Only 12 Seconds? 

      

    Part of my usual breakfast takes twelve seconds in the microwave. This morning I hit start and picked up a dishrag (do they still call them that?) and proceeded to wipe up some crumbs off the counter. I realized that when coming into the kitchen I had tagged this small job as what I would do while waiting for the microwave to do its things. Twelve seconds? It seems I couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. But for only twelve seconds? Really? Yes, really. 

     As I thought about why I couldn’t waste twelve seconds, I came up with a number of reasons. Just two of them being: I had gotten a small job out of the way that either Lorraine or I would have had to do later, and in general life is too short to squander twelve seconds. 

     I didn’t say they were good reasons. 

     Then I got to thinking about our society in general. How many of us as we’re driving, can’t just enjoy the passing scenery, or, heaven forbid, just concentrate on the road, but have to be listening to some pod cast, or some such to improve our minds. Or at the very least our favorite radio station to bring more enjoyment into our lives. And if asked why? We would say something to the effect, “Well, I just can’t waste all that time.” 

     We fall back on the idea that we’re multi-tasking and feel proud of our capabilities. But usually, multi-tasking just means that we are not doing either task to the best of our abilities. An example: If multitasking is such a great deal, why don’t we see surgeons doing more of it. If the surgeon who took out my gall bladder had been checking out his emails as I succumbed to the anesthesia, or if in the middle of the procedure he had stopped to call his bookie and check on how Slippery Scalpel had done in the fourth race at Belmont, I would have had reason to be somewhat concerned. Or if the operating room crew had been watching and yucking it up over an old episode of Green Acres while prepping me for surgery, I might have been concerned to the point of asking if they would at least wait for a commercial break before cutting me open. 

     But why is it that we feel that we must be occupied every second. When I sit and watch TV I need to be doing something at the same time or I feel like I’m wasting time. (Well, current TV what it is, that does have some validity.) Several things will do, writing, playing some simple computer game that requires at least part of my brain, eating, or reading. 

     Life has become so full of things to do, or that we feel must be done, that we can’t just stand still for 12 seconds. 

     This compulsion is not a recent thing for me. When I was traveling, the worst thing that could happen to me was getting on a plane with nothing along to read. A book, business papers, almost anything would do, excluding the airline magazine or the safety card. 

     Even if I planned to take that time to catch up on my sleep, I still had to have something along to read, just as a safety net against insomnia. 

    

     Even while sitting here right now with the ocean waves rolling in and crashing into the rocks, which is a continually changing scenic masterpiece, I feel better if I have my laptop on my lap (funny how that works), and can be writing or taking pictures of what I’m seeing, or watching for birds, or settling on tomorrow’s itinerary. But just to sit there and watch is good for only a very short time. Am I the only one who is afflicted in this way? I think not. 

    The question is why do we need to be occupied all the time? And is that good, or bad?

I WANT MY PACIFIER! 

    The other day when contemplating our current sad political situation, I thought of something that had happened in church some time ago. Sitting on the other end of our pew was a young family. Mother, father, and small child. This child was slurping on a pacifier. The mother had sent the husband out with a bottle of some substance, probably to warm it up or do to it whatever this liquid required. 

  Shortly after the father exited the pew the baby spit the pacifier from his mouth. It dropped to the floor, took a couple bounces and a little roll, which put it out of reach of the mother. 

   The child immediately went into a screaming fit. And it wouldn’t quit. If it had been able to speak it would have been screaming, “I want my pacifier.” 

  The child was not to be consoled. He obviously wanted that pacifier back. The screaming was disruptive to say the least. The baby didn’t seem to care. His only concern was about what he wanted. He didn’t care about the embarrassment he was bringing to his mother, to the rest of the congregation, and to the preacher. 

  Obviously, what he wanted was his only concern. Nothing else was of any consequence. He didn’t care, nor of course was he mature enough to realize that the opinion of other parents toward his mother was sinking lower by the second. Nothing mattered except what he wanted, completely ignoring the unreasonableness of his demands. 

  I hear you saying, but he was just a small child. An adult would never act that way.

  

  REALLY? 

  

  Anyway, like I said, that just came to mind. For some reason.

Dixie Peach Pomade 

    A mind that has been around as long as mine does some strange and wonderful things, or maybe not. 

    I was sitting at my desk thinking about the plot to a story I am writing when the remembrance of Dixie Peach Pomade slithered its way into my thoughts. Why you ask? I’ve no idea. For those men who can recall the 50’s you will probably remember Dixie Peach Pomade. I don’t know how widespread its use was, but in the Northwest is was a must have for cool teenage boys, or men, as we knew we were. 

    Fifties hairstyles were such that we needed help to keep those ducktails in place. That is just one style example. Think Fonzie in Happy Days. 

    Now Dixie Peach Pomade was a substance much like Vaseline salve, with something in it to make it smell more like aftershave than something medicinal. It was nearly the same consistency. I would rub it into my hair and then comb that hair into whatever style I wanted, and it would stay. Much like a heavy application of hair spray today. 

    The only thing that I had to remember was to not put my head against anything I did not want to get greasy, and to stay away from open flames. But once applied that ducktail would stay in place whatever I did. 

    I see that the product is still out there. I wonder who is using it and what are they using it for?

Cousin Lucky 

    Today I got my mail-in ballot from the Deschutes County Clerk. Deschutes County is in Oregon. As I dropped it on my desk, with about the same feeling as one handling a rattlesnake, for some reason my thoughts turned to my possibly imaginary cousin, Lucky.

   

    Let me digress for a bit. I thought I heard some gasps of horror when I mentioned mail-in ballot. Contrary to all the recent scary rhetoric about this mode of voting, Oregon has been doing it for about 22 years without any discernable ill effects. 

   Back to Lucky. A jury of his peers had come up with the idea that he was guilty of a rather unfortunate indiscretion and passed down a guilty verdict. This verdict carried with it a mandatory death sentence. Lucky had appealed to the Supreme Court, which was a comedic endeavor in itself. 

   The Court of 143 judges had a major problem of their own. The Court had been packed by various past Presidents with friends and family, some of who even had experience as judges and attorneys. Getting all these judges together at one time and all deliberating on the same case had become a herculean task, and so far no solution to that particular dilemma was in sight. 

