The Leap

The room was much larger than imagined. So much space for so much learning and fun. What better place than a gymnastic gym, to host an up and coming gymnasts’ 13th birthday party.

It has been a pleasure to watch her skill sharpen over the last couple of years.  She has traversed the stiff rigid movements and sailed into a sea of fluid gracefulness. One performance even brought tears and thoughts of where in the heck did she get those legs?!

The festivities began on the large floor routine mat. Birthday guests of all sizes. Meaning short and tall, there is little width on the body of a gymnast.  All are gathered on the mat. Some are spinning.  Some flying through the air. Another does backflips, so many it’s dizzying. 

One thing is certain. They are all girls and they are all talking, laughing and squealing, at the same time. Plus, they are inching ever closer to that magical door that enters the teenage years.  The magical door that slams shut with a thud.

Tiring of the floor routines, they made their way to a long, raised apparatus that nearly stretched the length of the building.  Imagine, a long taut trampoline about six feet in width.  First, they hopped the length.  Each hop propelling them higher and higher into the air.  Scurrying back to the starting line, the front flips, back flips, twists and turns commenced again.  All done with grace and such confidence rarely seen in this age group.

Their focus began to change as they all gathered at the far end of the long, taut trampoline.  It was here something marvelous was about to take place.  In single file, each one began to run the width of the building.  Faster and faster until they would leap into the air and as they made their descent, they disappeared into oblivion.  What malfeasance was taking place!?

Leaving the viewing section, walking across the bouncy floor routine mat, the answer became crystal clear.  They were landing in a huge pit.  A huge pit filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of large squares of foam rubber.

This is where the attire chosen for this event came into play.  A favorite pair of jeans topped with a  red silky sleeveless tank.  Watching these events, it is really difficult, regardless of age, not to want to try out the equipment.  A memory, long buried, had been a reminder of another pair of favorite jeans.  Jeans that were destroyed trying to show young daughters how to do a round-up.  The seat had ripped from waistband to inseam….beyond repair, never to be worn again.

Sitting at the edge of the pit, watching all this, a thought entered.  Surely, this could not be fatal, especially to the jeans.  

The adults, who wished to participate, had to sign a waiver.  This was to assure that any stupidity performed, that resulted in injury, lied solely on the individual.  Upon questioning the young lady in charge of the gym, a pass was given for a leap into the pit.

It was magnificent!  Running, though not very fast.  Jumping, though not very high.  Landing into that sea of foam rubber and hearing all the cheers of a job well done!  Then, the real fun began…..for the spectators.

Trying to get out of a sea of foam rubber blocks is far more difficult than getting in.  An old movie began to play in the memory banks.  People on safari, falling into a pit of quicksand.  Sinking, sinking until only their pith helmet floated empty on top of the muck.

Small movements proved fruitless.  Floundering and wallowing were given new meaning, as they were the only tools that seemed to work.  Finally, a rescue plank was sent into the sea.  A gym mat folded, like an accordion.  

It proved to be a life saver.  Even if it did require much more floundering and wallowing to get on top of it.

The red underwire bra, chosen to be worn under the red silky sleeveless tank, that was now in much disarray, turned out not to be a wise choice for gymnastic antics.  The jeans, chosen for not trying gymnastic antics in the first place, proved to be as useful as Velcro when connecting with foam rubber blocks.  But, the leap?  It was worth every millisecond.

A New Horse

The horse had died in its stall.  He had no desire.  To do anything.  He didn’t want to walk or run.  He did not wish to graze in the vast fields that lay before him.

His only contentment was to eat and dream about all the things he wanted to do…..and occasionally drink.  He stood in his stall and the excrement began to pile up.  It began to get so deep that, even if he wanted to do something, he could not move.  When the crap finally reached his neck, he simply laid his head over and died.  Then sunk into the mess until he could no longer be seen.

The stench was bad.  Not just bad.  Horrendous.  Folks driving by could be seen gagging, even with the windows rolled up.

It was time to clean out the stall.  A front-end loader would have been helpful, but it was not an option.  The stall had to be cleaned out with an old scoop.  The first couple of scoops was nearly grounds for mutiny.

The pile slowly began to shift from the stall to a wide open space.  It was full of all sorts of things.  Things like thoughts of failure.  Blaming others. No one cared.  Just can’t do it.  Wanting someone to pump up an old tire, that had a hole in it, with words of encouragement, just to watch them escape out the hole.  Feelings of disparity.  Lots of worry, about things that never came to fruition.  A crap ton of negative thoughts.

That old horse, Procrastination, had no one to blame.  But.  Himself.

When the stall was cleaned out, it looked somewhat different.  Inviting. Almost like new.  Perhaps a new horse.  Certainly not one like before.

Maybe it was better to ponder about that.  Let’s give it the 24 hour wait period and see what happens.  

What happened was very strange.  The huge pile of crap was trying to make its way back to the stall. 

Ancient wise words filtered through. Something about cleaning the rotten stuff out of a house.  If new stuff does not replace it, the old stuff makes its way back in.

The decision was made.  Definitely time for a new horse.

He arrived the next day.  His name is Let’s Get The Fuck Up & Go!  Freak or F**k for those offended.  There was no offense intended.  It is also a code name for Time Is Of The Essence.

He is a beauty!  Tall and excited at whatever life offers him.  He wears blinders because he only has one goal in mind.  He needs not distractions.

It is probably a given that the rider will get bucked off on occasion.  But, this horse came with instructions.  He has been known to grab the rider by the scruff of their neck, toss them onto his back and head out of the gate at full steam.

Hanging on to the saddle horn will be a new past time.

Oh, that huge pile of crap?  Completely disappeared.

Random Thoughts While Driving

 Ode to the Buzzards

Oh Buzzards, Oh Buzzards

Way up so high.

You circle and circle

Against a blue sky.

You ride on the thermals

Before summer storms

Letting them push you

To air that is warm.

Soaring and cruising

Looking for dead stuff.

It does not seem

That your job is too tuff.

Some surely think

That it sucks to be you

Since you are part of

Nature’s clean-up crew.

Doubt that you care

As birds of a feather.

Because it is true,

You are always together.

You’re seen on high places

Covered in morning dew

Wings outstretched looks creepy

But, the sun is drying you.

You’re seen on the roadsides

Having some lunch.

Raccoon pâté,

Or o’possum for brunch.

You’re rather unsightly,

Upon close up view.

There’s a reason for that

And most never knew.

If your bald head had feathers

You would be such a mess

And no one wants gunk

Being brought to the nest.

So, Buzzards, oh Buzzards

It’s good to have you.

Ever so grateful,

You do what you do.

The Insignificant Thief

 It had become a yearly mission. One that was particularly not looked forward to being accomplished.  A small task.  Nor one that was carved in stone as an absolute requirement. It could be completely ignored. Treated like a second thought.  Here one moment, gone the next.

Perhaps it would be different if the course of action did not take place next to one of the busiest thoroughfares in the county.  There is no privacy or secrecy in fulfilling the job at hand.  Wide open space, with many a piercing eye.

This time, it was nearly too late.  Justly caused by the afore mentioned second thought.  The harvest could still be gathered, but the harvest was likely to be in a most unfavorable condition.

The mission was to retrieve live plants from the graves of past loved ones.  There had been strict instructions, spoken so many years before…..No plastic flowers.  They needed to be rescued from their own untimely demise, beneath rainless blue skies. This year, there were four pots: parents, a cousin taken long before his time and two sets of unknown grandparents.

The first three targets are easy bullseyes.  The fourth is always a  game of hide & seek.

Standing in a sea of stones, looking for the needle in the haystack, makes it impossible to not start reading.  Reading names and dates.  Wondering who they were. What had they done with their time.  Did they live each moment following their hearts’ desires?  Or listen to the silent whispers of defeat?  Pangs of sadness at the passing of a child being replaced with a sense of awe at a long, long life.  

