Letters to Governor Whitmer

Governor Gretchen Whitmer,                                                                                                                    

111 S Capitol Ave, Lansing,                                                                                                                                                        MI 48933

January 09, 2019

Dear Governor,

     Congratulations on your new office.  Lots of laws were passed in order to limit a Governor’s authority.  Believe me, you have lots of authority.  I hope you use it in a good way.    Some things you need to address; don’t cave in to demands of bullies.  If the President can raise wages amidst a depression and government shutdown, you can cut State Senate wages by fifty percent.  That would be a good start. Those people are mostly bought out by corporations and taking kickbacks for cheating tax payers.  That’s my opinion.

     Seriously, there is led and PFOS on our territories, and we didn’t put it there.  They (European poachers) are still claiming and destroying our territories.  Last fall, I advised four armed men on two different occasions that they should leave.  They were poaching deer and duck.  I told them we have lived on these territories for eleven-thousand years.  We are US citizens and we pay taxes.  We know we’re different.   Police fail to recognize us.  They invade our territories.  DNR steals mineral rights when they can get away with it.  We push back.

     Coincidently you’re part of our hope for understanding between Native American Michigham indigenous people.  We recently powwowed to discuss our new law on Marijuana that we wrote.  It is illegal for State Senators to change in any way, our law, without first discussing it with us, and adhering to our wishes, which are minimal.  

     I would like to leverage ten million dollars with the, State of Michigan and make an attempt to work with working class people.  I would like to build and sell solar power plants from factory and display.  In exchange, we can also legally start commerce, using resources we already have, and eliminating state debt.   At our powwow, we discussed setting up the first State non-profit affordable exchange.  What if we could lower the cost of living in Michigan?  Inflation is destroying the states, creating poverty.   This problem progresses southward.  People are starving while starving people march north.  But what concerns me more is, Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Venezuela and concerns about Brazil as well. 

    

    

     Another matter of concern is rumor of a law forbidding arms or self-protection to medical card holders.  It would be illegal to pass such law.   They don’t take guns away from alcoholics. It seems counterproductive, as we already made Marijuana legal – twelve recreational plants for everybody in Michigan, of age of consent and adult awareness.  We have over a million legal medical growers in Michigan; more than enough to make a legal market.  Why not let us work together?  

     If they want to take guns away from people, why not take guns from poachers, including the Federal Officer who neighbors my property and poaches from deer stands on this land?  They have destroyed several hundred adult trees, and a lot of vegetation, not to mention contaminated soil.  Who will fix that?  We do not need marshals policing us on our territories; rather, we wish to be recognized by the state as what we are, Native American.    We are also tax payers.  How many years should one pay property taxes on territory?  Do you believe retired people and people who collect Social Security or Medicare should pay property taxes?  Why should people pay taxes on, Social Security? 

          I am working on my Doctorate and meet bimonthly in Indiana, with several professors, lawyers, doctors.  We study rare documents.  Have you ever read, The Wise Men of Chelm?    Are you aware of a book, The Wise Women Of Chelm?  What about, The Eye of Time?  These are rare works which we are privileged to examine.  We are writers as well.  Most of my writing is on a shelf at the library; labeled, Rare Books. 

     I have a Master Degree in Leadership.  I hope you can view your term as daily and active, not yearly and lame duck like previous governors.  Should you happen to read this letter, would you kindly contact me to assist with our other matter; redistricting our state? 

                                                                                                            Sincerely,

                                                                                                                                  Johny Appalachia

Standard Answers For Standard Questionnaires

     Standard medical forms should have standard answers.  Standard questions requiring answers from today's doctors are often invasive.  Information they contain may be irrelevant to circumstances. 
     Licensing is another puzzling preposition.

.This should be the standard answer for the standard marijuana medical license application.

     The standard medical form for filing pain intensity is both misguiding and judgmental.   It is an inaccuracy in respect that one’s ten may be another’s one.  Can that eliminate them, either one?

     Answering that question is subjective only in the eye of the beholder.  I in fact suffer a somewhat uncomfortable and debilitating degenerative bone disease.  Modern medicines are said to be addictive.  I find them to feel poison; having experienced sickness after consumption of such recommended to me by doctors.

     Homeopathic medicines are preferred by many who share my illness, with somewhat better success than the more damaging medications prescribed by doctors of larger institutions.  It is ultimately the patient choice of prescription or medication taken for illness. 

     Other factors associated with illness are muscle weakness and spasms.  How does medication affect them?  Labels on bottles associated with pharmaceuticals explain risk factors.  Many of those risks may become more serious than the initial disease, or cause or intensify the same side effects as the disease. So far, Marijuana has been shown to have fewer side effects than many modern medicines, and may cause fewer deaths, when used conservatively.    

     Marijuana use is still against both Federal and State laws.  Its use is State licensed in some states in part, only because a majority of people voted for its recognized use as medicinal.  Admitting to using Marijuana is currently tantamount to boasting of a felonious activity.  My occupation does not allow Felons.

     People who use marijuana claim that proper use calms both nerves and relaxes muscles.  Some may tell you that while it is not a perfect pain killer, it may otherwise occupy nerve cells to work better and divert or disburse (balance pain).  Pain impedes both mental and physical health.  People who suffer with debilitating illnesses such as mine, claim and exhibit better or improved health patterns while using marijuana.  I happen to believe them.   

