Conservatism, or regressivism?

June 30, 2014, 3:43 AM.  Morningbrain time, without a doubt.  I've been lying in bed for an hour, now, and my brain has been running over thinking about a number of things that I've done (or half-done) over the last few years.  Forty-five minutes ago, I took an antihistamine.  A few minutes ago I took a dose of valerian root.  Maybe the combination of the two will convince my brain and body there are better things to be doing at this particular time of day--at least that's my hope. 

In any case, here I am trying to get my fingers and keyboard to collaborate a bit over one of the ideas that seem to be running through my head.  That thought has to do with the political "conservative." 

In the true sense of the word, as I understand it, I would have to call myself a conservative.  In any case, I am at a point in life where change is not a friendly concept.  Keeping up with what is, or has been the case is about my speed these days, and changes only seem to complicate matters.  Still, I'm sure many political "conservatives" these days would want to label me as a "liberal" since my inclinations seem to move in directions that mirror those thusly stigmatized.  Global warming seems, to me, to be a fact, at least in the lives of the polar bears who are losing habitat in the north, and in the decline of the Antarctic ice cap that seems to be in danger of floating off towards who knows where.  Public education seems to need all the help it can get.  If the kids aren't getting what they need to be good citizens at home, they sure need to get the training somewhere.   The "middle class" seems to be dwindling and along with it our moral values.   And, along with that "middle class," American centrism seems to be becoming a thing of the past. 

I guess my kind of conservatism would require a redefinition of those who now consider themselves to be political conservatives.  These individuals are the ones who have contributed so much to our current "do nothing Congress."  Really, the "do nothing-ers" are not living up to that moniker.  They are doing quite a lot. 

Just let our President present a proposal to the Congress.  What happens?  At that moment (or milliseconds after the proposal goes public,) the do nothing-ers proceed to trip over one another trying to point out exactly what is wrong with the proposal and why it should be quashed.  And are these responsive thoughts particularly well thought-out?  To the extent that the Presidential proposal was well thought-out, the do nothing-ers' proposal is also well thought-out, in a 180-degree out sort of way.

Should the proposal be, for example, to dye the national mall reflecting pond green for St. Patrick's day, the do nothing-ers would say "no way.  Dye would not be in our national interest."  Of course, some might say, "OK, if dye it we must, dye it, but dye it red.  Green is too close to blue, you see, and red would be a nice touch, wouldn't you think?" (This would come from those who do not want to be seen as being "do nothing-ers.")  In either case, the President would receive his criticism from those whose raison d'etre is criticism, and all would proceed in the town that recently has made the term "snails pace" look like a fast race.

Maybe if the "do nothing-ers" were called "regressionists" those of us who feel like conservatives but then find ourselves in poor company would begin to fit the classification again.    "Conservative" really should not imply turning back the hands of time.  But turning back the hands of time seems to be what the current batch of political conservatives seem to want to do. 

"Regressionists" seems to fit the bill nicely.  Perhaps, if this term may be put into play, we can leave it to the new "regressionists" to determine what, if any, difference there might be between the new "regressionists" and the new "true regressionists."  This just may give them something constructive (?) to do and give our President a needed break. Who knows--maybe, just maybe, a useful bill might even eke its way through the Congress, while all this redefinition is taking place, and find itself on the President's desk for signature. 

Now, if only he is able to remember where he put that pen.

Mom's vacation--a family thing

Somewhere in the Geddes archives, I found a small, black book, one quarter inch thick by three and a quarter inches high and two inches wide.  In it, on blue scribed, quarter inch rulings, I found my Mother’s handwriting.  I have very little material of this nature, so, for the family’s posterity, I’m transcribing the writing she made in this small black journal, it having the identifying marking “National 1369 ½,” with a hand written “.20” (probably it’s cost) at the top, on the back of the front cover.  The divisions are by page.

It was written by Elizabeth Ann Newbanks (I recognize her hand.) The following is quoted directly from her journal in its entirety:

Sun – July 5, 1936  Left home 7 a.m. in new Ford V-8.   Ran into some rain and thus had to discover window wiper.  Stopped at Kirkland and got a chocolate soda.  Went straight through to Michigan City,

arriving there at 1:30 p.m.  Ate lunch at Milner Hotel.  Went with Bill and Luckman boys to the lake but was too cold to go in.  Monday night went to show with Julia Kramer.  Tues. July 7, 1936.  Started at 8:30 a.m. on trip to Charlevoix.  

Beautiful scenery—along lake most of time.  Stopped at Holland Mich. for lunch.  Dutch waitresses, etc.  Stopped at Charlevoix over night at Hoover’s Inn.  Nothing but resort town.  Pretty harbor right across street from Inn.

Wed. July 8^th, 1936  Started for Mackimaw City at about 9 o’clock.  Arrived there at about ten thirty.  Stopped and got a drink at an attractive Indian lunch & souvenir place.  Took the Algonquin II over to Mackinac Island (which is only

called Mackinac because of mailing convenience—really Mackinaw Island.  Ate at Toms Restaurant and then found two very nice rooms at St. Cloud Place large 3 story house about 2 blocks from town.  Took a 9 mile sight-seeing tour

around  or all over the island and through the state park on the island by horse and buggy.  Autos are not allowed on the island.  We left our car right on the dock they put it right on the steamer.  It was on the island that the

war of 1812 was supposed to have been fought.  We saw the Sugar Lump, a huge stone standing up high in the middle of a forest.  Fort Holmes, on the top of the island; the devils kitchen; and several other historical points.

Almost the whole down town is made up of souvenir places.  A lot of bicycles are used here also.  The buggys are all lined up (about 30 of them) on the main street ready to receive passengers from the numerous large boats that dock

at the island.  I met a couple of girls from Detroit who were rooming at the same place.  We walked down to the Grand Hotel ($20 a day minimum charges) that night and looked into the exclusive shops in the lobby.  Of course

we stayed there and listened to the music of Billy Baer coming from the Blue Room in the hotel.  It also has a large swimming pool but I didn’t get to see it.  We went in the drug store and then came home at about

12 o’clock.  Thursday July 9^th ’36.  After breakfast Henrietta and I went to see the fort on the top of the hill.  It sure is some climb.  There is a museum inside and a large display of guns and other old relics.  We wanted to go

speed boat riding around the island but the man couldn’t find enough passengers—so we missed out on that trip.  The Octmara was an hour late so we didn’t leave until 5 o’clock.  My the meals on the boat.

