Afternoon Ride

I am just returned from my afternoon refreshing trip through forest and meadow on my ATV.  Although nothing exciting happened by some people’s standards, I found it invigorating to be out and about on such a nice afternoon.  It is overcast, but a very mild December day two days past Christmas.

As I proceeded back through my meadow I noted a plethora of deer tracks.  I don’t necessarily have to see the deer to know they are nearby.  Even though I hit one with my truck and killed it less than a week ago, I hold no grudge, and I’m happy that some survived the recent hunting season to begin the new year soon.  I find them to be one of the most beautiful animals on earth.

I continued on my way through the small amount of forest on my land marveling at the amount of deer tracks where they had meandered in their never-ending search for nutrition.  In a matter of minutes I was through my woods and entering my neighbor’s meadow.  I turned to my left to follow the edge of a copse of woods along that side of the meadow.  Within seconds a flock of some forty Canadians passed overhead headed southward.  I hadn’t seen a flock in many weeks and found it surprising there were yet some in the area.  They must have been located in some waterway where feed was sufficient if not too plentiful.

As I continued on my way, it was a mere minute or two later that I spied some birds over to my right and ahead.  It took a couple of times of getting my eyeballs on them among the cut off corn stalks before I was certain I was watching a small flock of wild turkeys.  I’d guess it was a hen and her this year’s brood as there were around ten or a dozen in the group.  They had spotted me long before my sighting of them I’m sure, and it was but a short few seconds I noted them before they were out of sight.

Continuing on my way I rode to the beaver pond.  I saw none of them, but like the deer they leave some telltale sign of their presence.  Here I noted where they had broken the thin covering of ice near the sluice pipe plug they have for a dam.  I am coming to the conclusion they are using this as a means of controlling the pond water level to their liking.  As I think about it, I used to think they wanted as much water depth as possible, but now I believe that is not true.  Once they get the water level high enough for their use, and have built a house, they cannot allow the pond to increase in depth any longer, or it would flood their home.  Now that they have a home built, and are preparing for winter, they must open a spillway some to maintain the water level where it is.

I left my musing there and drove over to the new pond of Little Beaver.  Like daddy Bucky’s pond the new one also has an open area in the water, but it is around where Little Beaver has a bank den burrowed in.  It will be interesting to see if he keeps it open all winter or not.  He has a sizable stash of limbs and twigs in the water in that area for winter food.

I traveled on toward where I had last seen the turkeys, but as I suspected, I was not to see them again.  I found where they had entered a wood on the north side of the meadow.  Deer tracks abounded along that side of the meadow as they had on the south side where I had entered.

In a few more minutes I had returned to my own woods, passed through, and took a trail northwards towards yet another neighbor’s land.  It is about a four acre lawn surrounded by woods on the three sides not toward mine.  I saw no more animal life, but enjoyed following a deer’s tracks up through my horse pasture.  It had continued through an open gate onto my snow covered lawn, passed under an apple tree, and checked out the area under my wife’s bird feeder.  It obviously likes the corn and sunflower seeds in the bird feed.

I then put my faithful ATV back in the garage, and marveled at all of the enjoyment I had got from a simple ride through some local area on a mild 39 degree afternoon.

The Day After Christmas

Leo Lawton

Twas the day after Christmas, we took down the lights,

It was just like a scene from Arabian Nights,

My wife was working inside of our home,

I was doing the outside like some little gnome.

I started from the bottom and took down a string,

Then wrapped them all up into a bedraggled thing,

They were all tied in knots and wrapped all around,

Next year at Christmas not to be found.

I worked my way up to the top of the star,

Then looked down to the ground and it was so far,

I felt a little funny as I looked around,

That was just before I plunged to the ground.

As I checked myself over to see what was the matter,

I got hit on the head by the overturned ladder,

My wife came out to find just what I was keeping,

She said get off of that ground, why are you sleeping?

I picked myself up and I said I’m sorry dear,

I just seemed to get tired, I’m sleepy I fear,

How are you doing with all that stuff inside,

She said I’ve got it all done, but I think that she lied.

I went in to see and junk was all over the floor,

I looked around further and I found yet some more,

She had stuff on the sofa, and boxes in chairs,

She said to me then, take it all up the stairs.

Her idea of done, was it was ready for me,

To get rid of the stuff after doing my tree,

I suggested to her she could do it herself,

That’s when she decided to show me the shelf.

She told me it was accidental when it dropped on my head,

It hit me so hard that I thought I was dead,

In my dazed state of being I agreed to her wishes,

I even promised that I’d do the dishes.

So the lights are all down, and they’re all put away,

I’m just terribly glad that I lived through the day,

I think I’ll relax and go get me a beer,

Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year.

Christmas Day

Fiction by Leo Lawton

She slowly methodically swayed across the floor to the music coming from the set of musical bells that thirteen-year-old Meg had given her.  She pushed the switch on again to hear once more their tinny rendition of White Christmas, before slowly removing them from the nails pounded into the casing above the door.  She held them closely to her breast as she remembered the smiling face beaming at her as she slowly unwrapped them so many Christmas’ ago.

