America, as frightening as ever for poor

BEING POOR IN AMERICA IS AS FRIGHTENING AS EVER

Increasing numbers of people face poverty along with the new year as growing concerns that corporate groups will have to pay living costs for workers, including health care. 

Health care was the top complaint of corporations, before Obama Care (something President Obama is willing to take credit for).    That got overshadowed by escalating poverty, homelessness, and police committing violent acts against the people they swore to protect.  Murder is murder, no matter who does it.  Mimicking people, calling them "creep", head slamming on concrete, kicking, choking, threatening, should not be on the description of police work. 

But it is apparent these things happen.  You cannot deny a video.  Police now ordered to wear video cameras are turning them off.  But that doesn't stop others from recording unfolding history.  Now they want to make recording truth, a crime; maybe punishable by death.

That kind of, Homeland Security attitude only escalates tensions and fears.  The war on drugs has always been trumped by booze -- that's according to, Bill O'Reilly.  He said three branches of legislature are: Booze, bribes, and banking.  No shit -- Bill! (layman words).  Bill tells it pretty straight, with his own spin, one-hundred eighty degrees from most.  He can afford entertainment he says, and he's made a career of it.  Actually had breakfast with him.  He is personable, and affable.  Polite.  You can't say better.

We're both calling for smaller government, even as there is war going on, all around us.  In a way they say, it's scary.  But more people worry about the next meal and times span between jobs and ninety day firings.

Statistics are each slanted; they tell you that.  Most people know that.  Smart people flunked those courses.  Cunning people use those figures to bloviate.  It does nothing to solve anything.

You cannot hide a seismic earthquake, because everybody feels it.  Poverty is number one problem, across Terra Firma and beyond.  They say Hell is paved with diamonds, as the planet core is that solid structure, molting and raining down sparkling riches.  I never had one.  Interesting.  The same people who crave products of Hell, are the ones creating it.  It is irony.

Poverty is a weapon of rich.  It is the reason for homo erectus extinction, by hand of homo sapiens.  Persecution is historically our ancestry.  Our history portrays us of deforestation, creating extreme earth climates, and destroying animals, with intention of possession. 

Mining  and coincidental discoveries assisted the assault against, Troglodytes.   We often imagine our ancestors as horrible, wicked, scary people.  In fact, they might have been gentler than conquering forces that drove their extinction. 

    

NEW YORK PUTS HIT ON LEADERS Cities are lit with growing concern.

NEW YORK PUTS HIT ON LEADERS

Community needs a new look at the way they treat citizens.

There is lots of mean talk going around between police and mayors.  Mayor of New York had police turn their backs on him, when he went to  pay respect for a fallen officer.  Those police should be fired, for acts of disrespect, while on duty -- the opinions of many.

 But it goes further.  The Mayor was speaking out for his child, and saying, "No wonder police are targeted. "   He knows lots of children and people, who get that treatment on a daily basis.  Everybody who rides a subway, risks their lives on daily commutes and everywhere that lacks body guards.  It is scary to live in a city that keeps swelling with populations of foreign entity and new births -- the first thing everybody wants.  He did not mention that.

Police look different with automatic weapons and full armor -- more like invaders.  They are invaders.  Peoples homes get raided for no reason, or on suspicion of what they might be.  You might question a guy who literally attacked a cop; but you can't understand why they have to leave wounded people lying in the street, to rot.  You have to question the audacity of a community that allows police to raid homes and throw grenades on babies -- why would they be throwing grenades at all? 

Then they have, The War on Drugs (circa Reagan).  Nobody ever won a war.  If everybody is supposed to be related, why are we killing each other?  Color makes no difference when everybody is dead.  The war on drugs is probably the reason they conspired, before ruining a baby's life.

Babies do not remember, they  will say.  But, ask that kid about it in a few years, maybe when he's twenty, thirty, forty -- they will tell you different -- about bed wetting, and lying in cold sweat, fighting sleep.

When you sleep, that's when it starts.  Everything is fine.  You're warm, comfortable and at resting -- until midnight when you wake, bed engulfed in flames -- struggling to breath, fighting for air.  That war, we never win.

The communities and cities are at fault.  Looking at the demography, clearly there is a problem when the town is run by white police, and most people in jail are black.  When fifty-percent of people are jobless, or work for minimum wage, there is a problem -- it is not drugs.  The community is at fault when they fail  to help innocent children, and victims.  That violated US Bill of Rights. 

Our, Bill of Rights, no longer exist, they say.  Homeland Security rules.  Police dress different, being part of that ilk, driving tanks and armored vehicles, to crush civilians; driving Escalades and Lincolns to ribbon off in yellow tape, to advertise their high profile robo-raids; where they throw grenade's at children, and shoot little boys for playing with plastic guns. That will teach them and their parents...

It's no wonder people are angry.

Cuba in Perspective

After the President declared resuming relationships with, Cuba, you can see the change in Florida.  Half the homes are vacant on weekends.

But the population there is stable, and real-estate is at a premium for bargain hunters; nine-percent of homes there are for sale -- but that's good -- so are ninety percent of homes in, Dade county.

Cubans are happy to have US treaty; they haven't seen their families in years.

The relationship with Cuba was good for our President as well.  As a benefit and act of friendship, they sent him a thousand cigars.

Cuba is a great country.  People there have to be admired.  We haven't seen or heard about them in fifty years.  It's hard to remember that far back -- especially if you are only thirty years old.  But, I like Cuban people for their spirit.  They've lived under the gun, in the sight of US, surrounded by U-boats, for protection; and some of us here in America, know what that's like -- we can't breathe. 

Cuba is a great country, and it will be interesting to see who they send over there to represent US -- will they land on the island, or will they just walk over, from Guantanamo bay.  But, they have to send somebody; you need to wonder if they will be representing, T-Party, or Michigan T-Pot Party. 

Seriously, do you think they will allow bicycles at US conciliate in Cuba? 

We don't have to worry about US embassy for Cuba here in America.  They already have one in New York.  It's a classified secret, just like Dr. Chen.  But not many people are flocking to visit Cuba; CIA promises a free cancer screening for every applicant.  The only reason they have so many people coming there; they share a space at the magazine stand, and everybody wants to read about Cuba, after fifty years.

Taking Over Cities

TAKING OVER CITIES

"We're taking the city over."

"Whoa.  Isn't that kind of violent?"

"No.  We have it planed.  We took the first step."

"How did you do that?"

"We elected our mayor."

"Isn't that, Mayor White?"

"No. This moment is confidential.  We are about to depose him."

"No kidding."

"Yes."

"How?"

"We elected our mayor and he helped us select our new city council."

"I thought that's why they held elections."

"No.  Bought and advertised elections  give us bought politics that destroy us."

"How is that?"

"We are a clear majority.  They want us to be divided amongst ourselves, so that we cannot take over our  destinies."

"They've done that for years."

"It is time now.  We are taking over this city."

"When?"

"Starting midnight."

"What will you do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"The bridge on River Qwai is already wired."

"What?"

"You remember Dr. Kim?"

"The President?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't, Bridge Over the River Kwai, a movie?"

2

"I'm talking about Qwai.  It is code name, and we pronounce it different."

"What are you talking abour?"

" You remember that movie they had out, Kill the President, or something like that?"

"Intervert?"

"Yeh, I think something  like that, it was called"

"Oh.  It was about,  kill the President."

"Well, yes."

"Why do you interpose a  well into things, when you start getting excited?"

"How do you interpret such ovservation?"

"I took a course in anger management, while working on my doctorate. "

"So, what does that have to do with it."

"When people get upset or excited,  their voices elevate."