You can have anything and everything you want—mostly more than you want!  We got our costume (gypsy women) and got ready for the big mascarade held that night.  Had a grand march and then voted

on the cleverest & most beautiful & funniest costume.  A lot were original.  The cleverest was a lady dressed like justice with a white sheet wrapped around her and two balanced weights in her hand.

the most beautiful was a little girl dressed in a chimeee deamona to represent a Chinese girl.  The funniest was “Romeo” a fat man dressed in a suit of newspapers with a tri-comf hat made of the same.  Really funny!

We danced for awhile then changed our clothes and went up on top deck to watch the ship go through the Soo Canal.  There were so many lights on the St. Mary’s river that I got all mixed up.  I thought

a boat in front of us was the locks for a long time  It took us a long time to even get to the lock.  We had to stop for a while by the Soo Canal before we entered.  Some small kids were down on the

docks yelling “Flip a Coin.”  (At 1:30 in the morning.)  Several people would through down money and they’d all scramble for it.  The little boy about 4 years old even sang a song for us.  At about 2 o’clock we passed through the Soo

locks.  Then I scrambled for my berth.  I believe if the waves were splashing over the deck I would have slept anyway, I was so sleepy.  Oh yes, all during the trip there wasn’t even a wave  Just as calm or

calmer than the river.  Quite unusual for any lake especially Superior.  So—I did not get sea sick.  Friday., July 10^th.  Had breakfast at about 9 o’clock.  Biggest breakfast I’ve had in my life.  Henrietta and I

walked 8 laps around the boat to kind of walk the meal down.  8 laps is one mile on the Octnara.  Played ping-pong and hosed around the recreation room for a while.  Ate a big fish dinner

The best fish on earth.  A lady read Henrietta’s & my palm—telling me that I would always be well taken cared of and waited on !   Have a couple of love affairs and so on!  Went to bingo party and won $2 on       

last hand.  I even surprised myself.  Went up on top deck and watched us go through another river which cut up the penninsula.  Ate supper and then went to Stunt night and song festival

We all gathered together and sang old songs.  Mazo, the Master of Ceremony picked out three men and they had a race of drinking milk through a nipple.  A scream Romeo said that if it would have

Been beer he could have won but, unfortunately, it wasn’t!  Had a game with representatives from different states in it (I was for Indiana).  Mazo would point to (for example) his nose and say

this is my eyes—1,2,: etc.  By ten you were supposed to reverse it and point to your eye and say “this is my nose”  A lot of fun.  Ohio won.  After all the stunts we danced.  All the boys I danced with were grand

dancers.  Mazo danced a couple of dances with me—and has he got personality!  I’m going back next year and be his secretary for the ships’ paper!  (Oh yeah!)  Went to bed earlier because we had

to be up by seven.  Saturday, July 11^th   Docked at Duluth at about 7:30 a.m.  Ate breakfast on the boat and then went on a sight-seeing tour of Duluth.  It is all built on a hill and every block you either

have to walk up away from the town or down into the town which is a couple of blocks from the lake.  Duluth is a big country use town.  Left Duluth at about 11 o’clock and started for

Minneapolis.  Ate lunch at Monse Lake.  A cute little place by the side of the lake.  It was a 109 in the shade at a little town we stopped in to get a drink.  Sure was hot.  Arrived in Minneapolis at

about 5:30.  Stopped at Hastings Hotel.  Ate nice dinner and went in town to the show, Minnesota.  Some show.  Saw Clark Gable and Janette McDonald in “San Francisco.”  Grand picture.  They also had

Lew Forbes and his orchestra on the stage.  They sure were good.  Sunday, July 12^th  Ate breakfast at about 9 o’clock.  Took a sight seeing bus and went through both Minneapolis and St. Paul. 

Minneapolis is the most beautiful because of its numerous lakes.  All twelve (in the city) are natural lakes where they have swimming and boating.  Around each lake is a nice park which

makes it even more beautiful.  At 12 o’clock before going through St. Paul we had our dinner at the Lowry Hotel in St. Paul.  There was a convention going on there and were those old farmers, or whoever

 they were having a big time!  We continued our tour and went through St. Paul.  Of course, the capital and everything is there.  The University of Minnesota is also in St. Paul.  Got back to the

hotel at 3 o’clock.

(That’s all—the rest of the journal is blank. She was 5 pages shy of reaching the exact middle of the book.)  I remember some talk about Mom being in a ship wreck.  Perhaps that happened on this cruise, interrupting her journal.  I wish I had found this book while Mom was still with us.  I would have gotten the rest of the story, I’m sure.  She would have been 19 when she wrote this, out of high school for a year, and working as a secretary in Louisville, I suspect.  Maybe this was her first vacation (who knows, Unkle Stu, perhaps?)

Something definitely interrupted her.  I can just see her referring to this small journal as she elaborated on her story, typing it after-hours at her job back in Louisville.  Just imagine what we might have today if she had taken her lap-top with her on the cruise!  Hah!  Of course, she took several lap-tops with her.  They called them “skirts” at that time.  Thanks anyway, mom.  What you left was appreciated.

Steve   22 April 2014

Encore une fois, 29 Mar 2014

Well, it's happened again.  It's 4:30, this time, and here I am at the computer.  I could have been here at 3:00, but that was just when Tobi got me up for one of his nightly walk-arounds (that's right--I'm talking AM, friend.)  My usual response in these cases is to get up, let him out the front door, and set up a folding chair in front of the door to await, in semi-consciousness, his return in a few minutes.  I then let him in, secure the door, and stumble back to bed.  If all goes well, I'm back in la-la land in short order.  If it doesn't, I often lapse into an inescapable period of semi-wakeful musings that end up with me sitting up, like tonight (now,) awaiting the kick-in of a few valerian root capsules.   This usually takes about 30 minutes. 