    Anyway, the court had ruled 5 to 4 in favor of upholding the lower courts decision. I know those numbers don’t add up to 143 but there were 50 members of the court who couldn’t be located and then there is this archaic rule that court members who are themselves under indictment can not vote. Silly, huh? 

   So the date for his execution was set. In 24 months he was scheduled to die. Now came the dilemma. The State offered him, whether he wanted it or not, two methods of execution. Lethal injection or the electric chair. 

   Lucky was a very bright individual. He told the Warden, “Either way I’m going to be dead, right?” 

   “That’s right.” 

   “So why do I have to choose between two really bad choices?” 

   “To show that you have the freedom to choose how you’re going to die.” 

   “And how am I supposed to decide.” 

   The Warden brightened up and said with a good deal of pride, “You’re lucky, ha, ha, get it. Lucky is lucky.” 

   “Yeah, that’s really clever. No one’s ever thought of that before. So why am I lucky?”

   "Because we have people to explain to you what each choice would mean for you and convince you to use their method.” 

   Lucky thought about that for a minute and asked, “It almost sounds like these people are professional explainers and convincers.”

  “That’s right. That’s all they do.” 

  “So, they have no personal experience with either method?” 

   “Absolutely not,” the Warden answered emphatically. 

   Lucky thought of something else. “These people have to tell me the truth, don’t they?”

   The Warden found this highly amusing. “Telling the truth went out of vogue years ago. People who tell the truth are considered simple minded or at best, naive.” 

   Lucky asked in some exasperation, “So what good does it do me to listen to them?” 

   “Oh, none at all, but it will take your mind off the terrible situation you’re in.”

   “Who pays these people to spend this time on me?” 

   “Now that’s the best part. The electric people and the drug people pay these two convincers huge sums of money to represent their views of what’s best for you.” 

   “Just to convince me?” 

   “Just to convince you.” 

   “And whatever I choose, in the end I’m still screwed---like in dead?” 

   "That’s about it.” 

   Like I said, I am not sure why, but seeing that ballot just brought Cousin Lucky to mind.

Heaven Help Us All 

      Last night I watched about 25 minutes of the first presidential debate. That is the way it was billed, but it was not like any debate I have seen or heard. What I saw last night was a squabble. An argument. A no rules, no holds barred altercation. An opportunity from both contestants to throw out misinformation, lies, skewed facts, and insults. Instead of two adults laying out their program of what they would like to do if elected, we have two challenged adults rolling around in the verbal barnyard muck and mire. 

      This debate was watched by people all over the world. What kept going through my mind was, what kind of image are we presenting to the rest of the world about the leadership or possible leadership of the United States of America.

     

      I imagine that those world leaders who previously considered themselves friends of the United States of America, most be looking around, wondering how best they are going to hedge their bets and thinking of ways to distance themselves without seeming to do so. 

      And those world leaders who are our avowed enemies or just leaders who would like to see us fail or at least not be quite all we have been in the past, are gleefully ramping up their endeavors to cause us more grief. 

      In my experience a leader who must shout, bluster, color the facts in his or her favor, and who does not dare listen, is a leader who is running scared because they don’t know what they’re doing. 

      I’m pretty sure that I saw two examples of that last night.

Golfers 

    As I sit at my desk, I’m looking out over the fifteenth fairway of The Greens at Redmond Golf Course. Right at our house the fairway takes a dog leg, which is at the end of a decent drive from the tee. This is out of sight of the tee box, so we have a parade of golfers looking for their balls. Most spot their ball without any trauma, but then there are those who hoped to be on the fairway but are in the water hazard across the fairway from our backyard, or somewhere in the rough, right next to our backyard, or in our back yard. Probably seventy percent of those in the rough find their balls. This rough consists of some juniper trees, large lava rock, sagebrush, and grass, or what passes for grass here in Central Oregon. So far this is all pretty much golf as usual. 
    The thing that I find interesting is what each golfer will do when he finds his ball---or fails to find his ball. You have several types of golfer. 
   The rulebook golfer will, after finding his ball, play the ball, no matter what the degree of difficulty in making the shot. If the golfer must be on his knees under the low limbs of a juniper tree, so be it. If it can legally be moved, the golfer is very careful to move it only so much, and then drops it after holding it at arm’s length, or drops it over his shoulder, taking whatever lie results. 
    What rulebook? golfer will put either his found ball, which he moves, or a new one, down oh so carefully, usually on a tuft of grass or anything to make their shot easier. This golfer does not look around to see who is watching, as he obviously doesn’t care. And he doesn’t drop it in the rough, but out on the fairway in a position where he doesn’t have a tree between his ball and the green. 
    The rulebook if someone is watching golfer will look all around to see if anyone is watching. If no one seems to have an interest in what he’s doing he will revert to a What rulebook? golfer. If he spots someone monitoring his play, which would be his playing partners if they have any sense, he is strictly a Rulebook golfer. 
    The casual adjuster golfer never seems happy with the lie of his ball. He will have several methods of improving his lie. A casual kick with the side of his shoe or dragging his club over the ball to move it. If all else fails he will bend down to tie his shoe and in the process pick up his ball, move to a new position, then drop it down alongside his leg. All this subterfuge is like he was playing for a green jacket in the Masters at Augusta, whereas no one at The Greens at Redmond cares a twig what he is doing. 
    The precision golfer is the one who when finding his ball, takes out a Rangefinder and checks out the distance to the hole. Now he knows to the inch how far he must hit the ball. He carefully selects a club, takes a couple practice swings, then tops the ball which leaps into the air and lands ten yards away, usually not directly toward the green. Or he clips the ball, which out of spite drops into the pond, again which is not between him and the green. Knowing the distance to the green has done this golfer no good at all, but it does look impressive. 
    An interesting thing is that I’ve not seen any women golfers practicing these same tactics. It is not that I’m trying to be kind, I’ve just not caught them at it. 
    Who would have thought that golfers could provide that much entertainment?