"Am I angry or exciited?"

"You tell me."'

"Do you want to hear this?"

" What?  You want to blow up, City Hall."

"We're going to take it over."

"What's that got to do with, President Kim Jun Un of, North Korea ? 

"Qwai, is code name for the activity, resulting from the movie of his defamation."

"You mean his demise; isn't that what you're making reference to, Doctor?"

"To be technically correct, yes; but, Qua refers to a different river, crossing two nations."

"It's going off at midnight?"

"Coincidently."

"How would you know that?"

"We've been talking with them for months."

"That's absurd."

"Midnight"

"Wired?"

"Yes."

"Me too, I guess."

"Have some coffee.  It will settle your stomach."

"Either that, or make you puke, right?"

"The Mayor will be here shortly.  We need to look proper for him."

"Is that why you requested that we each wear suits?" 

"Everybody will wear a suit."

"Everybody?"

"Everybody who wants to get in."

"And take City Hall over; starting at midnight, to be announced by our mayor."

"Yes."

Rogers Park

Rogers Park

One bright Saturday morning, our weekend began as normal.  We were early to feed our pets; their schedule which habitually fell into our normal workday routines, included morning breakfast and walks. 

City buildings cast shadows of filtered morning sunlight; the rays reflecting on the upper branches of leaves, and light focusing upon west-side building tops, as we walked the sidewalk, heading into the park.  It was a pleasant day for us.  I could inhale fresh earthy odors, to regale in my previous country existence; as it had rained during the past evening.   Lexi seemed even more chipper than her usual self while we walked along park lanes, she chattered away, and I immersed into my own thoughts. 

We stopped beside our tiny neighborhood petting zoo that featured several small goats, two pigs and a llama named, Prince; and food friendly mourning doves that happened to live there. 

“I love these animals,” Lexie said, as we paid the attendant our admissions. 

“It’s for sale, this whole menagerie,” joked the attendant who happened to also be owner.

I was thinking, “We don’t have enough land.”  All of this would never fit into the tiny back yard of our bungalow lot.  Trimmed hedges, a wee garden of summer greens and couple of squash, would soon lay in ruins as victim to waste, with the inclusion of vegetarian pets.

We walk along the walkway, dog leashes in hand, with a small white paper sack of goat pellet food, and another large bag of popcorn, toward a park bench which faced southwest; where we could sit and feed our borrowed pets while our backs warmed.  

“What would you do with a petting zoo?” asked Lexie; as if plying me for an answer to something I earlier ignored.  Sometimes you want to leave things alone, and settle with realistic thoughts.  

“Normal people have jobs not zoos to run,” I said, gently squeezing her hand, in wishful thinking.  Lexi loved animals.  We each had a pet dog.  There was also our Paco, our cat who constantly tortured our, Muffy dog, an oversize Sheltie that tormented an opossum family living under the porch.  “I think we have enough pets for now.”  I was quietly wondering what it might be like, having too many animals, tied into a city-theme, mini-zoo. 

“What would you do, if you won the lottery?” she question.

I thought about the question and answered, “I guess that is something we don’t have to worry about.”  It was a safe answer, but not from Lexi.

We had walked along our park sidewalk, innocently enough; we would have done that anyway, and it had seemed just like any beautiful weekend I could imagine.  It had rained the previous evening, dampening the great spans of grasses cultivated into lawns with pleasant shade trees that were now dripping water off their leaves, onto park benches, and the fresh warm odoriferous earth was intensified by that aforementioned. 

The day seemed normal for our adventuresome weekends, mostly facsimiles of each – and it always felt good in my heart to be so much in love – so this day felt allot like the rest, with the exception of our park venture.  That felt different.  The owner, Bennie was dressed exceptional for that morning.  Usually, you’d walk by and he’d be feeding animals, cleaning out stalls with a manure shovel; he’d be hefting flying poops and straw onto a cart awaiting, to be piled and finally disposed into a dumper truck, assisted by a bucket loading tractor.  That, I marveled at.  The idea of driving a dumper and operating a bucket end-loader captivated my imagination – not the idea of shoveling and inhaling waste products – I fantasized operating that equipment in a construction environment.  Bernie was usually attired in faded and, or stained shades of browns, varying from light to dark.  This day, he wore a fresh, crisp khaki shirt and trousers, with shiny shoes to match, and the park was open early; as we happened to be first customers.  It felt cheerful, and we were each upbeat for different reasons.

I was thinking about our breakfast, and where the rest of our day might lead us, when Lexi asked me again, about the zoo.  I told her, “I’d love to do anything with you.”

“Great!” exclaimed Lexi.  “Last month, while you were at work, I stopped for gas and also purchased a lotto ticket.  I was walking the dogs afterwards and decided to stop at our zoo.  Then I was talking with Benny and he told me they are shutting down our petting zoo, and I told him about the ‘little lottery’, thinking it might help him.  He told me if my ticket was a winner, he would sell me his zoo, for fifty percent of the win; because, he was getting nothing as it were, and the future looked grim for the pets, as there was no place other than the meat and glue factory.   I just gave him the ticket, thinking nothing of it.”

“Can you pinch me? I asked.

“I will, before day’s end,” she promised.

We parked our pets (dogs)  in our home, before heading for our weekend restaurant.  It was only a short walking distance.  I went into the backyard to feed our opossums, before we left.

Clasping hands we leisurely strolled the sidewalk toward a restaurant.   You could smell the doughnut batters and sugars for pancakes and waffles, coupled with bacon and other olfactory teasers.  I was feeling famished for some reason, thinking of all the manure I’d shortly be shoveling.  The shock was still new and I knew that I needed sugar and salt combined with sausages, once-over eggs, some bacon, and a plate of hash browns…

“Does it make sense for everybody to have a plan?” asked Lexie, as we were seated into our booth.

“We definitely made plans, beyond my imagination,” I said.  “Where do you think we might live now?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning on winning.  It was wishful thinking.” 

 We each enjoyed traveling, and had taken several trips with our travel trailer that we pulled with a GTO, equipped with a type-4 hitch – a heavy-duty hitch welded into the car frame, for towing heavy loads.   Our first of many excursions brought us into Tennessee hills and mountains.  It had beautiful country views, but we found nothing that really interested us about living there.   Later, we found ourselves searching neighboring states, including Pennsylvania, where most land-sites we visited within our price range, seemed riddled with oil wells; a few of them working and some visibly leaking.  After looking at several hundred properties, it was getting tiring , and felt discouraging.

 “Maybe we could visit Michigan,” Lexi said.  There were some places there we thought might be interesting; different places around the country, where we wandered.  None of them turned out suitable for our needs.  I'd just got back from, Door County, Wisconsin, where we visited  what turned out as a run-down dog kennel.  It was a very old place that needed some work.   The land was rocky, and the house's grey clapboard looked weathered by wind, with some missing.  It's foundation had settled in sand; it was built during the Depression era (early nineteen hundreds).      It was dank and moldy in the basement, damp from lake-breezes , giving it a cold chill; and I noticed the original wiring was wound on insulators,  waiting for certain fire and shocking hazards.

"Let's visit the kennel now," suggested the lady and proprietor.           

"Great," I said, eager to leave that dank  cellar environment. 

Lexi had waited patiently in the car.  "I really don't like this place," she'd said from the start.  It looked stark, along the lake thumb, as it was located on a peninsula.  It was mostly devoid of trees and vegetation other than crab grass and lumpy exposed earth in places where dogs dug.

"Come on," I beckoned, "You'll need to see the kennel."

We were sorry we did.

