Riding By Window

  

     Busses intrigue me.   I enjoy watching and riding on them.  Forget about people -- they've got their own problems – it is the ride I thrive on.  

     Best position to be on a bus, depends on demographics.  Riding through city is a fifty/fifty toss-up, with anywhere okay; maybe.  If you sit in the wrong location, you might regret being there.  My first most vivid city memory -- several police beating on a man who'd had his throat slashed, ear to ear by thugs, while I’d watched from a bus -- for his own protection. 

     I was thinking about the afore- mentioned while I rode along a New England city corridor of seemingly endless traffic lights and numerous stops enroute to Chicago.  Thinking of the incident reminded me of another similar and older haunt. 

     We were sitting at a strange teenage location, we'd called, Bums Jungle.  There's lots to tell about the jungle, but not here.  Crazy drunken teens -- we were --, and where was I? 

     I was somewhere in the middle of every group, between hard rock and stone.    It was the saddest thing about my life.  I often wished to vanish.    But, they called us, five spirits.  We appeared from nowhere and partied into nights on weekends and beyond wee hours of mornings, till week days dawned and once again, work began.

   Anyway, I must confess that alcohol and I do not cooperate.  Yes, I sloshed away a few; but mostly, it made me sick.  If you're all alone in your silly world, you tend to drift downward for entertainment.  Rick was entertainment one warm afternoon.  It was a train yard, partly abandoned, and every once in a while a train would come by.  We'd played there since we were kids.  We were sitting there watching and, Rick said, “Look at me, I'm Jesus Christ, and about to stop the train!"

     "Superman!" I encouraged him, without realizing what actually was transpiring.

     The train coming up fast, but still distant.  We could see the engineers and eerily, the whistle blew.  But, Rick jumped directly in front of it.  "Common train,"

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Rick goaded.  But they chickened and slammed brakes.  Screeching reminded me of finger nails on chock board. 

     I watched wheels turn red, then white.  And, Rick held his ground.  "I'm Bat Man,” Rick chided, forgetting Jesus Christ.

     They got so hot those wheels, that sparks flew and some of the old rotting train timbers started burning off a pile in the rail yard, kindled by heat and dry wood slivers; so, now we were watching fire, my nemesis and only enemy.  I just watched timber burning, and the train kept coming, while wheels whitened.

    His girlfriend saved him in nick of time.  She leapt.  Connected.  Kicked and pushed away.

     Rick still took the hit, but it didn't matter, he had no feelings anyway.  He was there for his own pleasure.  Somewhere in those woods was a tent he slept in.  But, his girlfriend?  She kicked his ass that night, probably saving his life, I thought.

     The train hit.  Rick flew about twenty feet down the track, but off to the side, and his arm was slightly bent.  But it could have been worse, I theorized.

     The train screeched, blew both whistles while engineers cussed then blew by, just like the breeze that warmed summer days there, and once again we were children, in minds inebriated eyesore.

     Rick tried to get up to wander back to his pad, but not quick enough.   Cops were on top of him.  But, he was tough.  "There's no such thing as, Jesus." he proclaimed.  And, I was inclined to agree there.  Nobody came reciting the rosary that night; as hours had passed.  

     When it comes to religion, I don't know where I stand.  I recollect cousin, Jesse.  She was a divorced woman back then and nobody wanted her, she'd said.  But, I thought she was pretty and always encouraged her.  I know it's sick, and never would I really do such thing, but I told her, I'd marry her if she wouldn't be my cousin.  I guess she’d realized the plutonic implication of an addled character who harmed nobody; almost.

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    Rick was fighting with them, and I confess I batted one badly before booking into the forest and that tent ensconced in brush, and quietly awaiting morning and escape.  

     But, the cops were beating poor Rick, for his own protection, so they could fix his broken arm and baton head wound, at the hospital after a night in jail.  My thoughts precluded what came next.

        The only way I enjoy being right seated is if I'm going a short way and hopping off soon, sitting at the front.  It's a good place to bail out before others; what I learned on city streets.  

     There was no hurry here, lounging while the bus seemed to choose its own path.  I was sitting midway and you couldn't see even his head; the driver of the bus, who just kept it steady, even while hydroplaning around curves, in the evening rain. Pouring rain beating that roof top, and wipers going, “splat, splat, splat,” flip flopped back and forth, dampening already dour moods.

