Monday, January 22, 2018

A Stolen Porch Sit


Now that it's no longer too cold for the pooch to be outside, it's too damp, according to the missus. So, when I take out the Mighty Dachshund, we sit on the porch until the missus comes looking for us, usually about five minutes.

When we went out at 5AM this morning, the missus was asleep, so I knew we could get a little extra time. It WAS damp, of course, but if I could stand sitting there in my skivvies, I knew the pooch would be okay in her fur coat. It's 43F according to the computer just now. It's pleasantly quiet at that hour of the day, but you do hear and see a few things you might not during daylight hours.

I probably wouldn't have heard the bang that sounded like someone flopping something large into the bed of a truck. The sound came from a direction that was hard to discern, it could have been in the housing development on the far side of the hill, or it could have been on the property on the other side. During daylight hours, I wouldn't have seen the headlights pulling from a driveway out the road. Now I know that he apparently leaves for work rather early in the morning.

There were no wildlife sounds yet, no predawn twittering of birds, howling of coyotes or foxes, or hooting of owls. What I did hear, I might have mistaken for a nearly inaudible hum of insects in the summertime. Hearing it now, I recognize it for the slight tinnitus I live with. Too many days of off-bearing the sawmill and running the tractor in those pre-hearing-protection days are making themselves remembered in my old age. It's not too bad, thankfully.

After some time of enjoying our porch-sit, the pooch arose and faced the door, signaling that she'd had her fill of nature and wanted to go back inside. Once inside, I noticed that the bathroom door was shut, which means that the pooch heard the missus stirring around and wanted to see what she was up to. The clock said we'd been outside for half-an-hour. The pooch and I shared a stuffed oatmeal cookie and then went our separate ways, she to be with the missus and me to type this up.

I notice that she's now lying in the doorway of my closet-sized office, snoring away. She apparently decided that she wanted to keep both of us in sight or easy hearing. I guess she wasn't quite ready to give up my company entirely. She'll return to her spot my my wife's bed here shortly, when I go upstairs to catch a few more winks.

It will be long past dawn when we go out again. I'll have to be civilized and put on my jeans and the missus will probably come and haul us in after five minutes, unless she's drifted off in front of the TV. We can always hope! - LOL Copyright 2018

Sacrificing Kid's Health For Illegal Voters (a link)


Sunday, January 21, 2018

Obama's Coup Plans (a link)


A Little Feinstein Corruption For A Sunday Night

Wes Criddle
The US has entered into a contract with a real estate firm to sell 56 buildings that currently house U.S. Post Offices. All 56 were built, operated, and paid for by tax-paying American citizens. Now enjoy reading the rest: The government has decided it no longer needs these buildings, most of which are located on prime land in towns and cities across the country.
The sale of these properties will fetch about$19 billion!
A regular real estate commission will be paid to the company that was given the exclusive listing for handling the sales. That company is CRI and it belongs to a man named Richard Blum.
Richard Blum is the husband of Senator Dianne Feinstein!(Most voters and many of the government people who approved the deal have not made the connection between the two because they have different last names).
Senator Feinstein and her husband stand to make a fortune, estimated at between $950 million and $1.1 BILLION from these transactions!
His company is the sole real estate agent on the sale!
CRI will be making a minimum of 2% and as much as 6% commission on each and every sale. All of the properties that are being sold are all fully paid for. They were purchased with U.S. taxpayers’ dollars.
The U.S.P.S. is allowed free and clear, tax exempt use. The only cost to keep them open is the cost to actually keep the doors open and the heat and lights on. The United States Postal Service doesn't even have to pay county property taxes on these subject properties. QUESTION? Would you put your house in foreclosure just because you couldn't afford to pay the electric bill?
Well, the folks in Washington have given the Post Office the OK to do it! Worse yet, most of the net proceeds of the sales will go back to the U.S.P.S, an organization that is so poorly managed that they have lost $117 billion dollars in the past 10 years!
No one in the mainstream media is even raising an eyebrow over the conflict of interest and on the possibility of corruption on the sale of billions of dollars worth of public assets.
How does a U.S. Senator from San Francisco manage to get away with organizing and lobbying such a sweet deal ? Has our government become so elitist that they have no fear of oversight?
It's no mere coincidence that these two public service crooks have different last names; a feeble attempt at avoiding transparency in these type of transactions.
Pass this info on before it's pulled from the Internet. You can verify it on TruthorFiction and Snopes:
If this doesn't upset you, don't complain about the corruption and the ineptness in D.C.

"Down To The River To Pray" (a link)


