The Vinyl Frontier

Throughout history mankind has left traces of his culture embedded in a variety of medium. As he walked across the mudflats of Africa he left his footprint to dry in the day’s hot sun. He marked cave walls with primitive images of animal hunts. He discarded pieces of pottery, jewelry, bits of clothing. Whether accidentally or intentionally, each whisper left held his legacy, a story, a simple means of recording who he was, what he did, what was important and how he survived. As he walked his path he became more sophisticated with his breadcrumbs. Stone tablets, papyrus, books. They told of his life, his thoughts, his ideas, his longings. They contained his dreams, his music.

But what he didn’t leave behind was his sound, at least not until two Frenchmen Leon Scott and Charles Cros photoengraved smoke traces onto metal. It resulted in the replay of sound. A few months later in the same year, 1877, Thomas Alva Edison discovered a method of recording and replaying sound having followed a somewhat different line of research. In less than thirty years, recorded sound began to emerge as entertainment.

Last night I was invited as a guest into the studios of WDXV, Knoxville for The Vinyl Frontier a radio show which recaptures the sounds of an era lost. The sounds of needle on vinyl eking out the scratches, pings and tings of music recorded on flat black disks spun on turntables. The sound captured was that of artists famous and obscure during a time when music in the south stretched its wings after WWII.

The show is hosted by Bradley and Louisa Reeves, a team of archivists who spend time preserving old music, some never released to the public. They scour the landscape hunting for old recordings in hot attics, musty basements, along country road sides at flea markets or in the back bins of second hand stores. If they can’t find the artist they hunt down family members, and friends who relate stories of the men and women whose voices or musical instruments were etched on the acetate disks. This was often done in the home of the musician, not in fancy soundproof recording studios. Bradley and Louisa uncover some sad stories of musicians who lost their dreams to others who preyed on their talents.

I have to admit I am a music dummy. This is illustrated when I was asked to bring a favorite CD to the studio. I like Josh Rouse, but can’t tell you the name of his albums or the title to any of his songs despite the fact that I listened to them endlessly when I was in the Peace Corps. So last night was quite an experience. I listened in awe to the backgrounds, connections and history spun by Brad and Louisa about the musicians who once ruled the streets of Knoxville’s music scene. I knew Elvis.

The two hours flew by. We laughed about some of the cheesy stuff, listened in rapture to some of the talent clearly ahead of its time, and lamented the fact that some of these never were contenders despite their gifts. At one point I danced, doing the twist and then inventing a dance called UT. But I had to admit when a group called Zebra from the 70’s came up on the play list, I felt a little old. This was my generation.

Today without much effort I can get a video out on YouTube, leaving my mark on the pages of humankind’s journal. It should have been that easy for some of the artists of the past. Fortunately, we have people like the Reeves who recapture lost bits of music history. Catch them on WDVX.com Monday nights at 9 PM Eastern Time. You’ll be in for a real treat.

Crap-py Attitude

In our culture we generally avoid going around stinking to high heavens. So we bath, use deodorant, brush our teeth, run a comb through our hair and try to keep the grime from collecting under our finger nails. And generally we don’t run around with bare feet. It is a matter of politeness and there is an assumption that we are personally responsibility for our own hygiene so that we don’t offend others. Or be a total embarrassment to ourselves.

I also believe we have a personal responsibility not to put our moods on others. Like bad body odor we should not offend others with a stinky attitude. We are obligated to act happy, even if we are not.

At 5 am I reported for duty at the track. I actually looked forward to a day of being outside, watching the horses at the St Clement’s Horse Show and shooting the bull with other guards. Easy money compared to swinging a sledge hammer and hauling concrete. Under the glorious mist filled sunrise over the Oklahoma Track, I listened to the crows squawk as they zeroed in on bread crumbs and French fries tossed to them by the nighttime guard.

The nighttime guard warned me about the on coming guard’s toxic behavior. His reputation preceded him. I didn’t know his name, but I had witnessed his actions at Belmont. There he called a group of Asians chinks when they moved a few picnic tables around, he threw a chair when he “lost” a confiscated case of Heinekens and he strutted around the park muttering complaints about the crowd’s stupidity, NYRA’s incompetency and the bullshit of life in general. I immediately figured out who he was. I was going to have the pleasure of working with him for six hours. Maybe four if we both got breaks.

When he showed up at 7 am he immediately rearranged the signs posted at the gate. The speed limit and the posting to show your credentials were not in the “right place.” They worked fine for the previous two hours. Each of the three parking cones was then re-positioned. Next, the two chairs in the security hut switched and I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to sit on the one with the broken back.

When a horse van pulled in, the driver had to wait for him to complete the required paperwork because he insisted it was his job to check credentials and wave cars through the gate after removing the cones. I wasn’t doing anything at the time because there were no oncoming horses to hold traffic for. But as soon as I walked over to the gate and reached for a cone he barked, “That’s my job.” I feigned no intentions of touching his cone then watched the inefficiency of his strutting back and forth from hut to gate while keeping everyone waiting. It would have been humorous if he wasn’t muttering profanities every step of the way and pretending to be so put out by the inconveniences of everyone else one, who were all stupid idiots of questionable lineage.

