Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Midlife Decline Measured in Harleys

This is my 2006 Harley Davidson Street Bob the day I paid for it. When I first saw this motorcycle for sale, I knew it was a Harley but I did not recognize it as a Street Bob. No self-respecting Street Bob should be loaded down with all that fake leather and conchos and fringe! As soon as my brother and I got it home, we immediately removed all this foolishness. The former owner would be pained to know that those plastic saddlebags went directly to the landfill.

The photo below is the 2006 Harley Davidson FXDBI as it was conceived in the minds of the Harley Davidson engineers and designers. Not much chrome. Nothing fancy. A modern iteration of the old street bobs those west coast wild boys built with panhead engines, stripping them down for street riding.

Now, I know it is just a Superglide with less chrome and a clever marketing scheme. I am not a total dolt. As soon as I can get digital photos of my former bike, the Superglide, in all her different paint jobs, I will post them. You will be able to see right away that this is the look I had been after. I had the frame lowered on the Superglide in order to get the fender down over the rear tire. Once that was accomplished, I put a solo seat on the 'Glide after my daughter had discovered boys and did not ride behind me any more. I could go strictly for aesthetics. Even then, back in the day, more than one hopeful man rode behind me on the bare fender.

This was the last iteration of my Superglide with custom paint and the frame customized to lower the rear fender.  I sold it to a man and later I heard he sold it in England.  Perhaps she is still on the road.

Aaaahhhh, those were the good old days. I must pause for a moment in respectful silence in honor of that time of my life. Now I am just an aging baby boomer, overweight and gray haired, and tired. There might still be a man willing to ride behind me on the fender, but he too would be a faded remnant of his former hard bodied and handsome self. If he just had any of his hair left to blow in the wind, that would be a major bonus.

I hate to admit that I have been riding the 'Bob with that same seat, conchos and all. That is how pathetic my life has become. I am willing to ride with a frayed and ugly seat on my Harley Davidson rather than take the time to either get this one recovered or spend the money for a new one. Poor Bob. He deserves better but once the decline sets in, it all goes to hell in a hurry.


Sunday, September 27, 2009

Time for Nothing

A very good thing about having an empty nest is the time I have to do nothing. I can be attentive and silent for many hours each day. Sometimes there are faint tones in the wind that stir some deep nostalgia I follow as far as I can. I never find the source. Someday, maybe. Eventually, certainly.

I have had time to watch the small population of squirrels who have lived in the same dozen trees since I moved here. About February I notice their chasing and eventual mating in the bare trees. I will notice a baby squirrel some time later. Always just one or two.

The squirrels did not approach the house for many years. It took them two seasons to discover the suet I hung on the front porch for the birds. Now that they know nothing dangerous happens if they approach the house, I hear them scampering on the roof. It has become a new thoroughfare on the way to the back yard.

As Duke gets older, he spends most of his time asleep on the front porch. He was never a threat to the squirrels, even when he was younger. They have always been able to be on the ground in his vicinity. A particular male squirrel leaps onto the handrail on the front porch. At the top, he lays flat along the rail and hangs his head over the end. Motionless, he watches Duke for quite awhile. I have seen this several times but have no explanation for it. Even if Duke rouses from sleep, the squirrel remains. I guess the squirrel is just visiting the Duke.

There is another unlikely relationship between Evil Roo and Duke. There is no snuggling of course, but Evil comes onto the front porch to stand within a few inches of Duke. They are just two dudes, hanging out, doing nothing. If they meet in their separate coming and going, Duke stretches his nose toward Evil. I assume it is an interspecies greeting they have invented.

Duke has his own life. With the exception of the time he was lost for ten days, he has spent his entire life here. He knows this place by its sounds and scents in ways my human senses can not fathom. He knows who and what else lives here, and who only passes through. He knows all about the creek, where to cross, the taste of the water. He knows where the rabbits live, and hears all the creatures that move in the cover of darkness. He knows when there are deer and turkey in the yard, but he allows them safe passage.

He is not afraid of the thunder and lightning. He loves the snow and cold, having a perfect fur coat for that weather. Whenever anyone comes to hike the creek, Duke is right there, eager for the adventure. But if no one is roaming, neither is he.