Two Americas

The Democrats are right, there are two Americas. The America that works and the America that doesn’t. The America that contributes and the America that doesn’t. It’s not the haves and the have nots, it’s the dos and the don’ts. Some people do their duty as Americans, obey the law, support themselves, contribute to society and others don’t. That’s the divide in America .
It’s not about income inequality, it’s about civic irresponsibility. It’s about a political party that preaches hatred, greed and victimization in order to win elective office. It’s about a political party that loves power more than it loves its country.
That’s not invective, that’s truth, and it’s about time someone said it.
The politics of envy was on proud display when President Obama pledged the rest of his term to fighting “income inequality.” He noted that some people make more than other people, that some people have higher incomes than others, and he says that’s not just. That is the rationale of thievery.
The other guy has it, you want it, Obama will take it for you. Vote Democrat. That is the philosophy that produced Detroit.
It is the electoral philosophy that is destroying America. It conceals a fundamental deviation from American values and common sense because it ends up not benefiting the people who support it, but a betrayal.
The Democrats have not empowered their followers, they have enslaved them in a culture of dependence and entitlement, of victim-hood and anger instead of ability and hope. Obama's premise – that you reduce income inequality by debasing the successful–seeks to deny the successful the consequences of their choices and spare the unsuccessful the consequences of their choices. Because, by and large, income variations in society are a result of different choices leading to different consequences.
Those who choose wisely and responsibly have a far greater likelihood of success, while those who choose foolishly and irresponsibly have a far greater likelihood of failure.
Success and failure usually manifest themselves in personal and family income. You choose to drop out of high school or to skip college – and you are apt to have a different outcome than someone who gets a diploma and pushes on with purposeful education.
You have your children out of wedlock and life is apt to take one course; you have them within a marriage and life is apt to take another course. Most often in life our destination is determined by the course we take.
My doctor, for example, makes far more than I do. There is significant income inequality between us. Our lives have had an inequality of outcome, but, our lives also have had an in equality of effort. While my doctor went to college and then devoted his young adulthood to medical school and residency, I got a job in a restaurant. He made a choice, I made a choice, and our choices led us to different outcomes. His outcome pays a lot better than mine. Does that mean he cheated and Barack Obama needs to take away his wealth? No, it means we are both free men in a free society where free choices lead to different outcomes.
It is not inequality Barack Obama intended to take away, it is freedom. The freedom to succeed, and the freedom to fail. There is no true option for success if there is no true option for failure. The pursuit of happiness means a whole lot less when you face the punitive hand of government if your pursuit brings you more happiness than the other guy. Even if the other guy sat on his arse and did nothing. Even if the other guy made a lifetime’s worth of asinine and short sighted decisions.
Barack Obama and the Democrats preach equality of outcome as a right, while completely ignoring inequality of effort.
The simple Law of the Harvest – as ye sow, so shall ye reap – is sometimes applied as, “The harder you work, the more you get.”
Obama would turn that upside down. Those who achieve are to be punished as enemies of society and those who fail are to be rewarded as wards of society. Entitlement will replace effort as the key to upward mobility in American society if Barack Obama had got his way. He seeked a lower common denominator society in which the government besieges the successful and productive to foster equality through mediocrity. He and his party speak of two Americas, and their grip on power is based on using the votes of one to sap the productivity of the other. America is not divided by the differences in our outcomes, it is divided by the differences in our efforts.
It is a false philosophy to say one man’s success comes about unavoidably as the result of another man’s victimization.
What Obama offered was not a solution, but a separatism. He fomented division and strife, pitted one set of Americans against another for his own political benefit. That’s what socialists offer. Marxist class warfare wrapped up with a bow. Two Americas, coming closer each day to proving the truth to Lincoln’s maxim that a house divided against itself cannot stand.
“Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you respond to it.”

"12 Strong" (a link)


Women's March Posting LAST YEAR'S Photos - Guess WHY? (a link)


FBI "Failed To Preserve" 5 Months Of Anti-Texts (a link)


Ranch Country (a link)


Dickie Durbin Admits That He Doesn't Work For Americans (a link)


Trump Suggests "Nuclear Option" On Funding Bill (a link)


Sweden Preparing For Civil War (a link)


Dreamers Have Double Crime Rate Of Same Age Natives (a link)


Refugee Claims There Are "Too Many Laws" (a link)


Saturday, January 20, 2018

Trump Saving Alaskans That Obama Let Die (a link)


Hillary's Communication Director Admits DACA Is Purely About The Votes (a link)


Sebastion Gorka Speaks On "Obamagate" (a link)


January Thaw And Related Subjects


Yesterday got UP to freezing for the first time in quite a while. Today, it made it up to 50F. Tomorrow or the next day, it's supposed to make it up to 60 and then go back to above-freezing days and below-freezing nights. That will soon have the maples flowing if it holds. A little rain is forecast for the next couple days. Most of our scant covering of snow is gone this evening. The brown looks so BEAUTIFUL! - LOL

The furnace has hardly shut off since Christmas and I've left the water running a trickle for all but two days during that time. The snow never melted off the roof, despite not having especially good insulation. It DID melt just enough that ice dams were beginning to form and drip through where the porch roof meets the house, since it refroze so quickly when it hit the porch roof. That problem seems to have resolved itself today.

Other than being old and achy, we've managed not to catch any flu or serious colds yet. The wife's suspected oncoming flu was apparently a false alarm, thank goodness. I took her and the pooch out for a little cruise in the sunshine this afternoon. I think they were both glad to see the sun.

The missus is still watching a lot of old westerns to pass the time and, of course, I'm on my computer entirely too much. I tried out my new radio for the first time last night. It's a far cry from the classic old floor radio I had as a kid. With that old am/fm/shortwave, I could listen to stations from all over the country and a few from other continents.

Due to budgetary constraints, I bought the second cheapest radio that Coby had to offer. The antenna only extends about 18”, and it requires two AA batteries with no 110 option. The adjusting dials are so small as to be next to worthless; moving the dial almost imperceptibly can give you a whole other station. A larger wheel would have made it much easier to tune. Sound quality seems better with the ear buds. I'm curious to see what I can pick up with the shortwave option once I attach a wire antenna to the end of the existing extendable one.

When I was a kid, I could get the old pioneer stations in some of the major cities, plus “Radio WOO-WOO,” the truckers station, out of Fort Wayne Indiana, I think, and “Wolfman Jack,” wherever he was broadcasting from and innumerable others. And then there was Radio Havana, BBC London, Quito, Ecuador, Radio Quebec and others. You might say the old radio expanded my farm-boy horizons, even if they were dark ones.

Last night, the second station I turned to was playing light classical instrumental music with no commercials. I listened until the hour change to learn where it was from, and it turned out to be a station from a local college in enemy territory a few miles upriver. At the hour, they changed to what sounded like Italian folk music. Though it was still instrumental and pleasant sounding, it was a little energetic for someone trying to fall to sleep, so I turned off the little transistor and rolled over. Copyright 2018

Dems Are Lying About Shutdown (Surprise, surprise!) (a link)


Here's The 65 Lawmakers Asking For The Memo Release (a link)


Kinda makes you wonder about any who aren't ON THE LIST!

Girl Scout Cookies - Yum, Yum!


And this doesn't even address the fact that they've become just another politically correct brainwashing club that's aligned with Planned Parenthood.

Sorry it doesn't fit the space, but you get the idea.

Soros May Be Banned From Own Homeland (a link)


We should do the same.

Kalifornia DETERMINED To Drive Businesses From State (a link)


REAL DACA Number Is 3.6 MILLION, NOT 800K (a link)


Trump Follows Through On Funding Cut To Palestine (a link)


WHY are we giving the murderous heathens ONE RED CENT?

Lawsuit Against Univ. of Iowa Pits Religious Freedom Against "Gay rights" (a link)


To The Dems


We’ve got Senior Citizens deciding whether to eat or buy medicine and you low-lifes are worried about illegals?!?

7 Factors Destroying America (a link)


Hopefully, Trump can turn at least SOME of it around

We don't like this getting old!


