Can't we all just get along?

Does anyone remember Rodney King?  So much has happened in my world since the days of Rodney King that I can not right at the moment even remember what that was all about, but I do recall that it was in California and the year was 1992.  King was beaten by police officers and when he sued the verdict came back that the 4 police officers were innocent.  I did check and there were 63 people killed in the riots,  2,383 injured, and 12,000 people arrested.  Rodney King himself stood up and begged people to stop.  I remember seeing him on a black and white grainy television and saying,
"Can't we all just get along?"  That was almost 30 years ago and yet, here we are today.  Different state, but same scenario.

I can not watch the news.  I can not watch that video again and again.  To watch that police officer, kneeling on George Floyd's neck as three other officers watch not only brings tears to my eyes, but raises my righteous indignation at everyone involved in that brutal act of murder.  And it was murder; deliberate cold blooded disregard of a human life.  "I can not breathe!"

How many breaths do you take in a day?  I am sure I could google it and I would then know, but does it matter?  We take them for granted.  They come easily inhaled and just as easily exhaled.  A cold, COPD, and other health issues will make us stop and think about the breaths we take, but mostly we just take the first one and then the next one and go right on through the night breathing while we sleep. 

I grew up in a small town.  We had a small place up on Main Street that had bars on the windows and that was where  the "ne'er do wells" or drunks or other miscreants could be locked away.  The "peace officer"  (whose job it was to oversee whoever was locked up) had a chair to set in by the front door in case the person who was locked up needed something.  To the best of my knowledge no one was ever locked inside.  The only excitement that the jail ever saw was when Ory Ayers and her daughter rode their stick horses into town and circled the jail and rode back home.  Life was pretty simple back then.

There were no blacks in our town.  There were only white people.  I know my mother's family came over from Germany and settled in Nickerson or nearby.  There were 3 churches; Methodist, Christian, and Baptist.  I guess growing up in such a place made me tolerant and accepting of other races.  We never fought over anything.  Our environment was just pretty much mundane.  Occasionally families would have disagreements with the neighbors, but it never went farther than that.  The gypsys sometimes camped on the edge of town, but we never seen them.

So here I find myself in a world I do not understand full of people I do not understand and I find myself screaming at the television in complete frustration. Oh, trust me, I have done my share of marching and changing the world, but never was I violent.  We carried signs.  We made speeches.  We helped little old ladies across the street.  And now, sadly, I find myself in need of being helped across that same  street, and up the steps, and on to the other side.

I can not help the Rodney Kings or George Floyds of the world.  I can only set here and watch as it unfolds and pray that some where, some how, someone will pick up the banner and fight for the rights of all the mistreated in our world, but it doesn't seem to be happening.  There is so much unrest in this world today that by the time I figure out which cause to support, the whole thing has changed. 
And so the world goes on.  My words change nothing.  I live in fear that if the world spins any faster we may all lose our gravity and spin out of control.

OMG! I am going to throw up!

Few people know that for a brief period in my life I was a heavy drinker.  It is one of the things that I did not succeed at very well.  Actually, not at all.  This journey into my past came up this evening when my oldest daughter called to make sure I was safe from the rioters and the coronavirus.  I am not sure just how the subject of drinking came up in the conversation, but it did.  Oh, I know.  We were discussing the riots that are going on because some jerk knelt on a guys neck and killed him.  The fact that he did that was bad enough, but that he did it while in the capacity of law enforcement made it worse.

Debbie and Hammer had started their life together in a volatile relationship since both of them were drinkers.  She was remembering how two policemen had subdued her by "hog tying " her.  They held her spread eagle above the ground and she was pretty much helpless.  No damage to her and no damage to them in that situation.  The point of that being that a person can be neutralized without pain on injury.  That all became a moot point when I explained to her that I had neve been arrested, and so was never "neutralized".  I further explained to her that I was never a rowdy drunk.  My journeys into the bottom of the bottle always resulted in projectile vomiting.  Thanks to this I also did not end up in the wrong bed at the end of the evening.  When the world started spinning, I got sick.  Now, I do not mean kind of sick.  I mean I hit the bed, hung on with both hands and tried to pass out before what ever I had eaten for the previous  weeks came up.  I never made it and I always wound up praying to the porcelain god and I must confess that the cool water splashing my face was a welcome relief.  Men some how did not want to take a chance on me not getting sick, and I respected their wisdom.