The kennel looked dismal.  The building was drab grey concrete, suitable for canine prison.  It was  fenced in; an enclosure of muddy sand-patched grass.  Inside was built like a failing fortress, as the main character, the border-collie had escaped to romp the isles and mate with several females that were there.  There was mess and urine, a-plethora.  I was holding my nose, and my stomach dry-heaved.

Lexi was lost for words.

"Do you like the place?" asked the owner.

I looked at Lexi, and we laughed. 

 I was building a good supply of carpenter tools, making what I felt were pretty decent wages, as lead sawyer in a construction firm.  Lexi had her own plan.   Her plan was simple; win the lottery.  We could be instant millionaires.   Quietly, I knew that such things rarely materialized during one’s lifetime.  Secretly, she purchased a lottery ticket, weekly.   Fortuitously we won a small fortune; enough to purchase the zoo.  We would be fortunate to locate another home.

“What if we sold the house?” she asked me.  “Do you think we could have enough money to afford a country setting?”

“We need to look at places, with country settings.  Maybe we can browse national realty listings,” I suggested.  The listings came in our mail.  We started sorting through what seemed to be accumulation of catalogues from around the country, piled.  Lexi was serious. We were spending weekends traveled through rural areas to aid our search for a bucolic, life-style. 

We were having breakfast together.  “I made you, cookies and eggs this morning.”

"Great," I said, "I always enjoy your cooking.

“Do you think a weekend at, Wagon Wheel Resort, might inspire us?”  Wagon Wheel Resort, was Lexi’s place of choice when she needed a rewarding rest.  She had also been hard at work, designing food pictures for a display to be featured in, Art Magazine.  Two of us were living in a large city, both hard working, at job and home.  We were workaholics at business and somehow deviated from the path with a suggestive question; would it be possible to find a location suitable for our requirements, whatever that might be? 

We made reservations for the ranch weekend, where we spent most of time in leisure; rising later in mornings, riding horses, reading and lounging, sometimes in a huge hot tub.  I enjoyed the resort.  We knew the horses’ names, we’d been there so many times.  My rented horse, Brent knew his way around.  He liked running and seemed to have a knack for mischief.  While we were riding, I spied a trail that allured us to following.  Brent took to the trail, trotting along.  I was lost in time, mesmerized by verdure, and we seemed to be lost when emerging into an area of growth that included a house, tucked into vines that were encroaching upon it.  I had to wonder what that place had been in its finer years.  It was partially nestled into a hill that rose behind, and the building appeared to loom, emphasized by a pitched roof.  An old and faded, For Sale, sign indicated that attempts had been made at selling the home, sometime past.  We had lost our way along the path and needed to get back to the stables.  I pointed Brent in different directions where I hypotheses might head us into civilization.

I was getting desperate to try anything, as we seemed more lost than ever in our woods.  “Brent, go home,” I commanded.  His ears pricked up, as if he were on to something, and he started trotting through bushes, almost in straight line, until we were galloping down a trail, once barely visible by concealing brush and leaves.  It took all my concentration, holding the reins in one hand, and my hat in the other.  Tree limbs jutted out before us, barely overhead and requiring precision, ducking and dodging, with rising intensity.  Suddenly we were running at full speed upon a great field of green, heading across prairie at a rapid gait toward Brent’s barn.  An exciting ride was taking a turn toward terror.  Landscape whizzed by.  I felt almost inclined to do the same, evoking urination.  It took every motor skill to muster strength in retention.  His speed increased.  He was heading into the barn, unstoppable.

Brent stopped suddenly, just shy of the barn door and certain skull smashing death for unfortunate riders.  He stopped, with Jaguar agility.  Instantly.  I barely retained myself in the saddle, and virtually fell from it, just sparing myself impact, grabbing the saddle horn while dismounting. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said the stable hand, referring to my complexion.

“I feel like a bad episode of, Ichabod Crane,” I replied, handing the hand my reigns,  in route to the hot tub.

“Maybe we need to pursue this venture from a new perspective,” Lexi said, while we soaked together in the tub. 

“We need to get the trailer home. Brakes will need adjustment before travelling again.  A week at home for maintenance might be good,” I said.

“That’s a great idea,” said Lexi.  “It will give me time to coordinate my photo arrangements for the art magazine.” 

“I’ll hook the trailer up in morning,” I said.

We were driving along the expressway next day.  Everything was well.  A semi-truck was in front of us and we were coasting downhill.  The road was clear with not much traffic and we could see for a mile or more.  I applied my left blinker and a little gas.

Lexi was sleeping, and now jarred awake.  “What’s going on?” she questioned, but I was too busy trying to steer in a straight line.

I felt the wind tugging us, and the car felt like a feather, buffeted about.  We swayed back and forth alongside, trailer to trailer, while the other driver released his throttle and I slightly accelerated to pass him and steer clear of his rig.  We were already losing control.  

“Hang on,” I hollered to Lexi, but she’d already dug her nails into my left leg and blood was seeping into my chino pants. 

The trailer yawed than tilted over, while we skidded along the road, me trying to slow down.  The hill’s bottom gravity was winning.  The unthinkable happened.  I knew crash was eminent.  It was too late for flashbacks.  I felt the trailer jackknife.  I could only wrestle with the steering wheel to hold it straight, while the trailer carried us around, directly facing a speeding semi.  White knuckled, I aimed for the roadside, while we both applied brakes.  The truck cab loomed above us and we braced ourselves as we skidded.

She stopped; the driver of the truck.  Our right car-side rested along hill, with trailer laid out neatly behind us; it had dragged to disintegration.  There was broken glass everywhere, and we stared at a huge truck bumper, parked just inches before us. Our toppled trailer lifted the car off the rear wheels, and the frame looked sprung.  It was a gloomy day.

“Do you think we should find a hotel somewhere in this area, until they can fix our car?” Lexi asked me.  It was getting late in the day, after being towed.

“I think anything with a bed may suffice,” I said, not realizing what I was actually saying. 

“There is a motel, just down the road from here.  It’s only a short walk,” said the garage mechanic and body man. 

“How soon can you get us repaired?” I queried.

“That will depend on the insurance adjuster.  He should be here sometime, maybe in a day or two.”

I looked sadly at Lexi.  “There’s not much to do here.  Let’s get ourselves a sleeping room,” she confided to me.

Next morning, we were up bright and early.   I was still shook up about our mishap.  Lexi seemed eager to pick up from where we left off and continue our quest for land.  We walked to breakfast at a Mom and Pop, restaurant. 

“You look hungry,” a man said.  “Robert Slick, is my name. I’m a broker.  Did I hear you say you’re looking for a place around here?”  He turned around in the direction of a bypassing waiter.  “Give these people some coffee, waiter!”

The man appeared, as if from nowhere.  We were just getting seated, after a fifteen-minute line waiting ordeal.  He wore a suite, complete with derby hat; and a cane that he carried was quaffed in ivory, to match his white, shoes with gold buckled straps, stilted at the exterior sides.

“But, I’d rather have hot chocolate this morning,” Lexi stated.  “Who’s buying anyway?”

“Well, I insist I do it,” said Mr. Slick.  “You are looking for a house, right?”

He ushered us to our table as if the waitress didn't exist, tucking his left-hand cane under that arm-pit and barely missing the nose of a muffled guest, while he shuttled us.

“We are looking for some land,” I said.

“But, not just any land,” piped Lexi, and she explained all of our situation.

“Well, that’s easily solved,” retorted Robert, indignantly, as if he had the answers to each of our problems.  And in fact, he appeared to do so, supplying us with a rental car, paid for by our triple A card, and he also offered us a quiet place to rest while searching; all-the-while, his attitude changing as he worked frantically to find us a quick fix, and his temper seemed mercurial with bouts of laughter and hand-slapping on the leather covered dashboard, as we sped around twisting country roads.