Not once during the shift did he make eye contact with me, or acknowledge my existence, but once in his flurry to open the gate he nearly ran me over. No apologies and I'm sure at the moment I was a stupid b*. He kept his newspaper on the other stool. He made sure that he returned it there whenever I got up and left to hold traffic for the horses. Upon my return I removed his papers and sat back down.

I had been offered a cup of coffee by the night shift guard and was told that my day shift partner would attempt to throw it away. He didn’t but complained about the possibility of spillage on his paperwork, even though he had a large hot tea. I had no intentions of drinking the 3 AM coffee, but occasionally took a sip to hold my right to have it in the shack.

About mid-shift a horse owner came by and stopped to talk to the guard. By then I had positioned myself across the street no longer able to take his under the breath rants and cusses. I paid little attention to their conversation. When the owner drove off, my buddy had a muffin and a hundred dollar bill, gifts from the owner. “It’s a f’ing bran muffin,” he griped wiping the crumbs away from his mouth. He tossed the remainder into the trash and he showed me the Ben Franklin.

What could he possibly complain about? He took another hundred from his wallet and held it up to the sunshine. Squinting into the sunshine, he flipped it over. Then he took the gifted one hundred and did the same thing. “Just making sure it’s not a g---damned counterfeit,” he said. About that time I wanted one of the crows to shit in his eye.

Seedling

At the water’s edge I rolled my pant legs to my knees. I watched hemlock needles dance in the shadows of an eddy. Four days of rain had swollen the shallow creek that carried twigs and leaves from upstream. As I crossed, my bare shuffled on the smooth shale rock bed. It felt like a sheet of ice.

I smelled summer at the edge of the woods where the brown pine carpet gave way to a thick underbrush. The sun warmed the air that lifted the scent of rich earth decay. The aroma lingered where the forest fought to recover from the scars of logging that had raped the north side of the streambed. In this place the smell was full of mid-season memories, of play of excertions and expeditions to these woods. But it is too early for plump red berries, the sweetness of local corn or warm tomatoes taken directly from the garden’s vine. The smell seemed out of place.

I came to rob the earth again of what it struggled to claim. Last year I found the seedling near the rotted stumps and discarded cider blocks. A tulip tree at the beginning of its journey. Here I could find no mother tree, no sire to claim the sapling as its own. The closest kin was two miles away, a tall straight and solid tree, not common to the area sitting in my parents’ yard.

Taking note that no one else was in the little preserve, I dug a large ring around the tree and a neighboring beech that grew three inches away. Their roots too tangled to separate, I put both in my backpack and carried them to the Jeep. Theft completed.

At the house, I dug a hole, chopping through old roots from the elms that were lost to a bark bettle. Three trees have been removed from the area between the house and old schoolhouse in the last three years. Two were over 70 years old.

I won’t see the tulip get that old, but I hope that someone will find enjoyment in the tree’s journey toward the sky.

Working the Summer

Diablo ate my birthday cookies. They were a present from the lady whose bathrooms will have my tile signature all over them. The result of the cookie theft was a severe case of diarrhea. Coconut is not good on kittie stomachs. She’s bouncing around on the prowl for Phoenix right now so she is no worse for it. I had left them on the table when I got home from work. I took a shower and went back into town, completely forgetting about them. Dad said he found nothing but crumbs scattered on the dining room floor.

I’m surviving the physical demands of the job. Swollen knees from crouching and kneeling all day concern me as I trot up and down the stairs to the wet saw where I cut the measured and marked pieces of tile. Work isn’t hard. Well, too hard. Most of the stuff I can figure out, but since I am working on someone else’s clock my time is now someone else’s money. When I’m projecting around my apartments as wasted day trying to figure out something is just another day.

Other ailments are the usual blisters, nicks, cuts, scrapes, bruises. And an occassional hand cramp. Killers.

My boss is a pretty good guy. His name is Steve which of course I wish it wasn’t, but I’m getting over that. He’s just a couple of years younger than me so there are times when we both are grunting and groaning after we manage to contort ourselves back into upright positions. I told him he really needed to hire a twenty one year old, but he said his girlfriend would not like that. I meant a twenty-one year old guy.

Steve is ex-navy and hires women with military backgrounds. “They are neater and more reliable.” Our only disagreement is the radio. I like to listen to talk and he prefers classic rock. The radio is mine, but he is the boss. Since more and more I am working alone, it is not a problem. The house does however have an Obama yard sign in the garage.

Summer seems to be disappearing. I’ll wrap up bathroom 1 this week and we will dive right into bathroom 2 at the same house. I’m dreading the part where I get to haul it downstairs. We really need to just throw it out the window.

Yesterday Steve asked what I was doing this summer. “Working at the track.” Steve has two more bathrooms in the Albany area. The money is one third as much and no taxes, but the drive adds two hours to any day. Plus gas. Hopefully a good portion of one bath can be done in July. That still leaves August and the track. But the next thing I know...there’s my summer.

Thank goodness I live in Hawaii.

As far as writing….forget about it.

I paid my taxes today. OUCH. But that's it.

It's My Birthday

At Belmont, I had these guys play Happy Birthday to me. FYI=55

Documentary

I am creating a documentary of where my feet go this summer. You can catch clips of my feet's exploits on faceBook. Become a fan.