Pocohontas -- The Savior

  Pocahontas

  

     

Her name, Claudilia, by her father, Wahunsunacoch, the Pohatan (Great God); meaning, forest flower, exposed her true beauty, early and lifelong, demonstrating responsibility to live unto the expectations bestowed upon her by those both Anglo and Algonquin, as her history may imply.    A beautiful woman in childhood and throughout life, she lived the meaning, pocahontas (her name as known to European people) – the savior, as translated into English. 

     Also dubbed, Mataoka; Algonquin for, sanguine, Claudilia demonstrated both traits of a monarch and the most simple, Jesus.  Both often traveled accompanied in entourage; each willing servants themselves.  They had few if any possessions other than cloths they wore. 

     Remarkably, Claudilia – her chosen Christian name, Rebecca (ironically, the saint); became the first recorded Christian Virginian and virgin, who sacrificed her life by living mostly among Englishmen; speaking both English and Algonquin, and reading and writing in, English, as an English captor and in life bondage. 

     In person, she may have as well emulated the character of the later living, Nelson Mandela; a chief and captive of, English also, but, livelong African resident.  Much like Mandela, Claudilia, the Pohatan chief’s  daughter, became separated from her chosen mate, and carted off for incarceration.  Just as Jesus and Mandela, she was a God loving, innocent person, greatly overpowered by orders of, England royalty, in the name of, God and divinity.

     Her tail of irony, misconception and miscommunication, she became an object, caught between objections of her tribal father, and European invaders, whose sole purpose was to capture the chief, as practiced in previous escapades, and implement slavery, and plunder US. 

     Wahunsunacock, the Pohatan, witnessed the arrival of three ships anchoring at a fishing shoal, near a swampy peninsula, the first Jamestown Virginia expedition. He suspected they were evil, and prepared for their demise, while baiting them.  An emperor of the northern confederacy and the Algonquin Empire, he would know the happenings within his territory and beyond; as wampum belts witnessed.  He knew they were after him.  

     Virginia Company, a company sanctioned by the King and Queen of England, was sent with their blessings, in the 1600’s, landing in Virginia, in the fall of 1607, with the sole intention of taking possession and claiming the territory, already inhabited by a colony of people living there, hundreds of years -- first viewed as, non-existing, inhuman, savages; akin to soulless animals, as pointed out by early missionaries. They were wrongly mistaken.

     Animals can neither own, nor habitat private property; according to royalty (Gods of divinity).  Therefore; all land in US was waiting for Europe and everybody else to visit, occupy, maintain, and plunder, in the name of, Jesus and all the other European Gods, which are forever fighting each other over their designated holy lands; which is completely illogical.  But, under that rubric, that company came with the specific plan for tribal inhalation; as in past escapades, a common, European practice for at least that time.  

     Perhaps he’d realized the fatality of his people, and yet knowing, he nonetheless tried everything within his power to avert the invasion, even sacrificing a daughter he both prided and respected.  His exact age was unknown, but believed to be a septuagenarian, as he’d witnessed several generations behind him manifest and mature.  He understood his fate as equal to that of a buck in the wilderness, caught between cruel nature and that hand of, God, that invisible entity which created visible earth.   Always great from birth, not by birthright, but by demonstration and shear whit, the great chief, the pohatan, Wahunsunacock, conveyed his wisdom in a way no European man could comprehend, other than maybe,Jesus or Chief Mendella.  For as fearful as he’d seemed, he wasn’t scary enough to match the massacre of millions, lasting centuries; while continuously conning those who followed them from their origins, and unto that promised land of milk and honey.  He being wise, watched from distance, and communicated by servants, one servant leader being one daughter, Rebecca Rolf.

    It is unknown just how many children this great man sired, or his method, but only of that one daughter among many who were captured by Jamestown Colony; only because she appeared docile and to completely embrace that version of, Christianity at that time availed to her, in name of a saint, Rebecca, for about half of her short life.  Exactly how many children she’d had prior to her capture, is unknown as the history of her native union.  Her position pocohontas -- Savior of Jamestown Colony -- understood by her brothers, and mostly ignored by settlers in Jamestown.  
     Had her father had his wish, they’d be abandoned and frozen by spring.  Rebeca took upon herself, having already spoken for the man she called her second (God) father, and saved his head upon her shoulders, she chose to feed them rather than witness their grief. It is irony she suffered with truncation of her own life, because of her humanity.

     In exchange for her favor of their survival, unable to entrap the emperor despite their superiority in arms, they resolved to capture the maiden who’d rescued them; overriding Captain John Smith's promise that they should leave, indefinitely.  As providence would have it, this woman now an educated bilingual, and further tutored by, John Rolph; resolved to meet the English royalty, with intention of resolution.  That denied, she died within a year of reaching, England, and never acknowledged.  
     John Rolph, returned to America, to claim the land for, Virginia Company, and England royalty, in the name of deity.  To date, no true Virginian (native American) may hold offices of, President, Senator, Congressperson or Governor, as written in federal law, US.  This law is yet to be challenged. 

    

Parade

Parade –

Cold, dark, empty silence.                                                                                          Dark, vacant, long streets;                                                                                          light slippery frigid snow.

Band of yellow waves                                                                                           behind tired tooting trucks.                                                                                    Band toots tunes arear.

Around the corner turns                                                                                                dark to light tethers                                                                                                                                     in seconds only, tithings. 

Dark streets briefly lit.                                                                                                   Echoes, candles of past;                                                                                               fades quietly in history.

Appalachia -- Forward.