"I've got a trailer, and think there is a place we can park it for awhile, while I help you search," said Slick.  "Everything's for sale out here.  You just pick a spot and make an offer.  Folks are motivated for business here."

We found ourselves completely at the mercy of a maniac who left us for the night at a desolate location, tucked into a small clearing in a densely wooded area.  We had adequate supplies for a basic staple of bacon and eggs, with a few extras for some creative dishes, mostly Spartan, as there was a grocery store several  miles away, but not much else.

"I love country settings," Lexi said.  "Could you imagine living here?"

"It is beyond my wildest dreams," I lamented, thinking about the stark desolation. 

The big black, Olds Ninety-Eight pulled up at the campsite.  "We're going to find a house today," exclaimed the broker.  But that didn't happen and his mood soured along with the day that brought us rain. 

"Did you see the way he slammed the screen on that ladies house?" Lexi asked, in reference to one irate seller. 

"Well, she practically chased us out, when Slick said, 'I hate cats and cat urine; which this place smells like'."

We laughed.  "Can you imagine what, Muffy would do if she,d been at that place?"  suggested Lexi.

I was thinking about that, stroking her soft head while the dog pressed her head innocently against me; but that comment had me loose and rolling on the floor, guttural with laughter that partly the product of a beer from the refrigerator.  I could not control myself.  "What do you think he's going to do when he learns we're keeping our dogs with us?" 

" He's going to be ripped!"  explained Lexi, "But, he's never going to know, if we keep them clean."

"Sure," I said.  "What about the skunk she found the other day?"

She requested sausage and eggs next morning, while I enjoyed biscuits and gravy, and we discussed our land search strategy.

"I think I'd like to go home," said Lexi.  We both need to freshen up."  Days had passed, and we were pressed for time, with the city threatening to depose our new pets at the zoo, turning some into glue.

"We are wasting time.  We need to press on."

"Johny, you listen to me.  We really need a bath."

True.  With only a sink, sparse on running water, and toilet threatening to back up, along with the empty kegger  -- that beer brew, worthy of remembrances -- we were starting to foul out.  Our due date was only a couple of weeks off, to move our animals.

The waitress avoided us, even though she served well.  We could tell she was slightly offended with the odor, as she stood back with our order.   I was sporting a beard, sprouting from neglected shaving, wearing my best, mining hat that was garnered from the shop at, Iron Mountain, another area we scoured; attired in jeans that were melding into my legs, form-fitting and otherwise hiding trail-dust.

"Let us take one more day with Bob," I said. 

"I feel like we are being, Slicked," joked Lexi.

She was right.  We got to the office in a little town called, "Shaven", where he was nowhere to be found.  One of the realtors made a phone call and we waited for a long time. 

"He got some morning appointments," the lady said.  "I'd help you, but, he said he might be in this afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon."   

We went back to our depressing lot, worried about abysmal fate.  We were letting our pets down harsh, and our efforts seemed fruitless.  So, it was Lexi's idea to get us into some more trouble, that following morning.  As I recollect, the trailer was parked, back facing a slope, while the tandems were chocked behind wheels to prevent rollback; but, there was some slippage which we didn't seem to concern ourselves with, as a chain wrapped tree secured the trailer hitch ball-frame -- so we felt we were going nowhere. 

From inside of our trailer, scenery was serene, looking out over the land, from our bunk-bed view, the perspective was different than it was, standing at ground level.    You couldn't see our slope we were set on, and it looked more as a cliff-side panorama from that angle, only to the east side; and to the south, we had an overview  of tree tops  as there were many.  Beyond those evergreens, directly before us; and we wouldn't even have noticed it -- me at least -- until Lexi mentioned it -- a lake.   "Would you look at that," she said, gently waking me the morning following depression and another six-pack we shared, that previous eve.  "Watch the sun rise," she breathed dreamily, rubbing the depression in my back ridge; then  moving her hands  up toward my shoulders, massaging her way along, titillating me into her position, and we watched the sunrise and an otherwise unseen lake at ground point,  from our romantic berth. 

"Would you look at that lake.  It looks beautiful in the sun's morning reflections.  Imagine what it might be like , down there.  Do you think it would be hard to get to?"  Lexi asked me.

It seemed an easy hike, starting from a trail heading in that direction, and it was all downhill. 

"Let me take my knapsack with me."

"Should I take my purse," Lexi chided me.

"I don't think there will be anything for sale there," I said. "Just lock it in the trunk."

The trail was fairly easy to follow at first, winding, dropping steeply, sloping slightly upward to a ridge; all-the-while increasingly difficult, but navigable, and after awhile, we found our way to the lake.

"What a beautiful place," she said. 

Mesmerized by lakeside serenity, we enjoyed the latter part of our morning, warming by the lake and later, enjoying lunch, procured from tools I'd brought with me, in my knapsack.  Producing fish-line, I showed Lexi how to fashion a hook, and make a fishing pole.  We pulled some roots, producing a couple worms, and several grubs were garnered from a rotting log.  That produced a couple lake trout that we roasted on sticks over a pine fed flame, seasoned with salt from my pack.

"Just imagine what it might be like, living here for a few days," Lexi said.

It was then I looked up at the scenery and discovered our lake had much different perspective from its base.  We started hiking on what we thought was a trail leading us back. 

"Do you think we're lost?" Lexi asked nervously.

"No," I said.

I heard rattles, before seeing the snake.  "Don't move," I instructed Lexi.  The snake was within a few feet of her. 

With my bush knife, I cut a lengthy pole to push it; nearly losing footing.  It was fighting me to claim the pole.  About the time I thought it might be winning, it turned to immerse back into the thicket, of which everything seemed to be. 

Lexi was visibly worried.  "Do you think we can get out of here?"

"We need to be calm," I said, fighting my own instincts of natural fear.  "See thoseTamaracks," I pointed her toward a pair of giant trees protruding out of the brush.  We needed a diversion.  "If we head toward them,  we may be on higher ground."

Working up a sweat, I labored forever it seemed, probably an hour or so, until we reached that destination we'd set; where I climbed one of them to look and discover lots of forest and swamp, seemingly stretching forever.  You couldn't see much else.  Everything looked the same out there.  From my backpack, I produced binoculars and what was unclear in the distance to my naked eyes, became a visible knoll.  Reaching into my shirt pocket and producing a compass, the only thing I knew is that we could be on dry land for the upcoming night.  The trek took most of after noon.

"These branches are fearce," Lexi said. "I'm hungry."  Her mood was changing.  She was getting agitated.  Her legs were scratched and she appeared to be itching also, as we'd passed some poison oak along our way.  It was getting darker in the forest and shadows looked erie.  "I'm scared," she said.

"So am I," said I, trying to comfort her.  But that didn't work.  Now, I took her into my arms and gently squeezed her around her waist.  "Honey, we need to muster some courage.  We're not in any danger yet."

"What about the snake?"

"Well, it missed you."

I took her hand in mine and coaxed her. 

"Is that a rooftop?" Lexi asked, pointing through the woods.

We could barely make out a rustic remnant of what remained, and we headed toward it, expecting to find highway, but there was nothing apparently there.  Weeds and feral growth entwined everything.  Too tired, we resolved to spend the night in the haunted house.

A door which bore letters, 666, opened part way, inviting our ingress.  It was dark inside and growing darker, but we were able to find an old decaying mattress close to a wall at one side of a room.  I'd stopped to pick some berries; an assortment of wild blackberries and raspberries, as they were in season, along the way.