What happened?  Late yesterday wife Jennie asked me if I had seen son Ed's latest UTube event .  I hadn't, and since my trusty laptop is so loaded down with startup stuff that it works verrry slooowly except when I use it in "Safe Mode," and since "Safe Mode" does not provide audio, I sat down to watch Ed's "Happy Birthday Amy" with wife Jennie on her computer.  We then moved on to "Making cups" from niece-in-law Nell (For a really unique coffee cup for your work desk, check this one out.)  Another good watch.  with all this UTube (make that YouTube) activity, it was only natural that at 3:?? in the morning, my thoughts again turned to UTube.  It seems a couple of things I would like to preserve there have been put off and put off until they became fodder for a morningbrain episode.  

Usually when the muse attacks at this time of day, I make a notation of the offending thought and do a roll-over.  This didn't work today, and after an hour and a half of semiconscious ramblings, seeing both paperpersons (one of the AikenStandard and one of the Augusta Chronicle persuasion) drive by leaving their headlight tracks on my window shades, I ended up here waiting on my chemical solution to the problem to kick in. 

I look at my note paper and find "UTube," "Shark Teethers," "Dumdrop song," "Police prep to shoot" and "Scars."   All of these remind me of my sleep-depriving ramblings except "Scars."  I remember writing it down, but, other than its being the title of a CD from wife's bronco-busting cousin, Jon Luse (try it, you'll like it), it now brings nothing to mind.  

Well--here comes Tobi again.  Guess I'll go out with him and pick up the paper.  When I come back in, I'll try the bed again.  Three more hours would help.  More on this later, maybe.  If you share my early-morning ailment, good luck.  If you find a good cure, I'd like to hear from you.  Morningbrain does give me an opportunity to express myself in ways I probably would not do in the dead of day, but I guess there always can be too much of a good thing.  I know during these times I often feel I'm getting too much of a good thing--especially when I have something important to do the next day. 

And, by the way, it is the "next day" now, 5 hours later than when the above was written, and I remember my "Scars" refers to the condition of our Hitchcock Woods following last month's ice storm and the subsequent work done by the Hitchcock Woods staff to restore the trails.  I guess I'll have to schedule some time out there to see how things are.  I always enjoy taking the time to Take a walk in the woods . There will be time for UTube later.

Big Bang Theory

Big Bang Theory

Quite a few years before CBS came up with its "Big Bang Theory," scientists came up with The Big Bang Theory to describe the beginning of the universe as we know it.  It seems all, or virtually all the mass (material) in the universe came together in one relatively small place and exploded.  The explosion sent this mass in all directions.  As it flew outward, it came together forming stars, planets, and all the known stellar bodies and organizations of same.  Our earth and sun are a part of a celestial grouping of stars and other bodies of mass known to us as the "milky way." 

Various groups would tell you the age of this universe to be from something over 6,000 (+/-) years to several billion years.  Each group having a number to pose as the age of this universe has their reasons, I'm sure.  I don't particularly care what number you wish to choose--that's your business.  What I'd like to do is describe how that "big bang" came about. 

Call this "Steve's Big Bang Initiation Theory," which I will shorten to SBBIT in the following discussion.  Since I wasn't actually there (unlike some others?), I can't swear to my version's accuracy or sufficiency.  I can only claim my version to be just as likely as anyone else's.

My SBBIT assumes the existence of a creator.  This is done using the assumption that if there is a "creation," there must be a "creator."  Furthermore, I will call my "creator" "God."  If that causes you major problems, you can stop reading now. 

I will also use some of the notions that were passed along to me by various undisputable sources--my mother, father, and preschool Sunday school teachers.  Again, if that causes you major problems....

The SBBIT goes something like this:

One day there were two young angels-in-training (AITs) who were taking the day off from their school (cutting) to try out a few things.  One thing they wanted to try out was this substance they had received from one of the elder angels, a guy known as Satan.  Ole Sate knew a few things, you see, and he was always sharing with the AITs in the hope that they would look up to him just like they looked up to the old guy, God.

Our AITs went down to the Park-by-the-Sea in Heaven (Heaven is what God called their world,) and went back next to the trees at the edge of the park where the outhouses were kept.  Behind the outhouses was a drop off and nobody ever went there--except for the AITs.  Our AITs took their substance (called "tobacco") and a package of what Sate called "rolling papers," and sat down with their backs to one of the older outhouses that had been taken out of service awaiting work by the celestial sanitary engineers.  Rolling a "joint" the way Sate explained, our AITs were ready to try "smoking."

Taking a match he had stolen from his celestial mother, the older AIT began to light his "joint." 

Then, to use an overworked metaphor of the mortals, "All hell broke loose."  The old outhouse was, you see, full of celestial crap.  This celestial crap had been fermenting and the outhouse was full of celestial methane, some of which was blowing out a celestial nail hole right at our two AITs.  There was a celestial explosion.  Pieces of the outhouse went everywhere.  The celestial crap, thanks to a celestial bubble at the bottom of the hole, went straight up towards the blackness of God's celestial ceiling. 

Now, celestial crap is a good bit different from the crap we are used to here on earth.  It is heavy and full of every element "under the sun" (hah!)  As a matter of fact, most items in God's heaven being spiritual in nature, there wasn't much of anything there with any mass at all with the exception of the material God had been storing in that one, neglected, outhouse.  Of course, God knew exactly what he was doing, and those two AITs were just doing what they were destined to do in God's scheme of things.  They both rolled down the hill, astonished, if unhurt.  They went to God and explained things.  God granted them absolution (what else, for doing what he planned) and sent them off to class, where they went gladly.  Satan lost one more of his seventy times seven forgivenesses, which really didn't matter since he was determined to use 'em all up anyway.

The celestial pile of crap, once it hit the ceiling, barreled on through and kept on flying.  After it passed through the ceiling, a considerable bit of it in the middle went "critical" exploding into suns, causing the mass to fly apart in all directions.  Some became planets, some asteroids, and some just interstellar "crap."  As this all moved apart (at warp speed?) something called gravity began to take over organizing the various bits into some things we now call "galaxies." God looked up at his new sky and was pleased.  The little twinkling lights were an improvement over the original blackness.  He decided to take a bit of well-deserved time off and then get back to work on one small piece of material that would be called "earth."  All was (and still is) well.   

Talk to your physicists if you must, but I doubt they will be able to disprove one single word of this explanation of their "big bang."  Thank you mother; thank you father, and thank you, Mrs. Robinson, et al., in Sunday schools from Indiana to Alabama, and quite a few points in between.