Diaries;

Forward:

My uncle was a soldier who most remembered his battle on, Iwo-Jima.  His many tattoos with illustrations detailing parts of naked women and knives used for killing, covered his body, from neck to toe.  Mostly, I remember him as a, Railroad Man; the break-man on a caboose.  We always knew when he was working.  He pulled the whistle when he’d cross the overpass, enroute to his home.  We lived just a stone throw from the bridge.  It was an exciting day, once in a while, when he’d stop by; bringing ice-cream, enroute to visit my dad.   There was cold beer in the refrigerator.  They’d sit around the kitchen table.  We had a wooden rocking-chair – Mother’s favorite -- with a padded quilted cushioned seat, homemade.  Uncle would choose the rocker.  Dad would quietly lite his pipe, while his brother sipped, and they’d talk.  Dad was a good listener.  I liked listening in, sitting quietly behind my uncle, who’d be rocking while they spoke.   Next to Dad, I thought of him as, Godly.  He was a man full of energy who enjoyed escargot sandwiches, lathered with horse radish preserves -- something hotter than I could handle, and only a hero enjoyed.   

To understand my uncle, you’d have to comprehend what, Great Depression is like in small towns, where suffering is exacerbated by communities of unemployment.   There was food, but no money to buy it with.  People were poaching deer.  My uncle was only seventeen when he enlisted.  Why would anyone want war?  He didn’t either; but it was there, and there was food on soldier’s plates. 

By the time they realized his real age, he was on front lines and, hand-to-hand combat.   You couldn’t have found him if you wanted.   One can only imagine that experience, having been there.  Nobody wants to be in front.  Everybody dies.  The beach got littered with about, seven-thousand bodies, and fifty-thousand, American Casualties; killing twenty-two thousand, Japanese who were surrounded, in the battle to control an island shaped like a pork chop, unable to surrender their pride and willingly dying.  Nobody talked about that.  Mostly they talked about fishing. 

After sipping beer and talking; after lunch, Dad would drive my uncle downtown to visit my aunt, and another uncle, with a family.  They’d stop for a six-pack or two of beer to bring along. It would be late afternoon and the evening young. There’d be lots to talk about and they could each celebrate their survival, while the summer sun waned.  And they toasted into the evening, until the train whistled from a mile away; and you could hear iron wheels screeching on the tracks, watch sparks flying, and the train stopped just before the trestle, picking up and taking Uncle to his family. 

My favorite memories were mostly spent in a field that separated civilization and wilderness.  We were landlocked by a river on the backside; which was bordered by a grove of trees on the north side of the parcel, and a wide brook with huge banking’s to the east side.  Railroads, Grand Trunk and B&M defined south and west sections of my father’s land.

Our house original was built during the eighteen hundreds.  That was an era when it benefited people to have barns and homes near streets and narrow dirt roads.  Electricity was an afterthought.  It was a slat board construction; as I recollect handling many of the boards.  I was less interested in construction; being more suited and coordinated for demolition.  I particularly remember the nails holding white glass insulators; some still with springy wire, tuned to wrap around them.  It was a difficult skill, to master home dismemberment at pre-school age.  That was the year I should have gone to, Kindergarten.  That was for, Sissies. 

One might wonder what splendor a field has to offer children.  Several acres of land can house a city block; or community housing development.  It could also be a corn, tomato or potato field; those surroundings serving with patches of cultivations and various berries and cherries’ spring and summer aromas; surrounded by a panorama of mountains enclosing completely, everything. 

Looking up into mountains is breath-taking; especially in winter when cold air bites into lungs, making noses run.  Fresh mountain valley air is something few privileged people may ever experience; rigid shadows cast images and colors during the day; relating to time spent, along with spectacular clouds in season.

Fields change in time, but for children growing up, that seems forever.  There is a distinct separation between children and adults, neither side comprehending the other.  The children looking at elders in bewilderment and awe, wondering how long it takes to be, old; while their little years in time, make it seem forever.  Adults looking back, will wonder where time went.  Put a child in a field, and they can see what no adult can.  They can witness subtle changes of the fields, while shrubs and branches get cut for firewood, and later burn piles; or watch roads being built, separating land and its inhabitants from what it knew before that time of progression.

Mostly, I remember the field for immensity, and changing times.  Each season different than previous.  The fields intensified feelings and bewilderment that only comes from living in country.  The most memorable vision, was the year round seven that highlighted itself during spring and summer.   It was a glacial snow formation known as, Icy Gulch.  The mountains were snowcapped, most of the year.  Huge volumes of melting spring water channeled into fresh water streams, following hills down as far as the ocean; while others deposited into lakes.  With melting, mountain water and receding snowcaps revealed the seven’s posterity, and my burgeoning curiosity and maturity.  The seven was a natural phenomenon, just as the stone fish and other formations representing faces, forms and mythical figures, in that location. 

Mountain shadows rolled across the field, along with the changes of weather, and the shapes of evolution unfolding.  It would appear to be mundane, if not for nature’s severity.   For adults too busy with life, there is too little time to dwell or dote on a few acres of land.  But to a child’s eyes, each color and tone, clearly illustrates something new and exciting.  There is bewilderment.  Child life escapes adult’s lives; too caught up in survival or work.  They plant fields while you watch; driving tractors, tilling and tinning.  And you wish you could help, planting seeds and bushes of future harvests.  Time seems too slow; but it is ephemeral, changing quickly, intensely, and in moments. 

