Angela's Brother (F)

Tuesday morning, and I was mowing the strip of grass between a neighboring subdivision--Wayland Hills--and our family's nursery. Most of the backyards were separated off by wooden fences, the ones that look so good when first installed but soon weather into a dully grayish wall. A few yards, though, used chain link, and one in particular had a man gate in the back.

The Mom and Dad--Bill and Heidi--walked over to the nursery a few days after they moved in and bought 2 Yoshinos, a persimmon, and a small Japanese red maple from us. When I delivered the trees to the yard out back, I met Angela, who was 6, and Timmy, who was 3.

Timmy was much more interested in his toy dump truck and stayed in the sandbox as I made the delivery. Angela, however, stood at her parents' side as we discussed planting the trees.

"Are they going to get bigger?"

"If you take care of them."

"Where do they go?"

"That is the right question.

"Honey, let us figure that out." Bill put his hand on Angela's shoulder.

Angela looked at the slender trees. "Can we climb them?"

"Maybe. When they're grown."

"Maybe?" Angela tilted her head and squinted at me.

"La-La, come play!"

Heidi patted the girl's shoulder. "Go play with your brother."

This particular Tuesday morning I shut down my mower in front of Angela and Timmy. He hung on the fence, fingers like claws clutching for dear life. As usual he didn't say a word.

"What are you doing today?"

"Well, after mowing, I'm going to help turn all the trees and plants around."

"Why?"

"So they get sun all around."

"Our trees don't."

"True, not completely. But that's how things grow in the ground."

"Will they be okay?"

"Yes, they look like they are doing just fine."

I was just about to start the mower--"I saw my brother yesterday," Angela said.

"Your brother?" I looked at Timmy.

"Yes."

"Where?" 

"At the church."

"I don't understand."

"He has a grave. It says William Thomas Ferguson on it. He's 6, too."

I looked at her for a moment. "I'm sorry, Angela."

"La-La, come swing!"

"He's suppose to be my twin. Do you think it's okay if I talk about him?"

"Yes, yes I think that will be okay."

"Do you think it's okay if I talk to him?"

"Yes, Angie, I think that's okay, too."

And with that, Angela nodded and jogged after her little brother.

Lyman 2024

 

Uncle Hale's Thanksgiving Dinner (F)

Jack could hear the crunch of snow under the car's tires as he pulled slowly into the yard. Stepping out into the cold, he called to his uncle.

"Back here, Jack."

The teenager slowly padded around the house. His uncle was chopping the heads off whitefish and flipping them with his cleaver to his dogs.

"You've been fishing a lot."

"Nope. Bought these from the women down at the inlet."

The dogs snapped and snarled as they tore at the fish heads.

"The dogs are going crazy."

"These dogs are more wolf than dog."

"I've got your dinner stuff."

"Thanks. You can take it inside."

Jack returned his uncle's side after getting the food put away.

"I made my decision."

"I heard."

"Going to State for the mining program."

"Maybe that will work out."

"Sure it will. I'll be able to stay in the area after that. They're always hiring."

"Maybe so." His uncle began to fillet the fish.

"You don't think so?"

"I couldn't say."

"Do you think I'm wrong?"

"Nothing wrong with having a plan, Jack. Just trying to predict the future."

"You're always so negative. Just like Mom says."

"Maybe so."

Jack rubbed his hands together as the wind came up. "Laura and I have talked about getting married after I graduate from State."

"Oh?"

"Guess you think that's a mistake too, huh?"

"No opinion."

"Didn't you and Aunt Nancy get married when you were in college?"

"Did."

Jack kept quiet for a moment. "Did she hate turkey like you?"

"Liked it okay. But she came from a ham family."

"I guess you miss her. A lot."

The dogs now were curled up on the snow, backs to the wind. 

"Yes, nephew." He looked out across the river.  "Still, it's a pain deep inside that never goes away."

Jack touched his uncle's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Fact of life now.  You need to get going. Road home will be dark soon."

"Yes sir. I know. Oh, extra dressing and the sweet potato pie is in the fridge."

"Thank your mother. Here, take this sack of fish. Tell her fresh caught this morning."

"Should I give some to Laurie Hanson? She always asks about you."

The older man picked up his knife again. "If your mother wants to share, fine with me. But otherwise, no."

Jack chuckled. "Okay, Uncle Hale, just asking."

"Be safe."

"I will. See you when I see you."

"Yep. See you if I see you."

Lyman 2024 

Junk Drawer (9)

Roughly, 70 million Americans are fathers. One of them--the current President of the United States--pardoned his son for crimes committed the past 10 years. I'm guessing about 69,999,000 fathers would do the same. Of course blood is thicker. End of story. Full stop.

Except--except for the fathers of sons in prison for tax and/or firearms felonies. I do not know how many sons are currently serving a sentence, but I do know one thing. Not one of their fathers is the President of the United States.

I saw as part of local voting results our sheriff was reelected. He ran as a Republican candidate. Hmmm, a Republican sheriff as opposed to a Democratic sheriff? Wonder how many of the constitutional sheriff gang forgo party affiliation.

The college football playoff setup makes me laugh. All the chatter about this team or that team. What's funny? The tournament is not going to have the 12 best teams in the country. Lots of the better teams are going to be left out. And these mega conferences? This, too, is what you have wrought. Also makes me laugh. Will I watch? Hell yes. 

Sources set our illegal immigrant population at around 11 million. Eleven million. Think the populations of either Georgia or Ohio. We're going to need a lot more detention camp tents and beds. In 2018 we spent a bit more than $200 a day per detained immigrant. Holy government contracts, Batman! Cha-ching!

As for the TikTok influencer with 300,000 followers who was arrested for deliberately mis-scanning $500 worth of items at Target.... Shut. Up.

Marginalia (F)

Teddy died from complications brought on by pancreatic cancer. 