One little bit of explanation must be made, though.  I "believe" I substantially wrote this several years and several crashed computers ago.  That being said, it's possible I just "read" it several years ago and liked it so much that I wished it were my own.  If anyone out there knows which of these scenarios is true, and can prove it, I would be more than appreciative to know where "truth" lies in the matter of this little tale.

'Tis two weeks before Christmas

A little under two years ago (in the middle of the night, New Year's Eve, to be exact,) I waxed poetic musing on a brief poem about "Arturo the mouse" that accompanied a bag of cookies I had picked up at our local BiLo, my select grocery store.  Amused at my parody of Clement Clarke Moore's immortal work, I emailed a few verses to a few buds, attempting to enlist them in a little competition.  No one bit, however, and I was left holding my own bag.  Oh, well, though greatness eludes me, the work remains, and, since the Christmas season has again encroached upon all that is holy I find the need to resurrect little Arturo.  Maybe this will be his year.  SVG, December 2012

A Visit from Arturo

Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,

The kids were all hunting for Arturo the mouse.

We parents were, likewise, all consumed with the thought

That this Christmas might pass with our wits still uncaught.

If you wonder what's happening, you won't be alone,

For this ditty's been sent to many a crone

And,  if you choose, you can take up your pen

And write out your verses from beginning to end.

Just stay hale and merry, don't be a retreater,

And copy the rhythm and attend to the meter,

And soon you will see your pen will have written

Your own Christmas verse (with a smile you'll be smitten.)

Fifty-six lines is the name of the game,

If you've not fifty-six, it just won't be the same;

And so, here it is, you've been issued the call

And you may respond or not answer at all.

Whatever you do, you know I don't care,

You may type out your verses or just sit there and stare.

More rapid than eagles, the verses they came,

If you're working on yours, you have no one to blame.

Come line! Come verse! Now meter, be merry;

If you don't like my offing, 'tis your right: Be contrary.

To the top of the page, to the top of the folder,

Now run with the ink like a looney-tunes bolder.

As old friends, when smitten, get a glint in the eye,

When they meet an assignment, and put on the try;

So up to our keyboards we all soon drew,

With dictionary, thesaurus, and St. Nicholas, too.

And when with that help we searched high and low,

To find thoughts that would cause our assignment to grow,

While we hiked up our night shirts and were just sitting down,

Across the floor rushed Arturo, to the kitchen he's bound:

He was brown, like I thought, from his head to his foot,

His demeanor was more than this writer could put,

(down on paper, I mean,) but back to the question:

Just who is Arturo, and what is his lesson?

His eyes--two brown orbs! His whiskers, were hairy?

His feet were in motion like a feather-weight's parry;

His mouth carried two teeth set right at the front,

And that's all that I saw, he was ready to punt.

From somewhere in the background, I heard a ref's whistle,

And away went Arturo like a latter-day missile.

Away to the kitchen, he flew like a flash,

Made his way to our cupboard and then to the trash--

It was then that I saw, sitting out on a shelf,

A bag of small cookies from our furry, small elf.

Chocolate chip, they were, and that's only right,

For a gift from the small guy in which all could delight.

And now that I know why Arturo was sent,

I now can go back to the quest that's my bent:

While eating what cookies the kids left behind,

I'll end up this work with a satisfied mind.

Away to my task chair while the tea-kettle whistled,

And soon stacks of paper to my out-box had bristled;

And for you, my good friends, all in internet sight,

Be it Christmas or New Years, God bless you this night.

---Sven

   441612020671

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Oldie but goodie--What it takes to be the Boss

OK, so here we have an oldie but goodie.  Thought I'd put it in the blog on the chance that some of you hadn't yet had the opportunity to partake.  I first heard this while I worked at the City of Columbia “Metro” Wastewater Treatment plant.  Seems somewhat fitting.  For some reason I’ve been thinking about this tale for a few days now and, lest it be lost, I am now going to reduce it to bits.  If anybody knows the original author, I would appreciate knowing too.

What it takes to be the Boss

           One day all the parts of the body began to discuss who should be the boss.  The brain (thinking the question was really a no-brainer), thought he should be the boss.  After all, said the brain, I provide thought and direction for all the parts of the body.  No one really does a thing unless I direct it be done.  I should, obviously, be the boss. 

            Well, all the other body parts thought this over and there was some considerable disagreement.  The muscles spoke first, saying, look here, brain.  We make motion possible for the whole body.  We get us up out of bed in the morning, we take us to work, and we even provide all you need whenever you want to enjoy a good game of golf.  Obviously, we should be the boss.  The heart and lungs next joined in as a partnership.  Without us, where do all of you think you would be?  The blood we send to you carries your sustenance, your oxygen, and literally keeps you from drying up.  Why, if it weren’t for the white corpuscles we send to you, you wouldn’t last long considering all the diseases that are out there.  You should make us the boss—we are, after all, absolutely indispensable. 

            Several other parts of the body chimed in, all thinking they were the most indispensable of all.  The last body part to weigh in was the azz hole.  This idea sent all the other body parts into conniptions.  The idea was so absurd—the azz hole being the boss?  The brain, the Heart and lungs, the muscles, all had their supporters, but the azz hole!  More laughter ensued.  The azz hole, initially placing his candidacy for the job with a degree of humility, began to feel bad, at first, then he began to get mad.  To be turned down for the job was one thing, but to be ridiculed and laughed at was quite another.

            The azz hole got so mad he tied himself into a knot.  He was really, really mad. 

The other body parts forgot about him and continued their arguments.  Each had a certain amount of support and each believed they had a chance at getting the job.  This lasted for just over two days.  On the third day things began to become quite grim.  The azz hole’s response to all the ridicule began to take a toll on all the other parts of the body.  As a matter of fact, they all began to feel quite out of sorts, to say the least.  The heart began to beat a bit erratically; the lungs began to breathe in a labored manner.  The muscles were all sore and found themselves having a tendency to cramp.  The eyes found themselves crossing.  The brain was aching and somewhat addled.  The azz hole just sat there.  

            All the parts of the body (except the azz hole) then got together.  What the azz hole was doing was more than apparent to all and everyone wanted relief.  In fact, they wanted relief so bad they all voted to make the azz hole the boss, a move all found quite satisfactory in short order.