     Then, somebody came on board, a young man with beautiful almost cherubic features and voice that would be coveted by any human choir; but his body was bent beyond reason.   I recognized him as a gang leader.  Some guys you just know at impact.  I know.  First thing we'd ever done during childhood was fist fight.  His scars were too many to be normal.

     An engineer can look at a log and analyze it.  You can tell a lot from a log.  Lots of different logs make many different products.  I’d begun my paper-mill job at age sixteen.  In winter in early morning, some guys would go with me to climb two and three story buildings with solid wood ladders built for such purpose as to get us on top those specific structures to shovel snow from slanted rooftops.   

      My analytical intuition had led me to know that deformed character I'd met.    He sat directly across the aisle from me, kicking his heals up on to the next seat

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chair rail, draping boots across the aisle and retracting when somebody walked by.  His right arm rested upon his bag, and his guitar top case braced itself against his window, which presented little interest to him.  Instead, he turned his attention to those black mysterious binders.  That guy had engineered his own version of me.  "You're a writer," he assumed. 

     I'd never written about anything; that ever amounted to much.  Those diaries would have made a great subject, probably about nothing.  Not much to talk about, I thought.  The black binders bothered me more than anything now.  I felt like offering them to him, and walking on with my life.

     So I started telling my own story, whence he unveiled his beautiful arch top guitar.  Not normally my choice for that instrument; those things have their problems.  They're difficult to tune and keep tuned.  His was polished beyond shiny.  I could see my own face which I seldom look at, in that glossy cherry wood, reflecting on my mood and almost exposing my soul.  He began strumming ever so quiet, but that music just resonated throughout the bus that day.  When he sang, I thought I'd died in Heaven.  His voice carried so well that it felt like quiet stereo.  He played for an hour or two while we rode quietly through hills.  Lots of people closed their eyes.  I just kept staring, and staring at the black books, beside me.

     Then the space man expelled from aerospace began ranting; raving about beauty and mountains while his loving wife kicked him again.  Mountains?  I thought they were hills compared to where I'd come from.  Rounded tops with sledged rock slices along the sides, they were. 

     He was crooning Leonard Cohen songs while we slipped into twilight; the guitar guy.  I had to wonder, what made this man?  Here was a guy whom I’d judged by jagged looks, slightly unshaven and Dingo boots, but with that golden voice; which made a good point with the idiot as well, as he himself said, "If God had given me a voice instead of a brain, I'd be singing on broad way instead of stinking in brew,” making a point to his pint size wife about women being there. 

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     She refrained until the next stop, to kick his butt at the, Buffalo exit.

     I was thinking about the books.  I let my eyelids droop; and welcomed an old friend into my dreams after thinking about my sister, Sarah.   

     While I was age five, one April; my sister and I were shooting arrows at a large target placed in front of a corn patch, with little space between, to catch those arrows missing mark.  The bulls eye, big enough to swallow a basketball, was difficult to miss at close range.  We were standing at a distance, behind a white lime line.  Sarah, my sister?  It was a nightmare turned man. 

     We shot our quivers empty and went to pick our missing arrows.  I'd over shot into the corn patch an arrow or two between rows and headed there for retrieval. 

   Anyway, before that, I was telling her about my plan to write stories and she'd laughed.  I loved my big sister, but she'd had no mercy.  I'm average height.  For a man, I feel average.  My sister is six foot tall.  Not that that matters.  Mom was tall as well.  But me?  I'm just five foot, five.  It wouldn't bother me if they didn't bring it up; the rest of our family -- that is -- most being taller than me.  

     Sarah found her arrows quicker than I did and headed back.  "Common, move it lard ass,” she mimicked Mother. 

    But I was a few rows too deep for her patience.  She proceeded to place her target on me.  It was a good idea I guess.  I was moving and resembling something of a deer (or, perhaps pig).  She aimed for my buttocks while I rose, penetrating my chest.  Shock knocked me backward, but fortunately I was okay.  I pulled the shaft, removing it, and began stuffing milk weeds that grew wild into the hole; which clotted.

     My dream shifted to an old friend, Dolly who’d acted differently.  She had a heart.  A well-dressed governess, the first woman, Harvard graduate (she'd once confided in me), and I loved her the way a son loves his mother -- while her son loved the neighbor next door.   Dolly always encouraged me.  She gave me a place to stay.  She made my bed and cooked.  She cleaned cloths.  She wrote and published stories, while I watched.  Then, dreams vanished.

