It is Memorial Day Observed...

Ever walk the grave yards looking at the fallen service people? One should try to do so every Memorial Day. Go out and find you can't read all the names, appreciate all that they gave up on - representing us on some battlefield, somewhere, some time ago... or even not so long ago. They are still in danger, still targets of our enemies and so will become one day one of those you won't give enough time to remember, consider, to ponder the price.

I worked an Appleseed shoot this weekend, in a small Victorian Town marketing itself as such, at their shooting club. We took time to fire a volley in honor of thirteen of the fallen of Massachusetts from 19 April, 1775. Not sure they get a nudge in Heaven every time some one remembers to say their name, so the effect is for the many that just want to understand the price: the real price of our Liberty, our Land and their love for it, something we may never completely understand.

So find them, respect them, remember them.

Jonas Parker
Isaac Muzzy
Jonathan Harrington, Jr.
Samuel Hadley
Caleb Harrrington

Robert Monroe
John Brown
Ashabel Porter
Abner Homer
Isaac Davis
John Raymond
Jason Russell
Deacon Haynes. 


But for sure, don't forget that all the wars and troubles, battles won and lost, had two sides - and they will all be drinking mead in Valhalla, such a price to pay for a mark carved in stone - remember the fallen and respect their lives and deaths.

Been playing in the dirt... a real boy...

My cousin mentioned that Dungeys were tenant farmers or just farm workers as a general rule of kind of folks they was... long ago and far away, and then not so far away and not so many generations back. Hmm, and the problem with that is? None that I can see. Yeomen, is just fine, bauer ist besser, and cattlemen just raise all their vegetables and grains into steaks. Works for me.

Was it Esau that was the hunter, and Jacob the farmer? and who got all the women? Not that that was my point but one can play foolish with Bible stories read or told wrong. Still, I was turning soil, cutting grass and weeds, making the home better for my wife as I will be on the trail again this weekend. Port Townsend, Appleseed. Looking on the internet, there are some fine gardens much bigger and better than my wife's, but we are just little old people and must watch some television mindless entertainment - ever notice you never miss what you didn't miss while you weren't looking? When I would return home from long periods overseas on government grievance work, I noticed that the soap operas hadn't moved that far along from what I remembered the last time I was in the States.

YMCA and shooting stuff readied tomorrow, pack up my Caravan, early departure on Saturday morning.

I walk alone, but not really...

Loner, not part of the pack nor the group or the gang... alone but watching. Friendly enough, but not overwhelming, hopefully not smothering. Strange until close to eccentric, but odd is closer.

I have ridden my motorcycle with other cyclists, but mostly I ride alone to my own destination, riding with my bother and nephew was neat, but they actually talked to each other while they rode and I just go in silence, or all the silence the wind and wheels will give me on top of an active engine. I am content with the ride, as long as I maintain upright, when I am down a little help is appreciated. And I do go down, not as hard as I once did, but hard enough.

It has taken my wife years to get accustomed to me not doing what everyone else does, she has to explain me to her friends and relatives. I shouldn't burden her, but I am going to remain myself and she accepts me, her friends and relatives that haven't really met me only feel a little sorry for her. She is my lover, and that has been a real stretch to love enough to not be truly alone. We ignored two governments as much as possible, but they did get involved in making our partnership legal and binding. Duh, like we couldn't find a way out of their paperwork - lots of others have. It took my mother a few years to figure out how strong we were committed. If one or two are crazy enough they will be committed. But it isn't the paperwork with some unloving government agency.

Instant communication has made me farther away rather than closer. I start ignoring telephone rings because there are so many I have no interest in listening to trying to persuade me of something. Call blocking worked for a bit, but ignoring the rings always works. Emails are easier to delete without opening, and if it is someone that I want to read or hear from I can open my end and do so.

Facebook has pictures, posted by interesting folks, relatives and friends, and I always love to see me in actions (if he would just get younger and thinner). So even with NSA storing all my bits and bytes, I don't mind for my own utility, their foolish storing of everything because they don't know what it is they really need to do their job. Government job, they only have to show you something to make it look like they are critical, not actually productive.

Sent a message to my sister with our parents slides, looking for a picture of a younger me and my Harley-Davidson 1948 flathead with the tank shift and the rocking clutch pedal. Dad had to have taken some kind of a photograph, he really rebuilt it, I only rode it. Pennsylvania to Coral Gables, Florida and back, alone but not lonely.

For Facebook folks: You need something to feel guilty about? How about the number of friends that you never hear from now, because you are so strange, in what you share, post and postulate? Yes, they only thought they really knew you....

From a Facebook Friend:

Reread Dune this weekend. Perhaps the 6th time I have read it.
I am struck by how much more the details emerge in the story as I, the reader, have matured with age.

Was this Herberts plan all along?
 
My comment: I am sure that great books speak to a new you, every time you return, the words didn't change, but you have.