Day of The Bird

In the Park at Belmont Racetrack, where the highly intoxicated cooler-toting spectators watched the closed circuit monitors an omen had already been cast. If the alcohol hadn’t flowed so heavily more might have taken note when a decapitated bird fell out of the sky moments before the start of the race.

It nearly struck a woman who had passed out inches from the pathway, beer in hand. Her awkwardly strewn body caught the eye of every passerby who looked at her then at me, standing five feet away and guarding the mutual bay doors which as much credible authority as the Big Bad Wolf would give the front door of the Three Little Pig’s house.

They don’t pay me enough to pick up dead birds dropped by a hawk. Perched in a tree it must have lost its grip when the partying fans let out a roar for an encore to a departing band. Those who were taking note of the passed out victim saw the bird drop within inches of her face. Those taking video which I am sure must be on YouTube stepped back. On cue the crowd let out an "ewwww" as loud as the little girls in the movie Lilo and Stitch after Lilo showed them her deformed dollie.

Moments later in the grandstand, the crowd rose to its feet as Mind That Bird pulled into the lead. Dunkirk battled to stay in the lead. Cheers filled the stands when Borel seemed to have done it once again, gone from last to first. It looked like he was to become the first Triple Crown Jockey done onboard two different horses. But the anticipation was short lived when Summer Bird also sired by Birdstone drew up and passed the contenders to take the third leg of the Triple Crown. An upset, once again at Belmont.

Dead bird disposed of and the passed out women rousted from her repose by friends, it had been a long day. Starting with a bus ride to Belmont. It was 2:30 AM when I reported in at the guard house in Saratoga. Thirteen races in the bag and time to sweep the yard of straggling racing fans who had no desire to leave the track. Wishing them a safe journey home was the most diplomatic way of saying, “Get the hell out of here, I want to go home.” Arrived home 24 hours later. How much money did I make?

Honestly, for all the Belmont horror stories I had heard, its unruly crowds, its dirty facilities and ungrateful staff I found none of this the case. The local staff I worked with were professional, the crowds despite their tipsiness were pleasant and the grounds where no more trashier than Saratoga’s after the end of any racing day. In fact I thought the ground’s keeping crews were far more professional and did a better job at keeping the trash in check.

I was good to see those I had not seen in a year. I reminded myself, "These are your primary colors. Blend them."

Tax Vomit

Two months ago I decided I wasn’t going to play the game. I contacted my financial planner and we decided where to take $51,000 out of my portfolio. Not that it really makes a hill of beans. Finally the checks arrive and because I am slaving away on bath remodel, I asked dad I get the checks into the bank so they can clear as soon as possible. My plan was to write the check for the balance and get this mess behind me.

Since I need to know exactly what the interest and penalties are I called the IRS. Mistake.

In April the agent I spoke with outlined the interest as $285.82 and penalties as $510.00 for a 60 day extension (which by the way is merely a formality and I never received any paper work on this.) Since it is a few days less than 60 days, I thought the amount would be slightly less.

The first agent I spoke with could not process my request because she wasn’t authorized to handle this large amount. Suddenly I felt I was in the company of John Kenny and Tim Giethner. Big rollers.

Once transferred to the “non-stream line” department, I was told that my 2008 filing had not completed processing. Two months?

Last year when I owed $420 and was due a $420 "stimulus check" the IRS notified me two weeks after April 15th that my taxes were overdue and I owed an additional $7. They were not overdue. They misplaced my checked. Or more accurately they had my check but didn’t know what to do with it. And despite not knowing what to do with it they cashed it. Once the IRS figured out what they were doing, the seven dollars was dismissed and a couple months later I got my $420 stimulus check. Yahoo.

Today, the agent representing the IRS apologized, but he couldn't tell me how much I owed. Funny, how come the agent two months could tell me? He didn’t know. He suggested I send an extra $4000 when I said I would like to stop incurring additional interest and penalties. Like money grows on trees? Or better, I got my own printing department? Or I can get this from China?

There was a point when he got a little smart assed. “Well you should have paid your taxes to avoid the interest and penalties.”

“That is what I am trying to do and you can’t tell me what I owe. Yet, you keep hitting with with interest and penalties”

So I’m going to send them a check for the amount I was first told in April. Anyone want to bet this is the end?

Labor

Someone with a civil engineering degree could tell me how much a cement floor one and a half inches thick by four feet by sixteen weights. Bucket by bucket I carried broken bites of concrete, tile and wire mesh down a flight of stairs through a kitchen and out to a trailer sitting in a garage. Dump and lug. I lost track after I shoveled nine buckets of debris. Dump and lug. And trudge back upstairs, which I interpreted as my break.

It poured all day and never got much about sixty outside, but in that upstairs bathroom I was sweating.

First business of the day was to lay ground clothes throughout the path from bathroom to garage. That was easy.

Then I went to work on the unscrewing a couple of fixtures from the wall. That too was easy. Next the boss asked me to crawl under the sink and shut off the water. Hum? As hard as I turned the water still flowed. Down in the basement I shut the water off to the house before returning to my place under the sink. I unhooked the plumbing. Not too bad.