To understand Iwo Jima battle, you’d have to be there.  Nobody could describe with such validity; vivid features of the crying souls who were dying without a prayer.  But the people who lived never wished to talk about it.  Nobody can understand being tired and marched along a trail of death, or fighting like, Hell, to survive, while everybody else is dying, unless you realize your own inferno.  Nobody wants to talk about a vision too horrible to describe, and everybody wants to forget.  They were young men who grew up too quickly to experience any other life.  They all had uniforms tucked in cases, unworn and forgotten; while the memories lasted forever. Most of them died.  Others drank.   My father listened.

QX-60 Unique

QX 60 Infinity – A family wagon that feels cavernous inside in van-like proportions; and handles like a car.

     What’s to like about this vehicle? 

     With lots of family utility vehicles marketed, it is questionable why we make another competitor to elicit portions of our car market from the former – Big Three – auto makers.  But Infinity technology speaks for itself.  Makers of sleek luxury performance vehicles, they left no rough edges on its only CVT, UTV vehicle marketed for highway driving.  That means spontaneous speed; a constant thrust to upper speed limits.  It delivers performance with smooth acceleration and about a one second speed difference, behind Infinity sedans – sixty in about seven seconds – sixteen second quarter miles.  Nothing spectacular when compared with many of today’s cars; except for quicker, quitter, smoother acceleration; because of the constant CVT single speed transmission.       Handling is, ho-hum uneventful.  Steering is spontaneously supple with input.  Light and agile, the ride seems effortless.  The sport-tuned suspension connects the road while ironing out bumps; and the quiet interior environment, comforts as many as eight passengers.

     Except for exceptional quiet ride and spontaneous handling, it feels like any other car, but with a lot more accessories than most.  A superb navigation unit instructs and communicates.  In fact, almost all functions except actual driving can be done with voice control.  The fully automatic does everything from adjust temperature and seat settings upon entrance, to taking pictures and noticing lane changes.  It uses both sonar and radar to detect vehicle movements both front and rear. 

    Parking is easy.  The camera assists, showing all angles, and advising which way to turn the leather wrapped steering wheel. 

     Leather covers much of the interior.  A stitched dash board blends with seats and other refinements like ceiling and arm rests.  It is pleasing to smell and exceedingly comfortable. 

     Pleasant looks draw passengers and viewers alike; but, the real car purpose is purely performance.  An aerodynamic design adds speed; and with better gas mileage than most vans, SUV’s, and even many cars.  Performance depends on driver and mood.  Press a start button.  There are no car keys.  An inconspicuous fop can be anywhere inside the vehicle; that includes a jacket or shirt pocket.  In fact, everything including steering, gas pedal and transmission shift happens by remote control; so handle them lightly.  The shift is a modular unit that costs one-thousand dollars or so, if you ever need to replace it, should it break or malfunction.  It’s hard to imagine that you’re driving a vehicle that is almost completely void of any mechanical input from the driver, other than thousands of electric pulses, sensed by driver impulse, and sent to each wheel.   

     The floor console shifter consist of reverse, neutral and drive, with a type of manual mode that imitates shifting.  These controls and others including radio, are also set into the steering wheel; small buttons with hieroglyphic impressions, and easily understood.  But there is too much to gloat about or describe in a few sentences.  In short, QX has everything contained in any other car, and more than most; like having an office inside your car.   It can be with an optional computer and built in internet reception.

     Reclining seats, both front and rear offer rest and even a short nap to some between commutes.   If you are used to hemi growls, and sharp thrusting, this vehicle falls short of expectations; until you factor in facts.  Pound for pound, QX 60 out performs most power vehicles – remember, this is a station wagon that resembles other UTV’s in looks.   The boxy front end, traditional on most is sculpted and curvaceous, designed to be aerodynamic.  It gets between 22 and 26 miles per gallon – I averaged about twenty six, in normal mode, driving normal.  But the price will floor you – base price around 45G; the top edition gets closer to sixty thousand, with tax included, and that includes the navigation and lane change controls.  In fact, there is so much built into this vehicle, I’d recommend sitting and reading the manual; which I did not.  If you’re a normal driver just interested in safe arrival to a destination, it delivers you albeit in style, without being pretentious.  Set the seats for comfort and they return to that position, next time you start the car.  It is a good ride for a family of two to four children.

     But the difference between QX60 and its competitors, is simply speed and agility.  The five-thousand- plus pound vehicle will out maneuver most comparably priced cars; even keeping up with and passing some faster .  In addition to an automatic shifter, it has a dial in mode for snow driving, economy, normal and sport style.  The ergo mode sounds weaker, like a lesser four cylinder, but performance is marginally better.  Sport mode emits tunes – little growls – that increase in volume with speed and RPM’s.  It feels a bit quicker initially, as if there is more thrust.  But, if you like the quiet car effect, stick with Normal, as I did.  Normal is impressive.  Other similar looking vehicles look limp in comparison, weaving through highway traffic.  There you control everything.  Most vehicles are governed to speeds anywhere from eighty miles per hour, to around the 110 speedometer mark.  Hit that speed and the vehicle does weird things, pitching violently, and coughing and sputtering while speed takes a nose dive, and you look foolish with everybody passing you, the show-off want-to-be.  Not so with QX60.  In eighty mile per hour traffic, just floor the gas pedal and it instantly accelerates past everybody, with a speedometer that can read 160mph; forget the governor, most people will never get to find it.  They will pass lots of cars while trying.