40 Minutes Here, 40 Minutes There 

     Yesterday I found that my internet connection was down and at the same time my landline went wonky. Wonky is a technical term I’ll not take the time to explain. The internet being down was not a big problem as I didn’t really need it right then, and the landline was no great loss. However, since I was paying for these services, I thought I should alert someone to the malfunction. 
     The worst part of this dilemma was having to call the service provider to report the loss of service. Hardly had their robot answered the phone, and before we could commence with my identifying myself, it had to explain to me what Century Link is doing to protect their employees and customers from COVID-19. I didn’t need to hear about that, nor about the new products they thought I need to make my life complete. 
     Several times I had to tell them that I was not interested in taking their survey when we got done. The idea that they thought we would actually get done was heartening, but I had my doubts. 
     Once we got through with all that the robot passed me off to another robot which felt compelled to repeat a good part of what the first robot had told me. Maybe it didn’t trust the first robot to do an adequate job of it. Then it went on to tell me that it was going to pass me over to the next customer service specialist, but that the wait would be one to three hours. [What? Is India running out of people?] The robot did offer to call me back as soon as my number came up. 
     The next morning, eight hours later, and not having heard from them I called again, went through the same robotic ritual, and finally got to talk to a person. 
     After that it was only a couple hours until a service person came, fiddled with something on the outside of the house and we had phone service. In the meantime, my internet was back. 
     Now all my efforts only took forty minutes of my time but at my age I don’t know how many more forty-minute segments I have left. If the phone and internet people think that because I have to stay at home I need entertaining I appreciate the thought, but their efforts are not needed and are actually resented.

Who Is That Masked Person?

    One thing I’ve noticed since this COVID-19 thing started, with its social distancing and all, is that it makes it somewhat harder to read people when they have most of their face covered with a mask. I have to depend on the eyes to tell me how any given person is reacting to life in general, or to me specifically. And I realize that they are having the same problem reading me. 
    For centuries, a mask was used to cover the face in certain social settings, and for good reason. The individual didn’t want to be recognized. 
    If the eyes and the skin around the eyes is crinkling up, I can be somewhat sure they are smiling. Either that or getting perturbed at something. I think this works rather well, but it does put a lot more pressure on the eyes. 
    Another thing is, well, let me cite an instance. I was in the store looking for some product, and not having much success, I called Lorraine. She asked a question which I didn’t know the answer to so I said to her, “Let me ask this young lady.” 
    The ‘young lady’ I was referring to was a Fred Meyer employee fiddling with the stock a few feet away. This person had a slight build and long hair, and of course was wearing a mask. 
    The clerk heard my comment to Lorraine, turned and said, “Well, I’m not a young lady, but I’ll be glad to help you.” If nothing else the young man was gracious and forgiving, which I appreciated, because I needed both from him at that moment. 
    After I apologized, he showed me where to find what I was looking for. Another example. I was working the main entrance to the hospital. A nurse had wheeled a patient out the front door where a vehicle was waiting. As she came back inside, she stopped and said, “How’s your wife doing.” 
    This so obviously caught me flat-footed that she went on to explain. “Your wife was in the hospital about a year ago, I was her nurse a number of shifts, and I remember you as being there. So how is she doing?” 
    I explained that she was doing much better thanks to the great care she had received while in the hospital. I probably would not have recognized this nurse even without the mask, but certainly not with the mask on. I’ve had this happen to me several times while working in the hospital where people will say, “Hi Eldon, nice to have you back.” Some I can recognize regardless of the mask, and some not. 
    It's a tricky world out there. 
    I’ve been waiting for a line of masks to come on the market where there is a lower face painted on the mask, such as a Halloween mask would have. After explaining this business opportunity to my two daughters, I find that there are already such masks available. Oh, well. 
    And another thing, what are bank robbers doing now. They just look like everyone else. Maybe that’s a plus for them. The next one I see I’ll have to ask.

I’m Just Saying

    As part of the social distancing and everything else that has come along with CORVID-19, we have been told that people aged 60 and older are in a higher risk category than say, those under 60. This seems to have caused some concern and consternation among some members of this group of older citizens. They didn’t seem to like the idea that they were more apt to react badly when exposed to this virus than a younger person. 
    My reaction to this news was, so, big whoop! My age group (60 and older) has been at higher risk of reacting badly to most things for as long as I can remember. What do these people think getting old is all about? 

Shifting gears - - 
    Have you noticed that all the politicians are now campaigning by “reaching out in this time of social distancing,” like their messages were something we were longing for, to help us keep our sanity in these “unprecedented times.” I get about a dozen e-mails a day from candidates seeking a position at the public trough or who don’t want to be dislodged from said trough. These ads don’t seem to be as negative as their TV counterparts. The TV ads seem to be getting more vicious. 
    Speaking of these TV ads: What kind of thinking process is the following ad appealing to when it talks about some political opponent [say, Joe], and how ‘he has not lived in the state very long,’ how ‘he voted to build a ten-mile freeway that ran past his farm and the farm of one neighbor before reverting to a narrow blacktop country road,’ and how ‘he was accused and almost convicted of racketeering in the state where he used to live.’ But then the ad ends up by saying “Vote for Ed,” who is the one sponsoring the ad. The ad has never said anything about Ed or how he might possibly contribute to the running of some political entity. And we are to assume that because Ed knows all the things wrong with his opponent, he would make a good leader? WOW! 
    Now these negative ads are not put together by dummies, but by people who understand the viewing public and how they will react. And the very sad thing is that they know these negative ads work. 
    I read recently where some guy was suggesting that our great country deserved better political leaders, but as much as I agree, I’m thinking, maybe we deserve what we’ve gotten.