Naturally, we never thought we'd get here so soon. All the aches and pains of geezerhood were to be expected; I just never thought I'd have to retire early to fully “enjoy” them. My heart trouble causes me no pain, just aggravation from diminished abilities. My shoulders, though, have been hurting nearly non-stop for a year now, particularly my left one, which has never really been right from youth. For the past couple weeks, though, my back has been out, probably from sitting at this computer too much, as the outside world has been so inhospitable.

My real concern, however, is about my wife. She's been in near constant pain around her breast implant for years. Also, she's fallen several times in the past couple years and she now has near constant pain in her right hip, enough so that she she sometimes screams out in pain, even lying in bed. Walking is NOT a pleasant experience for her, but she doggedly persists. Unfortunately, favoring her right hip has put extra strain on her left leg, so the ankle on that side is now giving her trouble. Add to that all the various pains in other joints from arthritis and it's understandable why the other day, she said that sometimes she wishes the Lord would just go ahead and let her die. She says the pain is aging her face. That's another big blow to a woman.

I'm concerned that her hip pain might be a fracture; she says it's just her grandma's crippling arthritis that she's inherited. Naturally, she won't let me take her for an x-ray, because of making a bill. She probably wouldn't stay off it anyway, she never does what the doctor says. She always quits taking her medicine too soon if she has a problem, if she takes it at all. I got her some cinnamon pills for pain, but she refused to take them. A couple days ago, I got some turmeric pills for the same purpose. She took ONE with a bowl of chili, of all things, and decided that THE PILL upset her stomach.

Yesterday, we went to Chinamart to pick up a few things and she said people were coughing and sneezing on her everywhere she turned. Today, she's a little sick at her stomach and says she feels like she's been beat all over. So far, she isn't sneezing or coughing. She felt so bad last night that she actually let me help her in the kitchen. That's a first in nearly 35 years, though I've frequently offered to do so. Say a prayer for her, if you will; I'd appreciate it. Copyright 2018

Friday, January 19, 2018

GOP Rep. Demanding "Release The Memo!" (a link)


Chapter 17

I must confess, I took more than a little liberty in telling this story, but Kenny was a good man. I hope you enjoy the story.