Next I tackled the toilet. I had removed one from my own bathroom in one of my rental units. So that wasn’t too bad until I got to that last floor bolt. It did nothing but spin. My boss, swung a hammer, cracked the footing and I helped him cart it down stairs along with the vanity. Okay.

I took the sledge hammer to the vanity and destroyed the box placing the pieces in a nice flat configuration in the bottom of the trailer, going to the dump. Back upstairs it was time to remove the four by four walk-in shower insert. My instructions were to take the reciprocating saw and cut out the three walls and floor. My boss had to run to Home Depot.

My only experience with the saw involved a baseboard in my kitchen remodel. The baseboard was one of those old fashion solid pieces of wood about twelve inches wide. I never used the saw before nor had Iever seen anyone use one. It's the tool of the devil. It scared the living crap out of me. I ended up hand sawing through the wood. Took all day.

So I was a little apprehensive about this task. I was on my own. Nothing like a good prayer to get you through a task with all fingers, toes, and eyes. But I should have had hearing protection and a mask. I had the shower cut into pieces, screws removed and my mess swept up by the time he returned with coffee. I needed a drink.

Kind of proud of myself, I took the crowbar to the trim and it popped off like I was trimming my fingernails.

But then we moved to the floor. I could only manage to chew little pieces off with my crow bar and sledge hammer. With an eighteen pound bar, the boss dug into the floor and I assumed the responsibilities for lugging and dumping.

By 2:30, six hours after the start we were done with the demolishing. I folded up with drop clothes, put away the tools and dumped by body behind the steering wheel of my Jeep. Actually, I didn’t feel too bad. That was because I couldn’t feel my arms any longer.

Was this how Studs Terkel felt after his research escapades? Still waiting for the Saratogain to call me about a writing job. Mom always said college gave us options.

Outdoor Life

Before there was any whisper of a breeze on Lake George, I brushed the dust of my hiking boots at the trailhead for Prospect Mountain. The last time I wore the leather boots I shoveled six inches of snow from Dad’s driveway. It was late January, a day before I escaped to Hawaii for the rest of the winter.

A party of four arrived at the same time, parking just ahead of me. I got off a few minutes before they did, but they were soon on my heals. They passed burning too much energy on the persistent grade. Slow and steady, that is how you approach Prospect. Using this method I over took them and never saw them again until I was sitting at the top of the rocks overlooking the jewel of the upstate New York.

Moments after I stepped onto the trail I realized I forgot insect repellent. There wasn’t much breeze to keep them at bay and soon I was leading a pack of mosquitoes up the mountain. Larger than an average house cat they tried to feast on every exposed skin surface. Despite sweating profusely and hearing my heart thump loudly in my ears I dared not stop for I feared I go insane. I can only say I was fortunate enough to be in good shape so I didn’t suffer too much and the size of the beasts made them equally easy targets. However, I became so frustrated with their persistence that it was with some satisfaction that I began to leave the smeared carcasses on my arms and legs, much like a gunslinger notches the handle of his pistol.

On an exposed rock, I took one small break. A spec of sunshine warmed the granite surface enough to keep most of the blood feeders at bay. Basically, I inhaled a gooey peanut bar while I struck two more buzzards from the sky. It took fifty seven minutes to reach the top. But now the warmed air stirred a breeze and the mosquitoes disappeared, replaced by a swarm of black flies.

They are a thousand times—no a million times—worse than mosquitoes. I have never had a mosquito fly up my nose, in my eye, down my ear canal or crawl into my shirt. And when a black fly bites, I don’t notice the bite until hours later when there is a swollen itchy lump the size of a walnut inflamed on my neck, behind my ear, between my shoulder blades or half way up my pant leg.

As I write I so want to dig into the nape of my neck.

As I arrived at the top a bus load of Brooklynites tumbled out of a tour bus. Geez. So much for a bit of solitude. But I took pleasure in their innocent delight of the panoramic view of the Adirondacks. Looking through the viewfinders, they exclaimed, “I can see the water, the mountains, the trees.” I guess in New York City I would awe, “I can see the Washington Bridge, the Empire State Building, even New Jersey.”

A group of five took pictures of themselves. I offered to take a group photo.

“Oh thank you so much. We are from and don’t expect people to be so nice.” One of the young girls said.

“Hey, I know you guys. You have a reputation, but I know better. It’s all show.”

After a few minutes of fresh air at this dizzying altitude they were ready to hit the Village and do what all tourist do, shop.

Print Proof

There is such a satisfying feeling when the writing comes together. Kind of like the sweet feel of crushing a home run or smacking a golf ball straight and long down the fairway, two things I have never done. But I can imagine.

I was still writing this afternoon when Diablo’s constant crying at the front door drove me crazy. I put her on the leash and brought her outside. Her antics made me lose my concentration and stirred up the back flies, which almost made me lose my wits.

Since arriving back in New York, I have applied for four jobs and landed two. “What recession?” You might ask. I have landed two, but both leave me underemployed, but I don't care. One job I applied for was a human resources manager. I’m not holding my breath and would have strong mixed feelings about seriously pursuing and landing it.