            This story, like most, has its moral.  It’s simple and self evident to most people who have ever found themselves in the average work-place.  When it comes to bosses, you don’t have to be a brain, you don’t have to be a shaker and a mover, or be very muscular, you don’t even have to provide any overriding essential services—you just have to be an azz hole. 

S.V. Geddes

14 Nov 2009 ( to Blogger 09 Dec 2012)

Of horsh, fece, and June bugs

Stephen V. Geddes
10Jun2012

Many years ago I spent a week in New Albany, Indiana.  I don't remember how old I was--5 or 6, maybe--but I felt blessed since I was staying with my grandparents while my parents were who knows where.  It really didn't matter.  I totally trusted my grandmas and grandpas (and my Aunt Winnie and Uncle Stu, too, for that matter.)  That summer I was entrusted to both sets of grandparents.  They lived 5 blocks away from each other on East Elm street (813 & 1312, I think.)  I could, and did, walk from house to house.  If I was followed, I was unaware.  I suspect I was.   

One day I spied a pretty bug in one back yard.  I believe I caught it in a cup and asked what it was.  It was a June bug.  It didn't bite.  I was given a length of thread and learned how to tie one end to one of the bug's hind legs.  The other end attached to my shirt.  The June bug spent time crawling on my shirt and flying around my head, literally.  I don't remember just what happened, but the bug eventually regained its freedom.  In any case, one episode of being a bug master was enough for me, memorable though it was.

Recently my brother gave me a chance to correct a deficiency in my education.  It seems having found himself the manager of a small horse farm, he, somehow, decided I could use a bit of additional training and education.  So, throwing my somewhat comfortable (if minimalistic) retirement to the wind, I began a five day a week part-time job as a worker of horses or, in any case, a worker in horsh.  But, you say, I digress?  Nay, I say--no digression at all. 

Horsh is the factor that ties the two subjects together, nicely.  In my work on the farm, I have a distinct interaction with the stuff, an interaction that dovetails nicely with my wastewater treatment management training of years past.  You see, wastewater treatment generates a goodly amount of solid waste.  Horsh (trust me on this) is the epitome of solid waste.  Start with a pristine green pasture and introduce a horse.  Provide a short period of time and, voila!  Horsh. 

Now, given a large enough pasture, no thought need be given to the horsh.  Still, if the pasture is relatively small (at which time you may tend to call it a paddock,) and the horse-to-grass ratio is relatively large, the horsh becomes a problem if it is not regularly removed.  Enter the solid waste technician, one of many newly acquired titles awaiting entry to my resume.  Given the technician, a wheel barrow, a stable rake, and adequate time and inclination the horsh ceases to be a problem and, as brother's veterinarian will attest, it turns into a small operator's version of "black gold."  So far I have learned about the "black" portion of Harvey's nomenclature for the horsh.  I guess the "gold" will follow as the composted material begins to work its wonders on sister-in-law's garden.    

Now that was a genuine digression--but I liked it.  As I was engaging in my solid waste control function one day last week, I noticed an interesting phenomenon.  One of the horse's fece's, instead of just lying there, was engaging in a bit of self animation, or so it seemed.  Watching this mobile fece for about a minute resolved the question and produced an energetic June bug to boot.  How fitting, I thought, to find a June bug in South Carolina early in the month of June.  If I ever wondered where the June bugs in my grandparents' back yards had come from, I now knew the answer--they came from South Carolina.  I guess the one I found was worried about his one piece of horsh, given that most of the pile had already been relocated to the wheel barrow.  To keep his little piece of home intact, the June bug was attempting to move it to a safer location.  In his attempt, he impressed me as being every bit as strong as an ant, were the ant his size.  He was moving a horse fece that was about the size of a squashed peach, or a very large plum, and, as such was considerably larger than the bug.  Had I super-glued a quarter to the bug's iridescent green back, I would be able to see some of its legs protruding from the conjunction, but that would be about all.  The red head would also be obscured by the quarter, with, perhaps, just a bit of antennae visible.  Which is why I initially wondered what the fece was doing moving around.  The bug was totally obscured, trying, one might theorize, to balance the fece on its back.  When he finally gave up on that idea and began trying to push it or roll it as it turned out, both I and the bug gained the needed enlightenment.

In thinking the bug was trying to save his little piece of heaven, I might be engaging in a bit too much anthropomorphism.  Could be he was just out exercising, and would have been moving that fece around even if I had not disturbed his pile of horsh.  After all, he probably would need a good bit of strength and endurance if he were planning on making a flight to Southern Indiana any time soon.

     P.S.--my Webster's unabridged does not mention horsh or fece.   Horsh came to me via a New Zealander friend of my wife's.  She (Jennie Neuman) mentioned they had quite a bit of sheepsh and a little less horsh in New Zealand.  Referencing my profession, she said the least quantity of all was probably the humsh they, too, had.  "Fece," of course, is the singular of "feces," in this little work--whether or not it is recognized by Webster.

The Great Pre-Thanksgiving Canoe Trip

I haven't posted to the blog in quite a while.  I suspect that will be changing in the next couple of months.  I have been working on a project that is very important but that has taken me away from my writing.  In the mean time, I think something I wrote a while back has value.  So, here 'tis.

The Great Pre-Thanksgiving Canoe Trip

            22 November 2010

If I had known how it was going to turn out, I would have done it on purpose. 

A week before Thanksgiving 2010, my son and I got together at the arguably early hour of 8:00 AM to leave on a mini-adventure--a trip down Augusta's Savannah River rapids.  The old canoe hadn't been put to use in almost two years and it was, for the most part, rarin' to go. 

We both felt the need for a mental health day off (a sentiment apparently echoed by our patient spouses who uncharacteristically voiced no opposition) and, as we placed the Old Town on my aged Honda, we both breathed a sigh of pleased anticipation.   We got off in good time carrying with us my new Kodak, his new GAP jacket, and his mother's well prepared lunch.  Our first stop was North Augusta's public boat ramp, our intended destination.  The ramp was just as I remembered it from my last visit several years ago.  North Augusta has maintained this asset well.  Here we left Stash's aged Honda.  We continued together in my aged Honda, heading for the Savannah Rapids Pavilion and its adjacent Columbia County Park.  Recent improvements at the park include a bridge over the Augusta canal and a set of steps to the edge of the Savannah River.  Anyone who might have tried launching a canoe in the river from this point in the past would appreciate this new addition immensely. 