He loves Spirit Creek Farm, too. This is his home and career. Basically, when my son left home, Duke retired to a life of far less excitement and a plenty of time for nothing. In all that nothing is everything.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

The Black Art of Writing

The internet has set the creative writer free in many people, for good or for ill. I started a blog to share my photos and my loving thoughts about the Flint Hills. There are many far better sites dedicated to the Flint Hills, with much better photography and more knowledgeable writing, and they are hosted on a better format than

So, as time went on, more immediate things occurred that I wanted to write about, to sort through in my mind. Writing does that. It clarifies and organizes my thinking around an idea or a question or an event. It became easier to write about things other than the Flint Hills.

I have always aspired to be a writer. I went to college to major in journalism. I was going to be the best investigative reporter and make a name for myself. I discovered it was far easier to smoke pot with the anarchists and play foosball in Brothers Tavern than to attend class. Rather than wrestling with facts, I wrote poetry. It comes far more easily. It does not even have to be true. I wrote my first poetry in third grade. It was such a good poem Mrs. Deere questioned if I had written it on my own. F*** you, Mrs. Deere!

Forty nine years later, my outraged inner artist at last finds expression.

Bob, my best friend's husband, stole one of my poems and turned it in as his own work. He was given an A in a graduate class for my work, word for word. When an historic building on campus was lost to arson, Bob always came to mind when I imagined who could do such a deed. F*** you too, Bob, you subversive piece of shit. You deserve to be manager of Walmart.

This is what happens when you write! You never know where it will lead.

Remembering Plagiarist Bob opened a can of worms and has entirely side tracked me. So....

The End

Friday, September 25, 2009

The Worst Idea of 2009

The Mouse Nation and I have had great difficulties coexisting peacefully since I assumed the role of Commander in Chief at Spirit Creek Farm. Historically, poison had been placed in the crawl space of the house, in large quantities. I did away with that, but found I had to resort to smaller packages of poison inside my house a couple of times a year.

I have since made sincere efforts to coexist with all the flora and fauna at Spirit Creek, refusing to wage chemical warfare or other genocide. I stopped the poison altogether but then endured a few horrible episodes of infestation. The mice warriors declared jihad on me for the previous generations that had been poisoned. They ruined clothes and books and toys and all manner of things in my house. They chewed through the seat belt on the passenger seat belt in the truck three times! They chewed through the furnace wiring and several areas of truck wiring. In total, I think it cost over $500 for the various repairs. It would have been hundreds more, but Ford replaces safety belts for free, even when the same belt was chewed through three times!

I resorted to live traps, in the house and in the truck. That worked fairly well. It required that I keep a close eye on the traps. It also presented the problem of where they should be released. I let one little guy go in the glare of a baking hot day, covered in peanut butter, miles from water. I felt guilty about that, so then I started releasing them back onto my property but at the far east end. If they could survive for a quarter of a mile they could reach water.

I bought a stack of snap traps sold under the brand name Tom Cat. Do not buy these worthless traps. The mice either licked all the peanut butter off without triggering the trap, or they survived the snap, and I had to feed the still living mice to the dog.

Finally I found good snap traps, the ones sold at the farm store. Those traps are swift and humane, and the mice never survive. The problem this year has been that peanut butter, once the siren call for all mice, lost its power. I even rebaited the traps but the mice ignored them altogether. All I caught in the traps was dust.

As soon as I settled down at night to watch television, the rodents came out. They were getting so bold as to run to the center of the room, stand on their hind legs and look me in the eye. I would shout and they would dart away. In a few minutes, I would hear them chewing industriously on something out of sight. My anger and frustration grew. In the words of George Bush and Jeff Lebowski, "This aggression will not stand, man."

With tensions escalating, I bought sticky traps this week. First, I made a formal announcement that all mice had 24 hours to exit the premises, or they were going to die. (I know mice can not understand English, damn it!) It was a gesture of peace - a sporting chance - an energetic intention. Then, I set the traps out directly by every single snap trap they have ignored for weeks. Within 20 minutes, three mice were stuck in the glue. It was pathetic to see them struggle, but I had been told on good authority that they would not live very long. I left them alone. For 24 hours I left them untouched and thought they were all dead. When I picked up the traps, to my extreme dismay, they were all still alive. What a horrible thing to happen to the little mice.