I never thought much about the pancreas before.  I mean I knew about the blood sugar connection. Insulin. Sure. Weighs about 3 ounces or so. I know that now. I even read up on Herophilus.

I thought I wanted to know everything about the pancreas.

I didn't.

Hospice came in when Teddy made the decision to stay home no matter what. 

Now I can tell you about Dame Cicely Saunders. And Florence Wald. And Elisabeth Kubler Ross. And Senators Frank Church and Frank E. Ross.

Senator Church died from a pancreatic tumor. He was the last Democratic senator from Idaho. 

Teddy and I had been married for three years when Senator Church died. We watched his funeral on t.v.

Jilly--across the street Jill--her sister Beth came to see us and talk to us about hospice care. Teddy asked about Medicare but was mostly quiet. 

Beth had a funny accent. I didn't ask about that. 

When we moved here people asked me where I was from all the time. Huntsville, I would say. Huntsville, they would ask. Alabama, I would say. Oh, they would say.

Sometimes I would mention the rocket science center. Wasn't important after awhile as more folks got to know me. Teddy would just laugh when I fussed about. You married a Yankee, he said, what did you expect. 

It hit home when he stopped eating. Beth said that would come soon enough. 

Then it clicked. Of course. Jilly told me they were from Montreal and Beth just moved here last year. 

Beth's husband is an orthopedic surgeon. The college football coach met him at some conference and sold him on the idea of moving here. 

Not that our team is special. But it's something I guess.  

Teddy liked going to the games. He never asked me to go. He liked the basketball and baseball games. I think the baseball team won the conference a few times.

I'm not up on all that much on sports. 

Johnny and Lindsey were flying in from Chicago the day Teddy died.

Beth noted time of death as 9:47 am, October 12th, 2024.

Johnny and Lindsey left the kids with her sister Karen. Karen didn't have children so that was going to be interesting. 

Teddy opened his eyes and looked right at me and I squeezed his hand. His mouth opened slightly and he exhaled. His eyes closed and Beth said he's gone now. 

And now he's gone.

Lyman 2024

 

 

The (Un) Happy Prognosticator

Perhaps the west coast of Florida will suffer another hurricane strike this year. If so, where I can't say.

Maybe teenagers are better off if Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut is no longer available in public school libraries. I should know after including it in my English courses half a dozen times or so. I don't.

The DJIA at the close of the day on April 30, 2025? I suppose if I guessed at the number a thousand times, I might get lucky. 

I try to remind myself that the words possible and probable are not synonymous.

Will the San Andreas Fault falter finally in my lifetime?

Should I invest in a rental house at Rodanthe, NC? By the way, I'm 71.

The week Beyonce's "16 Carriages" was released I touted it as Song of the Year. Of course I still think Jackson Browne is worth listening to these days.

There is a need for speculation as we plow forward into our lives. No doubt. No doubt. But fields beyond our purview?

Will tonight be my last to lay my head down and go to sleep? 

I guess the arms industry is pleased by the cat and mouse affair that exists between Iran and Israel. See how easily punditry comes, and I'm no pundit.

Let me unlearn the impulse to speak upon things I can't know. And, the things I don't know.

Frost wrote of the world to either end via fire or maybe ice.

That question is so far above my pay grade that, well, I'm not even on that pay scale.

Eliot suggested a whimper rather than a bang. 

Now that I think of it, let it be a bang.

Guardrails

That our Constitution ratified in 1789 demanded compromise and a leap of faith is well documented. Forging a national consensus from a swirl of dissenting viewpoints and determination to block the rise of tyranny created the set of guardrails that some now complain is too restrictive.

Three governmental branches. Two legislative bodies. Checks and balances. Checks and balances. Check and balances.

Pretty heady stuff in 1789. 

All to diffuse power and keep our nation free from despotism. If.

If those in power honor the spirit of those guardrails. Thus, the leap of faith. 

Of course our challenges are daunting. The frustrations are real. The viewpoints diverse. It's a great big complex world out there after all.

Election sloganeering may be appealing, certainly. And vitriol, unfortunately. And bombast, apparently. And. And. And.

As I see it, I would rather we slog through the constitutional process toward a more perfect union than see the rise of an American Putin or Xi Jinping or Khamenei or Orban.

And so I am with James Madison: "The accumulation of all powers, legislative, executive, and judiciary, in the same hands, whether of one, a few or many, and whether hereditary, self-appointed, or elective may just be pronounced the very definition of tyranny".

All nations are an experiment in ideas. Ours is no different. Perhaps tomorrow's vote may be a watershed moment.

May our constitutional republic always reign.

 

Pia Moscow (F)

I first met Pia Moscow informally during a basketball game in the old field house at the community college.  I was diving for a loose ball and Pia was sitting on the front row with, coincidentally, two fellow English majors, Mary Thomas and Jackie Furst.

My forehead hit Pia’s right knee and in the moment I managed to grab both her ankles. The ball was in the second row.

I looked up at her from my knees and choked out a quick “Sorry”. Pia reached out her hands and held my face. “Oh, darling boy, you were wonderful.”

I heard a whistle and the crowd was roaring and still I could hear my coach—or in my head at least—“Peterson, get your ass up.”

To this day I swear I never looked at her the rest of the game.

She’s not really a Moscow. Her great grandfather came into Ellis Island a Gregoire Moskowitz and exited as Gregory Moscow. The immigration officer said he was doing him a favor. Some favor.

This nugget she shared with me when after the game—we lost despite my heroics—and after a shower, I ran into the trio at Ollie’s Pizza. Mary made the formal introduction as Jackie kept slapping my shoulder. “You’re a nut, Donnie. A nut.”

“Can it, Jackie. I hope I didn’t hurt you. My head is pretty hard.”

“He’s a nut.”

Pia looked up at me. Her eyes hazel, almond shaped.