I must remind myself that just days ago it was 30 degrees. A job in upstate New York for the next three to five years would be a personal sacrifice of epoch proportions. So it would have to be one damn good job. Hell, I have the “I can do anything attitude” when it is 70 degrees outside and the sun rises before 5 AM and sets after 8. So easy to forget chipping ice off the windshield, listening to the empty crank of the starter and not the engine, continuously fighting involuntary cramping of cold feet, and I’m not even mentioning paying New York State taxes.

But nothing to worry about until or if I have to cross that bridge. One more overdue doctor bill and I’m here.

Anyway, on Tuesday I’m going to meet with Steve the Master Bath dude, who has a bath remodel job starting on Wednesday. His unusual listing on Craig’s List prompted me to pull together a resume detailing the experiences I have had in remodeling my apartment kitchen and making landlord repairs to roofs, walls, floors, not to mention plumbing and electrical work. Toss in paint experience and I was pretty impressed with my own resume. He was looking for ex-military women. Claims women on the job are neater. You think? We talked and we will see. Since helping Dad hang new insulation in the garage ceiling the other day, my sore muscles are still recovering.

The other job is as a Peace Officer at the track. Of course anyone who can basically fog a mirror and tie their shoes can get this job. But few can look the part. I can look the part and talk it too.

There is a ten hour training course and a test, but if it is anything like the training for security guard and I imagine it will be, then I won’t have to worry about a need for heavy breathing to cloud that mirror. Training isn't until mid-July, but the Captain swore me in on Tuesday. There is a need for a boat load of us in Belmont on June 6. It’s a $225 gig that starts and ends with a long bus ride. Time consumed probably will be close to twenty four hours. So what is that per hour?

My only concern is my fingerprints. For the third time they have been taken. (Not stolen.) Last year I never got m security license because they couldn't be processed. This time I was told mine are kind of faint. Must be all that typing I do. Apparently, they can wear away. Am I smelling a life of crime as my next career move?

"You'll never catch me copper."

Andrew's Graduation

After the ceremony there is nothing left to do but cut the cake.















Enough white shirts that one doesn't have to do laundry for a year. (Well, almost)







Andrew M. Perez with Melissa. After four years of hard work, he decides to return to school for another undergraduate degree. Pre-Med option, maybe?

PhotoLog

Another tree. Someday, I'll have a coffee table book of tree stumps.

Need a Hat?

I asked Adam if I could take his photo. He was a little shy about it, but said yes. He wanted to know if I was a photographer. Easy to assume that after I whipped out my Canon Rebel xsi with that fancy black neck strap that boldly sports EOS in white letters.

"No, I'm not a photographer. I do however, pretend to be a writer. Maybe you have heard of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin?"

Adam said his mom taught him how to crochet. Since this is Mother's Day, I'm posting Adam on my blog. Salute to all mothers who taught their children well. And if you find yourself walking in downtown Kona and in need of a hat before you take off to the summit of Mauna Kea, see Adam.

Up Service Prices

Now that all the US Post Offices are closed for the weekend, with few exceptions, I’ll remind you that the Forever 42 Cent Stamp will be never more come Monday, May 11th. Okay, not a big deal. Just fork over an extra two cents for the first class letter. Besides, who sends out that many letters anyway?

Apparently my sister, Jennifer, does.

Remembering at quarter ‘til twelve on Saturday, that the price to mail a letter rises 5% (That’s not much, but wouldn’t you like your retirement portfolio do so well?), my sister dashed down the road to the Post Office before it closed at noon. In the little rural Post Office located on Route 9, she found two other people cued and waiting. No one was behind the counter. The clock was ticking. In the mysterious recesses which every post office is mandated to have, she heard the shuffling of letters being deposited into the little metal cubicals that line the walls.

A few minutes passed. One patron coughed.

“Is someone out there?” Drifted a muffled voice from the mandatory recesses.

My sister and the person ahead of her, looked to the person at the head of the line, giving him the unspoken responsibility to answer the voice.

“Ah, yeah?” He called out. “Maybe there should be a bell on the door,” he whispered.

“Oh Hello." The post mistress said coming around the corner. “May I help you?”

From the head of the line, “I need a book of stamps.”

“We don’t have any.”

“What?” My sister squeaked.

By now a forth person joined the line, a big lumberjack of a dude, from Harlem maybe? “What’s she mean she ain’t got no stamps? Don’t she print’em here? Like the banks prints money?”

My sister checked her laughter. Taking a quick look at him, she suspected he was serious.

“If you have a letter to mail, I can stamp it for you. But I am all out of stamps.”

“Must be a run on the Post Office. Like them failing banks.”

“I need stamps. Is there another Post Office open somewhere?” my sister asked.

“There’s a Post Office on Washington Ave. It’s open until 2. I can call to see if they have any.”

My sister made the trip into town to buy all the stamps they had. That was $630 worth of stamps. She would have bought more if they had them.

I do all my bill paying, banking and most correspondence on line. Recently I had to mail a couple of forms back to my financial planner and a change of address form to the IRS. I told them I moved out of the country. I don’t know how long it would take for me to go through 1500 stamps. I’m guessing forever. When Jennifer says forever, she means it.

You can still get the 42 cent stamp on line if you hurry. It will cost $1.00 (regardless of the quantity you purchase) for handling. I don’t know why? After all , isn’t the postman coming by on Monday with a stack of bills anyway?