"We'll have enough to eat for tonight," I confided to her.

"You make me feel comfortable," Lexi said, stroking my chest as we tried to make the best of bed.  We were sprawling, with legs spread and backs toward the wall, her head on my shoulder and I was looking toward her shadowy figure, when we fell asleep.

"Gurr."

Some time, during night, we were suddenly awoke by a bloodcurdling event. 

"Lexi, get my back pack," I instructed, reaching to group for my bush-knife, in a sheath not far from where we lay.

"Can you feel a flashlight, in there?"  I was referencing the backpack. 

"I think so," Lexi said.

"Well, turn it on, so we can see."

It was eerily light, that cast a shadow on the room illuminating Satan's eyes, and a three wolf silhouette.  I raised my blade while Lexi screamed, "Please, let them go," as she feared for their demise, in spite of our dilemma.

"Always compassion from a lamb," I hollered, swinging like a swordsman and nearly clipping an ear on an air-bound beast that fell, short of its target; as a giant goat gored it, chasing the pack from our residence which remained open-door's. 

Calmly, the goat -- later, Stan -- took to the kitchen and dining area, where he promptly relieved himself upon the floor, before lying on our mattress. 

 "I think we slept on his bed," Lexi said.

"No wonder it smelled musky," I observed.

The sun's distant light was rising, casting shadow on the moon's image, before rays could penetrate the forest, and we watched the hazy morning dawn before us from what appeared to be huge panoramic views observed by plethora of windows, while Lexi danced gleefully around, perhaps encouraged by rising daylight, having survived a difficult ordeal.

"Look at this fireplace!" she exclaimed, "It's beautiful!"

Certainly, the fireplace was an only redeeming factor in an otherwise abandoned wreck.  Although wreaking with filth from open access, we thumped the floors and they appeared solid.  It had suffered from multiple burglaries, releasing it from civilized utilities.  I scrimmaged around the exterior to produce enough kindling and several logs for the hearth and developed a healthy flame to warm us from the morning chill.

 "This place would take a lifetime to repair," I committed.

"Are you okay?"  Bob Slick had snuck on us.

"How did you know to find us here?"  I asked, after we'd explained our ordeal.

"You left your car with the trailer, and I didn't see you in town.  When you weren't at the there, I started looking along back roads, figuring you might show up somewhere, baring hypothermia and other casualties.  Are you ready to see some properties today?"

It was beyond my disbelief.  We'd been mostly abandoned at unfamiliar territory, without cleaning facilities, other than a shallow trailer sink, with no shower or tub.  We were short on supplies, without breakfast, and he expected us to continue with him.

"Is this place for sale?" Lexi asked.

  

                 

EVERYBODY WANTS PART IN US

EVERYBODY WANTS PART IN US

Modern media morphed into a new form, some time ago when internet communication became popular.  In many cases, the informed are quicker to post news than most generic news medias.  Lots of people brows the net daily, combing for new news they can only get independently from TV.

Most recently, events began unfolding across America, tailing massive demonstrations globally.  Many of the same issues ensue, as our constitutional rights were essentially stripped, shortly after September 11, inferno.  That date separated classes into categories of rich, and expanding poverty.  James River was already in history books, a paper company giant that spun off across other countries, as trees disappeared, making paper production appear cheaper in other counties, where slave-labor is historical from onset, and people are considered worthless commodities.

Expanding issues cannot be hidden under rugs, or concealed by ignorance.  These issues must be addressed.  Politicians are paid to conceal the iceberg tip; the wealth they attract is too great, when nothing gets broken up, or melded back into community. 

Today’s issues of growing poverty and massive cutbacks for increasing homeless and downtrodden people, is direct result of blatant government corruption.  Homeland Security Act, consist of thousands of pages, and took years of compilation.  It is so massive that most legislators have never seen it; yet, it contradicts itself, making concessions for wealthy people, and granting immunity for public murders and segregations.  Nothing like this was ever written into our, Constitution, and much of it actually violates our, Bill of Rights. 

Issues arising from growing poverty are filling the coffers of rich politicians who are draining the funds from our man-made, free spirited government; and most people are controlled by the results.

It is the responsibility and job of every governor to encourage employment and increase production; at least fund an employment office.  Instead, they brag about people emigrating from other countries; they are talented, intelligent and work cheap for billionaire governors, their gourmandizing ways, foreign to most state residents, are overpaid with increasing taxes.  Not until we replace buffoonery with intellectual compassion, can we assuage these issues, let alone eliminate them.   But the issues surfaced and will remain ever expanding, until they get addressed differently.

The Room

The Room

The room is a bit of a twist; neat, with not too much furniture other than a desk, office chair and the proverbial couch, in a space large enough to hold much more; it looks stark and lonely at the end of a hallway, and the door leading in from the entrance way, across from the hallway, serves more as an egress , for those unfortunates who happen upon location.

The stark appearance from a frugal furniture selection, too small to adequately cover the room, lends itself to a mood of loneliness, one might assume.  There is a bank of several large windows, at the room's south, followed by glass sliding-door arrangement, and beckons with its warmth provided only in hours after noon -- as, the shadow is cast in morning by the east wall  providing respite for the Spartan furniture arrangement of a minimalist.

FERGUSON IS A STATE AND NATIONAL FAILURE

Along with much of US, Ferguson is a Federal failure; and the state, Missouri is responsible for that failure.  According to Missouri law, the Grand Jury had no choice but to acquit the police officer who shot an unarmed man.  Missouri law – as in many states – allows police to shoot anybody or thing, if they feel threatened; that is key.  All the officer had to do was say, he felt threatened.  Some evidence shows there was provocation in the squad car (something questionable – there are no pictures of that scene) but claimed injuries are questionable.  The situation was handled more mechanical than level-headed. 

Fifty-five Ferguson police officers and three black men patrol a mostly black neighborhood that is plagued with phenomenally high unemployment, a much greater scale reflecting rising joblessness in US.  The black majority is mostly jobless, while employment is reserved for a few.  Prominent mayors in US poke fingers at black society and add coal to the fire, stoking the unfolding events.   Meanwhile, National Guard is sent in to assist the majority accented police force. 

The outcome was predictable in advance.  Small businesses owners rushed to secure buildings, while greater companies afforded police guards and soldiers protecting their peace.  The outcome was a total loss to every US community, as smoldering results still remain to be seen.  There is no defending the unreasonable action that took place when a gun was used against an unarmed man, when a police officer decided to take down a civilian, unassisted.  Some of it was caught on camera, such as the wedding that shortly after happened between two gun toting lovers.  It was bad timing and in bad taste, some might say. 

Within moments of the jury decision, everybody in US knew, as it was leaked to every outlet.  There was no drama other than the facts that family was treated with cold hands.  Nobody seemed to be reaching out to comfort anybody.  Just like everybody except the leakers, newspapers (one recorded to print the decision before it was publicly announced, because of leaking) and those who read quick updates) the victim’s parents had to learn about everything, on the local news that may have been tailored to address them. 

For all the media hype, there was really no dramatic scene unfolding in most US homes.  People were not pulling out their hairs, worrying about the ‘formal’ announcement, as everybody already knew of figured it out in advance.  One could see the handwriting as merchants scrambled to take cover, there,  would be no celebration, and everybody was set to suffer, except for special troops hired for the aftermath. The insanity continues.

Jesse Jackson was choosing his words well about the issue, pointing out many of the ongoing problems in communities across US.  Properly, he said that if you want to work against poverty, you need to create commerce in depressed areas, living wages and human rights laws.  The Ferguson problem is reflective of the way US people are being treated across the nation; and the reaction carries.  Without addressing real US problems that include high and growing unemployment, while skirting issues of decaying structures across the nation, and massive directly controlled job loss, we cannot climb out of a worldwide created famine. 