I filled a bucket with water and dropped the traps into the cold water. I felt even worse, if that was possible. Sticky traps were, beyond a doubt, the worst idea of this entire year.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Dedicated to My Son-In-Law

I just came here to hear the drummer's cymbal ring
There aint no way you can put me down
I just wanna say that hell's my wife's hometown.
Well, there's reasons for that and reasons for this
I can't think of any just now but I know they exist
I'm sittin in the sun til my skin turns brown
I just wanna say that hell's my wife's hometown.
She can make you steal, make you rob
Give you the hives, make you lose your job
Make things bad, make things worse
She got stuff more potent than a gypsy's curse
One of these days I'll end up on the run
I'm pretty sure she'll make me kill someone
I'm going inside, roll the shutter's down
I just wanna say that hell's my wife's hometown
Well, there's plenty to remember, plenty to forget
I still can remember the day we met
I lost my reason long ago
My love for her is all I know.
State gone broke, the county's dry
Don't be lookin at me with that evil eye
Keep on walking, don't be hangin around
I'm tellin you again that hell's my wife's hometown.
copyright 2008 Bob Dylan


Annie is the filly I purchased from the Wakarusa sale barn two winters ago. Someone had already paid the kill buyers in order to keep her off the truck to the Texas slaughterhouse. I paid that amount for Annie, and that money most likely saved another horse from the slaughter.

For quite some time I had been looking for another horse as a companion for Ginger, my little Quarterhorse mare. The plan was to buy an older horse, a horse that had been around awhile and would be safe for someone with bad knees to ride. I had been searching for months. I had even ridden a few horses. Any of them would have been a good purchase. But I did not buy any of them, for some reason.

When my search turned up Careen Cain's name, the original plan came to an end. Careen spends tons of her own money and energy toward saving horses from slaughter. She agreed to meet me at the Wakarusa salebarn to look at a pregnant Appaloosa mare. Kathyrne (who owns five horses) went with me. The Appaloosa mare was nice looking but she had been ruined in the arena. Her hind pasterns were broken down. Someone had ruined her, allowed her to become pregnant (for a better price based on her weight?), then sold her for slaughter. For those who love horses, it is simply unconscionable.

I was tempted to get that Appaloosa. Having a colt to raise from the moment it was born was a big temptation, but the mare took no notice of me. I already had a horse that considered me as nothing more than a servant, so why would I want another one? I decided to look at the others in the pen.

Even now it is too upsetting to write about all those beautiful horses destined to be brutally slaughtered. It is not that they are killed for meat, though that upsets a lot of people. I have no issue with people eating horse meat (just not my horses). But the transport and slaughter of the horses is not regulated whatsoever. Horses are transported in stock trailers designed for cattle or pigs. They are overcrowded into the trailers and if a horse goes down, it is trampled to death. They are hauled long distances, sometimes for days, with no stops for food or water. At the slaughterhouse, they are not humanely put to death. There is horrible video evidence of horses being hung alive. It is an abomination.

Thanks to people like Careen Cain and many, many others, the only two slaughterhouses killing horses have been shut down in the US. American horses are still being shipped to Mexico for even more brutal slaughter, but it has at least been stopped on American soil. This has angered American horse breeders who routinely disposed of their unwanted surplus through the slaughter houses. They claim the sudden glut of living horses caused the market to drop. People who profess to love horses, those who make their living from horses, apparently have no problem with the animals from their farms ending their lives hanging alive from meat hooks, screaming in agony. It does not have to be that way. It should not be that way.

Someone saw something worthwhile enough in little Orphan Annie to save her from the trucks. She was an ugly little horse but she is not little any more. She is taller than Ginger. She is smarter than Ginger. I feel sorry for her that she is the only being (besides myself) that Ginger has to boss around. Just once, I wish Annie would kick Ginger right in the ribs or take a big horse bite out of Ginger's butt. Ginger has it coming. I have whacked Ginger with a stick several times for being so mean to Annie, but it is just the way of horses.

Annie has beautiful legs and trots with a lively, light spring in her gait. Ginger has none of that. Annie might have some thoroughbred in her, which is why she has such an ugly head and neck, in my opinion. She is lumpy in her belly and lean in the hindquarters. A thoroughly unremarkable looking horse. But she is my little Annie and I love her. I love Ginger the Horrible, too.

Annie puts her front leg into the water tank and stirs up the water. She LOVES to do that. I hear her up there splashing all the water out of the tank every day. I yell at her to stop, but I have to be right there next to her to make her stop. Ginger has realized she can take advantage of this on a hot day and puts her face close to the tank. The splashing water is cool and also shoos flies away from her face. It muddies the water and wastes it, too. More work for me, their indentured servant. Darn horses. Darn that Annie.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


When I turned fifty, my son and I traveled to Hawaii to spend Christmas and New Year's with my daughter and her family. My sister Patti and her son came to Spirit Creek the night before we left so we could go into Lodge together. A woman only turns fifty once in her life and Patti came to help me celebrate that milestone. The boys took care of the fire for us.