I ordered $82.00 worth. I figure that will last me for “my forever”. If not, I know where I can get a few stamps

The Gift

Since it is Mom's birthday, here is a story about her dog Rusty. I wrote it a couple years ago and never shared it with anyone.

With the same excitement of a ten-year-old Florence, my Mom, blurted the news, “I got a dog and I’m going to name him Rusty.”

“Oh no,” I said. I envisioned a snarling beast lurking my mother’s kitchen. I cradled the phone’s receiver on my shoulder. “Dogs with that name bite more people than any other. How about Lucky?” I suggested. After all, as my mother described the circumstances he seemed to be one lucky dog.

“No,” she insisted. “You should see his coat. It’s thick. It’s so shiny.” So, Rusty it was.

Mom loved dogs, but Shelties held a special place in her heart. For eleven years she owned a blue merle named Holly. Mom and Holly often took walks around the rural block to meet and socialize with the other dogs in the neighborhood. Or they went to a nearby state park where Holly could run through the woods barking at grey squirrels—real or imaginary—while Mom strolled around the park’s quiet lake.

After my father, Manuel, retired my parents set off in their RV across North America and Holly patiently sat behind Mom’s seat through thirty-five states and three countries. In Mexico, she kept the Federales at bay when they insisted on searching the vehicle. They changed their minds when they heard the dog’s growl inside the motor home. If they had seen her diminutive size, they would have laughed and torn the RV apart from top to bottom.

Holly had been a lifesaver. More than once the little dog woke Dad to alert him that Mom suffered an insulin reaction. But Holly had passed away the previous spring and Mom mourned the loss of her faithful companion. Every night she prayed that when the right time came, she’d have another dog.

Then one Sunday morning after church service, Mrs. Williams approached my mother. “Florence, do you want a dog?” She explained, “I can’t take him. It doesn’t seem right to let such a nice dog roam loose.” The elderly woman leaned on her cane and repositioned the worn Bible clutched to her chest. “I don’t know what to do with him. He mysteriously showed up one cold day. He’s a Sheltie.”

When he didn’t leave, Mrs. Williams felt guilty and fed him. Three months later and deep into winter, she knew something had to be done if the dog were to be able to survive until spring. With anyone else, Mrs. Williams might have had to beg, but my mother didn’t hesitate. Mom knew God had answered her prayers.

Snow blew across the road when Mom and Dad went to get the Sheltie the following morning. The stray jumped right into their car. He appeared a little thin, but wore the thick coat of his sheepdog ancestors. Such a coat shielded the herding dogs from the stinging sleet and snow carried by the Scot Highland winds. The little dog’s matted and tangled hair captured residue of every muddy ditch, shallow stream, and salty road he had wandered. His cream-colored underbelly and petticoats, the long tresses of hair that grew on his hind hocks, were a grimy brown. Old burrs were embedded deep within his wool-like coat. And he stunk.

Mom arranged for Rusty to have a check up and bath at the local veterinarian. When the vet’s assistant brought Rusty out, the bounce in his gait made his clean coat dance. The luxurious blend of the black-and-tan hairs shone and his well-groomed petticoats floated behind him like angel’s wings.

Mom loved her new dog. Dad, more reserved in his affection for pets, admired the beauty and easy temperament of the little dog.

Karen, who had been Holly’s vet, asked to speak to Mom. “He’s in remarkably good shape for living outdoors for who knows how long. Maybe he could use an extra pound or two; otherwise, he seems healthy. Blood and stool samples results will be back in a few days. Let’s start his shots next week.” Karen cleared her throat and asked, “Where did you say you got him?”

“Over in Gansevoort. A friend from church found him.”

“That’s some distance from Glens Falls,” Karen said, “but he looks an awful lot like this dog.” She handed Mom a flyer of a lost Sheltie dated five months earlier. “We always keep them on file,” she explained. “I thought the dog looked familiar.” The grainy black-and-white photo captured a remarkable resemblance.

“Can’t be the same dog,” my mother denied. “Besides, he’s mine now.” She ruffled Rusty’s lion-like mane. The chain on his new collar jangled.

Dad studied the flyer. “That’s clear on the other side of the Hudson River, about fifteen miles to the nearest bridge. How did he cross the river?” There was no explanation.

“Take the flyer. It has the number if you decide to call.”

That night, with her new dog settled down beside her bed, Mom lay awake tormented by the dilemma. Housebroken and well-behaved, this dog had belonged to someone, but Mom reasoned she now owned Rusty. God gave him to me. He’s mine. I took him in when he did not have a home. Nobody else wanted him. Yet, she knew if he had been her dog and had lost him, she would want him back.

How had he safely crossed the Hudson? The nearest bridge spanned a remote area over the river on a heavily traveled Interstate highway called the Northway. If Rusty didn’t take that bridge, the next one was in South Glens Falls. It too would have been equally treacherous to cross without getting struck by a car. But for the hardest question, she had no answer. Lord, how could you answer my prayers and then take this beautiful gift away? In the silent darkness of her room, she heard nothing, except a deep sigh from the Sheltie.

