History and Imagination Working Together

 

When I was very young playing along the back fence digging in the dirt I found a piece of pirate treasure.  It was a small silver knife that must have accidentally found its way into my parent’s backyard.  I spent the rest of that day digging along the fence line hoping to find more treasure, perhaps a Piece of Eight or loot taken during a high seas battle.

Later in the evening, having exhausted myself and being covered in dirt, I showed the treasure to my mother along with my explanation of where it must have come from.  As my excitement level was at its peak it was at that moment that I recognized my newfound pirate treasure matched my folk’s silverware pattern perfectly.  I’d discovered a missing butter knife, one that had probably been used by my brother or perhaps even me to dig in the dirt. 

You might be wondering, what has this got to do with the images posted?

The top image (courtesy of Getty) shows a replica wagon similar to those that left their wheel ruts along the Oregon Trail.  Hundreds and hundreds of wagons crossed the Great Plains along various routes, pioneers hoping to find a place to start anew, their wagon wheels passing across rocks leaving marks that have lasted long enough to still be visible.

This past week a roofing crew was at our place to replace our damaged roof.  They had to tear off the old roof, and all that material had to be hauled off to the landfill.  We’d had rain a couple of days earlier so the ground was softer than usual. To accomplish removal of the old shingles their dump truck backed across our yard leaving some deep ruts.    No big deal, it’s not the first-time large trucks have left ruts on the property; those ruts will fade away and be forgotten in time.

This morning, as the sun came up, my mind saw those tire ruts in a different light as imagination kicked in. Those might easily have been wagon wheel ruts left by pioneers crossing through Buffalo on their way to the OSR.  We might have some Texas history right here on our property.  Wow, that’s neat!

A Nighttime Portal

 

Sometimes we get to experience a familiar moment in time long after it became a distant memory.  Such was the case when we enjoyed a mini holiday in Natchitoches, Louisiana. 

We’d booked a room at the Queen Anne, a Victorian style bed and breakfast located in the historic district close to the river, making sure it was on the first floor to avoid having to extend ourselves by going up and down stairs.  The furnishings were appropriate for the elegance extended in the entryway and formal parlor area.  Our bedroom was adjacent to the parlor, having been separated with a pair of pocket doors that carefully but definitively divided the parlor’s common area from our bedroom.

Sleeping in a bed you’re not familiar with is challenging, not that this one was uncomfortable; but it wasn’t in my bedroom at home.  The road trip was about four hours, and relaxing was more than a suggestion, it was necessary.  Taking in as much of the surroundings was perhaps the reason for picking this particular bed and breakfast, compared with staying at a premium hotel.  Each item had been carefully placed to enhance our experience to include the bookcase on one wall that went floor to ceiling with an ancient set of encyclopedias going back to the nineteen thirties, worn and decidedly outdated. 

After climbing into bed and accepting the invitation to drift off, the lights having been turned off, we noticed the outdoor lighting remained on, a soft glow from the outside coming past the wooden Venetian Blinds that covered the windows.  Sleep took over easily and remained with me for several hours.

I woke up while it was still the middle of the night.  The soft light continued easing its way into our bedroom area past the blinds.  It was then that I found myself transported in time, back to when I was visiting my grandparents’ apartment in Queens, New York, as part of my tenth birthday celebration. 

I should explain, I’d gotten to travel into the city via the Long Island Railroad, all by myself, a treat and an adventure unto itself.  Upon arriving at Grand Central Station my grandparents were waiting, and we took the 7 Line subway across town to where their apartment was located near the Bliss Street station.  For a ten-year-old boy every part of the trip was being taken in, sounds, smells and every feeling being recorded moment by moment.

They’d turned a small sofa into a temporary bed in what must have been a bedroom space; but it was for general use since it was just the two of them.  Their apartment was technically on the first floor; but in actuality it was one flight of stairs up from ground floor.  I was supposed to get some sleep in preparation for a day in the city with my grandparents; but taking in all the unfamiliar sights and sounds made it nearly impossible to put my head down on the pillow.