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     We rode through night and night lights while dozing.  Music ceased, but the guitar still lay across the now snoozing rider.  My attention turned toward the window.  I stared into night plagued by books.  What could Mom have to say?  I

loved Mom.  We both loved each other, I think; maybe, more than we knew, or ever demonstrated.

     As a teen ager, I ran away to be free from home duties and responsibility.  I was living in a half-way house making room and board with food; all you could eat; in exchange for cooking, doing dishes, washing pots and pans.  I got fifty dollars a week, if it didn't get stolen. 

     Those black books?  Rewriting her diaries to try and make sense of my life?   Mom mostly down played anything I'd done constructive in that department.  She mastered three lexicons and languages, was class valedictorian, an Army officer,  President of PTA, a secretary and ongoing list of achievements, none of which I'd ever reach.   "You'll never amount to anything," she'd often confided. 

     It was peaceful riding through nighttime.  Everything was quiet, except for soft sounds of a muffled motor, and an occasional crunch of gears meshed out of sync.  The bus rode like a pillow under my body and I marveled at the plush seats, resting my arms on a quilted arm rests, repeatedly dozing through night. 

     We picked up another character along the way.  This guy needed to take my spare seat.  He eyed the books, interrupting any thoughts I'd had about writing, picked up the stack and callously tossed them with his suitcase on the overhead rack, as if they belonged to him.  I’d hoped he'd take them.  Then he sat next to me to begin sizing me up.  Where am I going?  I didn't know, but wanted to tell him where to go.

     I made up some brilliant story about being a successful, Chicago writer. 

     When it comes to writing, I'm timid.  Dad never wrote more than a handful of pages, several paragraphs long and never more than one preposition or less per sentence.  Sometimes, I wished I'd taken time to teach him better grammar.  Most of anything I ever said got wasted on deaf ears.  Writing takes too much

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time, when there’s other work.  Mom always told me a distressed mind was one unemployed, without some menial or tedious duty.  That was her reason for

keeping me, and keeping me busy.  There was lots of farm work.  She’d called me her family mule.  “You act stubborn like a mule,” she’d often said, “I’m treating you like one, so that you will understand good ethics and endurance.  Someday, you’ll thank me.”

     It was a good tale.  He believed me, and even offered me his own; free, he said.  Nobody really wants to write a book, it's painfully insane; long boring hours sitting before a laptop, waiting for an epiphany.  But, it's a good line if you ever want to impress somebody, or make a fool of yourself.   Someone is always willing to tell a story.

      Mom was much less impressed with my efforts.  She'd be a tough act to follow, just like sister Sarah (my eldest and tallest), peas in a pod; if I'd listened to them, I would amount to nothing.   I guess she’d had her point --Mother.  At her home, I did little other than chores.  Three years old, two years before deciding to be a writer, I wielded a hammer, pulling rusty nails from charcoal planks that needed cutting as firewood, another job I did.

     He wouldn't ever know, unless I could get a spontaneous nose erection as the infamous, Pinocchio.  I guess I could have said anything.  It seemed like a good idea.  He bought it.  Now he was spinning his own yarn, which began in, Serbia, Russia.  He'd been born in war, seen lots of blood and fighting, which he took great length describing.

     Blond, short hair; except for his slight (okay, heavy) accent, he spoke remarkably well, looking almost American.  You can't tell much, looking at a guy in night, with no light except streetlights, and occasional flickering car lights.  He was a tall stocky build and appeared muscular.  He was heading toward, Chicago as well it turned out, to retrieve an auto.  Since gaining economic freedom, some states over there, he said, were spawning US vintage car collectors.  He told me the story about a Cadillac he’d once purchased for a guy, and how it broke down

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midway on a trip.  They’d made him install a new transmission where they left the vehicle; set off of the curb.

     While he spun his saga, we docked in Buffalo, where we learned we were absolutely unwanted.  Groups of men in arms swarmed the bus.  They boarded, demanding credentials of anybody who looked scared; and carried poster pictures of wanted suspects.

     The Russian, was openly flustered, and perspiring.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  He cracked his knuckles while the Gooks (we’d called them) dressed in black, faces covered, sunglasses at night, and guns focused on my head, demanded a passport from that man.  Coincidentally, I happened to carry mine in my jacket pocket, and handed it quietly to the Russian, who passed it forward, as if it were his own.