We flew from KCI to snow covered, icy Minneapolis for the connecting flight to Hawaii. Nine long hours on a double-decker jet filled to capacity with holiday travelers headed for paradise. In my entire life I had never wanted to go to Hawaii. I assumed it was nothing but a huge expensive tourist pit, and only people with a ton of money could enjoy it. I was wrong. When I at last escaped that airplane into the warm and perfumed air of Hawaii, I fell in love with the Islands forever.

On Christmas day, we opened presents in the morning and went to the beach in the afternoon. My daughter's apartment was built with no furnace, no air conditioning because they are never needed. That seemed impossible to a lifelong Kansan. Imagine living in a place where the weather is not adversarial.

To make travel easier, we did our Christmas shopping in Honolulu. I had considered bringing my water paints, but did not want to risk losing them to a screening problem at the airport. My son, bless his heart, gave me a little set of water paints and paper for Christmas. I did get the chance to paint in Hawaii, thanks to his thoughtfulness.

There are many memories from those ten days, but what has been on my mind lately was snorkeling in Haunama Bay with my son and daughter. They were fearless and beautiful as they swam in the clear water. They did not seem like people I knew but two members of an exotic race of mer people. I tried to keep up with them, because you know, I was going to protect them from harm in the ocean. There was no way I could match their strength, and certainly no reason to worry about them. Finally, I stopped worrying and simply observed them swimming in the bay. Their natural grace underwater was simply stunning.

I was okay snorkeling but the sea bed had a nasty habit of rising up close to the surface, where I could see it was full of creatures I had no prior dealings with back in Kansas. There were signs everywhere to not touch or stand on the living coral. I truly struggled to stay away from those shallow towers of coral, but sometimes I had to put my hand on something to push away from some creature with large eyes and strange appendages. Nothing looked remotely like a snake, so I was never technically in the terror mode.

I could write pages remembering that trip to Hawaii. The day we left, the surf on the North Shore was officially 45 feet. Nothing is as magnificent on this earth as the ocean rolling into those towering, booming walls, rising up in shades of teal and turquoise, rainbows trailing into the primal thundering dispersal on the sand and the immediate drawing up for yet another enormous assault. My daughter and I went to watch the surf and eat shave ice one more time, which were my two favorite things to do in Hawaii. I believe I could live on that North Shore and never be homesick for Kansas at all.

It seems as if every moment of time I spent in Hawaii is etched into my memory, golden and easy and graced with the beauty of my children and the perfume of paradise.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Back In The Saddle Again

Yesterday, the son-in-law finally had his motorcycle ready for a ride. Last year, he hit an oil slick at an intersection in Manhattan (Kansas) and went down hard, cracking ribs and a rotator cuff, and deeply bruising his pride. Luckily, he wears a helmet and all that fancy kevlar racing garb - boots, jacket, and gloves. Nothing the road scraped off was skin, or, most importantly, the back of his head, thank God. The equipment protected him. The only way he could have avoided the wreck was to have seen the oil on the roadway in the dark. Bless his heart.

His bike took a major hit when it went down. It is some fancy sport bike with a big engine and fat back tire. Those sport bikes he and my daughter ride look like transformer toys to me. There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about them to an old Harley rider like me, but that is okay. If God had wanted everyone to ride a Harley, He would not have given aluminum and fiberglass to the Japanese.

My son in law ordered a new frame and put that motorcycle back together, as good as new. It was great that he could go riding with my daughter and me, though I imagine riding motorcycles with the mother-in-law along has to suck to some large degree. But, I greatly enjoyed the time we spent riding in the Flint Hills. I knew I would never be able to keep up with the sport bikes on the curves and hills south of Alma. (I could if I was twenty years younger.) I think the Harley could take those particular curves as easily the sport bikes, but my main goal in motorcycling is to stay upright and on the road. Anyway, I knew I could easily catch them on the straight.

It was just a beautiful day, perfect motorcycling weather, and there were scores of riders out and about every where we went. We stopped in Eskridge to just hang for a while. A Honda rider from South Carolina randomly stopped to chat with us. It was fine until he started spinning a line of what my grandmother would have called bull hockey. She never suffered fools lightly and I could hear her voice in my head as that fool went on and on and on. She would have said something to him that let him know she had his number. But I have none of her finesse. I turned my back and tried not to laugh out loud.