Chapter 17


The Reverend Doctor Kenneth W. Anderson was an extremely distinguished-looking gentleman when he was all gussied up, though most folks had never seen him that way. His kind, intelligent eyes, his handsome face and his snowy-white hair and beard would have allowed him to pass as a professor on any campus. On the rare occasions when he was without his beard, he looked no less distinguished, but more like someone’s lovable grandpa, which in fact he was, not that that the poor fellow ever got to see his grandchildren more than once or twice in his life.
After seeing too much blood and gore in the big war, he’d come home with the idea to promote love, peace and salvation. Having slept in the mud, dust, snow, rain, heat and the cold for far too long, and eaten burned food, uncooked food and no food at all, the idea of home and hearth strongly appealed to him. So it was that on his way back from the Pacific, he should fall in love with a beautiful young lady who lived near the base in California where he spent the last few weeks of his enlistment. They married while he was still stationed there and, when he was discharged, Delores dutifully followed her husband to his home in the hills of West Virginia for a short visit with the in-laws before heading to New England and the seminary.
It was rough going for them as he worked his way through the first and second rounds at the seminary and then onward toward his doctorate. He managed to work part-time through the school-year at a local service station and full-time during the summer. She got a full-time job as a seamstress in a sweatshop where she soon rose to pattern-maker through her skill. Unfortunately, women pattern-makers only got paid half what the men pattern-makers did, so their financial lot improved little. It actually got worse when little Delilah came along. It was the very week he got his sheep-skin that Delores packed up Delilah and headed back to California saying that she’d had enough.
A month of almost daily phone calls and a week-long personal visit were not enough to convince her to stick it out until he could get a placement from the state convention. He told her that she’d never have to work again if she would just come back; he’d already gotten a job with a local freight company in Newport as he awaited his assignment. No evidence and no promises would move her, life was better in California and she had no intentions of traipsing from one town to another at the convention’s whim. He knew Delores was the only woman he would ever love, and now she and his beloved Delilah were a continent away. The Reverend Doctor Kenneth W. Anderson was a broken man.
He was living with his brother Wes and helping on the farm for his board; he paid no rent, the place was part his by inheritance anyway. When his wife sent the papers, she asked for no child support, she had a good-paying job and was living with her parents. He signed them as they were, quit his job at the freight company and only came out of his room for bathroom breaks or meals for over a month. His sister-in-law said she heard him mumbling prayers or softly humming hymns anytime she passed his room—day or night. It was his 35th birthday when he ended his self-imposed sequestration; his hair was beginning to show white at the roots. The year was 1955; churches had no place for separated or divorced preachers; he’d just spent nine years of his life getting a doctorate he would never use.
No one ever learned how he chose his new vocation, but his next day was spent hauling and sorting junk from behind a local service station and selling it at one of the local junkyards. The battered pickup he’d purchased to move his things from New England to West Virginia became his new source of income. Even without advertising, half the town soon knew that if you had an attic, basement or garage to clean out, the soft-spoken Kenneth Anderson was the man to haul the unwanted goods away; and his price was always fair.
Now mind you, Kenny (as he now asked to be called) was no garbage man; not that he was too proud for that line of work, his truck just wasn’t big enough to handle the volume, plus he thought it would be too much of a daily grind. No, Kenny was now a “junkman.” He’d haul anything salvageable or burnable for a price, but he was especially on the lookout for any saleable metal, glass, antiques or usable second-hand merchandise.
His system was simple: always get paid twice for everything you can. First, he charged a modest fee for hauling the stuff away; then, he’d take the load out to the hollow on the family farm to sort out the usable items and the saleable metal and glass. Antiques and good saleable second-hand items were put under tarps, car hoods or sheets of tin to protect them from the weather. Really “fine” stuff would rate being put under the shed that was originally built for his old truck. Things that needed “further processing” were hauled farther up the hollow with the stuff to be burned.
Kenny’s era of operation was before the days of the E.P.A. and before “recycling” became a yuppie catch-word. No one objected to him cluttering up the hollow, after all, it was private property and mostly out of sight of the highway. Besides, the smoke from his fires was pretty well dissipated by the time it left Anderson property.
As for the recycling aspect, men like Kenny, though looked down on as “junkmen” by many of their own generation, today would be labeled “pioneers of recycling” or “green-minded entrepreneurs” and be considered ahead of their time. Kenny just knew that he made a good living from things that other people foolishly threw away.
Kenny followed a very logical set of procedures. Glass could have no attached labels and metal could have no wood, rubber or plastic coverings, so paper, cardboard and pieces of broken furniture were mixed with these “impure” recyclables and the piles were set afire. Just as melting used silver and skimming the dross leaves behind a purer metal, fire burned the labels from the glass, wood and plastic from steel and iron parts and insulation from copper wiring and plumbing fixtures. The “purified” recyclables were left sitting on a pile of ash where the glass could be sorted by color and the metal by type.
Back then, no one had heard scare-mongering celebrities clamoring over “global warming” or legitimate scientists telling about acid rain or air-borne carcinogens. Many folks wouldn’t have cared if they had. So, Kenny ran his business unbothered by do-gooders and in blissful ignorance of any damage he may have been doing to the environment.
As any good businessman knows, success often depends as much on cutting costs as in having high gross profits. Despite an education on matters of a higher plain, his mind had a vise-like grip on sound business principles to the point where he seldom let convenience or desire for some small thing in town cause him to run his truck on an unprofitable errand.
If he was out of something, he’d live without it until he made his next trip to town. If he had a job hauling away someone’s basement rubbish, he’d try to drop off a load of junk or antiques to a dealer on his way to get his newest load of “raw materials.” If he had no current need for cash, and no hauling jobs, he’d just spend his time sorting, burning and resorting to have a load ready for his next jaunt to town. Thus, when he went to the marble factory or to the Department of Highways Paint Department (think “reflective paint”), he’d have a full load of glass and a good paycheck. He planned likewise with items for the second-hand shops. Of course, like semi drivers, he’d still occasionally have to run “dead-head,” but he kept it to a minimum.
Kenny wasn’t a hard man to bargain with; he never held out for that last possible dollar, he just wanted a fair price, a happy customer and a steadily flowing income stream. He rarely had to haul an item home, and if he did it often sold even then.
Over the years, a group of folks who weren’t squeamish and appreciated a good deal learned of Kenny’s outdoor emporium. Parking their cars by the highway, they’d meander on foot up the cluttered hollow, rummaging through piles of salvaged metal or peeking under tarps or other improvised coverings looking for the “good stuff.” After finding their treasures, customers would find Kenny and pay for them. Many small items were only a nickel or a dime; a few things were a quarter or a dollar. Really “fine” stuff from the shed might run $5-25, but might include a whole dining room suit with one broken chair. Many a low budget apartment was furnished with goods from Kenny’s hollow.
Folks who did their scavenging after their day’s work would often catch Kenny at supper. One of his favorite meals was out-of-date hotdogs given to him by store owners for whom he’d hauled a load of pallets or boxes. He’d build a small fire, put the hotdogs and some water in a battered aluminum pot and bring them to a rolling boil. He’d then wrap them in out-of-date bread or buns from the same source and feel he was eating like a king—and for free mind you!
If you approached him at such a time, he would somehow manage to pluck a hotdog from the steaming pot with a filthy-looking finger and thumb, hold it towards you and ask pleasantly, “Want a weenie?” It was strange how everyone had just eaten before they arrived. Wiser folks, understanding the deeper meaning of the offer, would pull up a cement block, an overturned bucket or a rickety chair and chat a while with him. For those with the ability, he’d easily discuss Thoreau, Longfellow, Shakespeare, Melville, Genesis, Revelation, John Bunyan or Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. With those uninterested in such things, he’d just as happily talk about hunting, fishing, farming, the high price of gasoline or the weather. Of course his all-time favorite subject was the perfectly good stuff that people threw away.
