Entry Notes To Self...distinctions

Reflections From The Sand

Memorial Day weekend on the beach...what a sight. The first plunge into summer. What a release to let go of winter past. Young families, hoping to share a moment and maybe establish a tradition. At least that's what I think they hope for. What I notice most are the children. For some their first experience of sand and waves. 

I noticed this little one, about three years old, I suppose. I guessed at her age based on the age of my granddaughter, but a good guess never the less. Red candy striped swim suit, blond hair and in her own world. That age where they explore with their senses one moment and the next just run in circles like a child possessed, or like the feeling of the greatest freedom. I think she felt free. Who knows but she was a delight to observe as she splashed her feel in the surf filled holes as the tide rolled in, paying little attention to the cries of her parents to be careful. Such beauty as she played with the waves lapping at her feet then retreating.

Then there was this father with his young son, dipping in the sand with one of those nets and  sharing the capture of a sand crab...will they remember that moment? I hope so, I will reflect on it often.

Then I noticed this small, independent one. Still wearing diapers covered by one of those Micky Mouse swim bottoms. He would not let his father hold his hand to make it to their resting spot. Very insistent  to make his way on his own. About two years old, still a little wobble in his walk, teetered with every step, especially in the depressions of the foot prints. Almost falling with every step and when he reached the incline of the beach, his little body speeding much faster than his brain. How funny as he struggled between the line of balance and face down in the sand. Pausing occasionally to do whatever his body needed to keep it all together. It suddenly dawned on me that he was experiencing what I experience. You see as you age, there is a point where one experiences the same feelings as my little friend, teetering on the  edge of balance or face down....it's so nice to be two again...

Then my eyes happened upon this young lady, under her umbrella, reading a book, then pausing and staring into the sea. Could be many souls trying to find a moment of peace but her mood was different. Behind that stare was a loneliness. You know it when you see it, but it was not her loneliness that captured my attention, it was her special power.  I realized what power she had... in the magic of hiding her loneliness as she smiled and bid me a nice day...

Wishing my family and friends a happy Memorial Day Weekend...

"If you attend to what annoys you, you are giving it energy and keeping it alive..."

In a small bar in Algiers

I remember well the moment I heard those words. It was a warm and muggy afternoon as I walked into a small bar in Algiers.  He looked up from the corner table and asked, "Are you lost?" 

I told him that I had been that way most of my life and I kinda enjoy it. "What about you?" 

"Not lost, but ugly. Born that way and I kinda like it." He quipped...

He spoke with a mixed gumbo French accent, much like the half bowl of mixed seafood gumbo he was caressing. An old grey hat pulled over his eyes making each remark a surprise. Said he was from up around St. Landry Parish. Part of the Chanier clan but has lived in Algiers for over thirty years. 

"Just call me Horace, named after one of them Roman poets," as he reached out his experienced hand.

We had a beer or a few before it was all over...along with some good laughs, lies and stories he shared of life along the Mississippi. He works a tug boat on the River, and has for thirty two years. Lost his wife in the Katerina flood waters. Said his wife was a fine woman and a blessing . Two grown children, that in his words "never amounted to much..."

I asked him if he gives much thought to Katerina and his loss, and his answer was my lesson for that day...

"You know Doc, I did for several years, but after one of them sleepless nights, I decided that if you attend to what annoys you, you are giving it energy and keeping it alive." 

Strange how in those little moments of our lives we remember the smell, the visual, the arrangement of words strung together in a way we can easily draw from our memory. How our mind works to hold onto painful memories and how it works so we can finally make peace with ourselves. In those moments we realize that peace has always been ever present in our Being and always resided there...just waiting...and completely available through all our experiences. 

Photo By: Dado

Entry Note To Self...

My Morning Walk

The ocean was fairly calm this morning. Calm before the storm as they say as I keep a watch on the dark western skies. Seems there is a storm brewing in the gulf. One of those tropical cyclones as they call them. I had to smile this morning. Before a storm in  this part of the world they remind you to upload your insurance policies to iCloud. You know, we need a storage like that for our dreams.