MY PERSPECTIVE 

    I’m only 81 years old, so I don’t have a long history of comparable current events, but this country of ours is in a worse mess that I can remember. And it has nothing to do with this COVID-19, bad as it is. I’m talking about the leadership of our great nation. I’m talking about those in office, those who would like to be in office, and the media, all working at cross purposes, trying to make themselves look like leaders. To start with this country deserves better, much better. 
    We have a President who can’t seem to quit talking. Example: Because of the suddenness of the onset of this virus the information is changing every day. As an example, just try tracking what the medical community has been saying about the virus, what we should do about it, what we should do to protect ourselves, how it’s transmitted, and many other associated subjects. Their conclusions and suggestions have been changing almost daily. Only now is the information beginning to coalesce. So the information the President has been handing out has been changing almost on a daily basis. 
    Now, the media can get by with all kinds of wild conjecture, some of it even based on the facts available at the time. Other politicians can do the same thing, but everyone seems to expect more of the President. There is some validity to that assumption, or at least we’d like to think so. 
    Now, if the president could just keep his mouth shut most of the time, or at least couch his comments as the best information available at the time and that it could change, it would go a long way to keep him out of trouble. Or better yet, on this pandemic thing, let the CDC and WHO take the lead. They are the ones getting paid to know the answers. 
    Also, if he wouldn’t try to respond to every adverse comment that’s made concerning him, it would make him look much more presidential. Now, it seems like he has nothing better to do but argue with every adverse comment that comes his way. It reminds me of high school. 
    The other side of that coin is that the media and his political enemies will take everything he says and cast it in the worst possible light. Their main concern it seems is not the state of the union, the virus, the economy, or world affairs, but how best they can keep this President from getting reelected, or, as ineffective as possible while he is still in office. 
    I’m sure there are a lot of politicians out there, trying to do a good job for their constituents, but unless they are badmouthing somebody, we never hear of them. 
    The political leadership of both parties have done more to divide the people of this nation than any bunch of huddlehunces I can recall. 
    Like I said, this country deserves better. 
    The side effect of all this comes down to the question, why would anyone seek the office of President and take that much abuse? And anybody who wants the job is already suspect. But again, this is all just my perspective.

AN OPPORTUNITY LIKE YOU’VE NOT SEEN BEFORE 

[There might be a reason for that. But no matter.] 

     I’ve been watching the sports news expecting to hear about this sport hitting the U.S. I think it will be a big hit when it arrives. And that is the sport of Water Buffalo Racing. You read that right, Water Buffalo Racing. It’s big in certain parts of India, so why not here? Successful jockeys would be much sought-after celebrities. 
     For you who may not be familiar with the sport it seems that a pair of water buffalos racing as a team pull a jockey along behind as they race through a muddy rice paddy. This threesome is not racing against other teams, head to head, well, actually side by side, but are striving for a better time than their competition doing the 142.5 meter course, or a hair over 467 feet. Now tell me, what’s not to like. 
    The National Buffalo Racing Through A Muddy Rice Paddy Pulling A Jockey League or NBRTAMRPPAJL is probably in the process of being organized as you read this. They might have to shorten that acronym, otherwise before the sports commentators get through all that the first race will be over and done. Maybe just NBPAJL. 
    This would be a summer sport as it would not work well to do this on a frozen-solid rice paddy, say like in Minnesota, and the distance is a little long to do indoors and still have adequate seating on both ends of the rice paddy course. These buffalo have their heads decorated for the race, to help build esprit de corps I guess, which leaves the rest of their bodies open for sponsor decals, much like stock cars. For all I know sponsors may already be jockeying for display space on what their scouts think will be the most promising contenders. 
    The first racing buffalos will have to be imported, considering the current lack of water buffalos in the U.S., but soon a whole new breeding and training industry similar to horses in Kentucky would spring up. 
    I’m guessing one problem the NBPAJL is even now struggling with is how to keep organized crime from getting their greedy fingers into the sport. Ed Hazard, co-owner of Ed and Joe’s Garage and Towing, of Fargo, ND, who is the first commissioner of the NBPAJL, put out a short but succinct statement only last week. He said, “I’ll be danged if we let those schnooks get involved in our sport.” We’re pretty sure he was talking about organized crime. I mean, who else would schnooks be referring to. 
    He may have a harder time than he realized. I mean, for starters, with gate receipts projected to be in the middle to high five figures, and then all the income from the selling of the TV broadcasting rights, this has got to look like a lucrative sport for people with criminal intentions. I hear that NTTV, the entertainment voice of greater Fargo, ND is the leading contender [actually the only one so far, how far behind can CBS, NBC, or ESPN be?] for the broadcasting rights to these events. 
    And don’t forget the income from the concessions in maybe both racing venues, if current projections turn out to be accurate. [I’m guessing that Buffalo Wings will be a big seller, if only because of the name association.] 
    I hear that the local SPCA is gearing up to protest the first race. The leader of the local chapter was heard to say over an open mike, after announcing the boycott, “What’s a water buffalo?” 
    I’ve been thinking about starting a syndicate for the breeding and training of water buffalos. This will be a hot investment opportunity for one and all, so better send me your money now, and we’ll worry about all that silly paperwork, like issuing stock and what not, until after the hysteria of this investment opportunity dies down a bit.

Bless Those Dogs 

     I do some part-time work in an environment where service dogs are occasionally brought in to give the patients something to think about other than their aches and pains. One day I was sitting in a chair that was half-blocking the doorway to the room of a male patient. The man’s wife was in the room with him. During the time I had been there he had become less and less enchanted with having to be in the hospital, with the food, and to a lesser degree the staff. He had not reached a code-gray condition but was quite disturbed about his situation. 
     The language he was using to express his discontent was unusually crude compared to what most patients use. 
     That’s when I noticed, coming around the corner on the end of the hall, a man and a service dog. A big service dog. The man stopped at the nursing station where the dog got plenty of attention. It was obvious that the staff was acquainted with him and that they enjoyed his visits. The dog’s name turned out to be Adam. Then the man and Adam came down the hall and I was introduced. 
     I found out that Adam was a mastiff of some sort and that he was small for his breed as he only weighted 125 pounds and stood only about 28 inches at his shoulders. But the man explained that Adam was still young and might yet get bigger. 
     While the introductions were going on it was obvious that Adam wanted to go into the room. His handler asked the patient and his wife if they would mind Adam’s coming in and they both said that it would be fine. 
     Adam walked over to the patient and placed his big head on the bed next to the patient’s hip, where the patient could easily reach him and stroke his head. 
     The change in the patient was dramatic. He stroked and talked to the dog in a quiet voice. His whole demeanor changed. His red face lost its angry/excited color and he looked more relaxed than he’d been since I came on duty. 
     The Handler then asked the patient if he would mind having Adam on the bed. The patient was a little surprised but said he would like that. 
     The Handler gave Adam a command. Now between the patient and the edge of the bed there was maybe eight inches. I watched as this big dog got up on the hospital bed, never stepping on the patient, and then stretch out alongside the patient and sort of snuggled up against him. Adam’s head was mid chest. Adam had his head on his front paws and looked like he was going to fall asleep. In all his movements there was never anything quick, jerky, or frantic. It was all so relaxed. 
     The patient was soon just as relaxed as Adam as he continued to stroke and talk to him. 
     After about five minutes the Handler gave Adam a command and he got off the bed as gracefully as he had gotten on. 
     A nurse came and took the patients vitals soon after Adam and his Handler left. She told me the patients blood pressure was significantly lower than it had been before Adam’s visit. 
     It was an amazing performance and one I appreciated being able to witness.

