Hardball

Sept. 29, 2020

It is obvious that Republicans are playing hardball to win at any cost, while Democrats are playing slow pitch softball with one hand tied behind their back.

The Constitution does not specify the number of justices on the Supreme Court. So if the Republicans toss out the rules they made four years ago and confirm another Supreme Court Justice, the Democrats have every right to change the rules, too. Whether they have the gumption to do it is another matter.

“…Congress has changed the size of the Supreme Court seven times, from the original six justices to as many as 10 in 1863. After the Civil War, Congress in 1866 reduced the number of justices to seven to prevent President Andrew Johnson from appointing new members to the court. In 1869, after Johnson left office, Congress raised the number of justices back to nine, which the court has numbered ever since.

During the Great Depression, conservatives on the court struck down several New Deal programs during President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s first term. After his sweeping re-election in 1936, Roosevelt proposed in 1937 that Congress increase the number of judges to as many as 15 members.

FDR relented when one of the justices moderated to allow the laws to take effect, and another conservative judge retired, prompting a humorist to quip, ‘A switch in time saved nine’.”

James M. Cullen, in an editorial in “The Progressive Populist” 

10/15/2020

I would have expected such a threat from Bernie or AOC. I have my doubts about Biden or Pelosi or Schumer.

But the option is there, if they take the Senate and the Presidency. 

That Was Quick!

 That Was Quick!

Sept. 27, 2020

It’s been cool and cloudy all day, so after the church service was over on Facebook, (the technical aspect went great, and the speaker was wonderful), and we had a short chat session on ZOOM, I signed off.

I made a tossed green salad for lunch, and the avocado was just perfect, along with bell peppers, tomatoes and lettuce, with a dash of Olive Garden Italian dressing. I’m still trying to lose that liver fat the doctor is worried about.

My blood pressure is down in the normal range now, and I’ve lost about 15 lbs, mostly around my waist. I would have lost more, but my bike riding puts on muscle to replace fat, so although I have taken up a couple of notches on my belt, and I no longer have to exhale to get my pants to button, I have been maintaining weight for the last month.

I haven’t been out to visit my wife’s place at Pleasant Hill Cemetery in a few weeks, and I decided to clean up my mountain bike, oil the chain, air up the tires, and ride from Wilma’s house (she’s my sister-in-law) to the cemetery. If you have ever been to Wilma’s house, you know why I left the racing bike at home and brought the mountain bike.

I parked at her house, unloaded the bicycle, and left her the car keys in case it got dark or I had trouble. 

I donned my helmet, orange riding shirt, and turned on the red tail light.

Things felt great as I turned onto McLean Rd. and pedaled south. I coasted into the bayou, past the new gate I installed this summer. It’s funny, because I have been expecting to come back and level the gate after the post finds its final tilt, but it hasn’t moved at all.

When I am going past it to the north, it looks like it’s sagging a little bit. When I am coming by it going south, it looks like it is high and needs let down a little. But it has stayed level - I carry a carpenter’s level with me in the car and I’ve checked. That ten foot power pole I hung it on must have been big enough.

I geared down to a lower gear and started up out of the bayou. I have measured that hill, and it’s an eleven and a half percent grade on dirt and gravel. I made it to the top without going to the lowest range on my front gearset. I was huffing and puffing, but pulling hard all the way. That’s what I’m going for!

As I crested the top of the hill, I shifted back to the high range on my front sprocket and clicked up a couple on the rear sprocket as I started down a fairly steep grade. I was probably speeding along at about 15 miles per hour, not even thinking about the dirt road surface. 

Rookie mistake!

All of a sudden I found myself being battered by some terrible washboard ruts across the road. My wheels only touched down every now and then, and when they did, the seat broke. I guess that means my ass needs to lose some more weight.

I thought I might catch it, but in an instant I came down at an angle which steered me right into the ditch on the left side. I went down on top of the bike, luckily, but crashed through a tall stand of Johnson grass and into the reddest mud I’ve ever seen. 

By the way, Oklahoma is an old Indian word for “red mud” I think.

It was a soft landing, and the only thing I hurt was my pride and dignity. Those were smashed up pretty bad! I had to stand up in the mud to drag my bike back to the road, and it went over the top of my shoes and halfway up the side of my pants. 

I slowly rode back to the house, got my car keys back, excused my self to drive home and shower up and throw my clothes in the washer. I scrubbed my arms where I might have brushed up against some poison ivy as I crashed through the brush beside the road. I still have a bar of Fels-Naphtha lye soap, and I put it to good use.