            Meg had always been the willful child, with not much thought for others as she had grown up, but on that Christmas she had either made or bought presents for everyone in the family.  Beth smiled wistfully as she remembered Billy’s awe struck face when he opened up the Red Ryder BB gun.  Beth didn’t think he ought to have it, but how could she say no when Meg stood there with a smile from ear to ear, basking in her newly found heroism.  Beth started to say, “Megan, you shouldn’t ha….,” but the words trailed off into nothingness as radiance turned his boyish freckles into warm little spots of joy.

            Then Beth had opened the little package so tenderly wrapped that had “To my dearest mother, from Meg” on it.  As the little red bells spilled out one by one onto her lap, they began to jingle the little tune, all by themselves.  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and dropped one by one onto the tiny bells as she remembered how she had been telling Meg for weeks she was spending her hard earned babysitting money foolishly, as it seemed she never had any left over at the end of the week.

Meg always flippantly said, “There’s lots more where that came from.”

The little tear-stained spots were still visible if you held them up to the light at just the right angle.

            Beth had cried a thousand times since that day, but seldom in happiness again.  It was later that Christmas Day that Meg and Billy had both dressed in their warmest clothes and went on the hay ride with Mr. Jenkins from down the road.  Every year old Tom harnessed his horses, loaded some baled hay on his wagon, and drove the neighborhood children over hill and dale, through the woods, and across the meadows.  Laughter and talk could be heard from long distances as they traveled in the frosty evening air under the bright light of a full moon.  The hoof beats were muffled in the soft snow, but the harness’ jingle was music to the ears.

            They started across the road heading toward Hank and Hilda Barnes’ place for warm cider and hot molasses cookies when the happy, celebrating, drunken driver crashed into the wagon.  Thankfully all of the children survived with only minor injuries, except one.

Once more Beth held the tiny bells to her breast as she touched the tiny switch again.  Somehow it almost seemed as if Meg was back with her.

           

Advertising

At one time used car salesmen were the scum at the top of the pond when it came to the useless objects cycle.  Although they haven’t gotten any better lawyers have seen fit to rise, like cream on milk, to the top, surpassing the sneaky false promises of the low-life automobile salesmen.

Although it would seem to be impossible to top the antics of those two categories, it has now become obvious that those in the advertising market have them beat by a mile in the race for obviously non-usefulness.

Advertising serves no useful purpose what-so-ever except for the interests of those doing the advertising.  They prey on the unsuspecting public like hawks in a wilderness setting.  There are always a group of them perched in some unusual spot watching to see where they can attack the public in a new way that it is hoped the populace will never see coming.  There is an entire hierarchy just waiting to descend on you, and you, and you.

The worst part is, that they cause you to pay for this stupid intrusion in your life.  Each advertising person convinces a retailer that they need to hawk their wares in order to insure they get more than their greedy share of the buying public’s money.  Guess who will take care of that needy chore for the seller of goods?  The advertising man, of course.  Who pays for it?  The retailer you say.  Well you’re correct in the short run, but in the long run it is YOU.  Every time you buy one of the widgets the retailer is selling you are paying an additional cost tacked on by that same person.  After all it would do no good to advertise and sell more of them if it cost him money.  If it costs you money he doesn’t care, as long as he sells more than his share of that product, and obtains more of your money than his competition.

Over one third of all television time is wasted on this form of stealing.  Stealing what?  Stealing time, the only thing you are given on earth.  You have a finite amount of this gift when you are born, and these greedy advertising people devise every method imaginable to steal it from you.  Newspapers and magazines are littered with this useless crap.  The internet, by which you are reading this, is saturated with the garbage they spew.

Whatever happened to honesty and integrity in the retailing market?

Down To The Sea In Mighty Ships

While stationed in VF-174 at Cecil Field near Jacksonville, Florida in the early 60s I got a chance to buy a boat.  At the time it seemed like a good idea, but time would tell that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a boating aficionado.  The boat I managed to purchase and call my own was a used wooden 12’ model with an outboard attached to the back end.  It was painted up a beautiful white with red trim, and you couldn’t imagine it had a rotten spot in it anywhere even if it did.

I had spent some time in the hospital at Naval Air Station Jacksonville which is a different base than Cecil Field and they are maybe a dozen miles apart.  I lived on an almost direct route between the two stations about four miles from Cecil Field in the direction of NAS Jacksonville.  In my many times I drove to NAS Jax I passed over a waterway on a bridge located on Timuquana Road.  The water there looked ever so inviting there and I noted a local boat ramp where one could put a boat in the water.  Once I was a boat owner this seemed like the ideal place to put my boat in the water and enjoy all of the pleasures known to boatsmen the world over.

So it happened one fine evening after working hours were done for the day I hitched my boat and trailer behind my Ford sedan and headed for the boat launch ramp.  My wife was not too sure about this whole boating thing, but she agreed to try it at least once.  We arrived at the boat ramp in a matter of minutes, unloaded the boat into the water, started the engine and headed merrily up the bay we were in to the north.  This creek, or whatever it was, led to the St. John’s River.  Soon our little outboard was whirring merrily away as we cruised down the creek which led to yet another larger creek, bayou, or something or other.