I noticed this young boy building a sand castle. He was at that age where his two front teeth seemed to big for his face. Very precise he was.. building his dream in the sand. If the wall was not just right he would take his shovel and repack the sand in the plastic mold and place it just to his liking. As I walked by I complimented him on his efforts. He smiled showing those two large front teeth. 

He was in a race against the tide to finish his dream before it was washed away. A lot like all the dreams in our mind. Just perfect before they are washed away by the tide of reality. I am sure he will rebuild his dream again. Maybe tomorrow, next year or even thirty years from now when he brings his children to the beach and shows them how to build a castle in the sand. His name is Hayden, enjoying his dreams in the sand...

Wind blowing out of the southeast as I feel the heavy air of the low pressure streaming its way to the north. As I made my way against the wind there was a poem that stuck with me like the salt was sticking to my skin. I came across it in my reading last week and it seemed fitting for this day...

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten…

―James Russell Lowell

Enjoying my dreams in the calm before the storm.

From The Sea...Sea Legs

Sea Legs...

From time to time I enjoy extended periods of sailing at sea. The periods of aloneness, 

periods of earthly delight and some periods filled with just enough fear to make you attentive to your task. Some feelings I carry when I leave the shore but when packaged with different sensations makes you perceive those feelings a little differently. Your being needs those moments for better footing as we make our way through our life journey. Each trip always brings its own surprise. Something different.

For me,  the one sensation that always remains the same has been the first few steps I take when I  touch solid ground after the adventure. Sea legs, I think they call it. A step or two and it's gone, and then there are other times it lingers a spell. I like it when it lingers a spell.

I step off the boat at a place called Oyster Creek. Not much there, really. Just a small hut for the Harbor Master, lots of crab traps, netting and a few deck hands unloading their catch and preparing for another run at the shrimp this night. There is a small bar at the head of the dock...it's called Molly B'S.  One small burned out neon light announces her presence. As best as I could tell it once said "welcome." I point my sea legs toward her opening and make my way in to be greeted by an ole' lady behind the bar.

"Good evening Carl,"...seemed she called everybody Carl. She was leaning on a horse head cane and wearing a mischievous look. "Need to wet your whistle a bit?" She asked.. "It's Ale, don't serve no beer here. I have two kinds, dark or light."

She made me smile and we told each other a few of those  get you in trouble stories. Seems she had out lived two husbands...said "you know two is enough and three would be too many." 

She asked what I was doing in these parts? "Just trying to change my latitude a bit dear lady," I responded. 

She smiled and asked..."Going to save any of those changes?" "You know as we get older I don't think we develop more patience, I think we just don't give a damn about the pointless drama."

We continued our friendship for a couple of Ale's. I hated to end our conversation, as I always do with a person of strong character. 

As I departed, I heard her say, "Doc, never look back, it might distract you and them sea legs from the now."

I never looked back, but I did tip my hat to Molly B. and from somewhere in my mind remembered a little tune by John Prine...

The last time that I saw her

She was standing in the rain

With her overcoat under her arm

Leaning on a horse head cane

She said, "Carl, take all the money"

She called everybody Carl

My spirit's broke

My mind's a joke 

and getting up's real hard

Come back to us Barbra Lewis...

Somewhere from the sea...

Entry Notes To Self...What might life bring?

A Simple Sit

While the day

 chooses it's colors

 and night releases

 it's silken scarf

 A simple sit

 amidst transitions

 with thoughts

 like fallen stars

 Wishes made

 upon memories

 who listens

 from afar

 Like a voiceless question posed

 to passing strangers without ears

 what might life bring

 today?

 Until this one -

 that faced me to say, 

 Today what will you bring Life?