     A sad point limiting normal SUV performance in twisting turns, is their top heavy stature.  Infinity is lighter on top and more weight gets distributed closer to ground, with a wider wheel width than many, giving greater agility around corners; and adding to ho-hum uneventful deception that one can get even more courageous in twisties, all-wheel-drive wheels adjusting and individually breaking upon sensing slipping.   Too close to a forward vehicle earns the same respect, almost to a complete stop.  That sounds scary.  Imagine riding on the trunk of a fast car you wish passing when the sonar kicks in and the car automatically applies your brakes.  Now somebody is on your tail.  But it doesn’t act that way.  You don’t need to crowd those you plan passing.  That’s the beauty of Infinity.  Stay back and enjoy the ride.  Follow the road or track rules and be forgiving.  There is plenty of time to be impressed.  The throttle is always ready to please any driver with instant inputting rewards.  Cars disappear rearward.  Even slower vehicles tend to move over as you approach; maybe because it has a subtle police car look about it; I’m not sure why, they just do.  When you do accelerate, that speedometer heads beyond triple digits in seconds, and hopefully there are no police to witness the performance; probably a good reason to use your own radar and detect them first. 

     Tires mean everything in performance.  Best tires are not uniform for each vehicle.  Gas mileage and tire miles can hinge on the design function.  Tires are rated as on and off road.  Those tires are designed and rated for speed and handling capabilities; the best off-road tires perform poorest on highways, they weren’t made for it.  Put an off-road tire on a vehicle with that intention and it will amaze you; climbing over rocks and tree stumps, and plowing through mud and water.  Infinity works best in highway and some city driving.  Michelin all-weather tires work much better on that car.  It was made for the road.

     Cavernous was my best word for the inside, until viewed from rear-view mirror.  For as spacious as it feels, you can sit upright and front and side vision is great, rear vision is tunnel vision.  It gets narrower, the further back you go.  Four doors make easy access for four or five passengers.  You need to bend for the rear seat.   Although adults can comfortably use the third row, it might not be for an extended time period.  Personally, I’d fold that seat and forget about it; stowage my main concern.  There’s plenty of it; not quite as much as a pickup truck, but enough to haul family and cargo, and power to tow one and a half tons behind you; more than most trucks might haul.  That and the standard sunroof could eliminate need for a truck costing half as much, with roll down windows and canvas seats.  It’s the lifetime question, do you want the truck or a lifetime opportunity to abandon crass country for sophistication?  Make that decision, and the truck is historical until first payment comes on a new vehicle.  Then you might ask if it were worth it.  That’s a tough decision to choose between, two good products; each with similar purpose perhaps, but not quite the same.   Pricewise, if it amounts to about the same, the family crossbreed might make sense.  Loners or empty nesters could opt for the pickup bed; something strictly used for hauling but nothing else.  Gas mileage could range from 12 to 20mpg with regular formula; while the wagon would get almost ten miles per gallon more with normal driving.  Premium fuel carries a steeper price.  Is it really worth spending twice as much on a vehicle that uses more expensive gasoline?  That cuts into the gas guzzling pickup theory.  A unit costing half as much, getting eighteen miles per gallon, using regular gas, becomes cheaper to operate than the upscale UTV.  Is speed and performance really a factor for factory commuting?  Common sense says that’s a myth.  Following rules of the road, observing speed limits, being courteous takes time; maybe a few seconds or minutes, but never hours.  Think about it.  Assuming everybody gets to work on time, perhaps it makes little difference what you drive there.  Some people want more than that.  They can spend extra money for refinements and performance, and might refrain from hauling their own trash; but need something roomier than a car, and QX60 becomes practical.  Lots of cars have similar characteristics mimicking more luxurious makes.  For half the price and manual functions, you get canvas seats and cheaper carpet.  For a couple thousand dollars, they’ll undercoat and weatherproof it.  Keep oiling it every couple thousand miles and keep it clean.  It will last a lifetime.  That’s the car you want.  Backup cameras and other fashionable implements can be applied later.  But, if you enjoy wearing a suit on occasion, traveling and meeting people, that Infinity might be an ice breaker.  

The Lad

Mornings are the worst time to sit down.  Animals are everywhere demanding feed and attention.  And I understand why there’s some good writers out there who never get published; all-be-it getting their money in other ways.

     My buddy, Charney was like that.  They called him, Laddy-buck.  It was a name, Capone gave him.  Yes, Al Capone.

     Charney was born in early nineteen-hundreds, in New York.  Close to his Mom; they’d always had a special bonding and equal respect, he was a ladies man, and I admired him as he’d pampered his wife during their lifetimes together. 

     Typical of that day; leading into the Great Depression he was the atypical boy.  Father died when he was young; but the two of them, Laddy and Mom went about their ways.  Mom was a wrapper (paper) at a large department store, which specialized in clothing.  People back then did anything they could for city survival.

     Anyway, he was precocious and matured quickly.  Like many (boys) who sold paper (newspapers) he’d started early – age twelve, as was the custom.  Half past five (a.m.) each morning, they’d met (the guys) picking paper loads for distribution.  Laddy started selling papers near the train station, where he knew there’d be people waiting with nothing to do but read news.  Thus began his hustling job.  By age sixteen, he’d gotten a job on a train running between Saint Louis and Chicago, and it was there he met, Scar Face.  He – now working as a valet, took and deposited Al and his buddies’ bags overhead, above the seats and windows. 

     That was the story he’d told me, many years later.   The way he’d told it; Scar Face – that’s what they’d called him – asked him, “Do you know who I am?”  