“My career is ruined, but I am not that talented. Nothing lost, really.”

“Your career?”

Mary lowered her voice. “Pia is dancing with the city ballet. She is the next chosen one.”

I looked at Pia. “A chosen one? Do you like being chosen, or do you prefer choosing?”

Pia laughed. “You were right, he is a bright boy.”

“I do better on my feet.”

“He’s a nut.”

“Come sit with us, Donnie.”

I again looked at Pia. “If you’ll have me.”

Again, she laughed. She looked far off to the left and then to the right in a stagey kind of way. “Given my choices…please do.”

“Ouch.”

We slid into a booth on opposite sides. Jackie sat next to me.

“Is a cheese pizza okay? Two pizzas? Cokes?”

“Mary, get us some breadsticks. They have the best breadsticks.”

Pia smiled. “I won’t eat more than a slice, maybe two. I dance tomorrow night.”

“Get us two,” I said. “I’m hungry. Here’s towards the bill.”

Jackie leaned in a bit toward Pia. “Donny is the smartest one in our class.”

“And what class would that be?”

“Literary Criticism in the 19th Century.”

“Well that certainly sounds enthralling.”

“It’s no Literary Criticism in the 20^th Century,” I said.

“A difficult choice, no doubt.”

Jackie sat back, shoulders slumped. “It’s Friday and no one’s here tonight.”

“We’re here, Jackie.”

“No, no one is here. See, he is a nut.”

Mary came back with our cokes on a tray. “The pizza will be only twelve minutes.”

“That’s because no one’s here.”

“So, you dance tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Sold out I suppose.”

“I can leave you a ticket and a backstage pass.”

“Hey, what about us?”

Mary reached across the table and slapped Jackie’s hand. “Hush.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Jackie!”

“Ooo, our breadsticks.”

I looked at Pia. She was smiling. “I’ll take them.”

“Good choice.”

Lyman 2024

 

 

 

 

  

An Index (23)

 US Immigration: 1965-2024

    Mexico         17,800,000

    China             4,275,000

    India              4,150,000

    Philippines      2,750,000

    Cuba              2,075,000

    Korea             2,000,000

    USSR             1,950,000

    Vietnam         1,725,000

    El Salvador     1,700,000

    Dominican R   1,600,000

    Canada          1,500,000    

Pew Research Center

Gator Bites

One of my earliest memories in the mid-50s is of my father and some of the other young veterans at the University of Florida tossing meat to the gators living behind our housing on campus. A high wire fence separated our simple cottages from that gator pond. The feeding frenzy shocked me, and yet thrilled me at the same time.

My favorite gator memory is of Ol' Henry--a 12-footer--alone in his pen at what is now the Boyd Hill Nature Preserve not far from our home on Coquina Key in St. Pete, Florida. Again, feeding time was the attraction for me, and my mother would nearly weekly in the summer get us over to the park in time to watch Henry on his small island lift his head and catch his meal tossed to him by park workers. 

Because all the smaller gators were in a separate pen, I was convinced that Henry would have devoured any of his cousins were he given the opportunity. 

I remember gawking at gators on the shore of Lake Maggiore in St. Pete when we drove by. I had a hard time understanding a gator lake also being a waterskiing lake. Did those folks not know what they shared the water with out there? 

Fresh water. Gators. Florida. Pretty simple fact of life even for a kid. 

What I didn't do as a kid in Florida was eat gator meat. No, that experience would await me in my mid-20s in Louisiana. Of course, in Louisiana. 

Down there, oysters, fried or raw, even baked. Check. Crawfish, boiled or the tails fried or cooked in an etoufee or gumbo. Check. Yep, I stuck my finger into their heads and sucked out the juicy goodness. Yep, I sucked the heads. 

Happened to date a game warden's daughter for a bit, which added fried rattlesnake and--ta dum--fried gator bites to my menu. Of course, you might want me to step back to the rattlesnake nuggets. Trust me, all good. The gator tail meat was firm and clean and tasty. And, no, chicken did not come to mind in either case.

My funniest memories of gators in Louisiana were when LSU coeds would be sunning themselves on sorority row by University Lake and gators would propel themselves out of the water in that oh-so-explosive way they can. Hilarity ensued. 

I will confess to testing the young ladies' nerves at time by tossing rocks at some of the cypress trees nearby so we could watch the snakes drop off the branches into the water below. Often cottonmouth moccasins. Good times.

My first experience with gators here in South Carolina--secondhand--came when a young man who worked for my first landlord in Charleston showed up without his dog to do some chores. I asked about the dog. Gator got him. No details necessary. 

That is a thing about gators. If they get a hold of their target and get back in the water, c'est fini most likely.

Most of my time was spent on saltwater, so I saw few gators.

But I did send along a photo of a 700 lb gator pulled from Lake Marion to a young colleague from far off. Why? Because she was going tubing for the first time on said lake. 

Like I said, good times.

Junk Drawer (8)

Happy Labor Day Weekend!

Speaking of sharks, this snippet from Pliny the Elder writing around 77 C.E.: "The [sponge] divers, however, have terrible combats with the dogfish (sharks), which attack with avidity the groin, the heels, and all the whiter parts of the body." But swim easily. Humans kill around a hundred million sharks yearly. Sharks, on the other fin, take 5-10 of us in unprovoked attacks a year. 

But...but here's some good news for some of our underwater neighbors. Carbon dating of a 16-foot Greenland shark put her between 272 and 512 years old. Certainly confirms sharks as the longest living of the vertebrates. Since 24-foot specimens of Greenland sharks have been caught and since size is a function of age--well, staggers the imagination. May be sharks swimming about that were doing so in 1500. Or earlier.

I see the ads. The Emmy awards, still a thing?