It truly amazed him the things people would discard, even knowing that they could run an ad in the paper and sell it themselves. It wasn’t a deprived childhood that caused Kenny’s amazement; he was no more deprived than any other country kid who grew up during the depression. It was just a near-total lack of materialism in his nature that made him wonder why someone would discard a bed that not only wasn’t worn out, but was probably better constructed than the new one purchased as its replacement. And why buy a cheaply-made plastic transistor radio when the mahogany and tube version on the mantle still brought in stations from Quebec, Canada to Quito, Ecuador? And Clothing! Hardly a week went by that he didn’t get a new suit, or at least a sport coat in somebody’s cast-offs. He was the spiffiest-dressed junkman in Newport, at least until the new duds turned charcoal-grey like all his other clothes.
It was part of Kenny’s money-saving plan not to have a house of his own. There was always his room in the farmhouse if he needed it, but he had discovered that he slept just fine on the seat of his pickup. He never used a truck with air-conditioning; he said it made his bones ache. He could sleep three seasons of the year with his windows down, as long as it wasn’t blowing rain. If it was, he’d move the truck so he could at least crack the leeward window a tad for ventilation.
On mild winter nights, a wool blanket or down comforter salvaged from his hauling would often negate the need for the heater. He always said he was “snug as a bug in a rug” down to about 20 degrees, after that, the heater earned its keep. He’d leave one window open a bit and let the truck idle all night to keep him warm. When it got down around zero, he’d take his room in the house. As soon as the weather “warmed” back up to about 20 degrees, though, Kenny went back to sleeping in his truck.
About the time in Kenny’s life when most men get a gold watch and a kick in the seat of the pants, Foot (rhymes with boot) Beidermier, a descendant of one of Newport’s “old money” families heard of his “hardship.” Determined to reach out and help his fellow man, the good-hearted gentleman drove clear to Florida to fetch his expensive, aerodynamic camping trailer from its spot beside his favorite southern fishing hole and give it to Kenny for a home. Kenny was both pleased and humbled by the gentleman’s generosity and awed by the shiny aluminum exterior and mahogany interior of the trailer. He lived quite proudly in his high-class digs for a while, but a year later, Foot stopped for a visit only to discover Kenny once more sleeping in his truck and the trailer stuffed full of salvaged electronics stored safely where the mice couldn’t chew up the wiring.
With all that winter-time idling and Kenny’s rough line of work, his trucks aged rather quickly. Kenny solved that problem by buying himself a brand-spanking new one every second December, sort of like a bi-yearly Christmas present. He always paid in cash, too—with a big wad of bills from the inside pocket of his latest suit. Of course that was in the days before Uncle Sam, in his infinite wisdom, declared all cash over ten-grand “drug money” and subject to confiscation (legal theft) by the federal government. If the same situation occurred today, they’d also take the hefty amount he sent to his daughter when she turned 18 and deny her a college education.
In spite of his earlier heartbreak and odd way of life, Kenny seemed a happy soul the second half of his life. But, all good things must come to an end and so, too, did Kenny’s career. At first he just slowed down a bit. Then he started sleeping more nights in the farmhouse. Eventually, though he didn’t even curse, let alone smoke or drink, he required hospitalization for some lung and liver problems. He seemed to be coming out of it, so his California daughter and his West Virginia nieces thought it best he go to a nursing home for a while to let him finish mending.
He made himself right at home and soon became the darling of the nurses and the aides who worked there. He always had a pleasant smile and a kind word for them, rather than the chronic complaints of some poor old souls whose misery causes them to be less than pleasant. By his nieces, he sent for a few of the books he’d accumulated over the years from his hauling jobs. They were shocked to find the walls of his room at the farmhouse lined with old printings of many of literature’s best works, salvaged no doubt. Still, it was his Bible he read the most.
In spite of his apparent excellent spirits and diagnosis, his strength started heading downhill almost immediately after he arrived at the home. The doctors performed test after test, trying to discover the cause of his decline. They even brought in a psychologist to determine if it was some emotional stress that was creating a problem. Kenny cheered up the psychologist so much that she swore he helped her, not the other way around. Still, his decline continued until the morning they found him with a smile on his face as if having some pleasant dream. But he wasn’t just asleep; he was gone. In less than six months from the time he left his hollow, he was resting with his ancestors in the Mount Zion Cemetery. Some thought that it was the lack of blue skies, bird-song and fresh air that hastened his demise. Those who knew him best, however, assumed that he just missed the joy of helping folks to find treasures in other people’s trash.
Kenny’s story wasn’t over with his passing, though. In fact, the most surprising facts about his life didn’t come out until his funeral. Being up in years and relatively unknown, the mortuary owner asked the family if there was any need for more than one room for the funeral. The family felt that one room would be adequate. However, as the time for the service approached, strangers kept filing by the casket and slipping into the back of the room to find a seat. Soon, the funeral director had to open up the huge pocket doors between that room and the one behind.
The crowd was quite a mixed lot; there were business men in three-piece suits, women who appeared to be housewives, workmen with concrete sticking to their boots, teenagers, middle age couples with children and even what appeared to be street people, some of whom were in dire need of a bath. In they filed, all somber, some with watery eyes, a few with tears actually running down their cheeks. The family didn’t understand the size of the crowd, but finally wrote it off to a gathering of loyal customers and let it go at that. The funeral director, who’d spent a life in the business, knew it was a whole lot more than that and decided to try to learn the meaning of the crowd which was then requiring the opening of the third (and largest) room in the back.
Pleasantly, he began asking a few of the folks how they were acquainted with Kenny; the answers amazed him. Some teenagers (and past teenagers) told of running away and of Kenny finding them asleep in some dangerous place, feeding them, talking to them about life and about God and gradually convincing them to either return to their parents or seek help from a legitimate shelter. One young woman told of being abandoned as a child when her parents passed through town, and of Kenny finding her and taking her to the local orphanage where she grew up and where she then went to work to help other unfortunate kids. Mothers, construction workers and business men alike told of him giving them pep talks when their kids were missing, or they were teetering on bankruptcy or were sitting on the curb after blowing their week’s budget on the ponies. Several told that he was the one who talked them out of suicide when it seemed like life hadn’t left them any other way out.
The director wondered how Kenny had chanced to meet all these people until he started talking to some of the seedier-looking members among the crowd, a few of whom had breath that told of high-octane breakfasts. It seemed that Kenny got a lot of clothes and blankets amongst the trash he hauled, and any morning he was in town, he drove his battered pickup down certain alleys and back streets, just at gray dawn, looking for hobos and homeless folks who could use them. Kenny took all the outdated hotdogs and sausages he’d gotten from stores the day before (which he’d boiled the daylights out of to make safe) and the old bread and buns the outlet store had given him. When he met a stranger in the alleys, he started up a conversation, and if the fellow was in need, Kenny shared his humble supplies.
Along the way, Kenny always managed to slip in a pitch for the Lord and sometimes say a prayer for the stranger. His “regulars” started watching for him of a morning and were always happy to see him. It was these folks who he considered his flock, but in the process of serving them, he kept bumping into people with other problems, so he did what he could to help them, too. Even some of his customers came to confide in the golden-hearted little man with the dirty-looking hands. (They had no way of knowing that when he was feeding his flock, his hands were as clean as lye soap and creek-water would get them. Any discolorations were just deep stains from his line of work.)
After the burial, the funeral director told Kenny’s brother, Wesley, about the secret life Kenny had been living, but Wesley wasn’t surprised. “I always knew the old coot was up to something,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I just couldn’t figure out what.” But in his heart, he was deeply proud of his gentle brother. He never told anyone in the family except his wife and his granddaughter, Mary (and he told them not to tell). Wesley felt that the rest of the family was too busy looking for Kenny’s non-existent stash of moldy money to care about philanthropy.
The funeral director was more touched than anyone, for he realized that once Kenny had known that his days of caring for his flock were over, he knew that his work on earth was done and that it was simply time to go “home.” So, after a life of getting rich off other people’s grief, the director donated the entire price of Kenny’s service to the local soup kitchen in Kenny's memory, so that even in death, Kenny could help just a little bit more. © 2008