From Inside The Sane Asylum...by chance we meet

The Old Man With A Red Cane...First Encounter 

I had heard stories of this old man with the red cane and how he walked daily along the shore near Matanza Inlet. Always at the same appointed time. Some just called him the Hermit, while others spun their own tales of fantasy and intrigue. Regardless of the tales, he captured my imagination and I made it a point to pass by that stretch of coastline on many occasions just to get get a glimpse of the old man with a red cane legend. 

When I first saw him approaching I could not restrain the passion in my voice..."Good day sir," forced its way out. With a hint of disparity he said, "What do you want."  I politely, as best I could, responded, "I did not intend to disrupt your peace." He quickly quipped, "and what would be the point in that?" 

"Well sir, the legend of the ole' man with a red can lives on you know?"

He smiled, " I guess you are one of them seekers here to ask me about the meaning of life?" I laughed and then we both got a good laugh together when I told him I was to old to be looking for secrets. The experience of life showed in his face, but not in his eyes.

"People think what they want to think, and it's none of my concern," he said. 

I asked him if I could see his cane, it was one to be admired. It was a twisted vine in shape, with a carved Eagle appointing the head. It was a fine cane. Made from the Elder Wood vine. He showed the markings where smaller vines left their markings and how he carved animals around its core. He makes canes, not to sell but just for his own pleasure. Said he probably had over 200. Some with so much meaning he looks at them everyday.

About midway in our conversation I teased him a bit and asked, "Well, when you going to tell me the meaning of life?" It was as if time stood still in that moment. He never looked up and quietly responded. 

"But why do you ask the meaning in life...does it exist?...yes it exists. Life has meaning because it exist. We do not ask the meaning of a rose, or a sunset, or a birdsong...and surely you agree that human life is more wondrous than a rose. Why should we demand that a human life be justified by some meaning?...By just existing we matter."

By its mere existence it is meaning.  Nothing more needed to be said. We sat in silence a while watching the sun dance on the waves and the tide filling the tide pools once more. Not long, for I had invaded his privacy.  Odd thing though, he gave me a final farewell by saying, "I'm sorry if I disturbed your peace sir,"  then smiled and made his way down the beach.

Is It By Chance We Meet Again?

This was my third encounter with the ole man with a red cane. On the second sighting I watched him from a distance and recalled a poem by Yeats, Old Men Admiring Themselves By The Sea. There is this chilling line that haunted my spirit, "all things beautiful must fade away"...  

This is a cool morning for June, but bright with hues of sunrise peering from the horizon.  There he was...sitting on the shore by the sea on the small inlet. I approached him quietly and found my space not far from his and sat in silence as we both felt the sun on our face. The silence between us was like an old friend. 

I felt his brief glance and in his familiar voice, he asked, "Are you the pilgrim that disturbed my peace?"  

He remembered me and our first awkward encounter as I apologized for my intrusion of invading his quiet moment of grace. "I am that pilgrim, kind sir," I replied. "Seems another apology is in order."  

"Found your peace pilgrim?", he questioned.  

"At times, I am honored by its presence, but always looking for its return. I would even go and visit if I knew where It resides." I was not pleased with my response and felt I may have put him off a bit, but he quickly responded. 

"Seems it resides in thin places for us all, like where the visible and the invisible comes to their closest space...where the sky meets the ocean. To seek such places is the vocation of the wise and the good and for those that find them, well...the clearest communication between the temporal and eternal."

"And sir," I asked, "do thin places reside in other than the temporal, for I sense the beauty of peace in this space?"  

Resting his arm on that red cane, he turned and through the gleam in his kind eyes he replied, "But perhaps the ultimate of these thin places are in our human condition.  The experiences we are likely to have as we encounter suffering, joy and mystery? Maybe pilgrim, just maybe."  

He gave me a glance and a smile, silence between us as we watched the sun break the horizon, felt the gentle breeze as the tide changed its course. The sound of the sea birds as they made their morning search for mooring and the distant sound of the bells at St Mary's. Without a word he stood and made his slow walk down the beach and I heard him say, " find your peace with it all pilgrim." 