Shortly after I moved to Baton Rouge in 1976, a veteran newspaper editor told me to read T. Harry Williams' biography of Huey Long to get a quicker understanding of political forces in Louisiana. Williams was a professor at LSU. I also chose to read Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men, a fictional version of Long's rise and fall. Warren taught at LSU as well from 1933 to 1942. 

One of my favorite episodes occurred in 1934. Then Senator Long directed Gov. O. K. Allen to send 2500 National Guard troops to New Orleans to address alleged corrupt voting in the city. Mayor T. Semmes Walmsley deputized an additional 500 men and armed them with submachine guns to defend New Orleans' City Hall.  Walmsley protested the "invasion" to President Franklin D. Roosevelt and called Long another Hitler. National Guard, voter corruption, Hitler comparison--has it all.

Long's candidates won in the following election, so the troops were withdrawn without a violent showdown. Long was shot by a lone gunman at the state capitol in Baton Rouge in 1935. He died 2 days after the attack. And a lone gunman, too.

Given the news of late, three words have been more often coming to mind: enthrall, intractable, and venal.

So, finally September. The neighbors' kids have been back in school for two weeks.. High school football is underway. My Yoshino cherry dropped its leaves. Some maples I see when out and about are flashing reds and yellows, and oranges, too. Temperatures were in the upper 90s last week. Kind of blunts the thought of autumn. You know, highs in the 60s, the sun warm, no longer blistering. Windows open. Ceiling fans off. Something more than a sheet at night. And my favorite, coffee on the patio in the morning. What's that sound? Quiet. Nary an air-conditioner to be heard. 

Trial (F)

The three prisoners were brought down from the small village by seven comrades. Five were men, the other two looked to be 15 or 16. One of the men had grey in his hair and beard.  The sun was just coming up over the stadium, and we all held mugs of coffee. 

"Just three?" Our leader tapped his mug.

The grey one nodded.

"And a priest?"

"He's not a real priest" one of the younger guards said.

"He wears a collar. He's a priest."

"He's not a Catholic father" the other younger one added. "He's a fascist." He spat.

"That's right. He's not one of us. He's--is a traitor."

The grey one faced them. "Both of you, shut up." He turned to our leader. "They were together in the plaza with their dead. Everyone else was gone farther up into the mountains."

Our leader looked down at the ground for a moment. "Well," he said,"we can't take them down to the port."

"No. We only brought them with us to see what information they may give you."

"You killed the others?"

"Yes."

"And now here we are with them."

"Yes."

"Father--Father?"

"I am Father Peter."

"You keep bad company, Father Peter."

"My church does not exclude--"

"Fascists! Traitors!"

"You two go over to the truck and wait until I speak to you again. Now, Father, are you with these men?"

"They are in my care."

"Well, they are going to die this morning. I can't let them live. I can't let them be a burden. But, you are with them?"

"I am a man of peace."

Our leader looked at the grey one. "Yes?"

He shrugged. "He did not have a gun."

"Take those two over to the courtyard."

Three of our local militia set down their coffees and picked up their rifles. 

"Quickly."

The two were led across the street and around the corner. No one spoke in our group. A few minutes later we heard 3 shots. Then another volley.

"So, Father Peter, now we must decide. And decide quickly."

The grey one took out his pistol and shot the priest in the forehead. Father Peter fell over on his side, his face turned into the ground. The grey one walked over and shot him again, this time in the back of his head.

"He was with them."

"Yes, he was with them. Everyone to the truck."

Lyman 2024

A Leap of--What?

Two men died Saturday in Butler, PA. First, a bystander. The second, the 20-year-old assailant. Both, shot to death.

Does Thomas Crooks' age matter? No, not really. Not in a wider view of the event. Not historically most likely. Dead is dead, after all. But I did flinch when learning the would-be assassin's age.

Assassin. At 20? The word confounds my sensibility. He was a kid. 

How to make that leap, from kid to political assassin who might have rewritten--and maybe has--world history. 

Sure, I know the prowess of some trained shooters that age. Yes, Crooks was a shooting enthusiast they say. But that doesn't get me over the hurdle to understand him as a murderer.

Some say he was a loner, aloof, maybe a little odd. That characterization doesn't get me any closer to his thought process. To upon learning the site of the rally, to get into his mind such an idea, to scout the location, to secure a ladder, to practice his shooting a bit more, to purchase extra rounds--because he was perhaps a bit odd? I can't make that leap.

Reportedly he was smart, smart enough to do well in advanced classes. Smart. Smart? A planner, apparently. But--and this is the question that turns my stomach--did he know, believe, truly understand this undertaking to be suicidal.

Oh, Thomas.

Reports differ on the bullying question--some students say yes he was, school officials push back emphatically no he was not.

Bullied, e.g., politically assassination attempt. Bullied, assassin. Bullied, assassin. I don't know.

I just can't make the leap--just foolish, misguided, stupid even. And perhaps forever we are without any pointed information that reveals how this 20-year-old got to such a moment in his young life.

Two men dead. What the hell, Thomas. What a terrible, terrible shame.

Pace Long's Companion (F)

Two days after his 11th birthday, and three days before Valentine's Day, Pace Long broke through the ice on the upper part of the Sandy River and was carried downstream nearly twenty feet. By coincidence a witness, Johnny Banks, was parked on the shore and saw the boy fall through. Banks called it in and then grabbed a crowbar from the back of his tow truck and crawled out to the boy who was staring skyward through the ice. 

While Johnny hacked at the ice, Pace closed his eyes, the last thing he would ever remember from the incident. He saw Johnny, and then he didn't. 

Six minutes. 

Paramedics, afraid that the ice would not hold, slid the carry basket out to Johnny. County water rescue was twenty minutes away. 

Johnny kept smashing the ice, prying up chunks.

Seven minutes. 

About a dozen onlookers were gathered on the bank. A few called out. "C'mon. Johnny!" "Keep going, man!"