It Seems Like There Should Be A Downside

    Recently, in a Texas neighborhood, there have been several incidents where squirrels have gotten quite militant. People have been bitten and children not allowed to go out to play, because of the threatening behavior of these squirrels. 
     My guess is that this is the beginning of the long-predicted squirrel uprising. It will be their bid to take over our country.
    I’ve given this scenario a good deal of thought and have listed all the differences, good and bad, if the squirrels were in control of our state and federal governments.

    1. Squirrels would be a lot cheaper to support in public office. 
    2. Not being able to understand squirrel a great restful quiet would descend on the land. 
    3. Their campaigning for office would be of little interest as we couldn’t understand their rhetoric and besides they all look alike. 
    4. Ah, there must be other differences. 
    5. 
    6. 
    7. 
    8. 
    9. 
   10. No, I guess not.

They Have Feelings Too

     In Washington State a driver received a hefty fine for driving in the HOV lane while using a big stuffed dinosaur for the passenger. One thing to the driver credit, he did have the dinosaur’s seat belt fastened.
     But I don’t see anywhere in the report where anyone was concerned about the feeling of the dinosaur. 
     What does it say when it gets back to the kid’s room and the rest of the stuffed toys. But more important what do the other toys say. Probably something like this. 
     The pit bull will start off with, “Hah, yous thought you was so smart. You thought you was some kinda big shot.” 
     The clipped puddle named Mitzi says, in a soft voice, “Guido, be nice, he was just doing what Kevin’s Dad asked him to do.”
     Snapper the alligator speaks up, “That’s our problem, we all just do what anyone wants us to do. Even you, Guido. When Kevin was dragging you around by the tail, you didn’t look so tough.” 
     Guido snarls, “Okay, but yous gotta unnerstand that there’s a big difference between lettin a little kid drag me around and participatin in some cockamamie criminal endeavor.” 
     A GI Joe asks, speaking to Guido, “Where’d you learn a big word like cockamamie?” 
     Guido laughed and said, and even if it did sound sort of sinister, the others knew that he was the softest wise-guy around, “Hey, I pay attention when Kevin watches his shows on TV.” 
     An obviously old donkey, who had on one and one-half ears, a faded coat, a tail that looked like it had been on fire at one time, or maybe twice, and with one eye missing, added to the conversation, “You kids should have been around before TV. That’s when we really had to be on our game. And I mean 24/7. Now you all have it easy.” 
     Mitzi said, “Yes, Horace, we’ve heard all about the good old days before. I for one am glad to be of a younger generation.” “Squawk, generation, generation, squawk,” offered Rose, the parrot. 
     “Squawk, me not stuffed, squawk,” she added. 
     “Yeah, Yeah,” said Snapper, “like we haven’t heard before how special you are.”
     Through all this Dino, the dinosaur had been quiet. Then said with a sigh, “I told him it wouldn’t work, but he told me to shut up, so I did. He was rather rude.” 
     “Did the police talk to you at all?” asked Horace. 
     “Oh, yes,” answered Dino. “One of the officers patted me on my nose and told me this was going to go on my permanent record. For some reason he thought that was very clever. 
     Like I said, no one realizes the emotional trauma a stuffed toy will go through if taken on an adventure like this.

Waste Not Want Not 

     
     Well, North Korea has hit a new low. Their esteemed leader Kim Jong-Un has decreed that each family must produce and donate eight tons of feces to be used by the farmers to increase production. 
     The rulers of the country are, of course, exempt from this requirement, probably having to do with their feces not being of a quality that would do the fields any good. 
     The general population is having a hard time meeting their quotes. The fact that many of them are on a near starvation diet may be playing a counter-productive role in this scheme. People, in order to meet the quotas, are raiding public toilets to make up any deficiencies in quantities. This raiding of public toilets has led to violence as there is limited supply. 
     People are also mixing their feces with dirt and other substances, like coal, in order to bulk up their contributions. 
     The few families who have more than they need are selling their surplus. The process seems to be that each family spreads their feces on the ground round their houses or wherever their living so that the product can dry. You can imagine the insects this raw sewage attracts. 
     A whole industry has sprung up. Feces merchants are selling product to those families who are coming up short with their output. If South Korea has half a brain they will be shipping poop across the DMZ by the tanker truck load. 
     The number of health hazards this program guarantees boggles the mind. Of course, Kim Jong-Un is removed far enough away from these hazards that they are not a worry to him. 
     This seems like a golden opportunity for some of our large port cities where solid waste disposal is a huge and costly undertaking. Why not just pump a tanker full of solid waste and ship it to North Korea. They could save money by not having to process this sewage and at the same time develop a new revenue stream or possibly lower the sewage bills of their citizens.
     Another plus is that this could be put forward as a humanitarian donation. Maybe even tax deductible. Then again maybe not, especially if receipts were required. 
     The business opportunities should be numerous especially if these port cities can find other countries that are equally as dum… I mean open to using human feces to help grow their crops. And just think of the cute market slogans. The possibilities would be nearly endless, none of which I’ll suggest here, being a rather sensitive and reticent person.

Which is Worse? 