A fresh snow fell during the night and left the backyard a white blanket that glistened in the early morning sun. As Mom washed the breakfast dishes, she stared out of the kitchen window. The undisturbed snow stretched into the woods behind the house. It was just last winter that Holly’s tracks cut across the perfect surface.

Chickadees made their endless flights back and forth to the feeder. As she watched them tirelessly carry one seed at a time to the snow-laden pine bows she thought of Matthew 6:26: "Look at the birds of the air; they do not reap, or sow or store away in barns and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable then they?"

She knew what had to be done. A tear ran down her face, fell into the dishwater, and disappeared. Rusty wandered into the kitchen his toenails clicking on the linoleum-covered floor. In just two days he had already made himself comfortable in his new home. His deep black eyes met hers and he cocked his head as if he knew Mom had something to do. “You’re my dog,” she cried, bending down to hold the dog’s wedge-shaped muzzle in her wet palms. Her hand shook as she dialed the number.

A pleasant voice on the other end of the line answered and identified herself as Nancy. When Nancy learned the reason for the call, she didn’t sound overjoyed with the news. Mom asked, “Can you describe him?”

“It’s been months. Wait a minute. Let me get my husband, James.”

James and Nancy could not recall any distinguishing marks on the Sheltie, but they offered to come over later that evening. Mom hung up the phone. “Rusty they can’t even remember the droopy tip on your right ear. You can’t be their dog.”

When James pulled into the driveway just before dinnertime, he came alone. Rusty barked when he heard the truck drive up. “He’s going to make a good watch dog,” Dad said. He went to the front door and invited James to come in. A tall man in his late thirties, he dressed casually—a worn LL Bean barn jacket, faded blue jeans and heavy farm boots.

Rusty immediately recognized James. The Sheltie twirled in circles, barked and wagged his tail. Doubt disappeared when the man dropped to his knees and received a squirming dog into his arms. “Hi ol’ Boy.”

James declined the offer to stay for chicken and biscuits. The three stood in the kitchen with the Sheltie roaming around them. James told my parents the six year old Sheltie was named Lucky. When the Sheltie had disappeared, James’ two sons searched for days, going door to door, hanging posters in storefronts and on telephone poles at intersections. They solicited the help of their middle school friends and teachers. He and his wife had placed ads in the local papers and sent flyers to animal shelters and veterinary clinics. But no one had seen Lucky. The boys were devastated over the lost dog they had grown up with.

James could not figure out how the Sheltie got so far from home. Even the river crossing baffled him.

With the true identity of the owner verified by Rusty himself, the small talk completed, and dinner waiting on the stove, there wasn’t much left to do, except for James to claim his dog. An awkward silence fell in the room. James made no move toward the door. “You know, I think Lucky found a good home here. I can see he’s safe and loved.”

Tears welled up in my mother’s eyes. “Oh yes. We love him,” she whispered in disbelief, as her hands rose to her lips.

“I appreciate your call,” James said.

Mom watched him swallowed an emotion that surged up from a place inside, where men keep their feelings confined. “My wife and I haven’t told the boys. After all this time, we believed that if Lucky….” He cleared his throat before continuing, “I mean Rusty, found a good home and you want him, maybe it was suppose to be.”

He knelt before the Sheltie, and quietly gave his last command to his dog, “Take good care of Florence, ol’ Boy.”


And he did.

Halobama

In response to the National Prayer Day article mentioned in the comment section of yesterday's blog: I couldn't let this one pass. President Obama may "pooh-pooh" the day, but the press sure doesn't miss an opportunity to glorify him. This photo appeared on the front page of West Hawaii Today.

Note: the perfect halo effect! It is an AP photo from Charles Dharapak. I hope Chuckie is laughing his head off. I can almost hear the angels sing.

Islam Day: Are you Kidding Me?

Just this afternoon while I was pulling some hard strokes in the pool, I kicked myself for writing some lame blogs. No passion, no fire and not too much humor. Okay, you have been working on the book. Sure, but I wouldn’t brag about that progress either.

Back at the condo I downed a mocha banana smoothie and scanned through the West Hawaii Today. I hadn’t been sure I really wanted to buy it this morning. I had only two dollars in my pocket, $29 on my debt card and my tenants’ rent checks hadn’t hit the bottom line in my bank account. Two dollars can get three papaya and a bunch of bananas. I bought it anyway and settled for just the bananas.

On page five, the headline smacked me upside the head, sending a chill through me that I couldn't attribute to the smoothie. Lawmakers Back Creation of “Islam Day.” Muslim Religion Will Be Celebrated on September 24.

I believe that is thirteen days after September 11. What the hell is this about? The bill recognizes “the rich religious, scientific, cultural and artistic contributions” that Islam and the Islamic world have made.

Oh yeah? Let me count the ways.

World Contributions: The Humanities

• On page four, same paper, same day. Pakistan: ‘It’s an all-out war there’. Eight years after the September 11, 2001 attacks, the area remains a haven for al-Qaida and Taliban fighters blamed for spiraling violence in Pakistan and Afghanistan. (But I am sure we are going to blame this on George Bush, and “the not- founded-on-Christian-principles America.”)


• April 6th Pakistan: A young woman was brutally flogged 46 times in a street for walking with her father-in-law. The poor girl was laid flat on her back, held like an animal for slaughter by two men, and then flogged. That means she got this in the face. Like it makes a difference.