Eight minutes. The ice cracked, a sound like a gunshot. One last hunk of ice and Johnny reached down into the water and pulled the boy out. 

Dead at the scene they said. Breathing at the hospital. That's how it was summed up. 

The next day at school, classmates looked at the empty desk. Their teacher Mrs. Tastides had tears in her eyes when she asked them to make Get Well cards for Pace.

"Is he gonna be brain dead or something?" Matt Hill asked.

"Matt, don't even think such a thing, much less say it."

Pace came back to school the following Monday. Teachers fussed over him, the principal did as well. The other students didn't know what to say. Finally, at recess, Kenny Horton socked him in the arm. "Shouldn't have gone out there."

Pace grinned. "Nope, guess not."

When Pace was 12, he and his father saw a log truck turn over on a Honda Civic from out of town. 

"See Pace, see how easily it happens." The voice in his head. "At any moment, gone."

Two college kids on Spring Break were killed, sure enough, instantly.

When Pace was 15, a player from Williams backpedaling on defense fell and cracked the back of his head on the hardwood floor. The crowd silenced. Turns out, a heart attack.

"Never know, Pace. Old. Young. Healthy. Or not."

At 37, Pace got the news his high school girlfriend Annabelle Lewis died from breast cancer. Black hair, dark brown eyes. Funny. Sweet. 

"Oh, Pace, you know how it goes, don't you?"

Still, the news gave him pause.

"Come on, Pace, you know."

When he was 47, Pace heard Johnny Banks died. 

"Sure, send a note to the family."

At 52, his father. 

At 59, his mother.

At 74, his wife. 

"Always about, Pace. Waiting, yes. Coming, yes. But, you know."

Lyman 2024

Unalienable Bunkum

Perhaps our founding papas were selling us a bill of poppycock.

Of course, to be fair, the whole unalienable rights proposition was an idealized notion, but the independence idea needed an aspirational keystone to the whole enterprise. 

What better? That whole "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" gambit. Life. Hooray! Liberty. Hooray! Pursuit of Happiness! Hoo--uh, wait a minute. Pursuit? Why those slippery hedgers. 

No matter. Again, an ideal fostered to anchor the Declaration of Independence. And obviously ideals serve to undergird what follows when the nitty-gritty of human endeavors comes to the fore. 

But, after all, "If men were angels, no government would be necessary". That insight, well that would be from James Madison. And so, game on.

By the way, should you live alone on an island beyond any national sovereignty, delight in that unalienable mush. Meanwhile, as Madison knew, "Wherever there is interest and power to do wrong, wrong will generally be done". 

Don't we know it.

What if--here I merely ask--we from the get-go allowed every moment, every action, every response would be with the wide-eyed perspective that all rights are negotiated between citizens, neighbors, family members, all of the time. 

Nothing unalienable about any of it. Going forward then would be a source of constant tensions, discussions, analyses--nothing rights-wise taken for granted. Always in our face. Every right to be negotiated and renegotiated. 

And since we--I think very nearly all of us--do not live alone on an island, let us come together and savor our efforts to shape human rights that come not from the ether but from the forge of human toil.

 

Fire (F)

The Sunday Fire burned over 1200 acres the first week. The park's bison herd was moved north by way of a dozen local ranchers figuring out a safe passage across their grazing land. Most of the town's folks stayed put. For now. 

Dixon and Charlotte in the evening set their lawn chairs in the bed of the pickup and watched the flames above the main ridge about two miles from their small farm. The kids were staying with her parents until an all-clear was issued. 

Charlotte looked up at the sky. "Think it will ever rain, Dix?"

"Ever? Ever's a long time."

"You know what I mean."

"If you mean to put out the fire, no."

"That too."

"Sure, it will rain. Just don't know when. You think the kids are okay?"

"They're living in the pool and eating junk all day long. They're good."

"I wonder if your dad's living in the shop."

"Most likely."

They sipped on their beers.

"Tell me a love story, Dix."

"A love story?"

"Yes, Dix. A love story."

"Jesus, Char. A love story. You know how they go."

"How's that?"

"They go the same. There's the beginning, then a middle, and then the end."

"Just like that?"

"Yep, just like that."

"Just like that."

"Yep, but they're all different too."

"Tell me."

"Some run hot longer than others. Some go cold quicker than others. Hard to predict."

"You need something to eat?"

"No, not now. Maybe a sandwich later."

"Tell me more, Dix."

"Oh, I don't know. I think a good long run in the middle, that's about the best. And then a quick end I guess."

"Do you know a love story like that?"

"Mom and Dad pretty much went like that."

"You think they ran hot at first?"

"Guess so. I mean, then, sixty-four years, and then Dad's cancer was quick."

"Look at the sky, all orangey. So they were happy?"

"Far as I know."

"So, it was a good love story."

"I think so, mostly."

"Are we going to get burned out, Dix?"

"Not if the wind stays from the southwest. Not if it holds that way."

"Then we're good here?"

"Yep, think so. Think we're going to be okay."

"I'll drink to that, Dix."

Lyman 2024

Dee Dee Banks (F)

For JW

Dee Dee Banks balanced herself on her left foot and with her right reached back behind her to stab at the pedestrian walk button at the corner of Hudson and State streets. Her left hand held the leash connected to Zeus, one of her two Dobermans. 

"Zeus is no girl dog name, Dee Dee."

"I like it just the same."

Her right, leashed to "Horus". 

"What kind of name is that?"

"Egyptian god."

"I thought those dogs were German. Is that a girl name?"

"Oh, Bubba. Just a name I like."

"You read too much, Dee Dee."

The older waitresses at Bucky's say the same thing. "Got her nose in the books again."

"Watcha reading, girl?"

"The Notebook."

Lori smiled. "I saw that one. Mandy, you see the notebook movie?"

"Yep. Saw that one. We got pecan pie today?"