In any case, we launched the Old Town with minimal difficulty and began our trip to North Augusta.  I am guessing this was about 9:30 (will take "ship's log 101" the next time it's offered at Augusta State.)  We passed through a number of rocky areas, adding a few new scrapes to the bottom of the Old Town, and continued until we reached a relatively deep stretch approaching I-20.  We noticed a number of ducks, at least one Great Blue Herron, a spattering of Anhinga and flock upon flock of Canada Geese.  About the time we reached that deep stretch, I commented on the lack of turtles, thinking it was a bit too early, and too warm, for them to begin the annual hibernation-like existence they usually resort to during our not too cold, but cold enough, winters.  Mother Nature, it seems, was listening in on my conversation and, virtually as the sentence about the lack of turtles had rolled past my tongue, a pair of bread plate sized turtles appeared not ten feet from our starboard bow.  Other turtles soon joined them on the surface, mostly as pairs, and I decided probably they were either practicing their life-saving moves or they had other things on their minds. 

As we approached the interstate, conversation became difficult.  It's interesting how four lanes of interstate traffic, all trying to get from one state to the other in the least amount of time, spews forth a din to blight the wilderness.  No serenity here, I'm afraid.  No real problem, though, as we continued our paddling till we reached another stretch of rock on the downstream side of the interstate and returned to hunting passages.  Interestingly enough, since standing in a canoe is not a viable technique, I've decided the next time I buy a canoe I will investigate the possibility of investing in a periscope option.  While it will probably look a bit weird, it sure would help to find the passages through those low-lying rock walls that cordon off sections of the river at this point.

About a half mile downstream from the interstate, on the Georgia side of the river and just beyond a bend, we spotted a number of picnic tables, a portapotty, and a reasonable landing spot.  It was a little after 12:00 and wife's lunch began to beckon.  We put in, wondering who had placed this park on the edge of our watery passageway.  We seated ourselves at the first available table (the maitre d' was no where in sight) and began to eat.  We had sausage-and-cheese balls for an appetizer and continued on with ham, egg and cheese sandwiches on toasted whole wheat bread.  G2 Gatoraide was our libation.  thinking back, I'd have to say this is where we probably slipped up--we neglected to spill the required sip to the gods prior to consuming our drinks. 

Around 12:30, all fed and refreshed, we noticed what looked like an information station a bit uphill.  A minute later, our benefactors became known.  It seems some public agency, the county, or perhaps the canal authority (I really do need that ship's log course) decided the spot we found was a good place for a mini-park, one that could serve not only those who might arrive by canoe but also those joggers and bicyclists traveling between the Riverwalk downtown and the Savannah Rapids Pavilion on the trail provided, I suspect, for maintenance of the Augusta Canal.  Some of those very people began to arrive at that point and we decided we'd leave the park to them for their sole enjoyment, that being what we had had as we ate our luncheon. 

An hour later we were cold, wet, disgusted and our canoe and belongings were headed downstream at warp speed, or so it seemed.  We had just passed by the City of Augusta's raw water pumping station and had continued downstream for about 1000 feet when, all of a sudden, we were in the water.  Neither of us knew why we tipped over, we just did.  In retrospect, I suspect lagging physical fitness was a factor.  I say this because both of us had difficulty folding our legs to sit on the floor of the canoe, and we decided to sit on the seats--and be real careful.  Hah!  The only thing I can think of was both of us shifted a bit to port at the same time and, before we knew it, over we went.  Luckily, we knew what to do when we hit the water, though, in our haste to get out of that 60 degree water (we were sure it was 50 degrees,) Stash stepped in a hole and bruised his shin on a river rock.  We were less than 30 feet from the Georgia bank and soon were resting at the river's edge.   We really were quite fortunate.  We had gone to the Georgia side of the river to look at the water pump station (we weren't exactly sure what it was.)  Had we turned over in the middle of the river, we would have had to make our way several hundred yards in either direction to get to dry land.  I guess one lesson learned would be:  stay near one bank, or the other while making this trip.

Following a few minutes' heavy breathing, we began to climb the 20 feet or so of steep slope next to the river and found a path leading upstream toward the pump station.  A couple hundred feet later, we saw an opening in the trees twenty feet or so to our left and we went to it.  It was a railroad track.  We followed the track all the way back to the pumping station and, ignoring signs telling us where to go, we went to what was obviously an office.  A City employee listened to our tale of woe and directed us to his supervisor.  The operations supervisor was sympathetic and immediately put us in contact with the county sheriff's office. 

I reported our mishap and the dispatcher was about to send a deputy to take our statement and deliver us to the county line (apparently as close as they could legally go to either of our cars) when Stash told me we had an offer that would get us back to Savannah Rapids Pavilion.  I thanked the dispatcher, and we left.  It was our good fortune that this "Good Samaritan" made the offer when she did and was able to assist us.  We got back to my Honda and found its key had not been adversely affected by the river water.  It cranked at once, as it always does.  Good car!  Guess I should drop that "aged" bit.  We drove to the North Augusta boat ramp, looked upstream and saw what we expected--beautiful scenery, but no canoe.  By 3:30 we were home, in Aiken.

After Stash and I told our stories to his mother, I got back to the problem at hand.  My Nokia had allowed me one call after it received its dunking and promptly ceased further operations.  Of course that one call was to my wife.  I took it apart and dried it.  It started right back, like the trooper it is, and has worked fine ever since.  I then used it to call 1) Richland County Law Enforcement where I left a message to be sure my problem was on the record.  2)  The Aiken County Sheriff's department, who promptly redirected me to the City of North Augusta Police, who I then called and left a detailed account of my problem.  3)  The Georgia Department of Natural Resources whose officer promptly called me back and learned about my problem.  4)  The South Carolina Department of Natural Resources whose officer, like his counterpart in Georgia, promptly returned my call and took down my information.  Both of the DNR officers pointed out that hunting was scheduled to begin on Saturday and it would be best, if I wished, to search for my canoe before that time.  This was good news for me to have as sportsmen are generally people you can count on.  It was bad news for the Canadians and the ducks, though.  5)  Augusta Riverwalk Marina, where I talked with a Mr. Christian who promised to let me know if any of his customers found the boat and who also provided me with a number to contact a Dr. Carl with the River Keepers, an organization I was unaware of.  5)  Dr. Carl, formerly of the River Keepers, discussed my problem with me and gave me a current number for the River Keeper organization, which I called and talked with "Andy," who promised to do what he could and gave me a number for a "Steve" with the dive organization that works problems in the river.  Since my Old Town has a double hull with enclosed flotation (it can't sink,) I didn't bother to call him.