     They  didn't look too hard in the dim lit night light of the bus; just tossed it back and he caught it without saying, thanks; for which, I was thankful.  Then they turned their attentions across the aisle, to people there.  They held up pictures, comparing faces of strangers they met.  When they got to the singer across from us -- he no longer had his boots blocking traffic -- one Gook, decided to make a scene.  They told the singer he resembled somebody on that photo list, and even as he protested, they handcuffed, and shackled him for our evening display.  But, I knew he'd probably done nothing wrong.  They did not even apologize; broke his guitar and spilled luggage all over for his lack of cooperation, then; shoved him back on after discovering they were wrong.  You never call cops wrong.  You never look at them.  You hope they don't look at you.  That's the message they gave.   To me, it looked like he hadn’t done too much to get that treatment; except, maybe he looked the wrong way to him. 

     I never ponder about what others think of me.  Mostly I go unnoticed, which is good from my perspective.  I hide scars to avoid bad names.  There’s no reason degrading myself, when I have family to keep me humble.  You don’t always get to choose people you meet, especially in a bus or along the, New York boarder.     

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      US is a free country.  Drive anywhere without law breaking and you have a ticket o everywhere along Route 66, so to speak.  But board a bus, or public airplane, and count on free rectal exams, or Halloween type nights.

     Nobody seemed sleepy after adrenalin rush.  We walked mostly, not even sitting at the stop; for two hours, waiting for departure.  They could have frisked us there instead of on that bus.  I thought it was pointless anyway.  Some people got scared, some angry, and everybody hated them.  I guess they’d accomplished their mission.

     We boarded busses, exchanged luggage racks, addresses and seats for our new places and destinations.  I didn’t see the Russian.  He stayed there.  Probably, he got a hotel room somewhere before his next trip ticket.  Who knows?  People are different.  Some get a one way ticket to an abstract location, knowing exactly where they’re going.  Others visit cities and have round trip fares offered them for less money.  Me?  I just happened to be there.

     The poor man whose broken guitar had left him, in the garbage; suddenly looked ragged, worn out, and sad.  While we were riding and everybody bummed out about Gooks, he began singing, Halleluiah, to everyone’s relief.  It might have been better without the chorus of sorts; but he held his tune well and it carried over all. 

     

      A few rough edges can be sanded to perfection.

The Bus Ride

The Bus Ride

    

I was taking a bus ride home; a long story that goes way back, culminating with an uneventful trip.  Anyway, I'd taken along, a small duffel bag, with just enough room to store just a few essentials; those interior garments, socks, underwear, another shirt and tie, and no toiletries; I'd make effort to borrow those along the way, as there is no use wasting a tube of tooth paste, or half bottle of mouth wash -- too much trouble, luggage and weight. 

     Beside me I'd set aside a stack of notes bound in black leather; gold lettered, binders.   There must have been something there I didn’t want to see.  I must confess that I barely made it through, High School.  I don't know how I ever lived through, Grade School; or, in retrospect, the fact, I'd even lived long enough to get there.  But, the gist of it is, if not for comic books and westerns, I'd have no reading materials.  And, next to me was something I might only trudge through, perhaps in search of a, Shaw-shank type redemption.

     Explaining that is what I must get to; later.  First I need to rehash the immediate transpired event which put me into the bus, to start with.  If you want an experience other than plane or train ride, then, bus is the only way. 

     My first recollected bus ride was with a man I felt close to and called, Da-Da.  Things were different back then; as bus terminals tidied daily, serving free coffee.  But, the prevailing smoky smells which conquered  spaces during my pre-adolescence, if you might refer to it as such, had disappeared; being traded for untidiness, and dank dimly lighted rooms where the smell of alcohol often prevailed along stops, near broken beer and wine bottles.  Some people travel in style, to the most pleasant places.

     I'd expected something better; perhaps a long nap.  But, the guy behind kept jabbering, and I can't recollect sleeping the entire distance.    He'd worked in the aerospace program until a drastic, memorable cut-back; whence, he'd moved to, Kentucky to promptly knock up his new sweet heart who hated him, and kept kicking his ankles till he visibly bled.  They were escaping, New York and the birthing bill; heading back to no man's land, and he was telling the whole story, loud enough for everybody to hear.

     Some people are like that.  They have nothing, and want everyone to know they have everything.  Big people with high ambitions, they are.  Trouble is, everything happened for worse. 