Turning in a circle, scanning and feeling so small and insignificant. Like a grain of sand on an endless beach.

Then it happened.  A name.  So familiar for so many years.  Glistening in the sunlight.  It was much further south than it was the year before.  How had that happened?

Trekking through the stones, offering up the occasional “sorry”, for possibly trodding too close, the fourth target came into view.  The second set of unknown grandparents.  Gifts of late in life children.

With the last dreadful looking petunia in tow, the inside of a sweltering car gave a sense of, not only a mission accomplished, but also a sense of shelter.  Hiding the thievery that was surely seen by many.

The soil around each plant was so dry it had shrunk from the sides of the pot.  Water poured out the bottom as fast as it went in the top.  They were placed in a square cake pan and watered again until the water nearly filled the pan.  Small words of encouragement were given.  All that was left was time.

The next morning, a small miracle had taken place.  Each plant was in full bloom.  Not one drop of water remained in the pan.  They will be enjoyed for the remainder of their season.  The feeling of being insignificant is but a fading memory.

One That Should Be Required Reading

First, I'm going to ask three things:  Please read this. Please share this.  Please get the book.  Because, what you will find within its pages will give you hope (because you did not know this information before), will make you incredibly broken hearted (because you did not know this information before) and will make you righteously angry (because you did not know this information before).  

The following is an excerpt from the book, Surviving Cancer Covid-19 & Disease  The Repurposed Drug Revolution by Justus R. Hope. M.D.:

"As in any repurposed drug discussion, it is always the scientist versus the regulators; it boils down to the doctors versus Big Pharma.  Here the scientists are led by Dr. Didier Raoult, the Dr. Pan Pantziarka of the anti-coronavirus movement, who brings the spotlight to the effectiveness of HCQ and CQ against SARS-CoV-2.  Raoult, a larger than life medical luminary physician and professor, is the top expert in the world in communicable disease........

Professor Raoult completed residencies in both internal medicine and infectious disease and earned both MD and PhD degrees.......

He has been referred to as the most productive and cited microbiologist in Europe.  He directs the IHU Mediterranean Infection Institute in Marseille, France, a world-renowned research and teaching center dedicated to the management and study of infectious disease.  Dr. Didier Raoult, both controversial and outspoken, is one of the world's most influential and productive scientists.  As of this writing, he is listed as either the author or coauthor of 2,909 Pubmed citations.

He is also the antithesis of Dr. Anthony Fauci or any regulatory body.  So, when Dr. Raoult published his landmark HCQ study, the first detailed human trial to show the benefit of hydroxychloroquine and chloroquine and those afflicted with COVID-19, he ignited a firestorm.  Chloroqine and hydroxychloroquine were long known to block both cell entry and replication in SARS and MERS.  They should also work well against SARS-CoV2.

However, these early studies were confined to lab testing only, testing the activity of these drugs in the test tube.  Didier was among the first, along with the Chinese, to show that HCQ worked in live human subjects with coronavirus infections.  But the Chinese declined to produce their data.

Didier, on the other hand, was quick to unveil stunning results.  In his pilot study, he treated 20 infected patients with hydroxychloroquine and compared them with 16 infected controls that were not treated.* By the third day, 50% of the treated group were negative  for the virus.  By the sixth day, 70% of the hydroxyhloroquine group were viral negative.

Six of the 20 patients were treated with Zithromax in addition to hydroxychloroquine.  Most impressively, these six patients tested 100% negative for the virus on day six.  Only 12.5% of the non treated group, however, was virus free.  These results suggested a 100% cure rate for the group receiving the hydroxychloroquine and Zithromax by day six compared with a 90% infection rate for the group untreated.

For reference, the Chinese had already shown that untreated COVID-19 patients could remain infectious for some 19-20 days; in some cases, up to 34 days.*  Dr. Raoult felt that the information contained in his study was so significant, that he was ethically bound to release the results immediately, prior to the usual peer-review process.  Dr. Raoult recommended that COVID-19 patients be treated with hydroxychloroquine and azithromycin to both cure their infection and to curb the spread.  He freely admitted that although better and more scientific therapy, such as a specific vaccine, might later be developed, the current treatment was imminently necessary to treat the COVID-19 threat in real time.

By eradicating the virus at day 6, Raoult had shortened the time for contagiousness by 66% from 19 days to only six.  The implications were staggering.  If his results held up, that meant quarantines and isolation times could end 70% sooner.  It meant quicker recovery times in infected patients.  It also implied lower rates of death.  It meant health care workers could take the drug preventatively and not pass the virus to patients.  Dr. Raoult had given the world a gift, a crucial tool to stem the pandemic, a discovery worthy of a Nobel prize.

Raoult and his colleagues wrote, "We therefore recommend that COVID-19 patients be treated with hydroxyholorquine and azithromycin to cure their infection and to limit the transmission of the virus to other people in order to curb the spread of COVID-19 in the world.  Further works are also warranted to determine if these compounds could be useful as chemoprophylaxis to prevent the transmission of the virus, especially for healthcare workers."*

Raoult's study found what the CDC researchers working on test tubes in 2005 had strongly suspected.  Chloroquine and hydroxychloroquine might work against the coronavirus in vivo just as well as in vitro, in life just as well as in the lab; it might just be the answer to SARS-CoV2 and the pandemic: a repurposed drug that might attack not only cancer but also the novel coronavirus. 

DR. Fauci's Reaction

Here we had the result of an open-label non-randomized clinical trial involving 36 patients studied with a drug the CDC knew killed the SARS virus.  How would the US task force respond?  On March 20, 2020, I watched as they commented on the news.  The head of the NIAH had one word.

"Anecdotal."

Without so much as a blink, I stared at the television in disbelief.  I replayed the recording to make sure I had heard correctly......."

* reference numbers in the book, linked to the original studies.

I know, it is hard to believe that sources, we have been programmed to trust, would intentionally keep vital information from us, but this is exactly what has been going on.  Please, take the time to do some research on your own.  Don't sit and be spoon fed.  If not for yourself, for all the people who have suffered or been lost, because they did not know this information before.

Go Ahead, Rock The Boat

I. Sat. Silent.  I've been doing it for a long, long time.  Over a year I have spent lamenting my failures.  Keeping the shaker of salt, always within arms reach, to pick up and add a few grains to a wound that was nearly healed.  Last night, I did it again.  

Far from the days of my rebel, mouthy youth, I felt the spark of that part of my past slightly flicker.  It was similar to rolling a thumb over an old worn out butane lighter, the wheel turned but the spark was nil. 

I attended the local high school homecoming, always considered a gala event, even to a rural, small town school.  The main reason for my presence, a grandson was in the mix.  Things are a lot different today.  Back in the day of the rebel, homecoming was always preceded by, hopefully, a rousing game of basketball.  The time between the junior varsity game and the varsity was filled with dance routines, mini cheerleaders and numerous other forms of student entertainment.  After the games were over, the crowd would sit in anticipation of the upcoming coronation.  If anything is the same, it would be the lack of comfort of sitting on hard bleacher seats.  Finally, the homecoming court of couples, from each of the four seasons of high school, would gather in the front foyer of the gymnasium.  Glimpses of beautiful long gowns and black tuxedos could be seen as these young people got into the correct formation.  Then the procession would start.  Each couple would enter, be introduced, walk to the stage.  The crowning of a new king and queen would commence, the procession would then leave the stage and walk around the the entire gym, much to the delight of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.  Getting home before The Tonight Show started was always a huge accomplishment.

Yesterday was different.  The coronation was held at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, followed by both games and the whole thing was over before the sun set.  In all fairness, the students still dressed up, some for the second time and had their evening of fun and dance.

While sitting on the bleachers, watching the court royalty milling around in the foyer in all their finery, is when I felt it.  That rolling, gritty wheel on the old lighter.  But, even though it was trying again to ignite, if not a fire, just a tiny spark, I sat silent.