    Laddy was quietly composed, and somberly replied, “Yah.  You’re the man.”

     Then, Capone asked another question.  “What’s the biggest tip you ever got?”

     “Fifty bucks”

     Then, Capone handed him a One-hundred dollar bill.

     Laddy made a meager living, selling guns; mostly to farm boys along the train route.

     The World Fair was also coming on the train to, Chicago.  Laddybuck, as he was then called, ever since Capone knick-named him (and the name stuck) got gig there.  He’d met somebody important enough to listen to his Lincoln idea. 

     Now in his twenties, he created a unique exhibit; there, at the World Fair.  A relative of the late Lincoln, a Lincoln volunteered for a poultry sum, and some gratuity as well – the deal never completely explained to me, to simply recite the, Gettysburg Address.  That wasn’t easy.  The guy was barely literate.  But, Laddy took time to explain proper etiquette; the meaning he’d learned in his lexicon (he read lots of books, and seemed to retain things – as he had a good mind), and he took time and patience, teaching grammar to an otherwise illiterate woodsman.

     That was an exhibit of his first successful venture.  His legacy continued throughout life.  An ordinary man supporting his family, he purchased a printing press and began his self – tutor –edge, putting his words on paper, with lead letters and some ink.  One of the first independent companies, The Laddybuck Papers, prospered as, Capone fans scooped up news of the underworld.  It was another success that he retired to do.

     I met Laddybuck while he was in his late eighties; still spry, I’d taken him for a young-sixties; and we did a gig together for a while, while I sold books I’d authored through him.  Thus, we had a brief career until he suddenly died. 

     While sitting at the family funeral, the priest requested me to be a pallbearer.  I guess I looked out of place; atheist amongst church goers, barely setting foot into one, let alone being sprinkled by holy water, while he blessed the coffin (the priest).  But, he got a good sending off, and would have enjoyed it, in spite of his dilemma.

     Late Laddybuck left me with a book he’d written but never published.  It was a fantifical (part fiction and fantasy) story about  the great lakes, and the ships sailing on them.  He put humor into tragedies, and otherwise sobered some who read the script.  It was one of the best books I ever read, and the first I read, cover to cover. 

     I’d wondered about great authors who’d died poor.  There were more than I could name; and he was only one person, I got privileged to read amongst archives of outdated books and virtually unpublished authors.  Laddybuck never left me anything, but memories of escapades we once shared during his twilight years, while walking along the lakeshore, sipping coffee at the numerous city coffee and Gerkan houses, or chatting by the fireplace where he preferred lounging; and where I sometimes slept, if nowhere else to go.  

     Years of book collections, my only flaw (according to my wife), and I got to read many truncated manuscripts and books.  While wandering in a flea market, I stumbled upon his only book; the book he never told me about and most will never read.  It cost me a dollar.  There were a thousand pages to browse and absorb, and I wasted no time; completely absorbed for most of the entire novel, that showed me another side of the man I’d admired.  Anyway, after reading it, I realized that I now knew more about the man than he could have told me in his words we wasted during our brief time together; and another story.  But his only book is still on my shelf, along with many other treasures.

Letters Unanswered

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

May 17, 2017     Please, forward.

Dear Director,

     I wish you might have had time for my letters.  We could all but see that coming. Your resignation was eloquent, considering what happened.  Some things blindside.  What we have at stake in US is much more important than any of us.  It concerns the future of our country.  Your firing appears to have been illegal.  I’d expected you might get a rough term.  I could only imagine and hope you were at least trying to do right by US.

     You now have time to relax and carefully contemplate.  From what I observed, your reputation seemed clean.

     I’m working on my, Doctorate.  I’ve taken on a part time position in a bank, currently.  If you believe in US as much as I do, please consider meeting me there.  I, like you, have a very clean reputation.  People I know are eloquent and well educated.  We each have some differences, as many people do, but generally work cohesively together.  My wife encouraged me to attend a writing course, several years ago.  I am glad that I seriously take her advice.  I hope you might consider mine.

     Whatever you do, feel good about yourself; as, I believe you really tried to do good work.  I hope you may continue on the proper side of logic; but, you need also include everybody else. 

       I know your time is important.  Please consider my logic and plan on running for the next, Commander and Chief.  Twenty-eight, million people stand on this page.  I wanted you to stand with us at, Standing Rock.  That pipeline might have been prevented.  The Army Corps of Engineers made a statement, and, President Obama confirmed that with me as well.  I feel it is therefore our responsibility to make amends. 

Sincerely,

Johny Appalachia 

A Good Comrade May Be A Companion

     It was too new to name.  Not even a title yet.  I call it my, Comrade.  It comes complete with heater, lights, gauges, turn signals for flashing deer, a horn to scare them, kill switch for when you need to stop and stuff a deer, and dumper, if that's what you want -- for about the same as you might pay for an entry level vehicle.  It has awesome Gama-Goat ability; faster and tighter turning, and ability to crawl as slow speeds.  Wheels have floatation over water and are buoyant on mushy land.  The snorkel allows it in two feet of water, for those who like to wet themselves -- not me.   But, I tried it in swamp and it's amazing.  Water seldom gets higher than up to the wheel bottom (about six inches).  Tire knobs are the size of a, Chunky candy bar, but Y and A shaped -- definitely off-road -- great for turfing on Trump lawn or golf course; but, not recommended.  It is best to be slow in yards, and will always leave an impression.  It is works well for seasonal work, raking/sweeping leaves, towing, log hauling, etc.   Steering is manual, and you may appreciate that or not, if you drive into deer stand country.      