     They say it's easier to walk into, Hell, than to climb out of it.  I know.  I climbed, The Inferno -- a long, true story.  But, the guy I was talking about, never had a chance in, Hades, to get out of it; as he was living the nightmare and didn't even know it.

     Everybody gets their own headaches.  Heaven knows I've had mine.  But the poor guy in the bus?  He didn't know where he was or was going, having popped enough pills to wake the neighborhood for a thousand miles; or, until his wife willingly slipped something strong into his coffee during a lengthy stop-over, which he barely stumbled back from; falling into almost eternal rest, and to my thankfulness. 

     How a woman of such stature can hook up with nothing, is a question I toyed with over my lifetime.  There must be some cruelty of nature, similar to volcanic in human terms, where force is so strong, nothing can resist; just like gravity.  That poor child’ed woman fell into that category of her heritage.  She'd first be a mother with two children (the husband, one of them), or, the parent without support. 

     Isolated cases you may call them.  Children are mostly born into arms of happy waiting moms and dads who always sleep in separate beds; praying nightly for these miracle bundles, I used to think.  That's a far cry from an alley quickie which results in country shotgun marriages.  I remember talking with a, Cherokee, years ago while I ladled live fish into his minnow bucket, for an ice fishing venture.  He was telling me about how he met his wife, while I attended him.   "You make your bed and you lie in it," he'd said.  I thought everybody loved each other.

     My job started in early morning back then.  I didn't sleep much anyway.  Most nights, I'd fight sleep, or try using a dim light which couldn't be seen through the cracked door.  Mom would be very angry, and she might pull the light out if she caught me, and lock the basement door on me, where I'd be trapped until morning.  Real men would face their fears, she'd tell me. 

     Too many fears to face, there were.  For expressing it, I'd be a coward.  I was a coward.  Maybe, I still am cowardly; sometimes I think.  Cowards have nightmares; they wet beds and pee pants.  It was my biggest sin, and for all the beatings I took for that, I wish I'd could have stopped.  But, the basement was the best place for me, with its dirt walls and floors.  If I couldn't use the toilet upstairs, I could always relieve myself   on the floor down there; and with all the shadows, nobody would notice.  The less time spent with family, the better it was for my hide. 

     The couple on the bus, what would happen to them?  I had to wonder about the kid.  Would they beat him every night when he peed his pants; or, until he peed his pants?  Why do people have children, I've often wondered?

     Bed wetting and nightmares ceased many decades ago for me; thank, God.  But, the memories last forever, always to remind me just who I am, and what I face daily.   The scars I bear, well-hidden like the web in my hand, shielded by clothing or otherwise closely guarded, each tell their own stories; and I will. 

     A week prior to my uneventful bus ride, I got a call from my older brother.  "Mom died last night," he'd said.  "Do you need a lift home?" he asked. 

     I ordinarily have some reservations about flying with septuagenarian pilots; except my brother, who's flown his own airplanes, from age fourteen.    Nowadays, he prefers dozing while his co-pilots fly the plane.  Even dimwitted, unwilling recruits can be hard to find.  We'd been through this maneuver a few times before.  First, I preflight, check controls, fuel mixture and tires, then, he pulls the chocks and hops beside me already in pilot seat, choking and cranking the engine that goes, ren ren,ren,ren, pop, pop, pop, pop; then sputters, shakes, vibrates and starts loudly; so loud you cannot hear yourself or anybody else, and we put on our head gear to hear even less. 

     Cessna Centurion has been around since the sixties; maybe the fastest flying mini-van type transportation.  It cruises somewhere over or around 150 KPA.  Airspeed measured in knots, gets measured off the engine propeller shaft, or actual speed.  Actual airspeed varies with wind and temperatures; while the latter gets measured, calculating propeller speed and horsepower.  In other words, you could be flying faster or slower than indicated.  A good jet stream can get four or five-hundred miles in an hour, if it's moving the same direction you're going; or, might slow you down to eighty or ninety knots and it might not seem much quicker than driving; but, it is.  At sixty knots, you don't need to worry; you'll be on the ground or runway, because the plane stalls and glides at that speed.

     Centurion is basically an up graded 187 model of the fifties era; with that solid, un-retractable landing gear, converted to retract its wheels.   Earlier versions of Centurion were under powered for the added hydraulic gearing and weight which they took on for aerodynamic sleek speed advantage.  Eighteen to twenty-three, thousand feet they may fly; hopefully with oxygen supply.  But, my brother's cheap and rarely uses that.  You can live on low oxygen at ten of fifteen-thousand feet -- he generally snoozes while I fly -- and hopefully remain aware and awake --which can be a struggle.