I watched until his frail figure disappeared around the bend from my sight.  All things beautiful must fade away...There was a thin place between us this morning. Where the sky touched the ocean with its color of blue. The kiss on my face as the sun cast its warm glow, and yes, the the thin space of our conversation as his words transformed my visible peace to the experience of invisible peace we all share in our human condition.

  

You are not really gone from this earth, until the last time a person speaks your name...

Be well. See you soon!

From Inside The Sane Asylum...Jess

Don't let the clowns scare you, as they seem to do for many these days. I have a good friend of about forty years and in my scribblings I just call him Jess B Rambling in the present tense and Jess Ben Rambling in past tense. 

I never know of his where a bouts...he just shows up from time to time. I like it that way. Long periods with Jess makes me question many things about my self and requires way to many days of recovering after his visits. One of his favorite lines is "get down get back up again." The getting back up again is always a problem with Jess around.

Well , Jess informed me he may be showing up in the next few days. I'm trying hard to get my game face on in preparation. Trying to grin more and see what that feels like. The visual of Jess and me happens to be this picture of two clowns pondering life's meaning as they peer out to sea. He always tells me some cock a mania story and I always relate a once upon a time story to him. Sometimes he believes me, sometimes not...this is a once upon a time story I told him on his last visit...I think he believed this one...by the way, Jess is the one caring the suit case...:)

Jess, did I tell you about the time I played bingo...?

I don't like playing Bingo in a psych ward setting. Since it's a game that involves no skill but sheer luck, and since I tend not to win very often, it can be damaging to my sense of self-worth, when I'm already so fragile that I'm in a psych ward, for Pete's sake. 

I get to thinking that not even luck is on my side. The staff starts cheerleading, creating a sense of competitiveness that need not exist: "Come on, men, get going, the ladies are winning too many!!" As if anything can be done to change that. 

The token prizes aren't worth much, the same handful of people win repeatedly, because that's the way luck is, and then staff starts imposing a pity rule: "OK, after you win four times you have to give your next prize to somebody who hasn't won yet." Hey, it may be a nothing prize, but if I didn't win it myself, I don't want it!

Still, they really like for you to participate in those things, so I agreed to be the caller. I started making jokes about the numbers I called out. "B9. As in, the tumor was not malignant, but B9." (That got a big laugh out of the nurses.) "B4. As in, stop in the naaame of looove, beee-fore you breeeeak my heaaaart...." It earned me the participation points without actually having to play the stupid game..

Just a story I made up. Never been a patient, but maybe I should be?

Footnote: Since this scribbling, Jess showed up and departed...like I said, I am questioning many things about myself...:) Where he comes from nobody knows,

Or where he goes to, but on he goes!...

Reflections From The World...Timothy

The River Keeps Moving

And like an ancient lava, the sun sprayed those muted golds and oranges across the slick surface of that slow-yawning river. And Timothy had upended the trash barrel, stood erect with his pipes, straight faced, motionless, like a Scottish Moai. And the tribes had begun to gather. And there was no talk of The Mohammad, of The Christ, of The Buddah, of the differences between them, between all of us. And there was talk of the beauty of it: the sun, the air, the water, the morning, the gathering. And the river kept moving, even despite the attention from them, from the sun. 

Then, the water glow slowly paled, then vanished, along with the tribes, and the remnants of the night. Timothy was still playing as we walked upriver, away, and then toward home. We could still hear him at Café du Monde, Pirates Alley, and even now, as I write this. And it was good.

Timothy, pipes

Mississippi River, Easter Sunday

New Orleans, LA 

2017

Words and photo By: Christopher Bryson

Entry Note To Self..thresholds

Life Thresholds

If you go back to the etymology of the word ‘threshold,’ it comes from ‘threshing,’ which is to separate the grain from the husk. So the threshold, in a way, is a place where you move into more critical and challenging and worthy fullness. 