I watched these young people full of excitement for what was to come.  The girls had spent an endless amount of time on their hair, their makeup.  The boys had undoubtedly spent a good deal of time in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, enjoying the reflection of looking mighty fine.  Then they donned their masks.

What I wanted to do and had plenty of time to do it, was to get off that uncomfortable bleacher and walk to the foyer.  I wanted to tell them, "If you feel you must wear the mask, wear it on your wrist."  I wanted to explain to them the power that one small act of non-compliance would have.  But, I sat silent.  

First and foremost, this is not a call for disrespect of young people to their parents, or to adults in positions of authority.  Parents are tasked with the job of raising kind, decent, caring, small humans in the hopes that they will grow into the same kind of adult.  Children are to honor that job.  But, young people, one day you will come to the realization that, even though most were trying to do the best they could, your parents did not know everything.  You will also come to realize that those people in places of authority, were not always right.

We are living in the most amazing times in human history.  Many people who have been elected or placed into positions of leadership have forgotten who put them there.  Most do not care.  One does not have to be a wizard of information technology to find glaring examples of "rules for thee, not for me" and right now, I'm only referring to face masks.  The 'powers that be' have been maskless when it suits them.  They have gone to parties, restaurants and many other outings, completely "FACE FREE", while telling their constituents to do just the opposite.  Or worse, telling their peasants not to go anywhere, period.  They've been photographed sitting maskless in a room full of masked children.  But, perhaps the best example of their audacity and irony, is giving a FACE FREE interview, to be viewed by people whom they 'seem to deem' lesser than themselves, about why YOU need to wear a mask.  

The unfortunate part of this is, the more people comply with this kind of tyranny, the more the tyrants realize they have the upper hand.  It's time for a call to action.

Yes, there does seem to be a light shining at the end of the tunnel, in this area, for the young people and many fine people have spent countless hours fighting for that glimmer.  But, do not think that the wheels, gears and cogs that have been turning for years in the mastery of control will go silent into the night.  You can be sure, they will not magically accept defeat.  They will fight like hell to keep the power they so dearly love.

So, here is an idea, a spark.  Wear the mask.  Wear it on your wrist.  Better yet, wear it on your upper arm.  Not to bring up grim reminders of the past, but to exemplify what the leaders have become. 

Go ahead, rock the boat.  You will cause waves that will travel farther than you can imagine and ripples that will give others courage and hope.  Be FACE FREE.

The Tale of the Thanksgiving Eve Trivet

trivet:  noun  

1.  a small metal plate with short legs, especially one put under a hot platter or dish to protect a table.  2.  a three footed or three legged stand or support,  especially one of iron placed over a fire to support cooking vessels or the like.

This trivet, would be steel......since a magnet sticks to it.

How old is this trivet?  Who knows.  Mother had it for at least forever, meaning it is older, or as old, as yours truly.....60+ years.  There is a memory, from WAY back, asking as to the use of this object, aka, the steel trivet.  Mother explained it was, in laymen's terms, to transfer heat.  Meaning, if the pot that was used for cooking needed to cook for a rather long length of time, placing the trivet between the heat source and the pan would keep whatever delicacy was in the pan, from burning.  Perhaps, a good way of describing radiant heat. 

Mother has been gone over 14 years and of all the things she held dear to her heart, bird figurines, candle sticks (that had no mate), teapots (mostly brown ones) and other items,  the steel trivet has made the journey with me.  It has traveled a thousand miles away from what was home and back again.  It has been used on flame, electric coils and glass top electric stoves, all without incident.

The call of duty was mac&cheese.  Again, Mother's recipe.  It is the bestest of the best and always a crowd pleaser.  Since it seemed a good idea to double the recipe, for a large family gathering, the trivet, which always sits within inches of the stove, would be a useful tool.

This glass top cook stove has a burner that is rarely used.  The reason it is not used often would be that it has a TURBO setting.  Being married to a gear head, turbo should only be used for something that has 4 wheels and a small block under the hood.  

The chosen pan for this project was a medium sized stock pot.  This pot is not "Cooking TV" style.  Its metal is thin and has had many a dish chiseled out of the bottom of it.

Looking back, boiling the water in this pan, without the trivet, would have probably worked just fine.  As of yet, there's never been a story about burning water in a pan.  Yes, they can be boiled dry, but this was not the case.  The trivet was set on the burner, the pan, full of water, was set on the trivet, the knob that controls said burner, was set on nearly turbo.

It did seem to take a long time for the water to boil so.....the knob was cranked up to turbo.  It wasn't long before a rolling boil had been achieved.  In went two pounds of macaroni.  Of course, anytime something is put into boiling water, it takes a bit of time for the temperature to reach boiling again.  Once achieved, the temperature was cranked down to a nice mid simmer.  Macaroni can be a funny animal, cooked too much, it turns to mush....not enough and it may still retain a crunch.  This macaroni was to be perfecto.  

The timer had been set for 8 minutes, when it sounded the alarm, the pot was taken off the stove, the macaroni drained, the burner turned off.

The trivet was still on the burner.....but.......the burner was off.

Since the dish was not going to be baked until morning, time was taken to make sure all the ingredients were added to the same pot that had cooked the noodles.  It was, after all, a large pot and a double recipe.  If you are aware if my kitchen antics, using the same pot to mix up all the ingredients seemed like a no brainer.

As all the ingredients were being placed in the pot, a loud cracking noise was heard.  The TURBO burner had basically fractured the glass and sent shock waves through its side of the stove top, leaving it to look like some ancient map of dried up waterways.

It could have been a lesson in science, physics or welding 101, but there seems to be a part of the glass stove top that actually melted.

The trivet sits silent on the counter, next to the stove, waiting for its next assignment.

What Year Is It, Ladies?

 1970.  I'm nearly 15 years old.  The very first year of high school, for the graduating class of 1974, is about to begin.  As of this writing, it was 51 years ago.  A freaking lifetime.  

I want to take Ag, aka shop.  My friend, a female friend, she is with me on this idea.  We are denied.  Girls do not take Ag, aka shop.  51 years ago.....a freaking lifetime.

1970, again.  First year of high school.  Girls are not allowed to wear pants to school.  51 years ago.  That freaking lifetime ago.  True story, girls were not allowed to wear any sort of pants to school.  Let that sink in.  51 short years ago.  

FACT: for the fact checkers.  In 1970, the first year of high school for the graduating class of 1974 at Griggsville High School in Griggsville, Illinois.  This particular class had a fresh out of college English teacher.  Our class nearly drove her crazy.  I'm not sure any of us realized at the time, she was just a few years older than we were.  She survived and she showed the females of this class that we had power.  She led us onto a battlefield.  Not one with guns and cannons, but one with cotton and cloth.  She alone, helped us design and put into action a petition to the powers that be.  We, the female students of that graduating class of 1974, wanted to wear pants to school.  AND.  WE.  WON.   Oh yes, there were limits and rules to follow.  Things like absolutely no denim jeans, no shorts and whatever else the shell shocked administration could think of at the time.  Shortly after, surrounding school districts followed in our path.  So, young ladies of today, as you slide into your most favorite pair of jeans this coming school year, give your grandmothers a special nod, perhaps a word of thanks, for something you take for absolute granted.

1974.  We were not only wearing, rocking, I might add, bell bottom blue denim jeans, but shorts as well.  BUT........there were still no females allowed in Ag, aka shop class.  47 years ago.  Let that sink in.

The women's liberation movement lasted nearly 20 years.  It's purpose was to put women on the same level with men.  Not only in the work force, but in the brain department.  I never doubted the idea, over 40 years ago and when I hear women today saying they are still not equal, it makes me want to PUKE.  Again, I never doubted the idea and went into an occupation completely dominated by men.   I wanted to build stuff, I wanted to be a carpenter.   My wonderful father, who told me, "Girls do not drive pickup trucks.", relented and went with me to purchase my first one.  This was 43 years ago.  The timeline is getting shorter.