It was just a great afternoon and I so much enjoyed spending time with my daughter and my son in law. He was the crew chief in the Black Hawk helicopters in Iraq and now he is working on an engineering degree at K-State. I keep trying to persuade him to get a Harley, but those crew chiefs are tough customers. Maybe by the time he has earned a full engineering degree, he will naturally conclude the superiority of the Harley Davidson.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Do I Have Enough Time for Everything?

I sincerely hope it is true that we reincarnate. I hope we have more than one life on this fair earth because I have to admit I have wasted 98% of my life so far.

First of all - SCHOOL! Was that the biggest waste of time, or what? Once we have learned to read and count money, we should graduate. All I remember from school is fighting to stay awake as class dragged on and on and on, punctuated by one boy or another getting in trouble when he snapped under the strain.

SoDuKo puzzles! Hiiiiiisssssssssss! The first one I ever worked took me about five hours over two days. I misunderstood that each of the nine squares of nine squares should be solved in addition to the lines of nine. Rather than solving for each subsquare, I solved only for the lines of nine. I almost killed myself but I finally solved it and wondered why anyone would think that was fun.

Not reading instructions.

Television commercials, especially all those selling remedies for erectile dysfunction. Are there truly millions of men with that particular problem? Really? With the vast oceans of porn on the internet, I would never have guessed.

Deleting porn spam. Why must I deal with porn spam? My ISP recently changed their email software so now I actually see all the spam titles. It is a small local phone company that provides my internet service so I genuinely hope none of the employees think I ever visited a farm animal porn site.

All righty, then.

During the commute to work, I have spent miles of time trying to decide what my favorite song of all time might be. Does anyone else in the world think about stupid stuff like that? I go though them all. Most beautiful song. Best shower singability. Happiest memory. Best rock, or Blues, or fiddle music, love, tragedy or existential angst. It is impossible to commit to only one.

If you want to waste a few moments today, visit these two links to listen to Movits. You can not understand a word they are saying but it does not matter. I had to pay over $30 for their CD. It came all the way from Sweden and took eight weeks. It was worth it.

I live for a glimpse of the blond singer!

I'm moving to Sweden!

More time for fun stuff like this. That is what we need.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

The Drumming That Circles the Planet

My daughter and I stayed home last night for our participation in Ten Billion Beats. We began one minute after 7, in deference to Brent and the others at ground zero who were the beginning. I am looking forward to hearing from Brent after this weekend to find out how it went. They are remaining on the hill until tonight when the wave comes back around so they can close the drumming.

I have already received emails from two people in different states who attended large drummings last night. At one place, the people were dancing with children waving colored scarves. How appropriate for the children to be dancing!

Even before the event kicked off last night, Brent et al announced this is happening again next year. It would never have been possible without the world wide internet. It is a sign of the rising consciousness. I am humbled.

I wanted to participate from my own home so I could invite any of the nature energies to participate, if they wished. About 15 minutes into the drumming, the chickens began a raucous round of crowing and clucking and carrying on that lasted for quite a while. My daughter and I were grinning at one another like idiots over those chickens, who had already gone to roost, I might add!

After the chickens stopped, coyotes began a chorus that lasted for quite some time. The coyotes were just across the road to the north. By the end of the hour, we were hearing something in the west but could not tell exactly what it was until after we had stopped drumming. Every cow and steer in all the pastures west of us were lowing. It sounded as if they were being trail driven, but no one was out working their cattle last night anywhere. Apparently, this world wide drumming has stirred up an enormous amount of energy.

I built a fire so we could sit by it to drum. I purposely placed the fire so the next time it rains, the ashes will wash into the creek, and carry that energy into the water as well.

There is no way to tell how many human beings will have been focused on peace by the time this drumming makes its way around the entire planet in 24 hours. Thousands at least, tens of thousands maybe. This is a seed, a genesis of consciousness. No one can imagine the presence of a mature oak tree by simply observing the acorn - if I might use that old metaphor. None of us can imagine what could possibly take root and grow from the seed of ten billion beats.

Namaste - The light in me honors the light in you.

Post script: Ken, your drums were singing like big pow wow drums last night! My old friend, I wonder how many of your drums are participating in this event all around the world? I have always said you were going world wide!

Friday, September 18, 2009

Ten Billion Beats

Today, at 7 pm, CDT, drums start beating on a hilltop just west of Salina, Kansas. It is the beginning of a drumming that will literally go around the world within the next 24 hours. People from all over the world, on every continent except Antarctica, will be joining in this event.

Our good friend Brent Nelson and two of his friends had the idea, and today that idea is coming to fruition!

The Big Idea: "This is a Global Experiment that will use drumming to focus a collective positive intention, then send it around the world in a continous wave to improve our relationship with each other, and with a living planet upon which we live, breath, and have our being."