I don’t feel any bruises at all. The only physical injury was some small grass cuts on one arm from the Johnson grass. 

I’ll live to see another day, I guess. I’ll find out in the morning if there were some banged up places that haven’t announced themselves yet. 

Some days luck is better than common sense. I could have hit a tree!

Year of Living Dangerously

 The Year of Living Dangerously 

Sept. 17, 2020

I am the first person in Bryan County, OK, to turn my ballot into the Election Board. 

I followed the scattered and various directions on the multiple pieces of paper that came with the ballot, and I’m pretty sure I followed all the directions correctly. I am also sure that many people won’t and their ballots won’t be counted.

Nowhere in the package was there a clear numbered set of instructions on how to do it. They could use lessons on directions from IKEA. They did make it clear that the postmark doesn’t count - it must be received by election day to be counted. With the present Postmaster General of the US doing everything in his power to hobble speedy mail delivery, I suspect many ballots won’t get there on time.

I walked into the Election Board and handed mine to the lady there. She said I was the first one.

I also volunteered to work at a polling place if she needed me. She almost laughed. 

“Yes,” she said. “I sure do. Can you drive to anywhere in the county”

“Yes, I have my own car, and I can go where you need me.”

She said,”I just lost a poll worker yesterday in Colbert. Would that be OK?”

“Sure, not a problem.” I replied. “Did they quit for fear of the COVID virus?”

“No, she died of COVID yesterday. We knew she was sick but thought she was getting better, and then she took a turn for the worse.”

“That is sad. My Schwans food delivery guy got the virus, and missed a delivery while he was home sick, but he got over it in a couple of weeks.”

The lady told me they would have a training session next Friday at 9:30 AM if I still wanted to come.

“I’ll be there, not a problem.” 

Yeah, it’s has a risk, but not so much for me. I know people who are doing it in spite of diabetes, high blood pressure, and other things that increase the chances of death. Some of us old folks still understand the concept of obligation, as well as freedom. 

We are about to lose our freedom, because we have a whole generation of people who only believe in freedom, but reject any notion that something might be required of them in return. 

Not only do they not draft people into the military for service anymore, these kids can’t be bothered to put on a paper mask to protect the people around them. Not just kids, either. 

So, on election day I will be hanging out at the polling place in the little town of Colbert, OK, wearing my mask, keeping as much distance as I can, and doing my part for democracy.

As they say down in this neck of the woods, “Hold my beer!” 

 

Sonora Pass 1950

Sept. 7, 2020

Back somewhere about 1950, our family was trying to get back to Merced over Sonora Pass. We may have gone east over Tioga Pass earlier that day. My mother had a friend from her college days, Esther McMaster, who was the telephone operator in Yosemite Valley then, and we went up to visit her several times. She would give us suggestions on where to drive and what to see. Tuolumne Meadows was one place we visited a couple of times. 

Our father, Vernon Rogers, ran the Kaiser-Frazer Service shop in Merced, and we drove a black Kaiser sedan. Dad liked to take unscheduled trips on weekends, and we toured much of California and Oregon on these trips. It was a wonderful education for us kids, and we learned to appreciate the world around us. 

Bill and I spent many hours kneeling on the back seat at night as we traveled. John rode in the front and slept on long trips in his mother’s lap. He was two, Bill was six, and I was seven years old. Nobody ever heard of seat belts or child seats in those days. 

Our Kaiser was running rough on this trip due to to high altitude. Carburetors couldn’t compensate for altitude and put too much gas into the mixture at high altitudes. The car just didn't have enough power left to get us over the top, and the top of the road was still gravel in those days. About a quarter mile from the top, the road got very steep, and even in low gear the wheels just spun in the gravel. 

Dad had us all get out and walk to the top, in the night with a full moon for light. He backed down a mile or so, and with just him in the car, pedal to the metal, he just barely made it over the top. 

John was just a toddler, and he held Mom’s hand as we hiked to the top. Mom worried aloud about bears and such, but there was none to be seen. The only noise was the sound of the car roaring up the road behind us, drifting around the gravel curves, and finally getting to the top with the momentum collected.

 

I remember as we walked to the top, my mother's sweater collected enough static electricity to have sparks playing around on her as she moved. She tugged on the tail of the sweater and the whole thing crackled and sparkled in the high and dry night air.  

We were all so fascinated by the electric show we forgot to be tired or scared.

We climbed back into the car at the top of Sonora Pass, and went on down the mountain back home