The movement of women's liberation should have never meant to put the two sexes at war against each other.  It should have meant a level playing field and for women, a choice.  A choice to be a mother, a homemaker and still have a tool box, with the knowledge of how to use all the tools within.   I applaud all women who have entered the workforce in what ever occupation they BELIEVED they could do.   For the women who chose to enter a predominately male line of work, kudos to you.  You know first hand how hard it can be.  To work along side the male species, in the same capacity, trying to match strength, can be daunting.  There was no shame in asking for help because we know that male bodies differ from ours and that is ok.  We are different, have been for millennia and most likely will continue to be.

2021.  Fast forward.  We are supposed to be living in an "accepting" society, anything goes.  There is no more reason to think for one's self because if one disagrees with the main stream narrative, they are labeled and singled out.  So much for the accepting society.  

I'm not sure what has happened to the women's movement of yesteryear.  Today, on several social media platforms, there are channels dedicated to showing videos of women making absolute idiots of themselves.  This has earned them the name of "Karens". They have totally lost control, scream, curse, get into fights and accept no responsibility for their actions.  Yes, mental illness is partially to blame, but not for all of them.  They feel entitled to act, however they see fit, with no repercussions.  I admit, I have watched many of these videos.  I'm not quite sure why, other than thinking maybe I will finally see one where the woman, someone's mother, sister, daughter, friend, has a moment of clarity and begins to wonder what on earth she is doing.  These videos, in my opinion, set the movement of being on a level playing field back decades, if not eons. All for one simple explanation......men keep their emotions in check far better than women.  Obviously, teaching this to the last few decades of females has fallen short. 

Now, men who want to be identified as women are taking the spotlight.  Although I have always had an opinion, something on the back burner of my grey matter, about beauty contests for women, they are still a thing.  I would reckon that it might have something to do with the difference between the female and male physique.  But now, it is permissible, in many areas, for men, who identify as woman, to compete against biological women in above mentioned contests......and win.  It is possible for men, who identify as women, to participate in women's athletic contests.  It is even possible for men, who identify as women, to dang near be named woman of the year.......even though, as biological men, they still have all their man package.  Some have had surgeries and implants but the package of man contains something the female body has, but not near the quantity and that is testosterone.  If ever there were a magic potion, testosterone would be it.  But, if the biological women were to use testosterone, to even their playing field against the man who identifies as a woman, they would be banned from their sport, or whatever they were competing in.

2021.  Where everything is supposed to be acceptable, except facts.  Ladies, are you going to continue to back peddle yourselves to a point where your voice falls on deaf ears?  I sincerely hope not. 

The Philanthropy-ing Philodendron

 Her eyes opened.  It was dark.  Darker than dark.  She knew better than to look at the clock, she already knew.  She stared into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to acclimate to any tiny slice of light that might be hiding in the darkness.  There was none.  Just blackness.  The thoughts that had greeted her, upon awakening, were strange.  Why, after all these years?  She tried to grasp any trailing gossamer thread, of an old web, of sleep, that might have been filtering through the air.  None was to be found.  She rolled over to look at the clock. The clock hands glowed in the dark.  3:00 a.m.  That reality was not a shock.

Why now?  It had been years.  Decades.  But, the visual was just as vivid.  

The first time it happened, she was the perfect victim.  Wondering what in the hell she had done to deserve it.  He hit her.  It wasn't bad, just a couple of scuffs and shoves.  That was her rationale.

The second time, she should have known  better.  Again, if she had only not said anything, all would have been fine.  He grabbed her by her hair.  He pulled her from the couch and began to swing her around the room.  By her hair.  All she had on was a tee shirt and panties.  When he tired of this, he gave her a flip and somehow, she landed on the grate.  The grate belonged to the floor furnace, the only thing that heated the small house.  It was hot.  Hot enough to leave seared, charred, marks on the backs of her thighs.  Her backside  looked like the neighbor's charcoal grill.  She should have kept her mouth shut.

The third time was the worst.  She thought maybe, just maybe, she might die.  He sat on her chest, her arms pinned under his legs.  He had lured her into this position.  She did not see it coming.  Suddenly, he began to hit her.  He slapped her, as hard as he could, with both hands.  The blows landed at her temples.  Her face wore a halo of bruises, from ear to ear, across her forehead. They lasted for several days.  Had he used his fists......she decided not to think about that. 

The last time.  It always seemed to start because she had said something that made him mad.  That part was  probably true.  It usually started with her asking, "Where the hell have you been?".  He stormed across the kitchen, furious.  His arms were already flailing.  She threw her arms over her head, for protection.  He began to hit her.  Again.  She tried to back up, but then she spotted something on the floor.  Slightly under the kitchen table.  It was a six inch piece of a philodendron.  A plant that she had cared for, watered, had a special attachment to.  There it was.  Injured.  Broken.  Wasted.  

She rose up from her cowered position.  She hit him as hard as she could, with an open palm.  The blow sent him under the kitchen table, with the broken vine.  Looking back, she always wished she had doubled up her fist.  Knowing that the battle was not over, she ran to the front room.  The same room that held the char-broil floor grill.  She hit the couch like a freight train and got into position.  Back against the couch.  Legs and arms in fight mode.  He ran at her.

She kicked him, as hard as she could.  He still kept coming.  She kicked again.  Suddenly, he had his arms wrapped around her head.  She thought they were moving towards her throat.  They were.  As his arms passed by the front of her face, she knew there was only one thing left to do.  She bit him.  She bit him so hard that she felt as if it would end with a chunk of human flesh in her mouth.  Then, a miracle happened.  He gave up.  His excuse.  He was just trying to calm her down.  Sure. Right.  From that point forward, he never laid a hand on her again.

Did she leave.  No.  She thought her love could save him from the path he was going down.  But, she came to understand that it didn't matter.  It didn't matter what she did.  She would never be what he wanted.  In order to be what he wanted, she would have to change.  She would have to be someone she was not.  That understanding, as heartbreaking as it was, was the beginning to finding herself.  

She learned that she had put more importance into a six inch piece of plant, than she had ever put into herself.  It was not easy.  It did not happen overnight.  But, it was the starting point to a new beginning.

She can still see that strand of philodendron, laying on the floor.  Its heartfelt message, most likely,  saved her life.  

 

Dough Boy

 Reaching for the phone, it is always a delight to see a name on the screen that signals one of the five grandchildren is on the other end.

"G, what are you doing?" asked the youngest of three grandsons.

Regardless of whether my day was filled with a to-do list or if I was already knee deep in the latest project, the answer is always, "Nothing."  At this point, on the time line of my life, being needed by a grandchild is a rare delicacy, not to be taken for granted.  The 'nothing' was followed with "What's up?"

"I want to bake bread."  This was spoken so matter-of-factly, as if he had been baking bread for some time.  "Not just any bread", he added, "Texas Roadhouse Rolls bread."  

He arrived a short time later.  In his hands was a basket full of ingredients and a quickly scrawled recipe.  The latter, I assumed, had been found somewhere in the cyberspace of the internet.  As he unloaded the basket, he explained that his other set of grandparents were having a family dinner and everyone was bringing some sort of food.  He decided on bread.....rolls to be exact.

Anyone who has more than one grandchild understands that it is not only possible, but most likely a requirement, to view each one as a special and unique individual.  This idea also holds true for the inner wisdom of feeling different towards each one.  After all, they each have characteristics that set them apart.  Having raised only daughters, finding out the specific, eye opening, head shaking qualities of boys is a never ending learning experience.