Having notified everyone I thought might be able to help, I moved on to other things.  Wondering how much Google Earth might be able to tell me about my boat's possible whereabouts, I checked it out.  Vewy intewesting, as Elmer Fudd might have said.  Not only was I able to look at the stretch of water I had been navigating, and determine its "as the crow flies" distance to be around 7 miles, I was able to zoom in to the very place I thought I had lost the boat and observe the individual rocks I had been avoiding at the time.  Had we not plopped ourselves into the water where we did, we would have had a little more than a mile to go (again, "as the crow flies") to reach our destination.  Of course, part of that distance remained rife with rocks and the actual distance we would have had to paddle may have been double that direct over the top distance.  In any case, it appeared my canoe had a good chance of finding itself a berth in the rocks before it reached that long, narrow pond that is the Augusta-North Augusta riverfront. 

Friday I had things that couldn't be put off and there was no way to consider getting back to the water.  Had I not had other obligations, my plan would have been to find that one-man life raft I bought years ago as I learned the art of snorkeling in the waters of the Aegean Sea between Istanbul and Karamursel Turkey.  I would have had no problem riding that raft over the rocks from the Augusta Pump station area down to the ponded portion of the river.  Surely I could have located the canoe.  Fortunately (since the raft is buried under several tons of my other possessions of yesteryear in a local storage building) I didn't have to try out that plan.  Instead, around 4:00 PM on Friday I received a call from the North Augusta Police.  Someone had called them and said they had found a canoe and had left it tied to the dock at the North Augusta Boat Launch area.  It seems another "Good Samaritan" had enabled my canoe to finish the trip I had planned for it totally without my presence.  Sometimes, God truly does work wonders.

I called Stash and jumped into my trusted steed, planning to meet up with him at the boat launch area.  Stash made arrangements with Grandma for the unplanned children management services and he followed on.  When I got to the boat launch area I saw two men talking by the dock.  I approached them and I explained what had happened.  The canoe and all our other possessions was right there, attached to the dock, looking for all practical purposes just like it looked (excepting for its having taken on about fifty gallons of water) when I experienced my unplanned disembarkation.  About that time, as one of the men left, Stash arrived.  The other man stayed and helped me move the boat around the dock and onto the boat launch area's concrete approach way.  I thanked him and we made our introductions.  Remember that diver I didn't call?  Well, now I know him, too.  Stash (i.e., Stephen Ashley) and I had fun with our new friend doing an updated version of an old MASH routine.  Instead of "Doctor, Doctor.  Doctor, Doctor...Doctor...." our routine was "Steve, Steve.  Steve, Steve...Steve...."  Of course I told him (and showed him the notation on the 3x5 card in my pocket) I already had his number, and explained how I came to have it.  He gave me another number, just in case, though--his cell number.  Small world!

Oh well, as I stated at the beginning, If I had known how it was going to turn out, I would have done it on purpose-- i.e., tip over the canoe.  Lacking that mishap, Stash and I would have missed out on the opportunity to meet quite a few of our area's good people, starting with a couple of the City's water treatment plant operators, continuing with a couple of unheralded "Good Samaritans," and ending with a number of public servants and volunteers I met first on the phone and one, finally, in person at the boat launch area.  Even more important was the opportunity Stash and I had to experience one another in a way we never had before.  Adversity provides opportunities for growth and understanding.  I know and have more reason to admire my son today than I would have otherwise, had our trip gone according to plan. 

Service, it's said, provides its own rewards.  I believe this is true.  Still, I hope somewhere, sometime, I might have the opportunity to meet each of my many benefactors of those several days in November to thank them personally for their faithful service to me and to other members of the public in our CSRA community.  That much, at the very least, they truly deserve.

Stephen V. Geddes

Aiken  SC

Don't hear much about the BP spill any more

A little oily tune

Here comes the oil, fresh from the ocean floor

Here comes the oil, with birds that no more may soar

Here comes the oil, topping the ocean wave

Here comes the oil and some animals to save.

Those we save from the wave, they are the lucky few

For every one we rescue, a million, maybe two

Seeking one, just one last breath will suffocate and die

Or lacking that, will find themselves chemically fried.

Within its grasp are the smallest and the dearest of the sea

Plankton and fry are the lives that we may never see

Coating plant life in a marsh like an oily sarcophagus

There they will stay, day by day, as a finely dispersed puss.

What was good for our engines is disaster for the sea

What was good for our power plants is death today for me

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen they say

But how do we get out when power is our way.

Here comes the oil, fresh from the ocean floor

Here comes the oil, with birds that no more may soar

Here comes the oil, topping the ocean wave

Here comes the oil and some animals to save.

Alcohol, anyone?

Here's a bit  I did a while back that I think remains relevant.  You don't have to be alcoholic to get something out of it.  As I recall, I wrote it for the spouse of a "recovering alcoholic," or for anyone who wonders why an alcoholic they know keeps going to "all those meetings."  It would seem, once the drinking was under control (stopped,) the meetings would cease to be a requirement.  If you are a friend or spouse of a "recovering alcoholic," and you wonder why they continue to go to "all those meetings," please read on.

My Prairie, My Desert

An alcoholic’s description of alcoholism

Imagine a gently rolling grassland, healthy in every way.  The grassland supports a wide variety of creatures from insects to shrews to prairie dogs to bison.  All is well. 

Rains come to our grassland from time to time.  As long as the rains are not excessive, the grassland thrives.  Indeed, a certain amount of rain is both beneficial and necessary for the grassland.  Occasionally there is a real downpour, though, and some low-lying areas are flooded.  Instead of gently soaking into the grass, some runoff forms small gullies in the landscape.  Still, as long as these incidents are relatively isolated, no real harm comes to the grassland.  The small gullies are filled with grass and, with time, they are filled in completely as the grass thatch heals the prairie. 