You guys don't really know any truly poor people do you?

A comment on a FB post from some Rightwing group.

I have been poor, truly poor. But I always thought of it as temporary a condition of having no cash on hand nor ease of borrowing the little I would need until I found work, or cash or something. So I never qualified for government poor-ness and the benefits that would flow. I have never collected un-employment, never, not one dollar. So I really couldn't have been poor, could I? My calorie intake when I was poor was really bad, lost much weight quickly, my smoking habits dried up faster, although if you want to smoke you will beg a cigarette from strangers faster than asking for a meal. Folks once shared smokes, quicker than meals or money.

Then again, I wasn't really POOR, since I had my spirit, my pride and my self esteem to buoy me up until I really fell out of whack, or sunk into the abyss.. . I can see how being depressed would make one poorer.

So maybe I don't really know any poor, but then I don't know that I know any serial rapists or murderers either. Just not hanging around with the right crowd. I am sure I am not poor, for all of the measurements, I exceed. But then I am much smarter than most of the people of the world. I am so smart that I know they can't all be like me, nor can any government ever make them like me or better. And I don't think they would want to be me, nor would I like a world full of folks like me, either.

I do know that teaching people, at a young age is fine, that work is good and will create rewards is better than drugging them with media buzz and other harmful toxins. I only want what is best for them, I don't know any truly poor people, and I thank God for that - not the government.

Good day, thank the Lord.

Weather was perfect, the breezes in tune with the rising temperature. I put the Christmas stuff away until next November. Having a little floor space was nice, so I rolled the motorcycle out to get it started. And I won't go into how that was done.

But I did it, got it running, fueled it up and rode to the YMCA, which had given me the day off. Rode the Trusty Triumph back home and on the way, realized it didn't have its new plate, sticker nor title. Where did I put that, I was headed towards the garage to put it on, and got diverted.... what happened? Don't know now, the garage is cleaner for the looking for the envelope and plate.

Still, the motorcycle ride was fun, leaning into the turns and going up the gears like I knew what I was doing. The motorcycle is away, the garbage is on the curb, hot shower done and I am wearing shorts and a polo shirt, so cool. Dinner and then iced wine until I sleep.

Don't like the weather, wait it will change soon...

I was expected, welcomed and loved for all my parents' dreams come true.

My mother wanted to be a writer, an author, a true champion of God, a lady, a real do-gooder and settled for wife and mother. If she wanted anything in greed, it would have been more hugs, more time in conversation and more visits from far away children and to know about the grandchildren.

A different world that I grew up in, no real Home Schooling, although my mother seemed to tell stories always, read books with us, and tolerate the blanket house under the table, the couch pillow fort walls and stepping on AWOL army men with her bare feet. Dogs and children, church every Sunday, and summer church camp adventures to add to the vacation Bible school. Taking us to Uruguay and Argentina for a meeting with those we had only heard about.

She spent an awful lot of time trying to rein in her first born, a challenge from the get go. We had quiet talks in the car about the real important stuff, so as not to be interrupted by siblings, telephone nor time. Those stuck in my mind and heart long years later. She had rules and I was always testing them, for I always had things to do and was late already.

In the end, I am hoping that she was happy with most of what I did, why I have done it and what my life shared with her meant. I should have loved her better, but what do I know about love?

So this Mother's Day, I wish more Americans have what I did - a loving mother, a confident, a warm heart and a cheer leader. She did work making doughnuts for a bit, taking census in 1970, and wrote a lot of poetry - but where she earns her sainthood was as my mother. Thank God for mothers that love enough for His glory. Amen.

I turned my death clock off, it was ticking down...

My pacemaker is going to last longer than I according to the Death Clock app. Maybe, I couldn't say just yet. It is too beautiful a day to be concerned about. I found an old photo of my mother, smiling in her decline, it is now my Facebook avatar for this Mother's Day weekend. Maybe I should pay bills but I am about to go to the YMCA so I can look as skinny as I did in 1971 (when was Obama born?).

That is sixty to seventy pounds away, and ain't gonna happen. I am doing the Savage Revenge on the bicycle -- a twenty mile jaunt through the snowy mountains with Yetis yet. I have done it before and will probably scull 6.2 miles on the rowing machine after. Real sculling would be better but someone would insist I wear a helmet and have a floatation devise on...Sigh.

Not everything in the Republic of Vietnam was not worth taking a picture of. I snapped this one of fleeing beauty. I really have always loved that size, type and utility Truck.

The young ladies were the Miss America contestants doing the only USO visit to our little fire base. I was so tongue tied I couldn't even say hello, hi or thanks for coming. Real American women, things only vaguely remembered from a time long ago and very far away.

But I sure do like that truck. And hot showers and hot food and a cot to sleep upon. When I got to the 82nd Airborne Division in the 1973 alert for Israel and Egypt in conflict I got the floor. Which never gives way.