This particular lad, soon to be 14, is the "McGyver" of the family.  His brain works in ways that, at times, leaves us speechless.  When he was two, he showed the babysitter how to open a locked door with a credit card, after seeing it done once before.  As I looked over his basket of goodies, I chuckled at one of the ingredients listed in the recipe.....flower. "I know, I know!"  He laughingly explained that his younger sister had already pointed out his faux pas.

Holding up a container of Bragg's Nutritional Yeast Seasoning, a flaky concoction of inactive dry yeast and vitamins, he explained that was what his mother had sent.  Obviously, bread making was not a recurring theme in our house, while the daughters were growing up.  Having several packets of active dry yeast in the cabinet, all was not lost.  

There were no instructions as to how to put the mixture together, but he was sure it all went into the mixer at the same time.  He finally accepted the idea that warming the milk, then adding the yeast and honey to the milk, might be a good thing. Putting all the flour into the mixer bowl and turning the dial, to blend the dry ingredients, resulted in a plume of dust that nearly resembled a mushroom cloud.  Then, it was time to add the liquid.  

We watched as the dough hook went round and round, but nothing was sticking together.  The suggestion of more milk was met with some resistance.  But, it was obvious, no matter how long we let the mixer spin, nothing was going to happen.  The additional milk was the ticket.  Finally, the dough began to stick together until the entire blob was sailing around inside the bowl.  He dumped it out on a floured spot on the island, gave it a couple of kneads, formed his dough into a somewhat round shape and placed it into a previously oiled bowl.  We covered it with oiled plastic wrap and placed it in the oven, with a pan of hot water set beneath the bowl, to help the dough rise.  

The dough needed to rise until doubled.  Living next door, he told me he would see me in about and hour.  With that statement, I watched as he exited stage left.  

In his absence, I looked for the recipe online.  The milk was short 1/4 cup.  The liquid part of the recipe was to be put together first, then the flour added........slowly.  

Glancing at the oven, the dough looked pretty much as it had when first put into the bowl.  Nearly half of the allowed rising time had passed.  I recalled having fixed a failed bread dough.  As I walked to the cabinet, to retrieve another packet of active yeast, the Voice, that lives inside my head spoke.  

I had not heard the Voice for quite some time.  Not exactly sure why, perhaps because I was too busy trying to convince myself on how I had been wronged.  The Voice asked me a question.  "Do you not remember what you learned about fixing things?"  I shut the cabinet door, looked at the dough one more time and remembered.  It was from a book, A Course in Miracles.  The subject of fixing things was the topic.  Being an almighty fixer of all things, be it a broken thingamabob, a relationship or a ball of dough, I was always looking for a way to make things right.  The latter sentence is a glamorous way of explaining a control freak.  The lesson was a simple one, but not easy to swallow.  It was not for me to fix things.  My job was to accept them as they were.  I pondered over this revelation again.  Maybe, just maybe, acceptance was the answer.  Was acceptance the apex?  The top of the mountain?  The end to the hardest climb ever? With acceptance, did a solution form that could not be seen before?  I left the dough alone.  The Voice sauntered off to the back recesses of my grey matter.  All the while, playing Her Strut, by Bob Seger.

With the return of the grandson, I watched in silent delight as 'punch the dough down' turned into a visual of a UFC battle.  Rolling the dough was just as entertaining.  He barely skimmed the surface, sending the rolling pin flying into the air on each pass.  He folded the dough, cut it into individual rolls, placed them on the baking sheet and tossed them in the oven.  It was at this time I learned that he had watched a Tik Tok video on how to make the rolls.  The internet and Google are becoming so old school.

The end result was a beautiful set of rolls.  One in particular, cut larger than the others, quickly disappeared for taste test purposes.  The family thought they were the best rolls ever.   

I shall just wait until the next time my assistance is called for.  May it hold as valuable a lesson as did the Dough Boy.

Post Midnight Musings

 1:00 a.m.    Frank Da Fish swims slowly through the brain fog.  He stops briefly, gives a nod and swims off into eternity.  Frank was an inherited pet, from the youngest granddaughter.  His original name was Blue Devil.  The 'was' leads to the past tense.  Frank had lived longer than any of his fish friends, who had been chosen as gifts for a daughter/father dance.  Much longer.  2 years longer.  He began to act odd a few weeks ago.  Laying on the bottom of the tank and then receding into the darkness of a Sponge Bob Square Pants' Squidward castle.  Gotta love Sponge Bob.  An idea came through one day that perhaps the water should be changed in the aquarium.  It was (that word again) a small 5 gallon tank and had a small filtration system.  Changing the water, washing all the decorations and gravel worked a miracle.  Within a couple of days, Frank was found outside of the castle, waiting for breakfast and kept a close watch to make sure the food hit the surface of the water.  Another thought crossed during this cleansing procedure, maybe Frank needed some friends.

Frank was a Beta.  Beta's, for the most part, do not like other fish.  Not even themselves, which was always evident when a mirror was placed next to the glass.  A little research revealed that Neon Tetras, small iridescent fish and catfish were usually species that could reside successfully with a Beta.  A trip to the nearest pet store resulted in the purchase of 6 Neon Tetras, two spotted catfish, food for both and chemicals for the water.  Frank Da Fish was indeed pleased with his new friends.  

The next morning, all 6 Neon Tetras had vanished.  Not one sign of them was to be found in the tank.  One spotted catfish did look suspiciously fatter than the previous day.  But, it ate all 6 in one night?  Something did not seem up to snuff.  On the second day, one of the catfish was struggling.  Too much fresh fish?  

Later in the day, Frank was seen trying to not swim on his side.  Reality set in.  The afore mentioned chemicals.  Frank was quickly snatched from the tank and put in a glass of fresh spring water.  After an hour or so, the glass was drained, Frank was rinsed off and put into fresh water again.  By morning, the end result was obvious.  Frank Da Fish had passed into his fishy eternity.  Whether it was the chemicals, the water from the aquariums at the pet store or a combination of both, a valuable lesson was learned.  Be happy with what one has......Betas do not need friends.  He already had one.

2:00 a.m.:  Was it the right decision?  Still not sure.  Walking away from the printed version of my blog, tRuth As I See It, may have left many of its readers out in the dark because, as hard as it is to believe, not everyone has internet access.  The Post-It note on the refrigerator reads, "If you feel avoided by someone, never disturb them again."  Would have been nice if that phrase had been introduced years ago.  Could have saved the heart from a lot of hurt.  Maybe it was the right decision after all.  One thing is certain, there  will be no monetary loss.  

3:00 a.m.:  Such strange times we live in.  Who would have thought that having an idea, different from another persons' , would lead to censorship?  Not only censorship of thoughts and ideas, but censorship to the point of ruining businesses and burning down cities.  Strange times, indeed.   

4:00 a.m.: Punctuation.  Those pesky little dots and symbols.  There is a need for them.  Without, the message can be construed, into a senseless garbled mess, where the meaning is completely lost.  A song is passing though the grey matter.  The one played at church.  Usually the exit song.  The first couple of notes, banged out on the piano, gave the signal that it was nearly time to depart for home.  Praise God whom through all blessings flow praise him all creatures here below praise him above ye heavenly host praise father son and holy ghost.

Praise God!  Whom through all blessing flow!

Praise Him!  All creatures, here, below.

Praise Him above!  Ye heavenly host!  

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

Yep, punctuation is important.

From The Other Side of the Fence

 The other side of the fence is where I decided to get my "news".  The reason for this was a simple one.  I already had a repertoire of talk shows and programs that I would listen to while I worked.  What I heard from them was completely opposite of  what I was hearing from the main stream media darlings. The difference was so stark, that I began to search deeper, for myself, to see what could be found and what was really true.