There are huge thresholds in every life. You know that, for instance, if you are in the middle of your life in a busy evening, fifty things to do and you get a phone call that somebody you love is suddenly dying, it takes ten seconds to communicate that information. But when you put the phone down, you are already standing in a different world. Suddenly everything that seems so important before is all gone and now you are thinking of this. 

So the given world that we think is there and the solid ground we are on is so tentative. And a threshold is a line which separates two territories of spirit, and very often how we cross is the key thing.

Entry Note To Self...scrolling down

I usually spend about two hours a day on my iPad and consider it one of my hobbies. I save a lot of things that might interest me. Sometimes wonder why I save so many. I think it is now an impossible task to review all of them. Guess you could call me a hoarder of stuff that interest me. It must be like a flea market of bits and parcels of information. The same goes for my photo collection. I find and take great photos all the time. I tend to collect between two and three thousand at a time. See, a hoarder of interesting photos also. I do try and keep them purged after use, but that in itself my friend is a daunting task in trying to decide if I really want to delete that beauty. I seem to become friends with all the things I save, and how can we just delete a friend?

My process of posting is like a craft room for thoughts and ideas. I tend to go for my saved documents first. That's where I store all the interesting thoughts and writings. I name my documents in a way I can find words that my mind is craving at that moment. Now here is the problem...I find these great words that sends fireworks off in my brain and It's one of those Humanity  saving thoughts that must be shared with the universe...Now! Not only have I found the words, I have an ole friend in my photos that resembles that thought in my mind...there in starts the second problem...how to find that friend among three thousand Ole friends. I usually start scrolling through my photos, thinking I know about the time period I saved that photo. Yea, right. More times than not, I usually find the photo scrolling back down. Sometimes on the second or third back down..:) I'm working on albums to make it a little easier, but if you have ever experienced that time consuming activity, you know why I'm am not finished. Anyway, I like taking a quick glance at my ole fiends each day.

It would be interesting to know the Best Practices In Posting...

Not half bad on a good day! TAOL

P.S. I saved this piece about four weeks ago and just found it...now to find a picture to match while scrolling down.

I was asked by a friend the other day what I worry about. A lot of worry thoughts pass through my mind. I usually don't find a good worry until I'm scrolling down. I found one the other day that I had forgotten about and it's my only worry I will share..."I worry about the approaching day my body will become stooped and I will be looking down most of the time...

Entry Note To Self...Matanza Inlet

Latitude, 29° 54" 32'. Longitude, -81° 17" 12'...

Towards the Matanza's seaward turn, the flow is slow, meandering. Wide tidal flat at the sea’s low tide support a spread of hungry birds. Silt brought down from inland fans the delta, between the reeds. Here crustaceans breed.

To the eyes of walkers on the white dunes, where only the lonely skylark nests among the sea oats and palmetto palms, the white sand flats must seem a bland expanse. But to Kingfisher the casts of sea fleas & crab are treasured finds. They stun their prey with single stabs.

Brown Pelicans bob in shallow water just beyond the mud. Full or not, they slowly move to their roost inland, where they will wait for the sea to ebb once more.

Sand Pipers abundant where the marsh grass grows. They all gather as the sun fades and the walkers watch nature and once again are amazed... 

I note these quietly in my field book at days end...

The Morning Walk...

By nature, I am an early riser each day. To me, there is something special to see the light of a new day. The feel as everything comes to life with the rising of the sun. The smell of moisture and the distant sounds as they travel great distances. Which bird will sing the first song. 

To take a walk in the still of early morning, made cool by an April breeze from the East. She opens wide her silent arms and once again I'm welcomed in. To walk with her and talk in sighs and whispers. To muse and ponder her sky. To walk with sweet ghost of people passed, and visit places unseen. Dear friends and thoughts they bring, all keep me company in the breeze. 

And when I've wandered just far enough, I'll turn my mind toward home, and bid farewell to my silent walk within the morning bloom...ah, is that the full moon I see in the western sky?