I watched my friends as they "had a drink to relax."  Or partied and had a "really good time."  Not me.  Drinking was to get drunk.  Getting drunk, meant getting sick.  There never was any enjoyment in it at all, so I finally just gave it up as a lost cause.  Kenny never drank and the only time there was any alcohol in our house was when Vi and Mel came in the summer.  We would have a tomato beer.  A tomato beer.  Not beers. A tomato beer and usually it was a quart of beer and a can of tomato juice.  Ah, the good old days.

Now I drink water and sometimes tea.  Coffee for breakfast.  Once or twice a year I stop at McDonalds and get a cola of some sort.  Small one.  A guy in New York sent me a bottle of wine many years ago.  It took me 2 years to drink it down about half way and I threw the bottom half away.  Just don't have the taste for it anymore and I sadly fear that a good drunk would probably kill me at my age now!

Well, I guess I am off to bed.  Nice to know my bed is stable and my dreams are forgotten as soon as they happen!  Y'all have a good one.  May your blessings be many and your worries few and may the road rise up to meet you and the wind be always at your back.

Cheers!

Rest in Peace Larry Kramer

I started a big long blog that entailed the history of how and why I became involved in the Gay Rights movement back in the early 80's , but that is irrelevant.  What is relevant is the death of Larry Kramer.  If you do not know who he is, you need to Google him.  He was a writer, a playwright, a military man.  He tried to commit suicide at one point.  But most importantly, he was the man who sounded the alarm for the disease that was killing gay men.  It was a phenomenal event back then.  No one knew why gay men were dying, but they were and in greater numbers. 

In 1981 he published an article calling attention to this in a gay periodical.  Two years later he published again, this time calling it "1,112 and Counting".  It was about this time that I may have shaken myself out of the lethargic cocoon within which I was wrapped.  I had a good friend back home named Gilbert who fell victim to the disease about that time.  He was the first friend I lost, but he would not be the last.

I began to follow the news and Larry Kramer.  It was staggering statistics for sure.  And it just kept going.  Does any one remember when Colorado passed Amendment 2?  We worked very hard to get that overturned.  We were fighting for Gay Rights and we were fighting the AIDS epidemic.  I think Larry Kramer and I were fighting the same battles, but on different ends of the country, but for the same reasons.

I wish I could have met him.  Some of my best friends are in the gay community and I have always championed their cause.  I see I am rambling, so let me just sum this up and get back to life.

Larry Kramer was a giant among men and his legacy will live forever.  Our world is a better place for him having passed through it.  In 2002, he said: "I put the truth in writing.  That's what I do: I have told the fucking truth to everyone I have ever met."

And that, my friends is why Larry Kramer holds a special place in my heart.

Lawrence David Kramer, writer and activist, born 25 June, 1935: died 27 May 2020

Well, good morning you big fat goats! Hello, sheriff!

Most of you know that I have spent the last 40 years of my life out here in the county living on a back acre.  I love the seclusion.  I love that I have to give anyone headed out here a detailed drawing and description of how to find my actual driveway.  My Garmin ends with my car setting in the middle of the road and the words "You have arrived!", but you have not.  But that is just for the humans who do not listen.  Animals are another story.

One of my first encounters with the wild animals out here involved my Tulip bed.  I planted all different colors across the border in front of my lawn.  I was very excited to see them poke their little spikey heads up and waited for the buds to show.  Sadly, I went out one morning and the Tulips were gone!  I knew where they were and when I looked down into the ground I could see the colors alright.  Something had come in the night and eaten them!  I could see the yellow and red flower buds below the ground.  How sad that made me.  I could also see a couple piles of cow droppings (I use the term droppings instead of "piles of cow shit!).  We did not have a cow, but the man behind us and over on the next lane did.  This was my first encounter with wild animals.  I do consider that any animal that runs loose is a wild animal.

I would learn over the years that Foxes would eat my ducks and geese.  Also, that a horse would sometimes trot across my property and leap over my back fence.  Sometimes when I would return at dusk I would find skunks playing in the yard of the house in front of me.  Once a big owl was in the tree right out side my back porch and my cat disappeared that night, never to be seen again. 

When the Harveys moved in across the way, they were animal lovers.  He worked on the ditch and she at the Animal Welfare.  They brought home many animals in the form of dogs, cats, birds, and goats.  Never once did their animals  invade my space.  It was peace on earth.  No problems, although one day her blind dog ate her pet chicken.  The chicken would squat down to be picked up and when it squatted in front of the dog, the dog just ate it!  That was sad.