When the soaking downpours come in too great a frequency, though, another phenomenon occurs.  The ground stays saturated and runoff is the main way the prairie has of ridding itself of excess water.  This runoff creates gullies that grow to the extent that the grass is no longer able to heal the prairie’s surface.  Eventually the gullies become so efficient at removing the water that the prairie itself is threatened.  Less water means less water for plant growth.  It also means less water for evaporation to provide for the periodic, small rains that sustain instead of damaging the prairie.  The gullies become canyons, the ground becomes drier, and the prairie suffers. 

If the rain moderates at this point, the prairie still suffers since much rain that does occur runs off instead of soaking in.  The gullies continue to grow.  If the rain stops altogether, the gullies stop growing, but they remain.  The prairie has been damaged beyond recovery and the dry conditions turn the once vibrant prairie into a new ecosystem—a desert.  Deserts are good and worthwhile themselves, but they are not prairies.  Still the land around the gullies is maintained so long as the flooding rains do not return.  Should the rains return, the erosion will be even greater than it had been before.

If I were to stop writing now, I would have a brief explanation for how a canyon system and desert might be formed.  If I were to stop writing now, though, my reason for beginning to write would not be accomplished.  I am an alcoholic, you see, and, while I have quit drinking, I need to remember returning to drink is not an option for me—that is, unless I wish to continue to erode the landscape that is me and continue the damage to what started out as a vibrant prairie in the continent of humanity.  The fact is, I am no longer a prairie.  I am now something different.  I am a desert with a canyon running through me cutting deep into my body, even to my heart, and I will never again be that pristine prairie. 

Still, though I am changed forever, I can be of use to humanity and to my fellow man.  Prairies are great.  So are grand canyons. 

The analogy given here can be used to arrive at a pretty accurate understanding of the long-term effect of alcohol on the alcoholic.  While it is not totally applicable--a little rain is absolutely necessary to the prairie; a little alcohol to a “normal” person is often considered a good thing; a little alcohol to the potential alcoholic is just a point of departure--it is, with few exceptions, a good fit.  

Most of us began life in a relatively unscathed manner.  We had the usual variety of disabilities: some of us grew up with overbearing parents; some of us just couldn’t figure it out in high school--we never seemed to fit in; some of us weren’t the best of students.  Still, we grew up, got married, had children, and worked profitably to support ourselves.  In short, we had a life.  We were each a prairie to ourselves with both the prairie dogs, and the grub worms nibbling on the roots of our beloved grasses.  All was, apparently, well. 

Somewhere along the line we began to drink, or use, as the case may be.  As long as we drank reasonably, our prairie continued to grow well, and we thought all was good.  Unfortunately, we had a bit of something in us, be it genetic disposition or whatever, that would not let us leave well enough alone.  We liked drinking.  We liked the taste; we liked the way it made us feel.  We even liked getting drunk.  We didn’t like some things that came with the drinking (DUIs, hangovers,) but we discounted these as not particularly significant compared to the specter of quitting drinking, and we kept drinking.  Giving serious consideration to quitting drinking was something we just did not want to do.  Our prairie had begun to develop gullies that could not be grassed back. 

Eventually we discovered wrecked cars, job losses, jail.  With luck, we did not discover we had killed someone while driving blacked out although this has happened altogether too often.  Some of us lost our homes and our families.  Nevertheless, we continued to build our canyons, wondering why.  As long as we continued to drink, we continued to dig our canyons deeper and deeper, not much noticing the change of our prairies into the deserts of the alcoholic.  All was not well.

The lucky ones of us discovered Alcoholics Anonymous sometime after we realized the changes we had made in ourselves and began to realize the irreversibility of our state.  Some even more lucky ones of us discovered AA early in the process and availed themselves of the knowledge found in the literature and in the fellowship to prevent descent into the very depths of the change we learned would certainly follow.  Indeed we met example after example of people who had ridden the alcoholic elevator down to depths we hoped to avoid.  No matter how bad it had been for us, we could always find someone who had had it worse.  Some of us would read remembrances on our clubhouse walls of those of us who died in sobriety.  We would, every so often, hear stories of those of us who did not die sober.  These stories were, in the least, sobering.  The alcoholic death, be it by chemically induced disease or by a rope, is not to be wished on our worst enemy.

Still, even with all the information available, some of us came into AA and went “back out.”  Those of us who made it “back in” to AA were able to tell how our disease had started back as if it had been progressing even while we were experimenting with sobriety.  The rain fell on our deserts and ran into our gullies and canyons as if no cessation of rain induced problems had occurred at all.  Sobriety does not insulate us from our disease unless it is practiced without exception.  Breaks in sobriety can be devastating.  The good thing about our experimenters is they confirm our understanding of our disease.  Unfortunately some of them are not able to come back.  They join the list that is not maintained on our clubhouse walls. 

In my opinion, and in the opinion of many AA's (Anonymous Alcoholics) and workers in addiction, alcoholism is a disease.  It is a disease of mind and body.  It is not curable.  It may be lived with, but only in sobriety.  Those of us who have found our way into Alcoholics Anonymous find AA helps us live with our disease.  While AA is probably not the only way, it is a way that is proven and more cost effective than probably any other. 

If you think you may have a problem with alcohol, or with any other addiction, for that matter, AA is something you should try.  At the very least, the knowledge you will gain will enable you to know if you are an alcoholic (or addict) or if you just had a bad run of luck (no one ever even thinks about AA unless some substance abuse problem, for example: a DUI or a problem at work or with a loved one, has occurred.)  In any case, you will learn about alcoholics and alcoholism and hear some things you just might be able to use in your life.  You may find you have a talent for public speaking you never suspected even though you will not be required to speak at all. You may revive some old friendships in the meetings.  You will certainly have an opportunity to make some new friends and new contacts.  AA is not just about alcohol.  It is a twelve step program about living life in such a way that alcohol is not something to be needed  or even desired--and that is something anyone can benefit from, alcoholic or not.

Steve / 16Feb2010/ World Famous New Ellenton Group