What was it Tony fussed about, told Dee Dee what her problem was. "You need to think about people, too, Dee Dee. Always this book, that book."

"I like to read."

"I know, Dee Dee. I know. Everybody knows, you like to read. And those stupid dogs of yours."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just think about some time with me, think about going more places, seeing some stuff."

"You want me to stop reading?"

"No--not exactly. Just, just not all the time. Like eating with a book on the table. Stuff like that."

"And since when did you stop liking Zeus and Horus?"

"I like them fine. They're dogs."

"I like them."

"No, you love them. 

"They're my dogs."

"I know, Dee Dee."

"I'm taking them to the park--yes, I'm coming back. Hour or so."

"Don't--"

"Horus! Zeus!"

Lyman 2024

Fraidy Evans (F)

--Why, why did Granny Evans, why'd she name me Euphrates?

--Tell her she said, tell her it sounded mellifluous. Euphrates Evans. Mellifluous.

--Mama!

--Girl, it is mellifluous.

--How Granny Evans come to know that word. Never saw her read a word.

--Girl, shut that mouth. 

--Sister India always laughed at me. You never said--

--Girl!

--Even the family calls me Fraidy.

--Now children at the school started that. Second grade.

--Third grade. I told them Euphrates. Euphrates. Billy Horton said you a queen or something. You was Phrates last year. Phrates before that. Now you the queen? No you--now you, you Fraidy.

--Fraidy! Fraidy! Fraidy!

--Miss Warner called me Fraidy. Fraidy, clean the board. Fraidy, do problem 14. Fraidy, you can play tetherball with the boys.

--Fraidy! Fraidy! Fraidy!

--India was mean to me. Why was she so mean, Mama?

--India loved you.

--Mama!

--Hush. Put your dress on and brush your hair. And no ponytail.

--Mama!

--Today you are Euphrates Evans and you are India Evans sister and you will represent the family in all you say and do.

--I don't want to cry. 

--Cry or don't cry. But you will come home that baby girl's aunt Euphrates Evans. You will always be her Aunt Euphrates.

--She will call me Aunt Euphrates.

--Just get that dress on, Fraidy. Please. I just can't today. I just can't. Just get your dress on.

Lyman 2024 

At Rest (F)

"Sit, son, sit with me."

"As you wish, my--yes, father."

"This cool air deceives us. Summer's heat will come."

"And our crops will grow and the herds will fatten."

"True enough. So what did you do today as Prince, my son?"

"I studied at our accounts for the northern estates."

"And?"

"All seemed in order."

"Good. What did you do today as my son?"

"I am your son now. Sitting here--sitting in Mother's favorite spot. She would say to look at the highest point and bring my eyes down slowly, taking in the trees blooming, down to flowers and vines, down to the grasses, down to the smallest stones that are the path."

"Your mother was a great person."

"You miss her? Very much?"

"I miss her as my queen. I miss her as my spouse. As a man, I miss her the more so."

"You must know, Father, how Lady Bankston--"

"Stop."

"I'm sorry, Father, but--"

"No more. Tell me, what did you do as a man today?"

"As a man? Today I was Prince of the Realm. Now, with you I am a son."

"Do not neglect to think of yourself as you view yourself. Always a prince is a prince is a prince, and though I love you as my son, you are more a man than you are my son."

"Are you more a man than a king? More a man than a father?"

"A hard question. I feel less a king and more a man. I even more a father and less a king. I will be your father to the end, but to be king to the end I can not say."

"You are weary, Father?"

"Yes, the right word, weary."

"But you are a strong king, beloved--"

"Even so."

"You are in good health?"

"Yes, yes."

"Think of all you have built, you will be venerated for all time."

"Ah, perhaps in some way the stones will speak for me. My tomb, a silent reminder. But for me, dust from dust, dust to dust, the dust endures until carried away by the slightest whisper of the wind. I daresay your children's children will scamper over my tomb as if no more than a barnyard fence or a low rock wall dividing a sheep pasture from the cornfields.

"Here, look at this handful of gravel. I will be gone long before feet grind this to dust."

"Perhaps, true enough. But no poets will sing the legacy of these little stones."

"Son, no poets will sing the man. Who dines with us tonight?"

"Just Sister, you and I."

"Perhaps she will allow me a little more wine then."

"A great hope to cling to, Father."

Lyman 2024

 

Hamilton Doctor (F)

I think I may be clinically depressed.

Now that I really think of it, I am.

Now that's some cogito going on right there.

Well, pretty sure.

I've got a pretty bad case of the zeitgeist up the keister.

Not to get all verklempty about it, but the modern world sucks in such a super huge way that I can hardly stand not puking nearly every moment of the day. 

Now that's some poetry, right there. All imagey and stuff. 

Saw that a local concrete driveway winding up to a bloated manse was an award-winning concrete driveway. Hope the designer got a Golden Paver. Proud as punch to have that on the mantle, don't you know it. I know it.

The thing about my depression is I don't really want to talk about it. 

Jilly says Ham, Ham, tell me what's wrong. What's wrong, Ham? Tell me. Tell me. Please. Oh, Ham, please tell me. Don't you love me anymore. The car windows aren't working right. Ham? Tell me, Ham.

I could start there. 

Lila comes home from the U--the U. The U. The U this, the U that. She says Daddy I don't think Renaissance Art is right for me. Dance could be something I might want to consider. Daddy are you listening. Maybe I should take another year off. Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? I need a new phone. Is something wrong, Daddy?

Or start there.

Listened to a pitch today for 12-grain bread. Khorasan wheat. Must I give this my most complete and immediate attention? Must I? What. The. Hell.

Bloody hell.

My undivided attention. Do not pass Go. Do not divide my attention.

Davy wants to go to India. Some place in the mountains. Dad, he says, I am jacked about this trip. Jacked. Need new boots, hiking equipment, Dad. Dad? Dad, I'm serious. This trip will change my life. It may change all our lives. Dad? What's bothering you, Dad? Jacked, Dad. I need a new phone. I am so jacked.