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

I'm Just A Jailbird


I mentioned recently about a site that apparently has a lot of sodomite followers who even yet occasionally feel the need to respond to a comment I made about three weeks ago. Since the guy I responded to never answered back. I'll assume that it was some OTHER individual of a sexually deviant nature that apparently complained to Facebook, who then put me in Facebook jail for three days.

The guy had made the comment that men who have sex with women are more effeminate than men who have sex with men. My response was, “LOL – That's a good one! So you're saying that being a fudge-packer makes you more manly? Apparently, Facebook didn't feel that met their “community standards.” I don't know what kind of a community THEY live in, but the term seemed at least slightly more polite than “t_rd tapper.”

I swear, with today's changing political correctness, you just never know what's safe. I've heard they don't like being called a faggot (bundle of sticks), or a fairy (miniature mythical humanoid creature with super-natural powers). Some don't like being called queers, while others wear the term as a badge of honor! I guess I'll just stick with “sodomite,” since it's basically a legal term, since sodomy is a crime, at least if done forcibly. “Sexual deviate” describes them, but the world is getting so full of perverts that some might say that such perversion is becoming the norm.

Perhaps I should have suggested to the fellow that if getting feces on your __ is what makes you a man, he should molest some farmer's bull and become a regular Mr. Universe! Oh well, I guess we should feel sorry for then, since we know where they'll be spending eternity. Copyright 2018

When It Snows, It Pours


Yes, I know that's not the original saying, but it's more in keeping with the season. We really haven't had much snow, but it's cold enough that salt is worthless most of the time, so the roads stay slick, except what can be graded off, after three days or so of neglect by the DOH. I don't fault them, they have to get the main traffic areas first. I reckon they figure us country folk can deal with it or we wouldn’t live out here. We stayed in the house a couple days, went out the third, after the road was graded and melted slightly, and then braced for a couple more days of cabin fever with the newest snow.

I mentioned earlier that I was in Facebook jail for referring to a sodomite as a fudge-packer. That was inconvenient, but then the next day, my desktop locked up on me and my laptop won't work straight from cable for some reason. If this gets posted anytime before the 20th of January, it's probably because I made it to town and sat in some parking lot using the store's WiFi.

I desperately need a new desktop, as my old XP version is no longer supported and a lot of sites no longer work with it. But, as usual, there's the money issue. I need a new battery for my laptop, too. I bought the expensive one last time because it was supposed to last so much longer, but it didn't. I'll go for the cheap one this time, at 1/3 the price.

My little am/fm/shortwave radio came today, but naturally it takes two AA batteries and I only had one. I'm not expecting much out of it, but it should be better than nothing in my bedroom, since my TV is now worthless, thanks to the cable company.

Besides the radio, the mail today included two pieces of junk mail and a bill. Yup, when it snows, it pours! - LOL – Hope you all are doing well. Take care and I'll be on here again when I get the chance.

ADDENDUM – Despite not working on the cable a few months ago when my desktop was “fixed,” or as recently as yesterday, my laptop has decided to co-operate with the the cable today and I'm back online. I can only assume that it's by the grace of God. He says we have not because we ask not, and I asked. I DO miss the size and better color of my big monitor, but that will have to wait until I get a new desktop. I have some unsaved things on my old one though, so I'll still have to take it to a shop sometime and see if they can save what's there. Copyright 2018

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Cold Weather Adjustments Here At The Cabin On Tick Ridge

Except for a couple record-setting warm days, it’s been near-record-setting cold here ever since Christmas. There hasn’t been a lot of snow, thankfully; it’s been too cold for it. There HAS however, been a little snow on the ground, since it’s only melted the one time. The water has been running the whole time—just enough that it doesn’t seperate into drops. And, naturally, the furnace has run pretty steady.

My trips outside to the basement to tinker have been few and far between, mainly due to the miserable wind. A couple times, I’ve left the mail in the box a couple days, rather than walk out to the box 200 feet away, or start the truck for such a short jaunt. I’d have to run the truck long enough to warm up, for the sake of the engine and exhaust system; so what’s the point? I don’t even attempt shovel my driveway anymore. I quit doing that even before I got heart trouble.

Since the Mighty Dachshund has a ground clearance of only about 2” and the snow has been about 4” much of the time, I swept a little dumping ground for her. When it gets too cluttered with doggy doo, I take a couple paper towels and a Walmart bag and collect poopsickles. Spell-check wants to change that term to “popsickles,” but I don’t think they’d care for the flavor. Understandably, we haven’t been porch-sitting very much.

Mostly, the missus has been watching TV, I’ve tried to keep myself entertained on the computer and the pooch has either been sleeping or staring at us with a bored look in her eyes. I HAVE managed to do a little sorting and straightening in my closet-sized office, but not much. As I’ve said before, I LOVE the color brown; white just doesn’t impress me anymore! So far, my wife is going crazier than I, but then I might be a little biased. However, this too shall pass and we’ll be cursing the heat before you know it. © 2018

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Proposed Idiocy In West Virginia

There is a movement afoot in West Virginia to allow the speed limit to be raised to 80mph on some highways. As a life-long resident of the state and a professional driver for some of those years, I will say that THERE IS NOT ONE SINGLE HIGHWAY IN WEST VIRGINIA THAT MAY BE SAFELY DRIVEN AT 80MPH!

The old joke is that if West Virginia were flattened out, it would be as big as Texas. Unfortunately, it is NOT flat and even our interstates are reminiscent of a snake crawling through a brier patch. Deaths went up considerably when the feds allowed the interstate speeds to return to 70, after several years of being mandated at 55. Now that they're 70, most folks try to drive 80 anyway. Make 80 legal and they'll be trying to drive 90. Death rates will go up, there's no doubt about it.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. Like drug abuse, speeding tends to be at least partly self-limiting as the risk-takers are gradually killed off. Unfortunately, many young people will be killed before they get enough experience to learn better, and many innocent people will be killed by speeding drivers.

Since there is no logical reason for making the change, the only possible reason is that one or more politicians are being bribed to push for the higher speed, probably by one or more trucking companies. That's usually the cause of bad legislation - corruption in high places. We'll see whether common sense prevails..

No Mexican Avocados For ME, Thank You!

While eating my dinner (“lunch” for you moderns) in front of the TV, I saw an ad for Mexican Avocados. Now, I have nothing personal against the people of Mexico, but I ain’t buyin’ their cotton-pickin’ avocados, or anything else if I can avoid it.

I don’t know if the ad was paid for by American importers of Mexican products, Mexican growers, or the Mexican government, but let’s think about that. The government there is corrupt from the ground up. They DELIBERATELY encourage their citizens to sneak into our country illegally, live off welfare and food stamps, get free medical care that’s denied our own citizens, work under the table, pay no taxes and then send the money back to Mexico.

Vicious drug cartels have turned their cities and ours into centers of murder and mayhem, and many of their citizens who come here illegally end up committing multiple crimes, including murder. It’s one of the most dangerous countries in the world in which to vacation, and they are notorious for treating foreigners badly if they encounter any legal problems.