From Inside The Sane Asylum...up Shit Creek

Up Shit Creek...

I'm sitting here on the banks of Shit Creek just giving some thought to what's up the Creek. I would like to be having some deep philosophical thought about humanity, but that effort seems to be dissipating like the smell of Shit Creek in a strong wind, if you know what I mean.

Stories abound on how this Creek received such a name. Some ole English tale would be my guess. May have even started as just up the creek without a paddle and someone wanted to intensify a bad situation and added "up Shit Creek."  Makes little difference since we all have our days where we feel like we are "up Shit Creek without a paddle." Seems the real question should be how do we navigate up Shit Creek without a paddle?

There are a lot of things to see up Shit Creek. I recall being up the Creek on one occasion and seeing this old house covered in rose bushes. The story goes...there was a sweet ole lady that lived her whole life next to the Creek. She planted and tended her rose garden to add fragrance to the occasional downwind blowing across Shit Creek. She loved her roses so much that when she died, her roses absorbed her and now there is the smell of her sweet essence...:)

I hate when my mind wanders and comes up with some silly made up allegory. We have a more problematic issue to deal with...navigating Shit Creek without a paddle.

People constantly worry about being "up Shit Creek without a paddle." I don't think being stuck in this infamous body of water is as bad as it sounds if you make the right decisions. Luckily for you I have come up with a few helpful hints:

Step-by-step
1 Make sure you are in fact up Shit Creek and not a normal creek that was unfortunately named. The most telling signs are a rather pungent aroma, murky water, and a feeling of utter hopelessness. If these signs aren't present, then you are up a normal creek.

2 Attempt to hail other boats. Many people get stuck up Shit Creek and most of them won't have a paddle. Hopefully, someone brought a paddle or has a motor. If this is the case, hop onto their boat or have them tow you.

3 If nobody has a paddle (the most likely scenario) attempt to pry some loose timber off your boat. This can be slightly tricky, since you don't want to cause your boat to sink. Stick to boards located near the top of the boat, and the sides, do not touch anything on the deck.

4 Once you have a board, use this as a paddle substitute, it isn't the fastest method but more effective than drifting.

5 Paddle towards other boats, and recruit other rowers. Since nobody likes to be up Shit Creek, these people should be more than willing to help you paddle. Insist on using your boat, and once you have enough rowers, sit idly by and let others do your work.

6 (Optional) Resort to piracy, and plunder those in your path. Some people up shit creek are lawyers, bankers, and doctors. Seek these people out since they will have more money. Avoid the poorer looking people, since they are more apt to rob you. The booty must be distributed amongst your crew, a 50-50 split between you and the crew should be appropriate.

7 Once your boat exits Shit Creek immediately pray to whatever deity you worship. Only by the will of God/Allah/Buddha/Vishnu/Zeus/Posseidon/Thor/Shenron/Nightrider/Chuck Norris/Flying Spaghetti Monster/etc. did you escape. (If you are missing a deity you are back up Shit Creek, and thusly must escape again, the method you just used should work, but if not guess where you are)

Tips

▪ If you are the kind of person who constantly finds himself up Shit Creek, do yourself a favor, buy you a paddle from Shit Creek Paddle Store.

▪ Don't agree to be in a Jamie Kennedy film, by the same name, no matter how much you are offered.

▪ Make friends. Since most people find themselves up shits creek more than once, it helps to get to know the regulars. Not only will their advice prove invaluable, idle chatter can help pass the time and stave off boredom.

▪ Avoid mutiny at all costs. You'd rather be up Shit Creek than in it.

Warnings

▪ Beware of pirates. If you can read step 6, so can someone else. This may mean you are not the only pirate on Shit Creek...so form a large crew and be wary of the surroundings.

Footnote: I'm doing a little remodeling of my site...I hope you will like the new look. I will be posting again soon...as soon as My mind gets back in order.