Maybe I should change all our lives.

Would it kill anyone to shut the hell up. Just for a few minutes out of the day? Am I asking too much?

Jeez, I've got issues. 

Lyman 2024

Junk Drawer (7)

I see Boeing's stock price is down around 25% so far this year. Of course, their difficulties seem to routinely make the news. Tough stretch, unless you are the outgoing CEO Dave Calhoun. Calhoun may get up to $45 million in compensation as he exits the company. He replaced another CEO under heavy pressure who garnered a reported $62 million to--well, let me be blunt--get the hell out of there. See, kids, how the world works? Now that's a participation trophy.

Greenstone Resource Partners LLC ring a bell? Nope, me neither. GSC Farm LLC? Nope. Cibola, Arizona? Nope. Why on the radar now? Because GSC bought 485 acres in Cibola Valley in 2013/14. Now GRP is using water rights to sell, for a profit understandably, water to communities like Queen Creek outside of Phoenix nearly 200 miles away. So not a farming operation? Not so much. GRP has 25 subsidiaries in the water transfer business. I don't know enough about taxes and accounting to say anything snarky. But since the company won't go on record about why such an organizational approach--well, go figure.

How about Conservative Move? Based in Texas, the company is a conduit for residential moves from Blue states to Red states. In fact, South Carolina, where I am a resident, is red hot for so-inclined transplants, hotter than Florida or Texas--metaphorically. CM's website says, "When your community no longer reflects morals and values, it might be time for a move." Cagey wording that. May I suggest the word your be slipped in front of morals and in front of values. 

Okay, okay, I'll join the fray. Beyonce's "Sixteen Carriages" is Song of the Year. Genre? I'm going with Americana.

My five-year-old almond trees--yes, here in Upstate South Carolina--are heavy with green almonds this spring. Maybe this is the year I roast my own.

Fun flower facts: Most roses sold in the US come from Ecuador, and most peonies come from the Nederlands.

I see more and more ads for honey bacon...because...you can't have too much of too much of a good thing.

Going, Going, Going...

...Going, going, gone...fishing. A chance to be part of an offshore fishing tourney out of Charleston? Hell to the yes.

Two 300 hp outboards, center console, blasting outbound between the jetties before dawn...not so much. 

Why not? The tournament was an offshore event for sailboats. Yep, sailboats--masts and rigging and lines and sails and such. Putting out to sea maxed out at 6-9 mph, whether by diesel or under sail.  

Make no mistake, I'm on that boat to help with the sailing and provide extra shifts on the helm. In fact, the boat belonged to a competitor in our local racing association. But I mostly was in go-mode whenever the chance to be on a boat came around.

We left the dock around 7 Friday evening, motored out of the harbor, and turned eastward. I took the helm at 8, while the skipper and 2 of his buddies rigged the boat for fishing and arranged the rods for what we hoped would be hot action come Saturday.

The sea was uncommonly flat, the wind nil, and just before my shift ended at midnight a light shower passed over us. The air was much warmer, the smell distinctive, a bit, somehow, tropical.

Being on a sailboat when conditions are calm is a frustrating time, of course. Yet if the sails are up and the lightest stirring flutters the sails, the mood immediately brightens. Maybe a little more pressure and the boat makes way and the sails fill out and more pressure and the boat heels and the tiller stiffens and, by gawd, she is a sailboat after all.

Saturday morning the skies were cloudless and the boat rhythmically pitched in 2-3' swells. Radio chatter from the other boats in our contest and the powerboat fleet complained about the conditions. No good for fishing.

Our lines went out, 2 rods set in holders lashed to the stern pulpit, 2 rods attached to stanchions, one each on the port side and the starboard side. The mainsail was still under its cover, the jib was lightly secured on the foredeck.

Shortly after lunch--a mound of sliced ham, a slather of Duke's mayo, between slices of pumpernickel--I was back on the helm. On the port side, the first strike. One of the fishing guys grabbed it out of the holder. A heavy strike he reported. The skipper pushed the boom to the starboard side, while I slowed our forward speed. 

The fight was simple, line in, line back out, line in, line back out, line in, line in, line in, thrashing at the surface. What?!? Hell no! Barracuda.

The skipper grabbed a gaff. 

"Cut the line," I said. Another voiced the same call. "Cut that damn line!"

Now a word about the cockpit on this boat. Deep, about 5' in length, and reasonably comfortable sitting back. 

"Cut the line!"

To no avail. The skipper gaffed the fish and tugged it up and over the lifeline and dropped it head-to-stern in the cockpit. I lifted my legs over the tiller as I maintained our course. The 40" fish snapped and convulsed and writhed, and my view was straight into its open jaws, its teeth like a jagged set of long needles.

After grabbing a wooden mallet from below, the skipper--barefoot by the way--straddled the fish and with five or six heavy blows, smashed in its head. 

"We keeping it?" the rod bearer asked.

"Nope. No category for it, so no money to win." He pulled out a tape measure for an accurate accounting in the boat's log. We were 62 miles east from Ft. Sumter.

Over the side, the predator now part of the sea's buffet.

Postscript: Sunday, on the way back in, conditions unchanged except for being a little warmer, we had one more strike. Again, I was on the helm, the rod behind my right shoulder. Another crew member reached for the tiller, I grabbed the rod, and in short order without too much of a battle--disappointingly so--I had a dolphin in the cockpit. No need to gaff. Nothing to be overly excited about fish-wise. But, it would be a contest entry. 

The fish weighed 19 lbs 9 oz, and surprisingly won the tournament both in the category and as the largest fish taken in the tourney. The skipper pocketed $300, and I got the trophy for the winning dolphin. 