    A new study, or I should say a new article on an old study, shows that touching anything in an airport terminal is risky at best and is usually most foolhardy. This article points out that according to a 2015 study, airport terminals are one big Petri dish of biological entities, just waiting to attack a human body if they can find one which is relatively easy. 
    And the very worst thing you can touch, or put anything you possess in contact with, are the trays that they insist you put your stuff in to go through the security screening machine. Other areas are anything close to a cash register, stairway railings, or children play areas, just to name a few. 
    Many of these areas a person can avoid, but the trays are a must if you want to get through security. Now I’m guessing that if, before you used one of these transport trays, you pulled out your aerosol can of Lysol, which they would take away from you eventually, and started to spray the tray, the TSA people would have you spread eagle on the ground in a heartbeat, and would be calling in a hazmat team to save the rest of the people in the terminal. 
    Now that all pales into insignificance as a hazard when you actually get on the plane. That is where you come face to face with the most deadly thing you will encounter on this trip and that is the germ-laden drop down tray that is tucked into the seat back in front of you, and that you are expected to use if you want to do anything like use your laptop, rest the book you’re reading, or the very worst, eat. Now the airlines have tried to solve the problem of eating anything on their germ- laden trays by just not serving anything edible or anything at all for you to put on the tray. Thank you, airlines. 
    The article made it sound as if you were extremely fortunate to come away from air travel, or just being in an air terminal, without having contracted some terrible disease. 
    Now the above is mildly interesting and my point is this. Huh, you didn’t think I had one did you. A person can’t tap into any kind of news media without finding something just as scary- if not worse. Every editor who is looking for some filler taps some writer on the shoulder and asks for a few inches of something that will attract the attention of the readers. What better than something about some assault on our health, how we’re in jeopardy of dying a too-soon death for one reason or another. 

    Now it’s nice to know what dangers are out there but I submit that to live in constant fear of our environment is worse for our health and peace of mind than the proposed health hazards the media keeps holding up for our consideration. 

Those Tricky Headlines 

     The headline said, “New Zealand Fisherman Catches North American Fresh Water Turtle.” My first reaction was, big deal, anybody can do that. All you need is a ticket from New Zealand to wherever in North America that has a good supply of fresh-water turtles, then go there and catch some unsuspecting turtle. 
     After reading the headline I was about to move on, but thought, maybe the headline writer just missed the mark by a little. Sure enough. This turtle was caught in New Zealand, hence its being newsworthy. 
     
     That’s like reading a headline that says, “Redmond, OR Man Shoots Tiger in Backyard.” Well to start with, I’m not up on tiger anatomy, but I’ve never heard of a tiger having a backyard. Or, it could mean the backyard of the man’s house in Redmond, OR, which would be an odd place to find a tiger. But then reading the story and finding out that the Redmond, OR, man was on a safari in India where early one morning he looked out the lodge window and saw a tiger dragging a local man, who was the grounds keeper for the lodge, across the backyard toward the nearby jungle. The Redmond, OR, man shot the tiger with his BB pistol, which he carried for some reason not specified. The BB hit the tiger in the ear, which was completely fortuitous and had nothing to do with the man from Redmond’s skill. The shot to the ear didn’t hurt the tiger in the least, but the surprise distracted him enough for the grounds keeper to punch it on the nose and then escape. The two things so discombobulated the poor tiger that it didn’t pursue the freed grounds keep but loped off into the jungle. 

     Headline: World’s Largest Single Fireworks In Steamboat Springs.” The next line explained that this firecracker weighed 2,797 pounds, and that it set a Guinness world record. I full expected to read next that the folks of Steamboat Springs were going to try an even bigger firecracker as soon as they rebuild the part of the city where firecracker was set off. However, I was happy to find out that they shot this thing off on a mountain outside of town.