The first source I came across was an individual talking about Q.  Most of the time, Q is referred to as Qanon, but in reality, whoever Q is, they are simply known as Q.  As I looked into what this was about, I was to find that Q was putting out messages on an obscure website.  A website where conversations about ANY topic can be found.  I then found that there were many people, citizen journalists, citizen reporters, who were covering the cryptic messages from Q.  The number of people who were devoting their time and energy, for little, if any, pay, deciphering the messages was not near as impressive as the number of people who were listening.  Those people numbered in the thousands.  The more I listened, the more I was able to watch those numbers grow to the millions and they heralded from all over the globe.  

The message from Q was simple.  There is a shadow government, a deep state, that has been functioning in the background for many decades.  It has been run by the elite of the world, a basic handful of the uber rich.  This groups' objective is to rule the world, bringing about a new world order.  This benefits the ultra wealthy, but not so much for the common people.  Another goal for them is population control.  Q's end message is one of giving the power back to the people.  There is also a call to action, WWG1WGA.  Where We Go 1, We Go All.

I have been told that Q is a cult, 100%.  Many, many people have never heard of it, or if they have, it has been from main stream media and their message is not only cultic, but have labeled it a terrorist group.  I do not believe either to be true.  I do suggest listening to the words of JFK, shortly before he was assassinated.  If anyone actually takes the time to do that, afterwards, spend some quiet time contemplating what kind of world we could be living in if his dreams had not been cut short.   

Please consider this as well, we are not the laughing stock of the world.  People, world wide, are watching this great country.  Why? Because they know, if the USA falls, their hopes and dreams die with it.  This country is a beacon to the rest of the world.

In a nutshell, this is what I see from the other side of the fence.  There was massive fraud in the November 2020 election.  There are over 5000 sworn affidavits, from everyday people, who witnessed this and were brave enough to come forward and tell the truth.  There were state governments who changed their voting rules and laws, without any input from their constituents. 

We the people have been told stories of Russian interference, impeachment and Ukraine meddling for years.  But, when the truth came out, there was little, if any coverage.  They just hopped on the next thing that could be spun into a really bad web of deception.   

I could spend all day sharing what I have found on my own, sharing what I believe will happen in the next couple of days, but most people do not like to have the ceiling ripped off of their belief system.  Right now, there are millions of people heading to Washington D.C.  Their call to action is, Stop The Steal.  They are going to show support, not only for our President, but for this country and the Constitution that it was built upon.  It is my hope that the people are successful and our country is restored to what it was meant to be for all people, not what a few wealthy think it should be, to benefit only themselves.  

The clock is ticking.  It's gonna be biblical.  Hang on tight.

Happy Holiday Kitchen Madness

 Holidays tend to bring out the long buried chef in people.  It is difficult, in this digital society, to ignore the umpteen million recipes.  Even the best fast forward scrollers can come to a screeching halt, reverse engines and find that particular picture that had only been seen for a fraction of a millisecond.  Usually, it had some form of whipped cream in the picture.

Getting to host the family get together, for the first time in over 4 years, it was time for my infamous breakfast casserole.  As usual, thoughts of easy-peezy drifted in the recessed areas of my brain matter.  Breakfast is always a cinch.

There is no particular rhyme or reason to the casserole recipe, only on deciding how big it needs to be.  We were expecting 10 mouths to feed.  At least doubling it seemed to be an excellent idea.

The idea was excellent.  The baking pan, maybe not.  The broiler pan has never been used for its intended purpose, only as a baking component.  Its length and depth looked to be perfect for the plan. 

The ingredients are as follows:  Please be advised that this is from a deeply inner chef idea of how much food they think 10 people can consume.  1 bag of seasoned tater tots, thawed and smushed. (Substituting seasoned, smushed tater tots for hashbrowns reigns supreme in this household.)  1 stick of butter.  A pound, or so, each of sausage and bacon, cooked, crumbled and drained.  3 dozen eggs.  Shredded cheddar cheese.  Cheese is a gift from God, one can never use too much.  

Set oven to 350 degrees. Put smushed tots in preferred casserole baking dish.  Melt butter in same pan used to cook the meat. Pour butter over smushed tots and mix well.  Flatten tot mix in the bottom of the dish.  Layer sausage and bacon over tots.  Gently scramble eggs in large bowl.  During this step, it helps to gently scramble the eggs as they are added.  Not necessarily one at a time, but putting all 36 eggs in the bowl at once gives several yolks the ability to "ghost" during the scramble process.  This will be evident during the pouring process.  Pour gently scrambled eggs over smushed tots and meat.  If any ninja yolks appear at this time, stab them repeatedly with a knife or fork.  This also helps to relieve any holiday pressure that may have been fermenting in one's soul.  Top with desired amount of cheese.  Bake for 30 minutes, after which time, test doneness with a knife. (Not the one used to slaughter the ninjas.)  Do this every 5 minutes until knife blade comes out clean.  Remove from oven and enjoy. (There are no seasonings added to this as the tots have plenty.  Let guests season their own portion.)

The chosen pan for this delicacy was full, dang near to the top.  It made the journey to the oven without loosing any of its contents.

A little oven history:  Having baked a pizza, in said oven, a few days before, a piece of it had fallen off during baking.  This was discovered, unfortunately, too late.  There was a slight trail of smoke coming from the oven vent.  Upon opening the oven door, it released a billowing cloud of smoke that nearly equaled that of Mt. Saint Helens'.  This set off a chain reaction.  First, Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier, went into full blown spastic mode.  This involves jumping straight up and down, while barking the highest octave he can reach.  This activity is also non-stop.  He does this because he is well aware of what is going to happen next.  Just like a well written script, the smoke alarm began blaring.  Runtly was in full "save the freaking family" mode.  By the time all the smoke had cleared, another thought wafted through.  Surely, the pizza piece had been fully carbonized. 

While placing the breakfast casserole in the oven, the above mentioned scenario, replayed, somewhere on the back burner....no pun intended.  With that thought, came another.  The months before purchase of an oven liner.  Why not put that in there too.  Splendid idea.  Knowing where the liner was, after that much time, was certainly a gift of fate saying "All is well."

Did the casserole out grow the pan while it baked? Did the past pizza piece still have fuel to burn?  Was the oven liner sent directly from the depths of Hell?  The answer to these questions shall forever remain a mystery.  What is for certain is what happened next.  Turning around to grab a bowl, something in the outer area of peripheral vision sent a new message to the grey matter.  FIRE!  

There, in the middle of the oven, on the brand new, albeit a few months old, oven liner was a single flame.  Although it did take the thoughts back to a time in the past, of visiting the JFK memorial, there was no time for fond thoughts of yesteryear.  

It had obviously been burning long enough because the burnt pizza piece replay button had just been pushed.  Smoke billowed, dogs barked (Runtly's momma was in the mix as well.) Smoke alarm blared.  House filled with smoke. Everyone is talking.  Really loud. 

Grabbing a pair of long tongs, while shouting to "clear the way!" to the back door, the oven liner was snatched and flung out the door in one fluid motion.

After the haze lifted and the windows were able to be shut, the casserole was a huge success.  The oven liner was last seen, trailing in the wind, from the mouth of a large, black German Shepherd.

Reflections

 

The lights from the Christmas tree reflect in the glass of the window.  Giving it a nearly ethereal glow.  Additional lights were added to the pre-lit tree.  With the obscure view, it was true.  The section of lights, at the top of the tree, that went out 10 minutes after all the decorations had been put on, was not nearly as noticeable.  

Thoughts of Christmas' past begin to filter through.  Standing on the stairs, looking out the window.  Waiting.  Waiting for a familiar car to be seen coming down the street.  Only after its occupants arrived, could the festivities of Christmas morning begin.  They were always late.

Remembering certain toys that were a 'have to have' affair.  The doll.  She walked, talked and had her own little school desk.  A set of magnets, that provided endless hours of constructive ideas.  The slot car race track.  It was later set up in the basement.  Drivers of all ages raced and occasionally, sent a car flying off the curve to land in a pile of laundry on the other side of the room.  The year that contained no toys.  Supposedly a rite of passage.  Whose idea was that?