     We took off from a location just west of the lake, Michigan, climbing almost vertical after a short, quick launch from the runway; about a thousand feet, as my brother won't waste rubber, or energy; but, it was I who pulled the yolk.

     My brother is a great guy and companion.  We seldom see each other; but, when together, it's always an adventure.  There's too much to talk about from the time we spend apart; but, we don't do that.  We're too different.  My brother is a lot older than me.  He had an early start in life and barely knew Mom; much less than even I.  The large, Irish style family ensued in his career, and he left a number of children along with his divorce.   But, I have to credit him, as he did take half his children along with him, to raise into good virtue. 

     The plane had had an engine upgrade, from its original, to Rolls Royce, making it a little faster, and carrying it further into the jet stream, about six miles high.  We leveled at about sixteen-thousand feet.  Benny needed to test his limits of endurance.  He passed out, while I struggled slightly with my own air fatigue.  I'd brought some bananas along for the ride.  They were in a paper bag where I'd left them on the bench seat at the cockpit rear end.  Flight's a funny thing.  Altitude takes a toll on fruits and vegetables.  You can wear a light leather jacket up there above clouds, barely feeling cold while sun shines directly on you.  Everything else freezes.  I went to retrieve one.  They'd froze solid.

     About an hour into flight, I glimpsed at the lake, Erie and my eyes drooped slightly along with my head; but, I held the rudder straight.  My Erie approach was a little high -- Canadian side, factually.  It was high enough to be invisible to most area radar. 

     Benny poked me.  While dozing, we'd dropped altitude and were now a very visible seven-thousand feet, and in Canada.  He grabbed his controls, but too late.  We'd crossed the line.  Now flying back into, US and safety.  We decided to land in Pennsylvania, to take on fuel.  Benny got coffee while I refueled, then unloaded my own. 

     Coffee was strong and bitter delicious.  No cream, no sugar, just black; an eye opener.  We took a tiny stroll around, still punch-drunk inebriated by lack of oxygen; then decided to move on.  

     Our second leg in our journey was much rougher than the first.  Wind had picked up.  Clouds rolled in.  We got lightning, rain and hail.  Again, Benny handed off the control to me.  "Keep climbing," he instructed.  I had all I could do keep steady.  Flying felt like riding a sledge hammer.  Air took on physical meaning, feeling more like a concrete stairway in my hands as I poured on horsepower and the best climbing I could do.  Vibration got so bad, it hurt my arms; another reason Benny appreciated my company.  We had little choice but proceed by instruments into dark clouds; "blam, blam, blam", it felt like on my forearms.

     About one-hundred miles from New York, there was squawking on the inbox.  That's what communication up there sounds like to me; garbled beyond reason.  We could make out just enough to know we were in trouble.  The gist of it -- we were climbing into their jet flight zone, and they poised to land, creating possible diagonal tragedy.  We had one plane within ten miles; too close for comfort at their speed.  But, for me, collision would be like a goose hitting the intake; sucked in and without feeling.  

     Benny wiggled the squawk box enough to make squelch worse; sounding similar to rubbing fingernails along mesh cement board.   "Unable to read you," he confided to them. 

     Numerous attempts later, they gave up on us, calling for, Hail Mary.  "Carry on as you must, you're on your own," they said, giving Benny his wanted result.  And, I kept climbing one step at a time., to fifteen thousand feet.  The propeller blade struggled against wind and toward altitude, while wings visibly shook in fear.  Blam, blam, blam, was my forearm feeling, step by step.  For all its exterior beauty, and the care made in making it safe; that airplane felt feeble, and I was the only thread that was holding it steady.

     Benny.  He's always got his own agenda.  He'd wanted to say, goodbye to Mom; but, spend quality time with the kids -- his kids -- as well.  They're used to that, I guess -- hadn't seen him  in years.  We got to Gloucester, again landing at a puddle jump airstrip, where I needed to pick up a, Piper Cherokee that had full fuel, specifically spotted for the mission.  While he visited his children I never see, I was to fly solo to the final destination, using mostly memory and visual sightings.