After a half hour or so I turned around and headed back to our launch site hoping I wasn’t lost nevermore to find my way back off the waterway.  On my southward return I steered a course along the west side of the waterway or to my right in the direction I was traveling.  I was near the bank as it seemed safer there than out in the middle of the stream and I was none too sure of this entire undertaking myself.  As we slowly made our way down the creek bank we were passing under trees occasionally growing out over the water.  As we approached one of these trees covered with Spanish Moss hanging down, just before going under I noted, of all things, a snake hanging down from a lower limb.  I had never before that time imagined a snake in a tree. But I could see that thing.  Immediately I made a course change and veered toward midstream and missed passing under the snake by two or three feet.  As we passed by, the snake dropped from the tree into the water near us.  At the time I thought it was attempting to drop into my boat, but that may not have been the fact of the matter.  Possibly it was more afraid than I, although that seems impossible, and was merely trying to leave the area.  At any rate it swam away.

I thought that snake was a cottonmouth moccasin but it may not have been.  I had seen a dead one only a few days before and that memory may have affected my thinking on this occasion.  At any rate my first boating trip left something to be desired.

A Barn Burner

I was about eight years old (which meant it was about 1946) and growing up on a dairy farm in northern New York when my mother sent me out to burn some trash in a barrel.  The barrel was away from all of the buildings on the farm, and there was very little danger to them or anything else in the surrounding area.  I lit the barrel and as it flamed away I lost interest in it.

Remembering that I had a new comic book in my hideout it seemed like a good time to look it over.  My hideout was underneath a piece of machinery stored in the hay mow of the barn.  It had been placed in there on the ground floor of what was known as a bay mow or one that went from ground level to roof.  This kept it in out of the weather for the part of the year it was not in use.  The piece of machinery was a corn planter, and only used to plant the spring crop.

After the corn planter was placed in the mow it was completely covered with hay clear to the roof of the barn.  This was before the days of balers as far as we were concerned so the hay was put in loose as we called it.  All winter long we would feed it to the cattle and by the following spring the corn planter would be uncovered and ready for use again.

As this was in the later summer the barn was full of hay, and I found I could crawl back under the corn planter in a small space for a place of my own that no one else knew about.  I kept a small stash of comic books in there with a flashlight so I could read them at my leisure.  On this day my flashlight burned only dimly, and only for a short time before dying leaving me in the dark.  I was unafraid of being in the dark.  We had no electricity at the time so I was used to darkness any and all nights there was no moon.

After I was left in darkness it occurred to me that I yet had some matches in my pocket left from lighting the barrel afire.  These were the matches of the time which would light from any surface you could scratch them on.  I pulled one from my pocket, scratched it on a corn planter surface, and continued to read my comic.  In only a few seconds it burned down to my fingers.  This, of course, was not good as it hurt so I dropped the match.  Instantly the dry hay flamed up in my face.  As luck would have it, at least on that day, I managed to beat the flames out with my hands before they got completely out of control.  I lay under the old planter for a few minutes scared that the flames would reappear, but they did not so ultimately I crawled out into civilization again.

I burned my hands in the process and my mother questioned how I had done that.  I told her that when I lit the barrel it flared up, but it only hurt just a little bit so she put some salve on the small burns, and I went off to play some more.  The old barn remained there for many more years before it was torn down and replaced by a new one, but it almost needed replacement on that day when I was eight years old.

The Iraq War?

On March 20, 2003 the United States of America began an unprovoked attack on the country of Iraq.   The stated purpose of this attack was to prevent the usage of stored nuclear weapons by the Iraqi government.  No nuclear weapons were present in Iraq, nor were there any means of producing them, but this did not deter the United States from occupying Iraq for nearly nine years, removing the U S presence to some degree, but not totally, on December 18, 2011.  With the announced end of troop maintenance there, 17,000 U S yet citizens remain in some capacity.

During that period nearly 4,500 Americans died, but that paled in comparison to the Iraqis that suffered the same fate.  There is no accurate count, but estimates of Iraqi deaths vary from 100,000 to over a 1,000,000 of the 31,000,000 citizens of that country.  If the higher estimate is used, that means 1 of every 31 Iraqis died because of the United States government intervention in their affairs.

Although the United States may not agree with the governments of other countries, we are not the world police force and therefore we should stay out of their affairs.

Why is the United States yet in Afghanistan?  Our stated goal of intervention in that country was to force them to give the U S access to Osama bin Laden.  That man (found in Pakistan) has been dead now for several months, but we are still sending our soldiers to a possible death sentence in Afghanistan.  Why?  When did the United States become such a warmongering nation of people?  The fact is, it didn’t.  The average person on the street is not hell-bent on forcing Afghanistan to do anything.  It is the politicians who desire this.

I think it’s high time we brought our troops home for good.  Not at some point in the future.  Now!  I didn’t even start on the economic factors dealing with these two fiascos.  Billions of United States citizen’s hard earned tax dollars have been wasted along with the blood spilled in the sands of these desert wastelands.