The failure of Ferguson and the country, is the fault of state and federal government.  The failure of our state, local and federal governments is directly related to a robotic society of insider trading and the idea of selling sovereign status by developing companies that destroy personal prosperity.  Unless we address and solve these issues constructively, our problems continue to escalate in volatile directions, such as sunspots.    

Augustus  

Augustus is a tiny town, even by small town standards.  Non-the-less, its decline is un-concerning to those living there.  They’re comfortable (most of them) about one half living in town, with the remaining stick home sprawl along the outskirts of city limits.  Everything was well planned by those families, fortunate to be first to settle and interrelate with similarities.  It could be the perfect economical study, as running a full gambit, somehow surviving from ash (the whole town burned, early in the past century, to be resurrected by the hands of children of those who formally built the town) to present.

“My dad and mom had a farm to the south-west.  I remember growing up on our farm with Mom and Dad.   They settled on forty acres.  Do you know where the old Feeby Church is, on the hill?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where they owned.”

“Wow.”

“Dad helped with the church building.  First, everybody was meeting at, Town Hall.  That’s the only place they could meet.”

“No kidding.”

“Yes.  Dad was able to get enough money from clearing woods on his farmland, to build  that Church and people could forever worship God in his own home, where he lives twenty-four seven.”

“Blessed Jesus.  Does he ever get outside, to see the shape it’s in?”

Mrs. Charmis/ Former Feeby – former Chucklewood/Brown was sitting on the Adarondic bench, next to the chair, upwind from her tuffet.  Nobody know what brings people along; except my friend, ReideMorgan was there; sitting on another similar lounge-chair bench looking cool.  Body language tells allot. I’m an expert at naivety and happened to sit between them.  She turned around to face me and look at Reide in his befitting attire; cargo shorts, loafers, and shirtsleeves.  He looked almost mythical Greek, with a pleasant tan.

“I think Jesus left that home, twenty years ago,” said Reide                                                                                        

She laughed, now facing him and with me in-between.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “I should be the one to talk,” eliciting nothing from an easy flowing conversation; slanted in one direction, mostly hers.

“So, what happened to the farm?” I asked. 

“Well it was a win, win from the get-go.  Dad acquired an airplane and 130 acres.  We build a factory to purchase the land, making rail parts.  He worked like a horse, and treated his help as mules.”

“God bless his soul,” said Reide.  It was summer.  We lounged comfortably at a gazebo during Friday’s car show.  Everything was open on Main Street.  Closed and abandoned buildings were obscured by street vendors and blight forgotten for the moment.  The hot summer day commenced with my friend, and his new friend, a woman in her forty’s, and leaving me at neutral disposition. 

“He used to do fly-overs each weekend.”

“Where to?” I asked. 

“Looking after the neighbors, I suppose. It was easy work, he said – before his hearing failed.  He got extra wages from government.  They purchased his fuel as well.  We had it made with oil.  Now, with fracking, we are feeling well again.” 

“They make ‘oil drinks’, at the bar don’t they” Reide asked.

“Sure do.  If you want to go there now, I can fix you one myself.  They gave me my own seat there, and kitchen rights.”

“No shit.  To think I live right across the street!”

“No shit?”

Oil Drink, is a semi-unctuous formula, topped with chocolate and whipped cream, Reide later explained, beyond her presence.

“Did you get the building permit?” she asked.

“You like the addition?” He asked. 

The conversation was illusive.  Reide lives only a couple miles from me, near Horsshoe Lake, up on the ridge and a bit secluded.  It was nowhere near the house he referred to, across the street from the bar.

Mrs. Charmis had been around for a while after several husbands, including one minister Feeby, who mysteriously committed suicide.  She was in fact, the gossip of town, including the mailman, milkman and anybody who would come around.  But I found she had interesting information; that being the best thing I could think about her.

Everybody has a purpose, Mom would say.  Always, I revert to her wisdom, where it comes to rationalization.  She was my Godsend, mother and mentor.  If you can’t say something good, say nothing, Mom would tell me.  I always try to have a good word for everybody.  Sometimes that is difficult. 

Mrs. Charmis’s departure would be quicker than I’d expected.  My buddy said, “We really need to be going.  There is business here in the streets, today.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Charmis said.  “I really need to be getting on with work (whatever that was).  Maybe I can visit later?”, she quired, stroking his cheek; then looking at me, as if for my approval. 

I stared ahead, almost poker-faced, managing only a pale smile.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  My thoughts were else ware.” 

“Common,” my buddy said, “we got some shit to do.”

We were walking from attempt at relaxation, still holding our large lemonades.  They were full of ice and it was refreshing in the tepid, high seventies. 

That was luck, he told me after we’d left the scene.  The town was a deluge of people.  It was summer and people were popping from woodwork to visit and kibitz.  We had other plans.  There is a lake about a half mile from home, but you can only get there by one trail.  He wanted to test the water.

We stopped at his house to pick up a couple fishing poles and his tackle box.  He reached into the refrigerator for some worms in a can, and we were heading through the woods.  It was a good fishing day.  We filled half, a five gallon bucket, once used for some chemicals; later washed out for this collection.

“We’re going to fillet,” said Reide, while we carried along conversion, enroute to his home again, after our catch.

“Great,” I said.

He proceeded to carefully rinse the fish.  With my Schrade, they were easy to slit and disembowel.  That task, I managed in minutes.

We dipped the fish into a beer/flower, corn meal mixture and he prepared the indoor grill.  “How much grilling do you do?” I asked. 

“Well, I think almost daily.  We get wood-chips free, and they’re easy to smoke into a charcoal.  We have the charcoal house for heat in winter.  The only other thing we need is our water, which is air pumped, and the windmill furnishes electric.”

“Wow.  That’s impressive.”

Fish were sizzling.  The smells were of wild trout.  We peeled and sliced potatoes for the grill.  I took a sheet of his Aluminum foil, he kept on his cupboard shelf, folded it and sliced a few drainage holes; then, placing it on the grill for his spuds.  I grabbed some carrots for sticks, and we were soon enjoying lunch over a million dollar view. 

He said, “People would kill each other to live here,” after a dinner of fresh fish from another lake.  The view was splendid.  His large, covered boat dock harboring the only cigar boat; a tail that barely stuck out at the building end.  You could see boats and some scattered buildings, some closer than others; their boats covered with tarps, or temporary structures.  We were sitting on a deck, passing a bottle of, Irish Rose. 

I reached my arm across the bottle before drinking, then passing it to him.  He rubbed it on his shirt, about the same level he used to help me clean fish; then rubbed his palm across it, as if for good measure.  He took a long draw and smacked his lips, then passed it.  By now, I didn’t care how I could take my liquor.  I was running across his beautiful deck, just stopping short of the balcony, heaving fish.

I felt weak and sat heavily into his deck lounger; a wide, comfortable swing type, easy-glide, with the ability for self-rocking, just now needed.  

“Don’t puke in my chair,” he said while grabbing for the mop and passing me another hit, along with a cigarette.  “Just what you need.”

“Arrrgkk,” I ralphed, purging my entire intestines, from top to bottom, across the deck then passing out into afternoon.  Hours later, I woke up.  It was dark.  Fresh air assisted sobriety.  Amorous noises were coming from a corner room, as Reide and his partner, Mrs Charmis participated in coitus.  I made my way quietly (it probably would not have mattered) through the living room and across the other side, opened the entrance door, doing the same with my car in the driveway.  Keys were on the dashboard.  I started the engine quietly and headed home, wondering how I might explain the event to Lexi. 