Having Christmas someplace other than what was considered 'home'. It was time for the older fledglings to start their own traditions.  New people began to be added.  The season of toys had returned.  The Christmas cycle was beginning to come full circle.  But, not quite.

The year of the absence.  Was the first one noticed as much as the second?  The second one was the glue.  Although her time of matriarch extraordinaire, the person who did it all, had passed, her presence was always a present.  Her 'goneness' was a gaping hole. Would it ever be the same?  The simple answer was "No".  Plain and simple.  "Nevermore, quoth the raven".  Stupid bird.

Looking back at the reflection.  Fast forwarding to the present.  The world did not stop spinning.  Even when thought it should have.  The choice is simple.  Things happen, life goes on, holidays will come and go.  The most important thing is the reaction to what has unfolded.  Not always easy, but simple.

May the reaction to the reflections of Christmas' past and present be filled with love and fond memories.  May those, not as fortunate be among that love and not forgotten.  Let not the reason for the season be forgotten beneath a cardboard box and crumpled paper.  May the choice be for a very merry Christmas.  

 

From The Desk of The Dog: Weirdness & Ruff Times

 I'm back again!!  Mom says I might get to do this full time!  She says that folks like me cos' I not very serious and I have poor grammer.  I say grammer scrammer, who wants to be serious all the time!?

Since I'm bein' funny though, Mom says I have to tell my serious story first.  It falls under the 'Ruff Times'.  A few days back, I was outside with my peeps.  A dogs' duty always comes first and foremost to the family.  Unless, of course, something distracting happens.....like a squirrel or a mouse.  Anyway, Mom and Dad were outside workin' in the yard.  I had been doin' dog stuff.  Sniffin', diggin' and barkin'.  The neighbor peeps came over to help.  Of course, my buddy Max and Dumbo Thor had to come over too.  D Thor likes my Mom and I'm not sure, but I think Mom likes him.  Sometimes, that idea stays in my head.  The more I think about it, the more I don't like it.  

After I had thought about it for quite awhile, I came up with the bestest idea.  I was gonna do something about it.  I decided it was time to show D Thor who was the boss of this side of the creek.  For no reason, that anyone else could see, I showed my teeth, raised my hackles and lunged at DT (for short).  He didn't like it much and tried to get away from me.  That just stoked the fire!  I lunged again and he kept backing up!  By this time, I'm soundin' like a ferocious critter and Mom and Dad were heading my way.  That's when I thought it was important to show my family saving attributes so.... I lunged again.

Things then took a turn for the worst.  DT had reached the point of 'enough'.  In my defense, I did have him at a place of no return.  I had him backed up against the propane tank.  In his defense, Mom says I hafta put this part in my story, he really had done about everything possible to get away from me.  Thor bit me.  Not hard.  At least that is what Mom says.  I beg to differ, cos Mom wasn't the one who got bit.  It was at this exact moment though, that Mom and Dad got between us and stopped the fight.  It was too late.  I was layin' on the ground, wailing like a banshee!  Mom tried to pick me up and that made me wail even louder!  I had to follow Mom to the house and I walked sideways the whole distance.  When I got inside, I looked real sad, but I did let Mom look me over.  She said there was no blood and it seemed to be a long way from my heart and that I was fine.  Mom is mean.

A couple of days later, a little red place did appear on my tummy, so see, I wasn't fakin'.  But, anytime Mom tried to pick me up, I would let out a loud yelp.  Mom thinks the fight may have been a necessary evil, whatever that is, because Dumbo and I now seem to have a healthy respect of each other's space.  I think Mom has been in the eggnog. Sometimes I need time to plot my next move. 

I'm all better now, but I'm a bit worried about Mom.  I think that those marbles she lost musta been real important.  She did the weirdest thing ever.  She brought a tree into the house and put a bunch of stuff on it.  Even stuff that makes it light up the room at night!  But, here's the very weirdest part about it......I'm not supposed to use it like I do the outside trees!  

I gots to go look for those marbles!  Woof! 

An Amazing Time

 Few would argue that 2020 has been a year that will forever be etched into the chronicles of time.  It came into our existence, seemingly harmless and has left us scratching our heads, wondering why things came about the way they did.

It could be referred to as the year of fear.  But, also one of great sadness.  The year of great healings and the year of tearful good-byes.

Many see it as the year of destruction.  The country's finest, the youth, have been left to suffer.  Their demise in learning, to be seen as the greater good, among a sea of division, delusion and misinformation.

A year where technology runs the show.  Where MSM feeds its listeners with, not what they need to hear, but what the media wants them to hear.  They alone have sown the seeds of division. Giant social media platforms are allowed to censor anything that runs contrary to the way they want things to be.  Even so much as silencing forever, from their platform, an idea that might give a person a reason to actually think for themselves.  Or, simply, to enjoy a rhetoric, that goes against their very belief system, but, perhaps, they find it entertaining.  A year of 'The Tech Giants' know best.

By far, it has been a year of learning to not take things for granted.  Especially paper products.  At least the idea that everything a human needs to stay alive, can be found at the grocery, or big box store has slowly awakened people to the truth.  One can only hope.

A year where public officials, elected by the people, make rules for their constituents to follow, but do not follow those same rules for themselves.  Then, stand by and watch hard working people lose their livelihood and could care less.  But again, for the greater good.

A year of uncertainty, as the very process that makes this country free, has been turned completely upside down.  Particularly, in a way that has even the staunchest believer wondering what just happened.

2020, a year of complexities.  It certainly is an amazing time to be alive.  To be witness to what has transpired over the past few months.  Some will think this presumptive but, "It ain't over till' the fat lady sings."  

From The Desk of The Dog: Busy Me

 I'm back already!  The ever so entertaining JRT returns!  (Jack Russell Terrier)  Here to give you a report on my latest shenanigans while Mom continues to search for her marbles.  I've tried to help, but so far, no luck.

This last week has been the 'week of the towel'.  I had to have three baths in as many days!  I will never understand the human nose.  So many things they like to wrinkle their noses up about.  They have no idea the amount of scents that waft through the air at any given moment.  For instance, just because I seemingly bark at nothing every morning, does not mean that there isn't something out there.  There is!  I can smell it!  Right through the walls and windows!  A dog's nose can pick up scents that come from far away and ride on the wind.  It's important to me to sound the alarm when such a thing happens.  I'm all about keeping tabs on the perimeter.  My momma does that and she taught me well.  

To explain how well my nose works, I gonna share a little story.  I was sound asleep in Dad's lap.  That's one of my most favorite things, nappin' with Dad.  So, I'm sleepin' and across the room, Mom slowly and carefully took the plastic lid off of a can of nuts.  In less time than it takes to cross a dog hair, I was wide awake and looking in Mom's direction.  The nose knows.  Plus, I love nuts!

Where was I?  Oh yeah, bath time.  The reason I had to have three baths is not my fault.  It was not me who told the raccoon to do his business in my yard. (But I was so glad that he did!)  Humans just do not understand that there is something simply more than delightful about raccoon poop.  The aroma is heavenly!  When I find some and this particular gift from Mr. Ringtail was exceptionally fresh, there is only one thing to do.  The famous 'Dip & Dive'!

The D&D is a maneuver........oh, that rhymes with manure!  Mom says I'm getting off track.  Anyway, I have been perfecting the D&D for most all of my 6 years.  Mom says if there were a scoring system, I'd get a 10 every time.  First, when I come across that mesmerizing scent and find the source, I gently dip my head enough to dab some behind each ear.  When I'm overcome with the scent wafting between my ears, it's time for the dive.  I stand up on my back legs, turn my head to one side and dive for the prize! Once the dive is completed, the roll over begins.  This helps to grind the delicacy into my fur so the scent will last for as long as possible.  I musta executed a perfect 10 this time cos' when I ran full speed to Mom, to show her, she was none too happy.  She said I had a smile running from ear to ear, like some crazed clown.