Not Half that bad on a good day. See you soon...Doc

Entry Notes To Self...a good day

Field Notes-
Not Half Bad On A Good Day...
Coordinates 31°38′06″N 93°38′33″W

It was an unusual warm morning for February as I turned off the state highway that fronts Toledo Bend Lake. The narrow road leads me around the saw mill and up to the train crossing just as the arms stop the traffic and signals a coming train. A long train, about one hundred and ten cars long as it makes its slow journey through the small rural town of Zwolle.

Not much left of the town. Family Dollar to my right, Burger Barn and a package liquor store on the left. I can see Market Basket in my rear view mirror. A large fish statue marks the way to fishing country. It adorns the corner of the old train depot and town hall. Dream catcher is the official name
of this beauty...

Zwolle, home to about five hundred households and famous in these parts for the Tamale festival, the Mud Bog run on Good Friday along with the Timber and Forest gathering.

Now I pass through this way for their tamales. There is a blinking red light at an intersection just past the cemetery. "Take a right at the blinking red light at the cemetery, go past L & M's and we are down there on the right. You will see our sign, C & J."  Seems L & M is a close relative and a close competitor in the fine art of tamale making. Ms. Juanita claims they don't wash their hands before cooking, giving me a wink and a smile. I grin every time she tells me that story, which is frequent, since I can't pass up the question of quality made tamales at L & M. Picked up about eighteen dozen-dozen this trip. That's right, eighteen dozen would not be enough.

Ms. Juanita cooks about three hundred dozen each Wednesday and the smell coming from the small stove in the corner is worth the trip. I like the way she packs tamales. Twelve tamales wrapped in tin foil, the tin foil wrapped in print from the Sabine Index and packed in a brown paper bag. Holds in the heat and the smell of stemmed masa and pork, just enough to keep me from eating a dozen before I get back to the blinking light.

As I head out of town with my goods in tow, I pass this ole run down and vacant house of the famous Marshal Brandon. The Marshall who tamed Zwolle. A once stately southern style home, left now only with memories of its charm. Now just pass the Brandon home I saw two large bushes of azalea. Passed them up but had to turn around, go back and admire their beauty. Seems to be a little early for such full blooms, but worthy of a second glance.

I make my way past the local Mexican food shack, the Manor nursing home on the right and Killpatricks Mortuary on the left. All seemed to be doing a brisk business. What really caught my attention was the local radio station I tuned into some miles back. Moon Gifton was the host. Now Moon was posing the question to his audience about school children cleaning their own schools. He referenced some source that claimed this was the standard practice in Japan. Cost cutting and character building program. This brought one caller after another espousing "yes", great idea and how they all had such disciplined children at home doing their part. I think they finally agreed that hiring someone to clean the bathroom might be in order...seems they do not want their child to deal with the stinky parts of life.

I remember dusting the erasers at school. This chore usually took place about fifteen minutes before the final bell, so you always felt you were getting out of class early and you were the teachers favorite. Usually ended in an eraser fight with chalk marks on our face and cloths. Breathed in a lot of that chalk dust doing my part. Guess the janitor refused to dust the erasers, but the floors were always clean.  We had these air raid drills about once a month. We were afraid the Russians were going to drop a nuke on us, so we practiced hiding under our desk. Made a lot of sense at the time. Just scare the shit out of the kids. They need to be prepared for the end times. The good news...never once, while we were huddled near the floor did anyone complain about dirty floors.

After a brief commercial about a Cridder Ridder product, Moon's interest was no longer on tough love of our children, but if this Cridder Ridder product would work on snakes. Seems Moon was weed eating around his mail box over the weekend and came across a Copperhead snake. He told his wife, but made the mistake and informed her that it was at the mailbox. So now he was making the daily walk out to retrieve the mail. Many of his callers even questioned its power to ward off lawyers...never got the real answer, as my reception on this a.m. station faded and the aroma of the tamales filled my car.

Not half bad on a good day...