“Yes, it was a busy festival.  Did you have a good working day?” 

“Quite busy.  I just got home a few moments ago.  We worked late today.  Would you like to help

me make supper?”

“I’d love to, Honey. There’s fresh wrapped fish in the cooler.  I just took it from the fridge a few moments ago, where I stopped at Reide’s home. 

“Oh great,” said Lexi.  “It’s good that you have nice friends out here.  That, Reide seems like a good person for you be with, once in a while.”

“He showed me how to make a beer-less batter, with Near-Beer.”

“Great.  Can we make it without any beer?”

“Sure.  You know I react poorly with alcohol.”

“Okay.  You can start it while I change cloths, for something more comfortable,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “You’re really going to enjoy these fish.” 

The nice thing about Michigan summers is: they start with cool mornings, ending in cool evenings.

Dear Mr. President

President Barack Obama,                                                                                                                                                            and First Lady Michelle,                                                                                                                                                                    The White House,                                                                                                                                                            1600 Pennsylvania Ave. N.W.,                                                                                                                                                  Washington, DC  20500

5/27/2014

Dear Mr. President and First Lady Michelle,

Thank you for corresponding.  I know you are very busy.  There are now, several safe places to meet, including, Eagle’s nest.  We now each have mutual friendships and acquaintances, including neighbors.  Since writing the letters enclosed, three coins returned, leaving questions; what happened to the black envelope and one other coin?  I would like to know why police threaten me, and remove me from their buildings, as US citizen, and why they call everybody, “liar”.  

Seriously, pardon the person charged – they were tried in pigeon court, as scapegoat, without my knowledge or presence – you have ability to negate.   I believe there was more than one person involved.  Also, three cops physically removed me from their building, and told me they do not represent me.   In Michigan, police say it is their job to protect municipal buildings, not people.

 We need an understanding and a treaty.  Everybody must understand what it means to preserve corridors maintaining wildlife and natural resources, complete.  People who place monetary values on everything are parasites feeding on insecurities.  You need to recognize how to fix things in peaceful manner.  In this case, it represents whole US, and affecting everybody. 

I hope soon to send you something for Dr. Chen Guang Cheng (an opusculum). 

You have an opportunity to help fix US, starting here, in Michigan, Indiana and Midwest.  These upcoming weather changes make it more important than ever to make provisions to assist us, and I know how we can do this. 

Your Department of Natural Resource, asked me, “sacrifice”.  That is worst of all insults you can give; but, it is your DNR.  I know about sacrifice.  We killed enough for sacrifice.  Maybe we need this time, real treaty for everybody to understand; but you have to do it.

At this time, I am requesting 8,500 acres of swamp and woodlands; in the same way those European dictators gave our lands to their friends and associates.  You have that authority. 

I am enclosing copies of papers sent. 

I hope you are having a pleasant day.

Sincerely,

Johny Appalachia

Letter to Director James Combe

Director James Combe                                                                                                                                                                       FBI Headquarters 
935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20535-0001 
(202) 324-3000

Dear Director,

I recently sent you a letter concerning this matter of personal property knowingly being held at Paw Paw Police station, that same station which said they do not represent me, and the station that refused to file a police report when I requested, at the time of the incident (more than two years ago), and threatened me with Heresy charge.

Also:   There were four coins involved, in a black envelope.  If they do not have four coins, it means they are being less than altruistic, or, they must return to the location where they retrieved such articles, and that person should know the location of the fourth coin.

This incident transpired more than two years ago, when Department of Natural Resource requested I “sacrifice” mineral rights.  I reported this incident to Marines and Air Force friends, who have volunteered to stand with me if necessary. 

I formally request a Federal restraining order on Paw Paw Police, Michigan State Police, and Department of Natural Resource. 

I formally request the return of my merchandise that they hold, and I wish to know why they refused to investigate or take a report at the time of this incident.

Please, order the return of my properties.  RSVP  Cannonball – extension – 1800G

Enclosed is a copy of Paw Paw Police letter, listing, as missing merchandise, to be confiscated (stolen).

Stealing is stealing.  This is a formal request for Federal investigation.

Sincerely,

 Johny Appalachia

Cc President Barack Obama, American Civil Liberties, Michigan State Police

Paw Paw Police Department,                                                                                                                             

Dear Mr. President -- April 30, 2014

President Barack Obama,                                                                                        April 30, 2014                                                                    and First Lady Michelle,                                                                                                                                                              The White House,                                                                                                                                                                              1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW,                                                                                                                                        Washington D.C.  20500

Dear Mr. President, and First Lady Michelle,

Thank you for your recent letter of gratitude for correspondences.  It took a bit of courage to do this.  I am not in a habit of writing to many, other than a blog, and only about three-thousand people, mostly friends; not nearly the correspondence, and I am told that I have about three-million true friends, many of whom I never meet, much as you. 

The only other president I ever wrote letters to, was Bubba (my friend, Bill Clinton, whom I met in Chicago).  He sent me invitations to White House Christmas, almost annually; and, I always liked him because he talked to me as a person.  I am aware that he is ill, or so I am told; however, as with Dr. Chen Guang Cheng, his address eludes me.   I guess if you asked Bill, he might say he does recall me somewhere, and might even mention a book we shared.  But that is not the reason I write you.  It is different; and we are not really friends, because you do not really know me.  My best friend for years as pen pals, was Bill Brady; and he was a great mentor.  We stopped writing some time back, but I always think well of him and his wonderful wife. 

It was not my intention to ever write to you, except that fate delegated. 

About the time Newt Gingrich was saying, get an education (to US), I was working on my Master Degree.  Currently, I am diligently working for my second, even though I am much older than you (for which I am happy, as I hope you have a long and healthy, happy life, and in that respect you could call me a friend, only if you wish). 

How much education must one have to be President?

I realize that between two of you, your educations dwarf the majority of people, worldwide.  That is why I cast my vote in manner.   And you did some good things, especially for health care and as an advocate for education.

 As you see, I basically wish to ride upon a positive wave; but what I cannot understand, is why government should not work absolutely as they say it should – balanced on a pinnacle, from the bottom to top.  The sacrifices must be mostly made, from top to bottom as a cohesive solution, not your Department of Natural Resource coming to people as myself to eye them with envy, while denying their rights – same with Michigan State Police – Paw Paw, and beyond that, all the way to governor – these people represent self-interest only. 

Stealing is stealing, no matter who does it.  When you lock US citizens out of their own countries, and tell them that you do not represent them, and you keep valuables that belong to them, and refuse to make a report, and physically remove them, I think that is a crime against US.   I believe that is why our first nation is still simmering on hot coals. 

The crime US committed against US citizen, telling him they do not represent US – who do they represent, Mr. President?  Nobody wants to answer, other than American citizens, wronged. 

This is why I am requesting a restraining order against those responsible for my “sacrifice”—Michigan State Police, and your Department of Natural Resource (which Michigan is currently claiming).  And, I am asking for the return of my valuables, and I am requesting a meeting with FBI Director Combe, and I still wish to speak with Dr. Chen. 

I have education now, and hope to educate many more.  RSVP

Sincerely,

Johny Appalachia

YOU DON'T ALWAYS GET TO CHOOSE THE PEOPLE YOU MEET

Hustling With Minnesota  

Part of my High School haunt was an aged but by no means decrepit, pool hall. I never considered myself proficient enough to pursue a career in that sport, I just enjoyed people I met there.  You’d think “Archies” was a far out-of-the-way place, as it barely exists on any map of regular size.  It was the home town of Harold McGown (my father’s namesake, a relative) who invented the world’s first snowmobile; and also the ultimate place to meet many people from four corners of earth, as it appeared to be the center of the universe – certainly, it was ours.