THEN, you have the little problem with food poisoning from careless farm workers and inadequate sanitary facilities. No thank you, folks, I’ll stick with American produce, it’s dangerous enough. © 2018

Friday, January 12, 2018

What IS It With TV People!

About the only thing that I watch anymore is the local news and sometimes the weather channel and FOX, but I'm constantly amazed at the lack of knowledge about using the English language (American for you purists). The rampant mispronunciation of people's names and landmark and place names is SOMEWHAT understandable, though there's WAY more of it than is reasonable.

I have two pet peeves, both of which I've probably mentioned before. The first is the industry-wide use of double nouns. You can say "Senator Jones said" or, if his name has been mentioned earlier, you can say "he said," but "Senator Jones, he said" gives us a double noun. I have to wonder how my old English teacher would have diagrammed such sentences.

The second pet peeve is found on the weather forecasts. I've heard of "freezing rain" all my life and know exactly what it is. The first time I heard of "icing," about ten years ago, I immediately envisioned vehicles driving through miles of a sweet, slippery mixture of organic matter containing powdered sugar. Just who decided that something was wrong with the accurate term of freezing rain and thought calling it by another term for cake frosting would be better?

Is my English perfect? Heck NO! But then I didn't go to college four years to get a journalism degree, either. Copyright 2018

Short Wet And Dry Porch Sits

After a couple weeks of super cold weather (with a couple new records), we’re now having a couple days of record WARM weather. It got up to 66F here on the ridge yesterday, maybe warmer. Anytime during the last couple weeks that it got above 20 with no appreciable wind, I’d try to spend a few minutes on the porch with the Mighty Dachshund.

Usually, the missus would interrupt after a couple minutes to tell me to bring in the dog before it froze to death. (She never seemed concerned about her ill-clad husband.) The only time we could get in a few minutes was if the missus had dozed off in front of the TV. Even the last couple days, she’s always had some excuse why we shouldn’t be out there. Plus, when there IS a chill in the air, the pooch isn’t as dead set on staying outside when she was younger. She lets me know when she’s had enough by arising from her place on the welcome mat, then turning and facing the door. With age comes wisdom, I guess.

The day before yesterday was cloudy, but warm. All of the remaining snow melted, except a few north slopes and where it had been piled up. By evening, though, occasional showers appeared, so our porch sits were sometimes a matter of watching and listening to the rain. Yesterday was more of the same—sometimes wet, sometimes dry.

During one dry spell, the birds entertained us. Though they were just far enough away that I couldn’t identify them with the naked eye, I’m pretty sure that I heard nuthatches, titmice and chickadees. A male cardinal kept flitting through the greenbrier jungle nearby, but he maintained his silence, maybe because he was aware of our presence. In the distance, a couple crows called to one another about something. It seemed to be a conversation on the move.

At 5:30 this morning, I took out the pooch and we sat in the relative warmth and listened to the rain. The neighbors who had to be at work early were passing by on the country road before the house, their bright lights searching the darkness for deer. For a rain in the darkness, it was surprisingly easy to see about, once my eyes adjusted. Granted, the security light out by the road cast its beams about the area, but it was more than that. I used to notice that back in my camping days. Some nights would be so dark that you couldn’t see your hand before your face and you’d swear that you could slice that darkness with a knife. Other nights, even with no moon or stars, you could see surprisingly well. This morning was one of the latter, even though there wasn’t the slightest hint of the dawn that would come nearly two hours later.

The missus lay asleep before the muted TV, so it was 20 minutes before the Mighty Dachshund had her fill of the darkness and turned to face the door. It says something about the temperature that I was only in my skivvies and camp mocs. I hope there’s no flooding from the steady rain overnight, since the ground is saturated from the melting snow. Tonight, it’s supposed to turn to snow.

Egads, how I love the color brown (until the green arrives)! © 2018

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

High School Days And After

Our county had three-year junior high schools back in my day, as opposed to the current two year middle school system. That meant that high school was a three year deal. Growing up on a farm, I never really fit in that well among the mostly city kids at high school. I was average-looking, boisterous, a bit foul-mouthed at times and entirely too much of a A-hole. Still, I must have been considered likeable enough by some, since I had no trouble getting dates. I had a system of dating a handful of girls in rotation, so nothing would be construed as serious. It seemed to work well.

The summer after my sophomore year, one of the girls that I flirted with, but never dated, came riding her horse up the driveway at the farm one day, and we ended up dating steady that summer and fall. For reasons I’ve partially explained here in the past, I broke up with her. I swear the poor girl was in love with me, though I have no idea why. The hurt that I knew I caused her kept me from dating at all from then until the beginning of my senior year, though probably neither she nor anyone else really noticed. I began doing the cyclical dating again then.

There was one girl that I had a bad crush on that was part of my little group. Though we went out several times, I never so much as tried to kiss her good-night. I hope she didn’t think there was anything that I found unattractive about her, or that I was queer or anything! – LOL – Even though she was pretty, sweet and super smart, I knew that life would be taking us in vastly different directions, so I think I was just protecting my own heart.

It seems to me that the parents of the last girl mentioned were firewood and Christmas tree customers of my dad, but that didn’t seem to come up. That thought reminded me of an incident that happened during those years. The parents of another girl in my class were also wood customers. One day, one of her friends came to me and said that the girl was going to place an order through me for her dad, while with a crowd of her friends, and the friend wanted me to pretend that I was no relation to “the woodman.” Thinking at first, that she was just wanting to play a trick on the boisterous, blathery girl. I agreed. After she left, I realized that the friend was thinking that it would embarrass me and was trying to help me avoid that situation. I actually found it somewhat insulting that the friend would think that I’d be ashamed of being from a family that sold firewood. Honest work is honest work, and I’ve believed that from the time that I was a kid. Still, I did as I’d promised and it was sort of amusing to see the confusion on the girl’s face. I later told her to have her dad call mine to make arrangements.

Toward the end of my senior year, I began dating a girl steady who was a year behind me. I think I was beginning to fall in love with her when she went back to school that fall and I could tell she wanted to be able to date other guys. What can I say? What goes around comes around. The equestrian girl stayed single until I finally fell in lust with and married my first wife. By the time I divorced, she’d supposedly found a really nice guy and had gotten married. Eighteen months later, I met and married my second wife out of mutual loneliness and there I remain, nearly 35 years later.