You can drum from wherever you are at any time within in the next twenty four hours. Or you can pray, or meditate, or simply wish the planet, your family, your self, the highest good.

Check out the 10 Billion Beats web site where all of the registered drumming sites are points of light on a map. It is awesome. And it starts right here in Kansas.

If you feel so inclined, join us.


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Bob Dylan in Topeka

When I was young I liked Bob Dylan okay. Blowin In The Wind. Subterranean Homesick Blues. All Along the Watchtower. Rainy Day Women. Mr. Tambourine Man. But, I would not have walked across the street to see him for free - until the day Bob Dylan came to the Topeka Performing Arts Center and Bill Stewart asked me to go. I was fully expecting an incoherent concert from a crazy old burnt-out has-been. Bob's voice was as horrible as ever, but his music was as good as ever. Even better. The musicians were excellent. It was gooooooood!

The best thing about that Bob Dylan concert was simply being there for it. Topeka had just opened the TPAC. It was clean and carpeted and about as high brow as it is ever going to get in Topeka.... but Bob Dylan?! Come on, now!

No smoking. No drinking. No eating. No putting your feet on the seats in front. An army of old folks in green blazers stationed at each section quite cheerfully, but FIRMLY, insisted people put their feet down, and not bring drinks into the seats.

Bill and I were a pair, two old hippies for certain. To this day, we wear our hair long, to our waists. We found our seats and looked around while the house lights were up. ALL of us old hippies were smiling goof balls as we spotted one another in the crowd. We were all thinking the same thing: the first concert ever with no joints making the rounds after the lights dimmed! We were all remembering what we were doing when we first heard Bob Dylan - Vietnam war, maybe antiwar demonstrations, Joan Baez, bell bottoms, college, young and beautiful. Well, we made it to middle age after all, and ol' Bob was still with us.

There were people of all ages at that concert and I enjoyed every moment of it. I rediscovered Bob Dylan. I realized by that time in my life, I had enough experience to actually understand what the hell Bob was really singing about.

I purchased my first Bob Dylan music after that concert. I started with the early material and worked my way forward.

When my mother died a few years ago, I spent hours listening to "Mr Tambourine Man". The comfort in that song I needed. Back in the day, people thought it referred to drug induced experiences, but I know it is about dying.

"Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow."

I had hoped to ask my friend to sing "Mr. Tambourine Man" at my mother's funeral. Vicky's voice is as clear as the blue sky. It would have been a beautiful farewell to my mother. I was not sure my stepfather would have tolerated a Bob Dylan song. Best to just get along and let it go.

I went to a psychic not long after Mom's death. I had no intention of asking anything about my mother - she just got over there! But Mom had some information for me. The last thing, the psychic raised two fingers, waving her hand. "I see your mother doing this. Do you understand?"

I understood Mom was letting me know she was "dancing with one hand waving free". If she knew about that, then she also knew about my unspoken wish for Vicky to sing.

Yes, indeed, I "get" Bob Dylan now.

**I like ol' Bob a lot, but he did sue Hootie and the Blowfish for referring to his lyrics in their song 'Only Want To Be With You", so here is the legal info, just in case: copyright 1964 by Bob Dylan.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Who's Going to Mess with These Guys?

Two hard working American soldiers who have been on the front lines in Iraq for over 11 months. They are safely in Kuwait now and will be in Kansas shortly!

Welcome, welcome home.

Thank you Jason and Robert!

A smiling face - good to see!

You talkin to me?!

Friday, September 4, 2009

What Is The Meaning of Life?

Google for "the meaning of life". It returns 80,600,000 results, but the one at the top of the list is from Wikipedia, which explains "The meaning of life constitutes a philosophical question concerning the purpose and significance of human existence or biological life in general."

It could be a Jeopardy question.

"Alex, I'll take 'Unanswerable Questions' for $1000."

"It's the Daily Double. How much do you wish to wager, Jackie?"

"Alex, I'm wagering everything. I'm going all-in!"

"Very well. Here is the clue: Bump around clueless for a lifetime."

"What is 'We tell Grandpa every day not to walk to the mailbox in his underwear?"

"Sorry, no. The correct answer is: What is the meaning of life?"

Of course, I do not have to worry about appearing on Jeopardy. If the categories were: Bob Dylan Songs, 1970 Prom Night, Thirty Years at the Company, I might have a chance.

No wonder I do not know the meaning of life, though Bob Dylan might.