I was a poor athlete as a youth.  Maybe I was built too bulky for sports.  Once I hit a ball out of a ballpark.  I ran the bases.  People cheered.  The umpire sent me back to second base.  We lost the ball game to everybody’s chagrin -- the only ball game I ever played in my entire lifetime.  Today, I could barely throw a ball across the street; so I’m guessing consistency.

The way I remember, there had to be about eight heavy, well-maintained, perfectly balanced pool tables, older than anyone who played on those tables, even the ninety year old owner.  And behind those tables, a three-lane bowling alley occupied others who came to relax or stack pins for a penny a pin – not my idea of fun, as sometimes balls tended to be hurled by harried troglodytes, and head injuries were at a premium.  You just learned to stay out of some areas.

I enjoyed playing pool with “English”, a technique we began to master at Catechism practices, at a table in the Jesuit church basement, as the pastor enjoyed placing bets on similar activities, smoked cigars and encouraged a healthy lifestyle--but the pool hall was very professional.  Where I could easily command a table in one arena, it was a struggle to maintain my own turf in the other; but, my friend Bob, clothed himself through school, playing pool after classes, or on weekends, at tournaments.  He was a hustler.  I could hold my own.  Together we cleaned house among regulars, and Bob often won, as he dressed fairly well and drove a new car.

The owner was a once professional player who conveniently owned his primary occupation, the pool hall.  For him it was a winning decision, as he literally won many games, just enough to make a cut above, maybe a few more logs for the fireplace as the woodcutter debited up.   His real advantage was his actual skill, something people are born with or lack thereof and he attracted the likes of world-renowned gangsters (Baby-face Nelson and a few others); also, great pool players. 

One day, a guy walked through the door while I was dorking somewhere else.  It was the only day in my life when I chose to watch the Saturday afternoon bowling tournament.  All three lanes were busy times two.  It was exciting to watch three guys stumbling over each other over balls and pins that kept smacking them repeatedly, and coincidently the guys, none of which I liked, could it be Socratic Irony?  While I was getting my laughs on the shoulders and to the chagrin of tortured bullies, wondering if I should sign up for a round, all I could hear in the background was a crisp, smack-smack-smack-smack-Smack.  You’d think the                 Q ball would crack in half, such was that sound that brought the rest of that hall to a standstill; and I was too naïve to understand the significance except the table was surrounded by fans so tight that it was impossible to get through to that table if you ever wanted to.  And the room was silently still while some guy with fat fingers ran entire rounds consecutively, again and again without fail, never missing while a few lucky folk looked on, excluding me.  It was Minnesota Fats.

Pool halls lured me during adolescent and single years for a number of reasons.  If you are a product of the country, disinterested in ordinary sports, preferring the likes of country brook and lake fishing, you might develop a city interest in pool halls and bowling – that is a valid theory.  Anyway, I accidently bumped unknowingly into Eddy Fields, the world renown psychic, in Chicago -- coincidently on a couple occasions; and it was frighteningly scary just to look at this genius who could not seem to tie his own shoes from time to time or maybe match his sox; and he told me the same thing twice, within a year, never knowing my name or history.    We played pool together, while people were paying him one-hundred dollar bills, just to grace his presence.  I never knew who he was.  That’s the problem.  You meet these people and they turn into ordinary personalities except for their quirks, as in everybody. 

In retrospect, Eddy probably acted more as a big brother when I saw him and he asked me to share his game.  He was a terrible player in my estimation, and it made me feel as comfortable because we never knew who the winner would be.   Nobody would be running the slate with everything in galactic order and never missing a beat.  It was more like a sophisticated version of the celibate, Cheech and Chong, if any such thing should exist, or ever did, as two people quietly struggled with this tortured event that seemed to be almost redundant after a fashion, flailing sticks and missing balls around the table, we each wished somebody would offer to beat us. 

Last time I saw Eddy, he was working as a psychic.  Before that, he was just a strange person I bumped into at the pool hall.  I had no idea what he did or who he was.  He was just Eddy, the guy I bumped into.  We each went our separate ways, non-the-wiser.  My Q stick got hung up on the rack.

 

Reflections of Royko

Memories of Royko  -- Creative Non-fiction Writing – JRome

 If there is journalist heaven, Mike Royko probably resides somewhere up there, sipping suds with buddies.  I like mixed drinks with the consistency of, Shirley Temple or Jack Nicolas, mixed fruit juice and tea blends, with zero alcohol.  We’d never meet at infamous, Billygoat Tavern, rubbing shoulders, chugging, sharing ribs, talking trash.  People are different.  Everybody has a life.

Unless you liked sipping sauce under the tracks, or were a glutton for hard grueling work, one had to wonder about Mike’s friends.  My brief and limited experience working for him as a messenger, I personally felt hot coals from the despicable side of his personality.  Maybe I caught him on his bad days, or, they were all bad days; either way, Sadism does not run in our families.  The brief relationship lasted less than a week.  If I learned anything from it, it was stay away from a mound of snow (for better words) to avoid avalanches, walk away from volcanoes before they began smoking, nothing relating to good journalism.  One was better off reading Royko’s column in, Chicago Sun Times.  Nevertheless, you had to admire a man even if from a distance, coming to bat in defense of free speech, when he staked his job, rightfully defending columnist, Anne Landers’ using the word, Pollack; and Royko consistently demonstrated loyalty to friends.   

My fondest formative memories were prior years, while age three; I remember standing on the corner, with my sister and my parents, when Candidate Dwight Eisenhower stepped from his motorcade limousine, to shake my hand (and Dad, Mom, Sister).  He told me that someday, maybe I could be President, and somehow I always believed him, for years, before I realized that babies were not just miracles, and few people achieve such stature.  Even now, I still want to believe that if I live my life in a way such as I would, if I were President, I would probably be well prepared, just in case it ever happened, having practiced during life’s course.  We should always be prepared.  With Eisenhower, he left a lifelong impression, and something for me to aspire, for whatever thoughts might have existed in his head that day he said to me, “someday, you could be President.”

Memories of Royko, probably put peppers in my mouth initially, which certainly I mean no disrespect for anybody as great, not only for his writing but his fortitude, whatever it was for that day; maybe it might have been better to meet at a picnic in LA.  Usually we never get to choose strangers we meet, who run into us, or we serve.  A given choice between Mike Royko and Mother Therese would be tough irony, as she’d be saying, why don’t you have children; and, I’d be saying, “no, you do it.”, while Mike would say, “get outamyway.”

People get what they want out of reading and mostly it is superficial or light, chit-chat, one thing I never did around, Royko.  I was more interested in setting time-stamped delivery records around the city, while winning more than one cop chase and racking up a reputation for solid reliability, without taking carp from a curmudgeon, in my opinion.  Mike was the best writer they said, and I agreed with them, but I knew I was the best driver; and a solid, no-ticket driving record demonstrated my unwillingness to jeopardize that for anybody’s orders of unnecessary stress.  In retrospect, perhaps my mannerisms might slightly have contributed as well; few people had gall to pedal a self-published paperback in front of Royko’s haunt, but it worked.  Coincidentally, years later while enroute to Saskatoon, a friend gifted me, Mike Royko’s book, Boss; which ironically got stolen on the way. You have to admire people who go to bat for others, even if from a distance.  If one were to pursue journalism, Mike’s column might have been a perfect study; he knew how to dot I’s and cross t’s.