They’re Not Dead, Just Cold

    It turns out that there is one thing in Florida that doesn’t appreciate cold weather any more than the orange trees or the snow birds. And some of those things are the green iguanas. That’s right--iguanas. These green lizards have moved up from further south to live in Florida, evidently much like northerners have moved south to take advantage of the warm weather and what not.
     However, the green reptiles made a small miscalculation. It does occasionally get cold enough in Florida, down in the 40s and 30s where the green iguanas sort of freeze, but they’re not dead. It’s just that they can’t hold on to a tree limb, so these cold iguanas fall to the ground. 
     Hence the Florida weather report, “Beware of falling iguanas.” 
     When these iguanas warm up, they are ready to do what iguanas do. 
     They are considered an invasive species so why are they in Florida? I can just hear a pair of newly mated Central American iguanas talking to his parents. 
     Young male iguana, henceforth referred to is YMI, “But why Florida, for Pete’s sake?” Evidently this YMI knows somebody named Pete. Who would have guessed? 
     Pop Iguana, henceforth known as PI, “Because it’s warm all year and you know how I like to be warm.” 
     YMI, “But it’s warm here all year.” 
     Mama Iguana, henceforth known as MI, “But everything in Florida is near water, and you know how much your father loves the water.” 
     YMI, “Since when? We live up in the trees. In the water are things that will eat us.” 
     PI, “But I would like to live on a boat.” 
     YMI, now almost yelling in his frustration. “But there is nothing for you to eat on a boat.” 
     The YMI turns to his mate, a young female iguana, henceforth known as YFI, and in his frustration asked, “Don’t you think this is crazy?” 
     The YFI has been thinking about life without a mother-in-law looking over her shoulder and says, “Well, Creepy, that’s her name for her mate, “If they really have their hearts set on Florida…” then shrugs, which is a little awkward for an iguana, but the others got the message. 
     The YMI sighs knowing that at 3 to 1 he’s lost this argument. Then he adds, “If it’s a privacy thing we could move, the tree next door would be very nice, once we got rid of the howler monkeys, and the view is actually better.” 
     Then he saw the look in his parent's eyes and gave up. He said, “Just write so we know you’re okay. Okay?” 
     His parents broke into smiles, which is hard to recognize as it’s the same look as when an iguana is trying to scare a cricket to death so it will be easier to catch. 
     So that’s how Pop and Momma iguana found themselves lying on their backs, unable to move, in the soft grass of a Florida back yard. This yard is beside a nice canal, on which floats a nice boat. Iguana paradise, thought PI, except for this infernal cold. 
     MI and PI had several humans gathered around them, surprised at the spectacle.
     Human One, “I heard the warning about the falling iguanas but I thought it was a joke.” 
     Human Two, “Yeah, and they are an invasive species, we should kill them,” while trying to control his lunging pit bull who thought someone had delivered these two iguanas for his dining pleasure. 
     Human Three, with much indignation, “You’ll do no such thing. They are God’s creatures and we’re not going to kill them. They just need to warm up and then they’ll be as good as new.” And having said that she reached down and stroked the smaller iguana on the tommy. 
     YFI thought, holy Joseph and Abraham, she had lived in the village synagogue when younger, now they’re touching me. Don’t they have any manners at all. There are boundaries after all. 
     Human Two, “Well, don’t look at me, if you want them warm, you warm them.” 
     Human Three, “Okay, I will." Then to her husband, “Ralph, bring the iguanas,” as she headed for their car. 
     Ralph looked perplexed. “How do you pick up one of these God’s creatures. It’s not like he put handles on them.” 
     Human Four finally had something to offer. “I’d try the tail. It’s about as far away from their mouth as you can get.” So Ralph gingerly got an iguana tail in each hand slowly lifted them off the lawn and followed his wife. 
     The Pitbull, seeing his iguanas leaving, went into a frenzy of barking and leaping which pulled Human Two onto his face in grass, but to his credit he kept a firm grip on the leash. 
     PI thought, Lord, help me over the fence, an expression he’d heard on the boat radio. These cretins have got me by the tail; if I could move, I’d show them how not to mess with an iguana. I wonder whose cockamamie idea it was to move to this cold country. 
     Human Three told Ralph to put the iguana on the back seat of the car. The family cat, Mitzi, who had been resting on the ledge inside the back window, jumped to her feet, flattened her ears, and arched her back while letting out a long hiss. 
     Human Three said soothingly, “Now, Mitzi, they are just iguanas that need our help. You’ll get along with them fine.” 
     Mitzi thought, if it wasn’t for the gourmet cat food, I’d find someone smarter to live with. 
     The interior of the car was about forty degrees warmer than the outdoors and right at the lower end of the iguana’s comfort zone.
     In a few minutes PI realized he could move. The first thing he did was roll over onto his feet which brought another hiss from the midget jaguar that was crouched above him. He nudged MI, but although she was moving a little, she was not yet ready to roll over. 
     PI’s first impulse was to flee, which he did. He tried the opening to the outdoors but smashed into something hard, then took a hard left, went over the shoulder of Human Three, down onto her lap and then leaped unto the dash. 
     Human three was screaming and flailing her arms while yelling for Ralph to do something about the lizard. 
     Mitzi, seeing this green thing fleeing thought, Ah hah, and went in pursuit, which ended with her crouched on the console between Human three and her husband, Ralph.
     Ralph was so discombobulated by the flurry of activity that he ran over a roadside mail box before getting his car back under control. 
     Mitzi took a hard look at the green lizard perched on the dash, with it’s mouth open and it’s tail whipping back and forth, and thought, look at those teeth, maybe I could live in peace with this thing. 
     By this time MI was fully warmed up and ready to rumble. She saw this midget jaguar threatening PI and promptly reached up and bit the end off the jaguar’s tail. 
     Mitzi let out a high-pitched wail, then a snarl as she whirled around to face this new threat. This brought her face to face with the open mouth of MI, which still had the part of bitten off tail hanging out of one side. Mitzi’s tail was leaking blood and with it whipping back and forth was scattering blood hither and yon. 
     Mitzi didn’t feel comfortable sitting there facing MI and knowing another green lizard was at her back, so she leapt unto Ralph’s right shoulder, gave his right ear a whack, just because she thought she shouldn’t be the only one having a bad day, then clambered over to his left shoulder and after another look at the lizards, decided the top of his head would be better. So using all her god-given equipment, she clawed her way there. 
     This created additional stress on Ralph, which caused him to narrowly miss an oncoming Florida State Patrol car. In a flash the patrolman made a U-turn and fell in behind the city policeman who had witnessed the small incident with the mailbox. 
     Ralph finally noticed the two police cars behind him. During all this Human Three had kept up a steady stream of expletives aimed at all the living things in the car except herself, of course. This was done in a high pitched screaming voice. Ralph, if he’d had time to consider it would not have found it soothing. 
     Ralph pulled over to the side of the road. The state patrolman and the city policeman approached the car, one on each side. The first thing they noticed was what looked like blood all over the interior. It was fresh enough to still be running down the windows. The second thing they noticed was that the driver was wearing a live cat on his head. And then there was the iguana on the dash. 
     Both officers had their sidearms out and both tapped the barrels of those guns on the driver and passenger windows, motioning for them to please lower them. 
     Just as those windows reached the completely open position both PI and MI smelled the outdoors and perceiving a way of escape went for it. PI, with one leap, bounced off the chest of Ralph and sailed out the window only to collide with the state police officer. PT didn’t cling to that officer’s face and chest for long, but dropped to the ground and left for a roadside tree. The officer was so surprised that he accidently fired his gun, neatly shooting off another piece of Mitzi’s tail. 
     MI jumped to Human Three’s shoulder, then out that open window narrowly missing the city policeman. MI joined PI in his tree. It was still cold so it was only a matter of time before they were on the ground again. Mitzi followed MI out of the car and ducked into the first auto with an open door. It happened to belong to the Florida State Police. 
     All this time Human Three was yelling “Kill them, kill them.” She was taken to the local ER and admitted on a forty-eight hour psychiatric hold. After considerable conversation with the authorities, Ralph was released after glumly accepting several citations, reckless endangerment and cruelty to animals being two, after which he was allowed to go home. It was only late the next day that he remembered that Human Three was in the local ER. He had wondered why it was so quiet. 
     So much for how a couple iguanas got to Florida. 
     What was also reported, a man living in Florida, who had immigrated, well, sort of, from Central America thought this iguana falling thing a godsend. He went around collecting a number of the lizards, put them in his car and was on the way home to prepare them for some of his most favorite culinary dishes. The iguanas warmed up, woke up, and took out their vengeance on the driver. He ran off the road, wrecked his car, and ended up in the hospital. The iguanas went free.
     So, if you are in Florida and it is less than about fifty degrees, watch out for falling iguanas. 
     You’re welcome.