Instead, I found myself looking out the window that overlooked a courtyard, a courtyard that had a fancy gazebo sort of shelter with benches for those wishing to relax.  Looking further across the courtyard I saw where other apartments butted up, a concrete path with stairs leading to the next level where those apartments led to other apartments and eventually to where the elevated train station was located.  The sounds of the city entered almost subliminally as cars made their way down a street I couldn’t see, trains came and left with their steel wheels talking to the rails beneath them. 

Then there was the sound off to the other side of the apartment wall, a sound which was later explained as a trash chute that each apartment dweller used to drop stuff to the basement. I found it exhilarating that folks would be up in the middle of the night dropping bits of trash as it bounced its way past on the way to the collection bin. 

How does this have anything to do with my vantage point sixty-five years later while sitting on the edge of a bed located in the Queen Anne Bed and Breakfast at two o’clock in the morning? To be quite honest, I’m not really sure why this memory came up.  I decided to turn on my phone and hope there was sufficient light coming in through the blinds to permit taking a photograph.  Resting the phone on the edge of the bed, I pressed the activation button and got lucky.  The picture comes close to experiencing the darkness of the room being invaded by the lighting on the porch.

Maybe there’s a touch of excitement that accompanied the moment, knowing I was supposed to be sleeping and yet all my faculties were on full-memory accumulation mode, similar to when I was a boy of ten trying to make the most of a trip to be with my grandparents. That’s the best I can come up with to explain a nighttime portal that opened long enough to take me back all those years, long enough to savor a glimpse through my eyes, a wide-eyed child’s eyes.

Be The Blue Poster

 

While going through Facebook this afternoon, this recruiting poster for the Houston Police Department caught my attention.  It showed four individuals suspected of solicitation of prostitution, dressed in their orange jumpsuits.  Remember, these individuals are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law.  Hope you don’t recognize one of your neighbors here.

Just curious, why would they be wearing orange jumpsuits while out soliciting for prostitution?  There must be a specialty clothing store close to the jail that sells that particular style jump suit.

It reminded me of something from back in the mid-1980s. I was assigned to Northwest Patrol, night shift; however, during the day I had my own mobile locksmith business.  I was in my service truck on the way to a locksmith job and found myself pulling up to a traffic light in the left turn lane of a fairly busy esplanaded intersection.  As my vehicle came to a stop, I recognized a scantily clothed young woman standing on the esplanade. She’d been a uniformed officer at our station when I first started on night shift.  It didn’t take a degree from the local university to figure out she’d transferred to Vice Division, and this was a sting operation to catch individuals ‘so inclined’.

I waved in her direction and addressed her by name as she quietly walked by, perhaps thinking I might be one of the ‘so inclined’.  I’m sure she was embarrassed when she figured out that I knew who she was and that I also knew she was working to catch the ‘so inclined’.  Maybe she wanted to warn me to be careful since everything being said was being recorded.  I laughed politely as the light turned green and I headed on down the road. 

This Sounds So Familiar

 

The civil disobedience going on in Minnesota, specifically Minneapolis, has gotten most everyone’s attention as minor confrontations have escalated into mayhem, chaos and bloodshed. Have I accurately described what major media outlets have portrayed as “Peaceful Demonstrations”?

Looking at the situation being spilled all over the news and social media from afar, thankfully from afar, I was reminded of a short story written by Robert Heinlein and contained within a collection of stories under the title, The Past Through Tomorrow – Future History Stories. I should explain that Heinlein’s writings were some of the first to be read simply for enjoyment as opposed to mandatory assignments associated with obtaining scholastic achievement.  It was through reading stories by Robert Heinlein and Ray Bradbury that I found the joy of reading, entering someone else’s world of imagination simply because their thoughts provoked and encouraged trips of fantasy.

Where was I…the situation which has turned so ugly in Minneapolis, Minnesota has a familiar ring to it, as if the names and places had been changed to avoid being mistaken for a piece of science fiction written long ago, it was science fiction, wasn’t it? 