     As long as it is cloudless, everything is almost effortless.  I took off using some instruction and advice from my brother.  I watched the sea coast immediately rise before me, dipped the wing to say, goodbye, and headed due north. 

     it was a bright day, compared to yesterday's lesson/adventure.    Visibility was good.  I felt seasoned and confident about doing this job, for my brother and commander, as he'd trained me.  I was prepared by the best.  It'd taken Benny just two hours to learn to fly, he'd confided once.  First, they'd hotwired the plane, a decrepit cargo carrier, converted to luggage and teen passengers with alcohol, was both delightful and somewhat profitable.   You can get drunk on a bottle of beer, in the air.  Alcohol was cheap at any rate.  They didn't even realize the added height and lack of oxygen, till it was too late.  Most returned napping, fleeced and none the wiser.  He didn't give much more training than he said he'd had.  All I needed to do was point the plane into the wind and relax.

     Below me I could see some small, fluffy clouds floating beneath, while I repeated my lesson from the day before.  I watched farms fall from sight beneath me, while wooded areas appeared and mountains rose in front of me, while I kept poking the nose higher.  I needed to gain altitude before reaching the highest; Washington, where winds and weather are mostly unpredictable.  Funny, the resident weather men up there are forecasting for the valley, and they can only record what happens to them,                 on their own mountain.  Early climbing experience with Washington, gave me some knowledge of the area.  Beautiful, I thought rising through clouds, looking ahead and daydreaming, while the mountains rose before me, and I could feel the draft lifting me toward and over them.  Washington, the highest   NH peak, came up on me, giving me barely enough clearance.  I could see a train, smoke from its stacks, and strangers; figures without features, waving and going about business of touring, and sightseeing.  Some followed me with a giant monocular, mounted at mountaintop peak, as I could watch it moving in my direction, and sun reflecting in its giant glass.  Not many pilots fly there.  Two air strips within twenty miles of each other, each different, awaited me in the valley, along the riverfront.  But, I knew what I wanted, heading for first sighting.

     As I flew down over Adams and Madison, clouds suddenly socked me in , and other than prayer and the functioning control panel, I could be lost.  But, I kept a steady hand.  Spotting a cloud opening, just big enough to dive through and beneath the clouds, I could clearly see the river, and the town hall that appeared from nowhere, with the runway just behind that.

     I flew along the riverfront and circled toward the cupola capping the hall's top, raising enough speed to clear and ascend over treetops, where I knew a runway existed.  I set the flaps to feather downward, stalling and feeling for ground or grass.  The runway, mostly abandoned these days, has a small hanger that was unused, and I park beside it after white knuckle landing and taxiing down the dirt run toward a group of coyotes which readily moved while I approached their turf.  I felt relief. 

     Benny had said he have transportation waiting, and I'd expected a car of some sort to show up.  But, nothing came.  I walked about a mile on the dirt road leading off the runway and to the main street; a paved two lane-er  with traffic regulated at twenty, five miles per hour.

     I walked another half mile or so, to get to my cousin's home on the main street.  My cousin is a mild mannered family man who'd give the shirt off his back, providing there was an extra one for him to wear.  His wife, a thin lady with fallow cheeks is friendly enough, but generally quiet and keeps mostly to herself.  She's the perfect woman for the perfect husband, they say; always smiling, amiable and accepting, the way all women should be, he claims. 

     I checked my bag into the spare bedroom, showered, brushed teeth, and fell asleep shortly after dark.  The wake and funeral followed in a daily succession.  I honestly recognized, few people; most, having to approach me and remind me which classmate they were.  None of them looked as, I'd remembered them, years before;  before I left home.   Clarence, cousin had gained a little weight, was balding and missing a tooth or two, and otherwise looking fine.  He'd had a busy life until the mill shut down.  Nowadays, he read the bible a lot; nothing much to do.

      Conversation was mostly moot, or muted at the wake.  Among sisters and brothers, many I barely knew; looked somber, stared and said little.  Mom being the main attraction there, greeted us in state, from her silver coffin and with a frown that kept growing daily, as if she'd regretted being there.  She looked lonely.  I wondered what she was thinking.  I felt sorry for the long sorrowful existence she'd lead -- my mind's eye projecting memories and thoughts.

     The funeral went smoothly.  The funeral home where she was interred, was closing as was the church there, after the following, Sunday.  Another poverty stricken population was being abandoned by the state claimed as America’s wealthiest. 