Within the first couple years of graduation, three of my classmates had died. They’ve been dropping like flies ever since, it feels like. One rainy day a few years ago, I googled the names of several of my old classmates. Most couldn’t be found. I did learn that the girl I had the crush on had become a doctor, married another doctor and had five kids. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a grandma now. Out of curiosity, I googled her again today and she’s still in practice.

There were reunions every five years for quite a while after my class graduated. They seemed to be headed up by the old party-hardy crowd and the socialites of my class. I never went to any of them. I don’t think they had a 45th reunion. Maybe all the “movers and shakers” have died of cirrhosis of the liver. There IS a class picnic every summer at my neighbor’s place in the valley, but only about a dozen women and two men show up. I’ve never gone to it, either. Our fiftieth reunion will be in 2023 if they have one. I might consider going, but I doubt it. © 2018

Monday, January 8, 2018

One Last Try At TV

The other day, I picked up a convertor box at Chinamart that supposedly would allow my non-digital TV to use the cable. Naturally, it had to do a channel scan. Unfortunately, that’s where it stopped. It didn’t appear to form a channel list or anything, and it wouldn’t do anything except revert to the menu, no matter what I did. Whether the problem was with me or the unit, I don’t know. Of course the instructions were written for folks who don’t even NEED instructions, not for a technologically dysfunctional old geezer like me. So, I repacked the gizmo back into the box and will get my money back.

I’m not sure quite what to do with the old TV; it actually belongs to my wife. For now, I’d prefer to just ditch it and get it out of my bedroom. I suppose I could buy an antenna for it, but reception was never that great here and I still wouldn’t be able to get a couple cable channels that would allow me to get the shows that I enjoy. I could probably get a new TV cheaper than I could get a good antenna anyway but, frankly, I just don’t feel like spending money on either one. I’d probably never watch it over 6-8 hours a week anyway.

For now, I think I’ll just get the AM/FM-shortwave radio that I was considering and call it good enough. © 2018

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Dreams And Stuff And Wonderings

I seem to dream quite a bit, though I rarely remember them. Perhaps because my sleep is so varied and fragmented in my old age, my most active dream time is often near or after dawn, when I would have been up and working in years past. And so it was this morning, as I awoke from a dream a half-hour after dawn.
My father was alive yet in that dream, though he’s been gone for 33 years now. I was an adult, but I’m not sure if I was supposed to be living at home yet, though the missus wasn’t in the dream. The folks were leaving their old house, and I was taking a last look through the place where I’d spent my youth. The bare walls and empty rooms gave the place a barren and melancholy feel.

Gradually, the place metamorphosised into an old mansion that I’ve seen often in my dreams, though I’ve never seen the place in my waking hours. They say that repetitive dreams are a sign of emotional problems. Since I make no claim to normalcy or even sanity, that’s of no concern to me, though. As I looked around, the mansion filled with other people gawking around, as if the place was on an open house or possibly scheduled for demolition and temporarily open for one last look by the curious. One couple struck me as especially nice for some reason and I offered to show them a secret room of the house. As we arrived there, however, some folks in front of us found it, so we were actually the second group into the hidden room. That’s when I awoke.

I thought a few moments of the farm and the home where I was raised and later owned for 20 years after my father’s passing. I thought of the good times we had there and the relatives and friends with whom we had them. Most of the older ones are gone now and the first of us younger ones passed away a few months ago. Only my mother and her sister, and one aunt by marriage remain of the older generation before us. There are precious few of us “younger” ones, as we are twigs on a dying branch of the family tree.

In the past 15 years or so, I’ve sold the farm and many of the (mostly worthless) keepsakes that a sentimental family acquires. Each acre and each piece of “stuff” had a story. It pained me to part with things that held so many stories and memories, but such is life. I remember the day that I came home from work and told my shocked wife that I was going to sell the farm. It was then that the Lord whispered in my ear, “That’s what I meant for you to do all along.” It was the third and so far the last time that the Lord has spoken to me. It was a bit disconcerting that He told me, once again, something that I didn’t exactly want to hear. It was SOME slight comfort to know that I was doing the right thing.

I’ve often wondered if I had to sell the place and all the stuff because I was putting it too high on my list of concerns, and God didn’t like that. He comes right out and tells us that He’s a jealous God and that we are to have no other Gods before Him. Was I making the farm of four generations and the stuff left over from the old days into gods of a sort? Maybe I was. There certainly isn’t much of anything from those days left now. I even had to sell my father’s rifle, my grandfather’s shotgun (that I learned to hunt with) and my great grandfather’s muzzle-loader at one point. For a hunter, gun nut and sentimentalist, that’s a tough situation. Still, we had to eat.

And I must say, all the bills have somehow gotten paid, we’ve never gone cold or hungry and we’ve even been able to help others a few times. Except for occasionally picking up something that I can actually USE, I’ve been continuing the policy of thinning my stuff out so my stepson won’t have such a big job of sorting someday when I’m gone. Besides, I don’t have that many years left on this earth, compared to what I’ve racked up already, and I can’t take the stuff with me. I might as well sell what I can’t use and have a little extra for gas or groceries (or maybe a rare meal out).

Despite hard times and giving up on churches, we’ve never given up on God. In fact, I believe our faith is stronger now than at any point in our lives. But as for a daily attitude, other than constant thankfulness, I’ve pretty much adopted these lines from Ecclesiastes, “There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor. This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God.”

May YAHWEH and Yeshua be forever praised! © 2018

Another Old Postcard (pic)


This appears to be part of a set of cards that the winter scene came from that I showed you the other day. This scene is from the green time of year, though. I may enlarge and have it printed, too. The other one was sent by my granddad, at Cokely, WV, to my grandma, at Parkersburg in June of 1911, but this one was sent from my grandma to my granddad in August, despite it being the month of HER birthday (his was in May).

I suspect they just bought cards by the stack and granddad took some with him when he left home. The message is simple enough, South Penn Oil Company had called the house and wanted a rig torn down at Murphytown, West Virginia. I'm sure he took the job if he could at all, as he did a lot of work for South Penn. They even wanted him to go to South America for them and work, but he wouldn't leave his family for that long. I believe Granddad got homesick a lot, from what I've seen on the cards.