And that's how the beginning of the 'week of the towel' started.  I didn't even get to enjoy the fruits of my labor!  Mom snatched me up and headed straight to the bathtub.  She even had to give the buzzing collar a bath too.  It always takes two towels per bath, sometimes three.  I might be little but, I gots lots of fur and it stays wet for a long time.   

The next day, I did it again.  Two days after that, I dug a hole half way to the other side of the planet, in the mud.  I'm pretty sure there was a mouse down there.....somewhere.  Mom's washin' towels.  Woof!

Vibes

A square of tin foil sits on top of a small tripod.  The tripod is supposed to be used for soldering.  Something not yet mastered.  On the tin foil is a small pile of sugar.  Not real sugar, but small grains of some kind of organic sweetener none the less.  Next to this contraption lies the tuning fork.  Tuned to 528hz.  It also has a 'C' below the number, but scholarly minds and musicians do not agree on this connection.  Way deeper than a need to go.

The experiment was to try and see a pattern form.  The small grains of sweetness were to dance into formation from the vibration of the tuning fork.  This had been tried before.  Without much luck.  But, it never hertz to try again.  No pun intended.  The grains did dance, but not long enough.  This was due to the tin foil stopping the vibration of the tuning fork.  Another world wide web search produced many ways to achieve the desired outcome.  None included tin foil and a tuning fork.....imagine that.  A new weekend project may be in order.

The science behind this magical phenomenon makes visible part of the invisible world.  Seeing sound equates to an oxymoron.  Right?  Just as light has different waves, some seen and some unseen, so does sound.  A good example of how light works is the small bird called the Indigo Bunting.  It is really a black bird, but the feathers refract the sunlight making it appear blue.  Back to sound.  Tones have different vibrations and those vibrations have a pattern.  The patterns are not just random shapes.  They are complex and unique.  When seen, they give the viewer a sense of wonderment.  A sense of being part of something that is much bigger than imagined.

The theory behind the 528hz is that the frequency has the ability to positively affect water.  Since the human body is nearly 70% water, it stands to reason that vibrations play a part in how the body functions.  Does not music soothe the savage beast? 528hz is even considered to be divine, or supernatural.  Perhaps even connected to God.   It is also interesting to note that the earth is also covered 70% in water.  Another connection that might be considered, to be given more consideration.  

If being surrounded with good, soothing vibration can help to heal the body and soul, can it be said that being surrounded by the opposite has the opposite outcome?  Constant yelling, fighting, bickering must surely take its toll on the physique.

In a universe so vast and unknown, it is comforting to know that there is a vibration of not only sound, but of a design that comes from something not of this world.  Something that, perhaps, would like humanity to be still and listen.

From The Desk of The Dog: Good Times

Hello everyone!  It's Runtly, the ever so entertaining Jack Russell Terrier!  JRT for short!  Mom says since everyone has lost their marbles, I should share a few thoughts of my own.  My first thought is what are marbles and if everyone has lost them, shouldn't they be easy to find?  I need to remember to ask Mom if I have any, they sound kinda fun.   

My Momma came to visit!  Twice!  I just love it when she stays here with us.  I don't think Momma feels the same way though.  The first time her peeps dropped her off, she stood in the window and cried as they drove down the driveway.  Momma is really nervous, she has a hard time relaxing when she is away from her home.  I know how she feels, I don't really like to stay at her house either.  But, I did my best to try and cheer her up!

We spent a lot of time outside and Momma got to meet Max and Dumbo.  They are giant German shepherds.  Dumbo isn't the right name, his name is Thor.  I call him Dumbo and I'll tell more about him later.  Momma is so brave when Max and Thor (Dumbo) come over.  She stands up on her hind legs and looks them right in the eye!  That makes her look like she is as big as they are!  At least, that is what she told me.  I think it works too 'cause they think she is pretty cool.

Momma and I sang the song of our people about a hundred times.  It's the only time I will howl.  Momma sings high and I sing low and it sounds amazing!  We have two windows that look out at the front yard.  Momma gets in one and I get in the other.  Then we look for something to bark about.  It doesn't have to be much.  I can bark at the air.  When we find something and start barking, Momma begins to howl first and then I join in.  It's a wonderful sound! Usually, somebody has to make us quit.  We just can't help it.

Mom says calling Thor Dumbo is not very nice.  Well, it's not very nice that he takes my toys!  If I leave anything that is mine, in MY yard, Dumbo takes it!  I have lost count the amount of times that I found one of my toys in his yard.  But, rest assured, I bring it back to my house every time!  In fact, the other day I was in their yard and found a great big bone.  Yes, yes I did.  I packed that thing home and chewed, licked and slobbered on it all day.  I even took it in the house.  When Max and Thor D came over later, I went in the house and brought the bone out to show them "who's da boss?".  Mom said I was being an instigator.  Heh, heh, heh, Mom mighta been right.  Almost everyday, Thor D comes over and gets on the back deck and looks through the glass in the door.  That makes me hoppin' mad and I give him the what for.  I jump, bark and snarl at him and even show him the hair standing up on my back.  Every time I jump, he shows me his teeth......what a dumbo.

I sure like all the crackling leaves on the ground.  Especially the ones in the woods.  They are really deep and make a great place to do what Dad calls 'donuts'.  The four legged kick is most impressive when I'm chest deep in leaves too.

I had to go outside a bit ago.  While I was out there I had to bark so Max and Thor D knew I was out.  It always works like a charm.  So, I thought I would show them my bouncing expertise in the tall grass, across the road, in the meadow.  Once I knew I had their attention, I then calculated my escape route back to the house.  They like to chase me when I go fast.  I took off like a streak of lightning and just as I got up to speed, I fell in a hole.  It made me do a complete somersault.  How embarrassing.  I heard Dumbo snickering as I composed myself and trotted back to the house.  

Time to plan my revenge.  Woof!    

   

Beautiful Day

It was a beautiful day.  There can be no complaints made about 75 degrees in the first part of November.  The sun was shining.  A light breeze helped the last of the stubborn leaves to give up their stronghold and take flight.  

Although, there were lots of items on the list of 'to dos', responsibility was cast out, to ride the thermals with the leaves.  It had been a long while since the last road trip.  Road trips do not fall under going from point A to point B.  They fall under following a meandering, winding road and turning onto another, having no clue where it might emerge. 

There were others who were ready to rumble.  The choice of travel were the chariots of old.  Hot rods.  Muscle cars.  Even new ones, that look like the old ones, were in the mix.  

One of the most amazing things about this particular part of the country, is its ability to change its scenery, in an instant.  After riding through a few miles of barren fields, that had given up their harvest, the road drops into deep valleys and rolling hills.   The twists and turns become more frequent.  Looking in the rear view mirror and seeing a long curve of antiques, equally spaced, rolling at the same speed, gives the rider a sense of being in the right place.  At exactly the right time.

This particular route spilled the steel gathering into the valley where the Illinois River pours into the mighty Mississippi.  The road rides the rocky coast, just mere feet from the banks of the river.  For the passengers, the view is nearly majestic.  The river is wide, sail boats dotted the surface and barges plowed a path to their next destination.  In the distance, a bridge could be seen.  Spanning the river into another state.  Looking the other direction, the water stretched as far as the eye could see.  A haunting thought floated through, wondering at the awe that was surely felt, seeing this magnificent sight for the first time. 

The navigators, of the chariots, kept their eyes on the road.  For they had been swept into a mighty gathering of their collective brethren.  Many waves and 'thumbs up' were given, in each direction.  

An eatery was found and pleasant conversation exchanged.  The trip home was through familiar territory.  Everyone wanted to arrive before the long shadows made the grand whitetail bucks harder to see.  It was a beautiful day.