     Also, the unit uses 10w40 hemp oil (fourteen dollars a quart -- two quarts fill it).  If it were legal and a diesel, I could grow hemp, drive free; and be able to huff the exhaust.  The difference using synthetic oil over minerals; the oil decomposition is minimal.  It runs clear and does not turn black.  Engine wear is minimal and break-in time takes slow hours while valves seat themselves. 

     The engine ordered was a 500cc air-cooled unit.  They sent me a 650cc with 20 more horse-power, twin cylinder short stroke, water-cooled, and said keep it for the same price.  Similar units cost around $15,000.  You can get this model built in America, for about half that price -- not cheap -- a good deal.

A Letter To The Post

Washington Post Editor                                                                                                                                                                                           

The Washington Post, 1301 K Street NW,                                                                                                                Washington DC 20071

February 9, 2017                           

Dear Editor,

     As confusing and vexing as it might appear – the President’s dinner refusal might be a disguised blessing.  My mother might have looked at that, that way.  She lived to defy nature, and in spite of it.  My first memorable vision of Mother was completely enveloped in an inferno that I watched while falling from the upper story of a burning building.  If not for her, I’d have perished early (age 1).  We both suffered lifelong injuries and each lived to be silent about it (I am blessed with a hearing defect).

     We were a Spartan Appalachian country family.  It was only a few years after WWII ended.  General Dwight Eisenhower stopped his car beside the lawn to shake hands with Mom and Dad, who were wearing uniforms.  I happened to be wearing my first suit; when I pushed forward my hand to offer it to the General.   “Someday, you could be, President,” Eisenhower assured me. 

     Another aspect of that first fall experienced, might have been a progressive memory that takes me almost to conception.  While living, we need observe and experience as much of life as we may.  Mom always assured me that if things seemed difficult; not to worry, they can always get worse. 

     I was forever impressed with my vision of Dwight Eisenhower.  Gullible at first, I later toned my ambitions to suit me; purchasing equal land and lodging as my hero had had.

     In ordinary citizens, President Eisenhower instilled hope.  They could get education and earn livelihoods, get married, have children and future visions.   

     Fortunately, gulibili8ty was an asset for me.  It was ephemeral and didn’t last long.  In fact I realistically set my goals on functional projects within reach; eventually earning a Leadership, Master’s Degree, while working.

     Personally, I believe it is important for children to dream and have goals.  Not everybody can realistically achieve equally; as elements of nature address our demeanors.  We are who we are; only needing to experience ourselves.  It is more important for children to learn morality, perseverance and stamina.  Certainly our actions each play important roles in who we each become.

     Real life dealt me privileges others miss.  Parents play important roles in childhood raring.  Fortunately I had kind, loving parents in a family that lived in prayer.  We were immune from sin because there was too much work.  My dad lived well into his nineties; attributing his sawyer work to his welfare.  Appalachians experience servitude of sorts, working various positions; coming home to work more.  Dad taught me to be rich in inner strength, and resourceful.     

     Throughout life, I’ve silently studied presidents, politics, policies and wars, all-the-while remembering a few presidential candidates met during election campaigns.  Mostly I noticed mixed years of wheat harvests – experiencing more farming and country living than crowds.  While city dwelling, I remember

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Candidate Jane Byrne walking through a factory where I was standing near a conveyor line we were designing, during early adulthood.  She shook my hand.

      I said, “I would like you to know Mayor; you’re the most important person I ever met.”

      She looked at me and said, “I want you to know, you are an important person as well.”  She was correct.  Everybody is important in some capacity. 

     My idea was naturally aspirated; write a book and sell it on sidewalks; where I’d meet people and eventually advance.  It was simple enough and landed me dinner with, Mayor Harold Washington.  He later thanked me in a short letter; as Jane Byrne had once done. 

     Bill Clinton was my, Bubba.  I first wrote him a hand written letter; addressed to then, Governor of Arkansas.  I asked him to run for, President.  Months later we met at CME – Chicago -- and maintained contact during his Presidency.  He sent me eight invitations to visit, Washington DC.  Unfortunately I had more homework and less time for vacation; especially making journey to a place of business where most people accomplish nothing.  What could I accomplish there? 

     President Obama perhaps shared more letters with me than any other President I’d written to.    I probably wrote more letters to him than I’d written past Presidents as well; maybe because he is more literate than most Presidents were, knowing better how to be articulate. 

     Although I served the Republican Party, thirty years; I got almost zero recognition for anything I did there.  I’ve never gotten a letter from any Republican President that I can remember.  They tend to be less literate; for some reason.  While we share ideas for a balanced budget, my thoughts are often one-hundred, eighty degrees from them; more like, Senator Sanders.  I believe a foundation must be built from the base. 

     Mom was an army engineer and taught me much about building.  Dad did accounting.  Both were better educated for their time than many area people; often forced to quit school to pursue short careers as lumberjacks and pulp wood drivers.   Dad graduated with just a handful of students, in a school miles from his, Woodsville home.  He was the first in his family to graduate from, High School; and with honors.  Mom was thrice Valedictorian.

     If I’d tried to be like both parents wanted me to be, I’d be torn in two directions.  Their union worked well for them, producing close to a dozen children; most I never met, being an older child and having been privileged to leave home early in life.  I simply learned to be myself.  We each have good relationships, all lasting decades. 