When I went up to accept the award, someone yelled out "How big was it?" and much knowledgeable laughter followed.

My retort, simple: Big enough.

 

An Index (22)

                             Task/Calories per hour

Knitting/70.7

Operating electric sewing machine/73.1

Working at desk while sitting/92.4

Operating foot-driven sewing machine/97.7

Typing while seated/96.9

Standing at rest/107

Standing, light work/140

Working on car assembly line/176.5

Walking on level, 3-4 km an hour/181.8

Forging metal/187.9

General household chores/196.5

General lab work/205.6

Gardening/322.7

Hoeing/347.3

Coal mining/425.3

Loading a truck/435.9

Running at endurance speeds/600-1500

W.P.T. James and E.C. Schofield (1990). Human Energy Requirements: A Manual for Planners and Nutritionists. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

A Fitting Tribute

I know the heart of the matter will evade my grasp, but the attempt has to be made.

In a message to the family, I identified Chuck (1942-2024) as a boon companion. Old-fashioned phrasing, to be sure.

He--"Doc" many of us called him--was one of my closest friends for more than a decade. A friendship that included some serious moments, but mostly a lot of foolishness. A lot of foolishness.

Dependable. Especially when I needed help.

Few people know he tumbled into the Cooper River while trying to come aboard my sailboat after releasing a bow line. "Let the boat go," I said. Nope. After being pulled from the water by marina staff, he insisted we still take the boat out. We did. Nice sail.

Doc had a way of enjoying new experiences like a kid in a candy store for the first time. Standing in the companionway during a Wednesday night race. Setting out stakes for a house my wife and I were having built. 

Working with Special Ed kids weighed on him more than he let on. The very notion that some of his students may not make it to the end of the year ate at him. Rarely did he address that reality, but it hovered nearby.

He dutifully listened to my rants. Not too many I hope, but always he listened patiently. 

He loved a social gathering, especially the ones he instigated. Food, drinks, and pool, and, man, could he stir the pot.

Hundreds of games of pool were shot upstairs in his house. Full bar. Good table. Really, hundreds of games. 

Smart. More than he sometimes let on. And more than that, clever. 

Summations such as this one seem to me less than time well spent, but somehow they seem necessary. Somehow, to get said what needs to be said--too elusive in the end.

His was--and here I borrow a phrase--a life lived. 

Rest in peace, Doc.

The Book of Cortland (F)

Was on the road out of Hickory Grove, was on the way to Smyrna.

The road was dark, the double-bottom crossed the double yellow. The slow roll surprised me. Don't remember much. Broke my hand against the driver side glass. The car just kept rolling and rolling. 

"Mr. Bass?  Mr. Bass? Do you hear me?"  Yep, heard that. Told me later I didn't open my eyes until inside the ambulance. Bright and noisy and confusing is what it was. Loud. 

Funny how quiet leaving the road. And then don't remember much.

Deputy at the hospital taking my statement. "You missed the trees." Young guy, swallowed hard. "You lucky to be talking to me."

Yep, some kind of luck.

Those headlights nearly on me. Flashing brights. Brakes screeching.

Think I said out loud "son of a bitch". Turned the wheel. And then don't remember much.

Lucky.

So lucky, hiked from Hickory Grove to Smyrna. 

Nancy cried. "Why go back to that road? Ever?" Debbie cried. "Daddy! What? Daddy, that's crazy talk!" Stuart just shook his head and walked out the back door.

Wanted to know the road under my feet. To see what I didn't see. Trees. Lots of trees. Barns. Fields for haying. Horses. Farmhouses.

"I'm not driving you down there, Cort. Never."

"I'll drive myself and make it a round trip."

"You just got cleared to go back to work."

"Don't need my hand to walk. So all good."

"Daddy, let me go with you."

"Nope."

Call it enlightenment. Book says eyes open wide. Clarity comes. 

Saw nothing, saw everything. Faint tire marks still. No sign of where my car went in. A lot of trees. Some dogwoods blooming in the woods. Cell tower about 100 yards back.

Looked hard. Didn't remember much. 

But now at least I know.

Lyman 2024

Junk Drawer (6)

File under 'Not nice to fool with Mother Nature': In a drastic attempt to protect their beachfront homes, residents in Salisbury, Massachusetts, invested $500,000 in a sand dune to defend against encroaching tides. After being completed last week, the barrier made from 14,000 tons of sand lasted just 72 hours before it was completely washed away, according to WCVB. (From The Daily Beast)

The paddywhack is a ligament that connects a cow's head to its neck. So the next time you sing that song--well, now you know.

The 2024 South Carolina Presidential primaries: Trump - 452,496 votes and Haley - 299,084, and Biden - 126,336. In 2020 over 2.4 million votes were cast in the presidential election in SC. 

The ad for a product using the phrase "LOAN CANON" is dumb. The ad for a product that turns your lungs into a "PHLEGM CANON"--boom, there's a visual that's hard to unsee. 

In 2005 South Carolina's electric co-ops' coal-fired power plants generated 79% of the co-ops' power production. In 2023, 31%.

Kellogg's CEO Gary Pilnick recently suggested "The cereal category has always been quite affordable, and it tends to be a great destination when consumers are under pressure. If you think about the cost of cereal for a family versus what they might otherwise do, that's going to be more affordable." Yep, nothing says going somewhere special like a bowl of Rice Krispies. I'm thinking-just spitballin' really--that Pilnick and family are not supping on bowls of cereal for dinner. Pilnick earned $5 million in salary and incentives last year.

Dallas Seavey has won the Iditarod sled dog race 5 times. Unfortunately this time around his dogs got into it with a moose and Seavey shot and killed the moose. Fair enough, rules-wise. But he needed to gut the moose before continuing the race. Yep, it's in the rules. Officials determined Seavey didn't get the gutting done in a proper manner, so they docked him 2 hours as a penalty. 

Mush.