No Winners With All Losers

No Winners With All Losers

     You expect honest not “rigged” elections.  As polls get tighter and voting-day threatens to cinch somebody into a term threatened with supreme hardships for the most disadvantaged half of US; deluged with massive sections with extremely severe weather patterns which gets mostly ignored while delegates smile and polls point at two pawns, the election is anybody’s guess.

     Men complain.  Women say, shut your eyes and vote; or, let them vote for you.  This election is a live, Nightmare On Elm Street; including Freddy Kruger, that ubiquitous character, along with, Bat Man type characters lurking behind doors in mostly closed offices to public.

     The country’s been sold out, one mineral at a time, from coal to uranium, along with wood and ending milling and mining industries for Americans.

     Most money spent is egregiously opposite to benevolent in principle.  Funding is for lobbyists and corporations they sponsor.  Appointed positions mostly favor experienced capitalists with Wall Street and related experience accentuated in world trading. 

     Money spent against everything humankind believes; for the sake of war to plunder and destroy that land it seeks to conquer.  How anybody – not to mention a complete organization – can keep volumes of files on each US citizen; along with massive collections including overseas and international people, is mind boggling.  There’s a list for everybody.  Those Orwellian predictions surpassed by, Robo-cops – police paid to respond without feelings or thinking. 

     This election is about principles and authority; specifically, who’s authority? 

     If one goes back to reading and interpretation of, US Constitution, and Bill of Rights; it addresses those issues we face today; human rights issues.  How does it compare to other past bills?  The English, Magna Carta, was similar and only lasted days before renewed revolution; as the article was written only for noblemen and robbers.  Public and most loyal crown defendants – peasants who were inflicted with greatest losses -- were victims of a fraudulent bill that intentionally bypassed benevolence, excluding most.  Our, Bill of Rights, was drafted to be better than others before it; giving everybody equality.  But, for years, it excluded women and children.  Thanks to prominent women who boldly accepted humanities challenge, that changed America – awareness that all people are equal – equal rights amendments began passing, as if they never before existed. 

     Today in modern US, mobs of people appeal for applications for citizenships, mostly unaware of reality changes that challenge them.  In particular, most easterners drag with them, antediluvian pasts. Mother wore headwear whenever going outside – for years.  It wasn’t until the church approved the presence of bare headed women, that she changed.  Most people follow similar thought trends, listening more to cleric’s advice, preferring that over their own.

     Buddhists claim we’re not responsible for our thoughts; teaching mindful and submissive practice.  That’s ideal for most masses who prefer not to think much about this scary world we inhibit.  Run by our clerics; heads of ministries and advisors who condemn or condone self-righteous acts, we stand forever on endless tract.  If a majority of ministers taught universal compassion, instead of opting for wars; and, they each stayed out of politics, as was written in US Constitution, we might fare better in, America.  

   But, politics and religion in US, goes hand and hand.  Ever want to get people religion, put them in politics.  Suddenly, they become eulogists and God praising; while war is always right around the corner.  Our priorities take a turn south from there.  We sell and supply arms to our Israeli friends and neighbors; many of whom live and vote in US, holding dual citizenships, and doing little in comparison to assist the diminutive Palestinians, we arm Israel against.

     We waste one half of US budget on frivolous wars; while our politicians line their pockets, selling overseas deals.  No wonder, dictators love financing US elections; and the reason so many senators become millionaires, and explains why too many people confront abject poverty.

     If we’d eliminate war programs, we could eliminate US poverty, with savings.  Why do Eastern people want relocation to US?  Most of their lands are dessert and deserted.  US has more people entering than leaving.  That guarantees constant changing US demographics. 

     Moving millions of people into US has greatly stressed our infrastructure.  You can’t hire new people without firing others.  Jobs decrease while populations increase and are heavily competed for.  Most US jobs pay only a minimum wage.  Most employees are advised by their employers to seek additional assistance in food stamps.  Those same frugal employers can claim massive annual incomes while avoiding income taxes.  Working people cry foul.  Shouldn’t giant corporations afford fair wage packages and foreseeable futures for employees? 

     No matter what is said, most issues concerning this election, concern Americans with the fact that about half the nation is unemployed at any given time.  Those statistics are hidden in mandatory retirement packages, layoffs, etcetera.  Offshore companies make most profits for US.  Unaffordable, they call US.  It’s cheaper to ship refrigerated chicken to offshore factories where high standards get overlooked and less time is consumed in cleanliness.   A nation cannot inflate populations, cut wages and jobs, borrow money to do that, and expect solvency.