Fast forward to new neighbors and more goats.  Sadly by this time the fences were falling into rack and ruin and goats do not respect anything.  They do not understand property lines.  While they are meant to "keep the weeds down" it rarely works that way.  And so it went.

It became my lot in life to put them back in their pen if I did not want them in my yard.  Bear in mind that I am an old woman and if I wanted goats, I would have bought them.  I do not and I did not.  One morning in utter frustration I put the goats in their pen 3 times before 7:00 AM.  I lost my temper with the girl who owned the goats and I explained to her how her goats were ruining my life and my yard.  She actually kept them in for 3 days.  But then here they came again.

I called the sheriff.  It was then that I learned that Colorado is a free range state.  If I do not want their goats in my yard it is my responsibility to fence them out!  Now understand that I have a full acre here and I park my car in a carport out front.  A fence around this place would cost $4,000.  It would also entail opening and shutting a gate every time I wanted to leave.  I do not have that kind of money laying around and if I did there are many things I could do with it.  I like the openness of the front yard.  I do not like the goats.

So here I set with the original problem still unsolved.  I can not shoot the goats.  That is illegal.  The fences that could not hold the goats last week are still not repaired.  Momma always used to say "Good fences make good neighbors."  I understand that.  I just wish they did.

In the meantime life goes on here on my little acre.  Every day I get a day older and deeper in debt.  When the goats figure out a way to get out, (and they will )  I may just wander on down to the bank and apply for that loan. I would love to have new floors, but looks like a new fence may be what I have to have and then the other neighbors can just do the same.

It used to be a more user friendly world.

Back in Nickerson in the late 1940's life was so simple.  We did not lock our doors.  Oh, we could lock them, we just did not.  We had a key called a skeleton key.  Our key fit every other lock on every other door in town.  The lock was not so much to keep anyone out as it was to keep the door from blowing open while we were gone.  Do not think we were gone very often, because we were not.  Nor was anyone else, so the "key to the front door" was more a symbol of status then actually meaning anything.  If, perchance , the key was misplaced one could simply go to the local hardware store and purchase another one for just a few cents.  I do not know at what point in time someone came up with the idea to have a lock with a special key, but it was some time after life on Strong Street.

Another thing that was in every yard was a pump for water.  Ours was a "pitcher pump" which held its prime which meant we did not have to pour water in it to get it started.  There were 2 things that were always located on the nearest fence post and those were a can of water just in case the pump did lose it's prime and  a tin cup.  The tin cup was for drinking the water that came from the pump.  If we were playing and got thirsty, we simply went to the nearest pump and got a drink from the pump.  It was the neighborly thing to do and back in the day the house that did not let you drink from their pump was avoided at any cost.  Water was free and everyone was a neighbor.  Oh, there were a few houses that had dogs and sometimes the dogs were not so friendly, but usually the lady of the house would holler at the dog and then you could get a drink and be on your way.  I do know that the water that was pumped up from deep in the earth was so sweet and cool that it must have been the elixir of the Gods. 

I did not know about hoboes growing up, but I had heard of such things from my brother, Jake.  He was friends with a man who lived down on the Arkansas River when we were on the Stroh place.  Seems his name was Blackie Joe or something like that.  He worked with silver and turquoise and sold his wares around town.  Mother did not like Jake hanging out with anyone who lived on the river, but Jake was always one to sneak off and not tell her where he went.  I saw Blackie on the bridge once and he was scary.  His clothes were black and his face was very weathered.  I did not get close!  He was not on the river in the winter and Jake said he "went south" and that he had family down south.

When I started high school I had to walk down main street to school and then back up main street to go home.  The railroad tracks ran right through the middle of town and sometimes the trains would block the way.  This was back in the early 1950's and the box car doors were open and we could see  the men "riding the rails."  Mother always cautioned  us about these men and I was scared to death of them, but secretly I sometimes thought how much fun that might be to just go where ever the train took me.

Another thing that mother was always adamant about was the eating business.  We had a big round oak table.  Of course I think that is all that anyone had back then.  If we were eating, we were eating at the table.  Homework was done at the table.  Sometimes she would make us hot chocolate and that was drunk at the table.  On Sundays we sometimes went to Plevna to Great Grandma's house and had fried chicken dinner at her big round table.  She lived with my grandma Haas who had a stroke and could not walk without a walker.  I lived with them my freshman year of high school until grandma died and great grandma moved to Coldwater.  That was the best year of my whole life.