One Reason to Stay in School

     I heard that as far as the educational level of nations around the world the U.S. is rated number 17. That’s sort of sad, but before I get too excited, I would want to know who arrived at that fact, and how they arrived at that fact, who paid for the study, and what they mean by educational level. Not that I’m suspicious of gratuitous information, but, well, I’m suspicious of gratuitous information. 
     Part of what I heard was that Canada was higher on the list than the U.S. Okay, I can believe that as Canadians are big on education. Then I read about a Canadian young man who had ordered a fake ID on the internet. When it didn’t come when he thought it should, he went to the police to file a complaint. Maybe this fellow wasn’t part of the data base used by the study. If he was, and we still came in 2nd, I despair. 
     Which reminds me that I’m half Canadian, from my mother’s side which brings up another painful observation. My grandfather and grandmother Spady grew up and lived in Russia for some time before immigrating. I’ve always wished that while living with us before he died, Grandpa would have passed on to me some of what he experienced of that culture, taught me some words in Russian, and/or told me about the culture and what it was like living in Russia at that time. 
     Now I’ve just realized that I’ve not passed on to my girls anything of my Canadian heritage. Of course, they’ve never shown any interest, but if given some time I’m sure I could come up with several interesting stories about our connection to Canada. The first one that comes to mind is our relationship to Sergeant Preston and his great dog King, who was a Northwest Mounted Policeman of some renown. The Sergeant was the policeman, and no we aren’t related to the great dog King. 
     But I digress. Let me draw a conclusion as you’ll not get it from reading the above. Stay in school, so that once again, we, the U.S., can hold it’s head up in pride. At least beat those Canadians.

It’s Just Plain Amazing

     The story claimed, “Wedding Ring Lost in Livingroom Surfaces Three Hours Later in Master Bedroom.” 
     That one might not make the news, but this one might, “Wedding Ring Lost While Climbing El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. Ring Surfaces Thirty Years Later Inside Wild Pig in New Guinea.” 
     Now that one takes some explanation. First of all, we will assume that the following is accurate, however much this stretches the imagination. 
     It all started when the ring slipped off the finger of a rock climber and landed on the toe of his left shoe. The climber froze in place, not wanting to dislodge the golden symbol of his wife’s affection. And it had written right on the ring, “Love You Always.”      He was in a quandary. He was also in a position where he couldn’t reach down and retrieve the ring. He finally decided that he would try to flick the ring up with his foot to where he could catch it. To do this he had to take the weight off that foot so he could do the flicking. 
     He slowly shifted all his weight to his right foot. He jerked his left foot up. The ring rose toward his one free hand, but the movement was too much pressure on the right foot which slipped from its precarious position. 
     As the climber fell fifty feet to the end of his rope he somehow forgot about retrieving the ring, which fell one thousand feet, bounced off a rock which launched it out away from the face of the cliff. It was within a couple heat beats of landing in the forest when a passing crow, seeing this shinny object, snatched it out of the air, and took it to its nest. 
     Time passed. Once in the crows nest the ring served no further purpose than giving the crow and its decedents something of a conversation piece when showing it to their neighbors. At least until the big thunderstorm. Lightening hit the tree scattering the crows nest as well as several crows hither and yon. The ring fell into the river where it was swallowed by a large rainbow trout. 
     The ring was too large to pass through the trout’s system, so remained there for quite some time. 
     A couple years later a fisherman snagged and landed the trout. By this time this trout was trophy size and the fisherman was imagining what this trout was going to look like mounted above the fireplace in his den. At the movement the fact that the river is designated catch and release was way down the list of his concerns. 
     But first he needed to get a picture of the trophy trout, He pulled out his cell phone and was lining up the shot to take a selfi when he noticed a photo bomber in the background, well not really the background, but right behind him, namely a huge black bear, standing up on its hind legs and looking over his shoulder, at the big fish.
     In an instant the fisherman’s mindset went from his trophy fish to the hot breath of the bear on his right shoulder, and the best way to make the bear the gift of his fish. He flipped the fish over his shoulder. As the bear’s attention followed the flying fish, the fisherman departed the vicinity, forgetting the very expensive rod and reel he was leaving behind. 
     The bear ate the fish and the ring and went on his way. Eventually he did what all bears do and pooped in the woods. Shortly a hiker came along and stepped in the pile of bear feces. Not on purpose. It was just that he was a bird watcher. 
     With some disgust the hiker scraped of what he could with a stick, then went on his way. What didn’t come off was some of the offending substance caught in his instep. Imbedded in that was the ring. When the hiker got to the trailhead, he took off his boots and threw them into the trunk of his car, before putting on some shoes more comfortable for the drive back to his home in Yachats, Oregon. 
     As the hiker’s wife was unloading the car’s trunk, she found the boots and the dried ‘stuff’ stuck to the bottom. She knocked it off in the garbage which was eventually hauled to the local landfill where it was spotted by a seagull and eaten. 
     Now seagulls will eat anything—well—except gummy worms. How I know is somewhat interesting but not important to this narrative. 
     Again, the ring found itself in a system that was not meant to handle such items. Several days the seagull was feeling poorly and settled down on the ocean’s surface, just outside the surf. It was concentrating so much on how bad it felt that he didn’t notice the shadow of the migrating fur seal ascending from the depths. 
     Off the coast of La Paz our seal attracted the attention of a pod of killer whales which tore the seal into small pieces which they proceeded to consume. Their activity attracted several marlins which swooped in and managed to steal a few pieces away from the whales. One particular marlin got the piece that contained the gold ring. 
     A wealthy Japanese businessman who along with several of his companions was big game fishing out of La Paz. The marlin was nothing special size wise, but it looked huge to the diminutive Japanese executive, so he had the fish frozen and hauled back to Osaka where he had it mounted. While doing this the taxidermist found a gold ring with the inscription, “Love You Forever.” 
     The Japanese man thought this ring such a harbinger of good fortune that it was kept in a small display case next to the mounted marlin. It has been a treasured keep sake in his family ever since. 
     As for the gold ring found in the wild pig on New Guinea, with the inscription, “Love You Forever,” and how they connected that to the rock climber, I have no idea. How would I? I mean, give me a break!