     Finding my, Camp David was more on my agenda, than spending any time in, Washington DC.  Not that it isn’t a nice city; never spent much time there, other than passing through.  While motorcycling during the seventies, I glazed the wall which juts out atop the hill slightly with my leg, narrowly escaping

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injuries to myself; and more importantly, the bike I’d just purchased.  But I never found, Camp David on that trip; finding my wife instead.

  My wife encouraged my education which ensued shortly after our first meeting.  We shared wonderful opportunities to tour museums, zoos, mansions and other interesting places.  She insisted we

move into a rural area, within a decade of our maturity together.  She wanted a proper home, while I appreciated land.

     What leads young couple’s deviations from normal life patterns may be determined chromosomally.  The ideas of great aspirations, those dreams separately shared by everyone with different life outlooks determined by location, means little to most; those cards fate dealt. 

     For most of a year, while we first met, my health teetered awkwardly.  You could argue it was the food – perhaps bad cooking – that never existed.  Instead I opted for a healthy diet of liquids which I partook from a straw stuffed sideways into my mouth (coincidentally, I’d happen to be visiting the ER on a gurney, semi-paralyzed with a broken neck [my unknowing future wife happened to be performing her first surgery on me that evening].  You never really appreciate life until it means too much.  We don’t always get to choose our lives.    My wife might have done better, had she more free time.

     Getting back to, Presidential; my take from each President was diplomacy or lack thereof.   Those people I appreciated most were the executives who listened to me and ordinary citizens.  Lots of things happen on all coasts and corners of US.  Imagine millions of people writing letters to Presidents.  Self-expression is critical to writing effective, Presidential letters.

     Eisenhower shook many hands the day we met.  He’d forgotten me by the time he reached the next town; probably.   The messages spoken along the way with mixed reaction, most would be forgotten as well.  He was a beacon for me.   Whenever I thought to do something important, I’d ask myself; would Eisenhower do this, or, how might he approach such subject. 

     In actuality, I like many might shun such job.  Really, I’ve served as President, and officer of a corporation (we balanced our budget, 100% [my accountants each taught math, accounting; and or, commodities at some interval in their careers].  I was a State secretary and District Representative; election judge, District Captain, community organizer and a host of functions, only with the intention of reaching specific goals – safe neighborhood, stable property values, etc.

     Aspiring to be President, is almost tantamount to ascending Mount Everest.  The closest I ever got to that; I was once a Sherpa for infamous, Dr. Woodrow Wilson Sayers (68).  We shared common philosophies.  He was able to penetrate Tibet without first acquiring a passport.  It seemed more important for Sayers that he should acquire and assemble his crew; even oxygen was an afterthought, he forgot to bring it.  In spite of inequities, Dr. Sayers came within a few hundred feet of Everest’s summit.  We spent a warm evening inside a tiny mountain hut; barely large enough for a handful of people, one frigid winter evening, before parting company, I skiing a trail know as, Inferno; he and his

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group choosing to glissade down some steep ledges near there.  Climbing Mt. Everest, was a waste of time, he privately confided (mountain inebriation might have played a role into his logic; as, we’d polished a generous portion of liquid that evening).  If you do everything properly, getting all permits and each required step followed, you might be following the same annual pilgrims for decades, without ever reaching the summit; or worse, dying and left there in a crevasse.  Sayers and his Sherpas staged and climbed the other side, where fewer climbers ventured.

     Character appearance is more important for President, Totem climbers.   Congressmen, Governors and tycoons mostly run for that position; mostly a waste of time.  As long as we maintain status quo, we have generations of the same.  Maybe it is more important to climb your own mountains, instead of waiting in line, holding on to the same rope. 

       What character should all Presidents have?  It’s difficult to demand a demeanor from each independent.  In my favor, I had good parents and guardians to reflect on; and for some reason a will and determination to live life as what I think is, Presidential.  In United States of America, everybody in America can run for and serve (with some stipulation) as our national leader. 

     I never ran for a public office.  It was unnecessary.  Maybe it takes too much pride; but, not really.  While walking along the sidewalk one day, I met a person who happened to be walking in the same direction, and we started a lively conversation to learn we shared commonalities.  I was invited to join a charitable, non-profit, non-political, non-religious organization, to help people worldwide.    It is how I spend my spare time. 

     When I joined the order, I requested to assist as a club secretary and instead, unanimously elected, President.  You don’t always get to choose people you meet.  Eisenhower was coincidental, but that and the organization I joined, influenced and shaped my life, along with privilege.  Few people are ever known well enough to be entrusted with our highest office, its stipulations and responsibilities. 

     Everything is fifty-fifty and one-hundred percent – you give 100% and hope everybody does the same.  I never really believed I’d be, President.  General Eisenhower instilled more than that in me; self-dignity and respect for others as well.  Far reaches in my mind tell me nothing is impossible – simply, my vision was of an ancient log cabin with a deep chalet type roof, a smoky smell on cool evenings resonating from tall fireplace chimneys, and miles of woods to roam while watching wildlife abound.  But, I still believe in acting Presidential, just in case; and because it is ingrained in my nature to be that way.  Presidents (the job) deserve respect, and are expected to reciprocate in kind.  That thought in mind, I’d willing accept such invitation, were I such celebrity and leader.  I expect the event will proceed well without me, and understandably so.  I never earned it – the dinner.  But, if I were invited, I would humbly accept; no matter what President I might or may not be – simply, I’d say, thank you.

Sincerely,

Johny Appalachia  

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.     

9

      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.