I’m referring to the story, The Roads Must Roll, all about a group of radical dissidents tasked with maintaining and operating a modern transportation system.  The ringleader of the group wanted to take over the entire operation and was willing to destroy the system, maim or kill innocent travelers if need be, as long as his demands were taken seriously. 

To accomplish the takeover, which he’d planned to the last detail, he’d recruited several like-minded workers who were willing to support and initiate the destruction of the road system. How else could such an undertaking be successful, without having key players, individuals who were willing to be sacrificed if needed.

This morning while going over entries on Facebook I read a short notice explaining that the Lt. Governor of Minnesota may have been actively participating in the organization engaged in opposing ICE’s arrests and deportation efforts.

From the Dallas Express:

“Minnesota “Signal”gate? Did the Lt. Governor Coordinate with Media and Activist Groups To Dox ICE Operation Locations?

Minnesota state Representative Alex Falconer, a Democrat, has publicly acknowledged participating in a Signal network used to organize “community responses” to ICE activity, according to The Washington Times. The same report identified Amanda Koehler, a former campaign strategist for Gov. Tim Walz, as an administrator of a Signal group known as “MN ICE Watch.”

Minnesota Lieutenant Governor Peggy Flanagan has forcefully denied claims that she coordinated or operated a Signal chat used to track ICE activity.”

 

It wouldn’t be too difficult to assume, a dangerous word all by itself, to assume that many key elected leaders in Minnesota, to include that total imbecilic governor, Tim “Tampon” Walz are strongly opposed to having ICE task forces arresting illegal aliens, many of whom are dangerous criminals to include murderers, rapists, child predators, robbers and let’s not forget those involved in stealing millions upon millions of taxpayer dollars through fraud and deception; it wouldn’t be too difficult to assume these elected leaders hold an active part in attempting to thwart any and all ICE arrests.  (Thank you, Mrs. Spain, a high school teacher who pointed out the abuse inflicted each time I insert a run on sentence.)

Maybe this combination of dissidents starting from the top down, maybe this was what triggered my recollection of a short story written back in 1940, a story that contained common elements of power and control being toyed with without regard for the lives and safety of the public which entrusted these very same elected officials with their lives and safety.

Like a Fishing Boat in Rough Seas

 

I went through some of the photographs in my files and found one that validated my reason to never become a fisherman, an individual who works on a flimsy boat out in the ocean for a living.  That image became the wallpaper on my computer this week, as seems fitting considering some of the issues going on in the world.

(No idea who to credit for the photograph)

The weather forecast for this weekend calls for an uncharacteristically nasty cold, wet Arctic blast that could possibly bring snow, sleet or ice to parts of south Texas.  Knowing how news media outlets use events to sell airtime to the public, sensationalizing the possibility of dangerous weather, road conditions that might be super hazardous and a chance that grocery stores could run out of necessities; this kind of weather reporting is good for business.  Take it with a grain of salt, it might not be all that bad; then again, stay home if you can this weekend.

Have you noticed the precious metals market, specifically the attention to the gold and silver prices as they climbed to record highs?  We’re in for some interesting times as the banks holding promises to deliver on their silver holdings only have pieces of paper rather than actual physical silver.  In other words, and these numbers are only approximately accurate, but in other words there are roughly 47 pieces of paper claiming to be the same 1 ounce of silver owned by all those 47 investors. When it comes time for the bank to settle up, let’s just say it won’t be silver hitting the fan.

An ounce of gold passed $4,700 yesterday.  Why is that important? Maybe it’s important on the world economic stage because the Dollar becomes less and less the standard which keeps the United States afloat. I don’t claim to be schooled in world economy; however, if the nations of the world decided to use something other than the Dollar as a reference for value, then things could become rather dicey, I think that’s the term, dicey.

I’m much better observing perfectly timed photographs or paintings by artists like Winslow Homer as he captured angry seas, the master’s ability to blend oil paint into dark colors within treacherous waves as men made their way across them in their flimsy boats, prayerfully hoping to make it back to safe harbor.  I can feel the danger those men faced, even if only from the comfort of my easy chair, sitting in the confines of my home. 

