blog.  Two birds with one stone, like.

READ 'EM AND WEEP

Blog number sixty-three                                    23 Nov 2006


In this book I am currently reading - Blue Blood, the cops are scoping out buyers and sellers.  The guy with the binocs tells the street guys what to look for, "It's in his sock," "it's in the cast on his right hand."

"It's in his cheek -- sorry guy, the other cheek, check between 'em.  I mean it's in his ass, copy?"

The author then notes that, "There was nothing quite like watching someone sniff a bag of dope that was fresh from a dealer's ass."

He's telling of a cop friend of his dad's -- Davey, who has been investigated for stealing guns, is used as a finder for money in DOA houses, a generally funny guy, but a bit larcenous.

Davey tells the story, "A lot of times in a car wreck, people get knocked right out of their shoes.  Now there was one wreck where a priest was killed, thrown clean from his car, and he's lying dead in his socks.  You know how well priests dress, and I found the shoes, they were better than anything I had ever seen and they were brand-new.  And wouldn't you know, they were my size, exactly!  I thought, is this a sign from God or is this a sign from God?"
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When we lived in Sacramento I was friends with a little neighbor girl -- about three years old.  She had just gotten a goldfish and often talked about it. One morning I chanced upon her when out for a walk and I asked her how her fish was.  She said, "Oh, he's in fish heaven."  I asked her where fish heaven was and she said, "Down the toilet."

I THINK IT'S KINDA FUNNY, I THINK IT'S KINDA SAD. THE DREAMS I DREAM OF DYING ARE THE BEST I

Blog number sixty-three                                    21 Nov 2006

First off, I'm reading a good book -- an autobiography about a New York cop whose beat was the projects.  I'm going to tell you a few things from there, do a little quoting.  OK?

He's telling about the sass the cops get from the tenants. 

"I did take some pleasure on one downward trip, with a DOA.  The gurney was too long for the elevator, and it was stood up: the bagged body was on its feet, just out of sight of the doors.  When we stopped on a floor, midway, a man stepped toward us and I said, "Sorry, you'll have to get the next one."  He made the spit-face and the spit-sound,--ptuh!-- because nobody was going to tell him what to do, and he strode inside.  He met the corpse, face to face, and fell silent.  His deliberately reversed footsteps had the quality of mime: Here I am, leaving.  "Thanks for your cooperation and have a nice day."

A complainant called because her cat had turned vicious.   "...it's a mystical cat you know, a Jewish cat. I tried everything, petting it, feeding it, throwing boiling water at it -- nothing works, nothing."

And my favorite so far, a lady called because "Three white men in white suits locked me in the bathroom and stole my cigarettes."  Not wanting to put out an APB for the Bee Gees, he began asking her questions.  "Want an ambulance?"

"No."

"Sometimes you don't know you're hurt right away, the shock and all.  Are you under treatment, take any medicines?

She nodded, "Yes.  For the voices."

I once read in the Elk Grove Citizen, the local paper, the full blurb, that Mrs. so and so was recovering nicely after the Post Office door fell on her. 

And this next one is kinda eerie.  Might not let the kids see it.

I was talking to one of my sergeants one day, just shooting the bull, and he told me about being on C. Q.  (Charge of Quarters) one night and he was to wake this one guy and when he did, the guy slugged him and went kind of crazy.  After the guy calmed down he explained that he was once stationed in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and he woke one morning to find that the man on either side of him had his throat cut during the night, along with every other sleeping man in the barracks.  One alive, one dead, one alive, one dead -- all through the barracks.

I worked with this one Staff Sergeant at Mather A.F.B.  Good worker, good Sergeant.  One night he and some other guys went to Reno, gambling. He won big on Keno - I think ten thousand or so of 1956 money.  One day I'm working on an aircraft and he came out asking if I could loan him some money -- that he was asking everybody, and those that lent first would be the first paid back.  He had written some bad checks up in Reno and was being pressured big time.  I turned him down.  He seemed to expect it because he just said "OK," turned around and left.

One night I'm watching TV and there's a breaking story about an Air force Sergeant wanted for robbery that had dived into the Sacramento River and was swimming across at that very moment, trying to escape from the police.

It was him.

Gambling is a drug to some.   Best thing when you gamble is to loose big time the first time out.  If you win big, seems like you might get the idea that you can do it again.

And you can't.

WRITE ME A POEM, BABY

Blog number sixty-two                                      21 Nov 2006
I got this e-mail from my nephew after he read my blog entry about almost drowning.

"I almost drowned (maybe in the same pit – north of Graettinger).  A friend of my brother pulled me out.  I was not scared and didn’t get short of air and swear that I was close to being able to absorb oxygen from the water through my skin.  I remember being a little pissed in later years that he pulled me out.  I could never duplicate the circumstances or the sensation.  I was very young at the time.  As I got older it still stuck with me that maybe just maybe I was on the edge of a great discovery.  The older I got the more I dismissed it as foolishness.  Humans can’t take air through the skin or get nourishment through breathing food cooking. (another idea I swear would work)"

A number of years ago my diving buddy told me that he once ran out of air underwater and had to take a breath of water.  He asked me how this could be and I had to tell him I didn't know.  I don't really think he expected me to have an answer, but the event puzzled him so much that he felt he had to at least try to find out how such a thing could be.

After reading the same entry where I mentioned not being afraid until after I had time to think about almost drowning, my nephew wrote the following,

"I do know fear of stuff is learned.  I learned it from my Mom.  One time I got hit in the head by an ink bottle my cousin and I were throwing into the tree to make the helicopters come down.  It gashed my head pretty good.  We thought it was kind of cool with the blood running down my head.  As with all cool things I wanted to show dad.  He was in the house so I went in and AHHHHHHHHH!!!  MOM FREAKED OUT AND STARTED AHHHHHHHHH!!!  YA KNOW . 

Now I was real confused and didn’t know if I was going to get an ass whippin’ or what so I just started tocry.  My cousin got chewed out (he was older and I found out he should have know better) and I was pampered.  Very, very confusing but I remembered that.  Mom scared the shit out of me that day and I learned to be afraid when blood appeared. 

I used to be afraid to fight.  I was a maniac if I got in one.  I thought it was because I didn’t want to get hurt.  I later found out the embarrassment of losing was what I feared.  I just quit getting into fights.  If I did get into a fight, and it was only maybe two fights after that, it was to protect myself from someone who wouldn’t leave me alone.