• A man who raped a Muslim woman because she showed an interest in Christianity was jailed for five years by a Sydney, Australia court. If she had shown interest in a Muslim country she would have been killed, along with the Christian. And their killings "would be halal" - meaning the killer would go to heaven. I believe in the real world he’d go to Hell, or at least be reincarnated as a pig.


• In Buffalo, NY a particularly gruesome killing, the beheading of a woman, after her husband — an influential member of the local Muslim community — reported her death to police. Her husband the founder and chief executive officer of Bridges TV, which he launched in 2004, amid hopes that it would help portray Muslims in a more positive light was charged with second-degree murder.

World Contributions: The Sciences

• No matter what the cultural or language differences, science is more or less guided by scientific principles—except in many Islamic countries, where it is guided by the Koran.


• Islam has this strange alliance within that shuns modern science. The modernist decided to neglect and overlook the consequences of Western science, either philosophical or religious and felt that Islam could handle the matter much better than Christianity. They felt that there was something wrong with Christianity which buckled under the pressures of modern science and rationalism in the nineteenth century. Yes nineteenth century – makes it tough to call them modernist, but that is what they are referred to. The other group, the religious scholars of Islam disdained science completely. This cuts across the Islamic world, all refuse to have anything to do with modern science.

World Contributions: The Arts

• Aiming to eliminate idolatry from Afghanistan, the Taliban religious militia destroyed two soaring statues of Buddha. The two Buddhas, 175 feet and 120 feet tall, were hewn from the side of a mountain in Bamiyan. The taller statue was thought to be the world's tallest standing Buddha. The pair were carved in the 3rd and 5th centuries. Officials said they had already eliminated two-thirds of the country's statues.


• Under strict Islamic Law children's toys, including dolls and kites; card and board games; cameras; photographs and paintings of people and animals; pet parakeets; cigarettes and alcohol; magazines and newspapers, and most books are banned. Applause is even forbidden -- a moot point, since there's nothing left to applaud!

In The United States of America, which includes Hawaii by the way, the country's founding principles of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness are highly valued. It is tough to imagine celebrating a “religion” that bans music, movies and television, computers, picnics, wedding parties, New Year celebrations, any kind of mixed-sex gathering. Probably would even ban the very newspaper this article appeared in.

Just in case you decide to celebrate this day here are a few rules.

1. Women must stay home all day.
2. If you dare venture outside to wish someone a “Happy Islam Day” women best be covered from head to toe in a burqa.
3. You must be accompanied by a male family member (not an in-law family member).
4. Of course, there will not be a party to celebrate this event.
5. Allah forbid, no bell tolling, no fire crackers.
6. Men over there.
7. Women over here.
8. No toys, no music, no applauding. No parade.
9. Men should not shave their beards. You have from now until September 24 to make this happen.
   

Come to think of it? What's an Islamic celebration anyway? Shooting guns off in the street and yelling "Death to America"?

If you feel prone to recognize this day because of the great contributions to the world that this religion has made in the far and distant past, think twice. If America now finds fault with great American leaders like George Washington for owning slaves, why would we celebrate a religion for what it currently does?

Proponents of this Islam Day say we must be tolerant. Funny how Islamic Law isn’t too tolerant. Funny how the hi-jackers on 911 weren’t too tolerant.

Dare I say we have a day of celebration for Christians? Before you toss up that Christians have Christmas might I remind you that the civil liberty nuts are taking Christ out of Christmas, demanding equal time or at least equal square footage on the community lawn for Anti-Christian displays? Stores order employees to say “happy holidays.” Well, there you go – holidays: throw the Muslims into that pot and forget September 24.

JMJ!

Another freaking flat tire! I think that second wire I pulled the other day really did puncture the inner tube. I have three patches covering four holes on the rear tire! Think I need a new one?

I think I need new tires, new shoes, new cleats.....

or a scooter?

Out of Shape

I am so out of “Cleaning Shape”, the “get down on your hands and knees and scrub the floor Cinderella kind of cleaning shape. Its not that the condo is filthy or anything, but my up coming departure requires more than a lick and a promise. I don’t want the geckos, roaches, ants, moths, mongoose and other critters to decide that the place has residential potential in my absence. It faired well while I was gone last summer. I returned to find only a few dried-up centipedes.

After spending an hour wiping the bamboo floor and cleaning the baseboards in the living room, I was ready to break out for the pool. The next morning, during my run (One good thing about returning to New York will be that I don’t have to get up at 5 AM to “beat the heat of the day.” Hell, I can get up at noon and go running.) I noticed my butt muscles were sore. What was up with that? The only thing I did differently was squat and clean the floor. As the day progressed, I got sorer and sorer.

The bedroom and office began to feel like monumental tasks, but I tackled them too, along with the Venetian blinds. I am not talking about dusting. I’m talking about cleaning. One window later, I had enough of that. The person who invents an easy way to clean these blinds will make a mint. Such a hassle, I have come close to just going out and buying new ones. Vertical, forget horizontal.

After being on my hands and knees, I have decided my wrists hurt. So I quit writing.

Too much domestic stuff for me.