Well, I am rambling.  The cat is rolling a marble around my feet.  It is 4:00 AM and the rest of the world is asleep.  And yet here I set, thinking of how my mother would come to my house and set at my big round oak table and reminisce of the time all decisions were made at the table and how the table symbolizes the center of the home.  She was right. 

Course, my momma was always right!  RIP my sweet mother. 

The miracles of modern medicine!

It used to be a cataract was a big deal, but thanks to modern medicine, that is no longer the case.  I recall when I was in grade school a cataract was spoken of in hushed tones as if the person who had developed a cataract suddenly had enhanced hearing and would know we were discussing "it".  And when a cataract was removed it meant days in the hospital and then added care at home.  No bending, no lifting, special diet and on and on.  Last Wednesday, I had my second cataract removed.  The hardest part was the Coronavirus limiting access and the 6 foot social distancing rule.

So, my friend picked me up, delivered me to the Rocky Mountain Eye Hospital for eye surgery.  He dropped me at the door and in due time I was taken to the back, prepped and given an IV to relax me.  The first time I had an operation of this sort I slept through it, but this time was different.  I visited with Dr. Schlomer as told me every move he was making.  I saw all the debris he was removing and it was very bright colors.  Actually, there were funny shapes and bright colors.  I felt absolutely nothing.  I think the actual removal took about 2 minutes.  He then taped a shield over my eye and it was done.  I was home well before noon.

My ride was waiting at the front door and had been considerate enough to bring me a banana since he knew I had not eaten today.  He drove me straight home, and I went inside so my son could go to work.  He was at work before noon.

My first afternoon was spent dabbing at my eye which was running much like a leaky faucet.  The only things I needed to actually do, was use my eye drops, do not bend or lift for 24 hours and wear my dark glasses outside.  Today begins the third day after surgery and I am good as new!  My new eye is clear and I can actually see better with it then the other eye.  So....

Forget all the horror stories you hear about cataract surgery and if you are contemplating it I advise you to go for it.  Now, I am sure that any doctor who is an ophthalmologist is well versed on the fine art of cataract removal, but I am just partial to Dr. Schlomer.

So, I am going to take my leave of this and see if little Jiraiya is about ready to crawl out of bed.  Going to be a long day!

A whistling pig? What is that!

I shall tell you!  Yesterday I stopped to pick up my mail (which was actually mail from the day before) and I found this:

Inside was a very nice hand written note from Fred Keller apologizing for not sending these 3  CD's that Sam wanted me to have.  Now, Sam had not told me anything about any CD's nor had he mentioned The Whistlepigs String Band in any conversation.  I was pretty sure had he been to Minnesota to attend a concert by any Whistlepigs, he would have at least mentioned it in passing.  And a jug band with a banjo, mandolin, guitar and a bass was not in his music preference.  Hell, it was not in mine either!  A mystery!

Since Sam was at work and I did not want to bother him and I had a custom order patchwork bird seed catcher to make I decided to pop it in the player.  I am an avid fan of old country, but I do love a mandolin and guitars and a banjo.  What a pleasant surprise!  I have got to say, my sewing time flew by and I was thoroughly entertained.  It seems my son knows me better than I know myself!

This is a picture of the band, which I now love!  So now to solve the mystery of how this came to be in my mailbox.  My son lives in Dallas and works at Southwest University Medical Center as an IT.  In this capacity he consults with people all over the country, most of which is done remotely.   Fred Keller, who is the leader of the band is married to a lady (I forgot her name) who he met through his work.  I am very glad that he talked to her and found out about this band.

The point is he knew I would like this and he was right!  I had never heard this kind of music since "HeeHaw" left the television many years ago.  I am going to keep these 3 CD's in my car because there is too much distracting me here in the house to give my full attention to this and it deserves my full attention!

So a big thank you to Fred Keller, Joel Olson, Chris Jones and Ross Willits, way up there in Sandstone, Minnesota, for brightening an old lady's day and days to come.  You have brought back memories that have been long forgotten in my old gray head.  Days in Garden City listening to the guys picking at Lee and Iris Day's house when Julia Day Torres was a tiny little squirt with bright red hair.  That is one of my fondest memories back then.  Of course Lee and Iris are long gone along with Duane and the rest.  Sad how a tune, or a smell, can take you back, isn't it?

Right now my mind is back in Garden City, Kansas in that 2 story house on the corner of "something and something else."  Better wind this up or it is going to be a very long day!

Peace to you all and thank you to The Whistlepigs String Band and my son for knowing me so very well.  I love you all!