Y’all stay safe now, ya’ hear!

 

 

Amazing find at local Kroger Grocery Store

This past Friday while finishing up our grocery shopping at the Kroger store in Huntsville, Texas, I happened to glance at one of those ‘point of purchase’ items, the must have do-dads placed near the cash register that you hadn’t planned to buy; but oh, my goodness, you must have it.

You’d think finding specialty items used by MI-7 or CIA’s deep cover operatives would be limited to a special catalog, technologically advanced weapons available only for individuals with special security clearances, but here they were, and at a grocery store?  I carefully considered adding this item to our shopping cart and then wondered if it would be safe to store it in our vehicle.

There were several Vortex Umbrellas on display without any noticeable security barriers. Not even the high command at MI-7 were aware of the Vortex group of assassins hidden within their own trusted cadre of agents. Yet here they were at the cash register available to anyone.

There were no distinctive markings on the product as to whether these were T-2 or T-4 type defensive or offensive umbrellas as shown in the Johnny English Reborn movie. The two items appeared nearly identical: the one being designed to deflect bullets while the other as a self-contained rocket launcher.  I used my cellphone to capture a photograph of the fancy umbrella’s product card since nobody would believe such a prize was available at Kroger.

I’d almost bet the farm we’ll find lipstick dispensers that double as a single shot pistol over in the cosmetic’s aisle or maybe some of those throat lozenges that distort your voice in the pharmacy department.  I’ve always suspected something else was being run out of the Kroger store; why else have such a huge second floor that isn’t open to the general public?

I’ve spent enough time considering our next grocery shopping trip.  It’s time to finish reading the book I got for Christmas, The Secret Life of Walter Mittey.  Y’all be safe out there.

Having Fun with the Calendar on December 22nd

 

Each morning as I take my vitamins, I tear off a page on the calendar, a way of reminding myself later in the day that I actually had taken my vitamins.  I get to read a short bit of trivia, something that takes up half a moment and then get on with my day.

Today’s calendar moment, “I am.” is the shortest complete sentence in the English language. I then had to wonder if that were true in, let’s say, Hebrew, referring to the passage of scripture found in the book of Exodus 3:13-15 where we find out what Moses was told on his trip up to the top of the mountain where he met with God.

“And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them?

And God said unto Moses, I Am That I Am: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto you.

And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, The Lord God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name for ever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.”

I’d leave it right there, except… you got it…in Hebrew the name I Am is a bit different. I’ll add what was posted on Facebook sometime back, author was not credited at that time.

“The Name of God YHWH

There was a moment when Moses had the nerve to ask God what his name is. God was gracious enough to answer, and the name he gave is recorded in the original Hebrew as YHWH.

Over time we’ve arbitrarily added an “a” and an “e” in there to get YaHWeH, presumably because we have a preference for vowels.

But scholars and Rabi’s have noted that the letters YHWH represent breathing sounds, or aspirated consonants. When pronounced without intervening vowels, it actually sounds like breathing.

YH (inhale): WH (exhale).

So a baby’s first cry, his first breath, speaks the name of God.

A deep sigh calls His name – or a groan or gasp that is too heavy for mere words.

Even an atheist would speak His name, unaware that their very breath is giving constant acknowledgment to God.

Likewise, a person leaves this earth with their last breath, when God’s name is no longer filing their lungs.

So when I can’t utter anything else, is my cry calling out His name?

Being alive means I speak His name constantly.

So, is it heard the loudest when I’m the quietest?

In sadness, we breathe heavy sighs.

In joy, our lungs feel almost like they will burst.

In fear we hold our breath and have to be told to breathe slowly to help us calm down.

When we’re about to do something hard, we take a deep breath to find our courage.

When I think about it, breathing is giving him praise. Even in the hardest moments!

This is so beautiful and fills me with emotion every time I grasp the thought. God chose to give himself a name that we can’t help but speak every moment we’re alive.

All of us, always, everywhere.

Waking, sleeping, breathing, with the name of God on our lips.”