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

The Gas Pump Debate

 It’s been a wonderful Saturday morning here in Southern Oklahoma. I was driving into Durant to give my daughter a ride for groceries, and I noticed my gas gauge getting close to the bottom, so I pulled into the line of pumps at the E-Z Mart on Washington Street to fill up. 

The sun was shining on the pump screen, so I goofed it the first time and had to start over to get my card to read properly. I finally got the nozzle in the tank filler and was about half filled when a small blue car pulled up on the other side of the pump.

I didn’t even look up until I heard somebody say,”I’ve got a question for you!”

The older fellow who was driving had his window down, and he was the one hollering at me. I’m not used to strangers hollering at me in the pump line, so my guard was up immediately. 

I said, “I haven’t lived here long, but I’ll try to answer your question.”

He wasn’t asking for directions. He asked, “If you had two friends, and your wife was fooling around, and one of them told you about her, and the other didn’t so as not to make you feel bad, which one is your friend?”

Well, that was a surprise! A pleasant one, I have to say. There are so few people left who actually like to start a great debate. 

I have some Facebook friends who start posts with “I don’t want anybody to argue with me, but I’m going to post this anyway!” Such comments betray their lack of confidence in their beliefs. 

Just to see how fervent this guy was, I answered, “Sometimes it’s good to be a widower!”

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “Which one would be your true friend - the one who told you, even knowing you might get mad, or the one who didn’t tell you just to keep the peace?”

“Since you insist,” I said, “I would take the first guy as my friend, since I value truth above all, but I wouldn’t get mad.”

“You’re not like most people I know, “ he said.

“Thank you. I try hard not to be like most people.”

He smiled and nodded his head. He realized I had given him permission to continue the discussion without making me mad.

We were two of a kind, in a random meeting at a gas pump, in deep Oklahoma. I don’t know if he invites Mormon missionaries into the house for talks, or discusses the Bible with Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I do. Life is so much easier when you don’t mind listening to other views, comparing other beliefs, and increasing mutual understanding.

“Well, what do you think of the situation in this country today?” he asked.

Oh, it’s not religion, it’s politics. Great! Game on!

“I’m really disappointed and discouraged. I fought hard for Bernie Sanders, but the Democratic machine ran him over, and anybody else that wanted to see real change happen.”

I could see his mind working, trying to find a way to insert Donald Trump into the debate, I think. I may be wrong, though. I didn’t give him much room to maneuver.

He said,”Somebody once told me that the people aren’t in enough pain yet - that when enough people are desperate enough, they will make change.”

“I think you are exactly right. But I am beginning to see the pain increasing exponentially, due to this pandemic. Millions out of work, lost their medical coverage, about to be evicted from their homes.” 

“What kind of change do you see coming?” he asked.

I looked at him and said, “I don’t know how old you are, but you look to be about my age. If so, you remember living when Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal still applied in this country.”

“Whoa, that was way back in the Fifties!”  he exclaimed. “I remember taxes being awful high back then. income tax was 30 or 35 percent, wasn’t it?”

“Not even close,” I said. “Top tax rate under Roosevelt, Truman, and Eisenhower was over 90 percent. Nobody was allowed to be a billionaire. That was considered evidence that you were robbing somebody - your employees, your customers, your competitors. Companies actually vied to be the best employer, with the best wages, and the best benefits in the land. Those were bragging rights.”

“I don’t remember it that way. We were pretty poor back then.”

“So was I. My father abandoned us when I was just eleven and my mother raised us three boys by herself, with help from family and church friends. But I have since studied a lot of history - read a lot of books - and I remembered when the government put thousands of GIs through college for free, built many thousands of new schools to educate the baby boomers, built a country wide network of high speed freeways, and sent men to the moon and back.” 

“So what going to happen now?” He was listening intently, and seriously seemed to want to know my opinion. That’s all, just my opinion.

“I think it is 1932 all over again,” I said. "Either we will become a Fascist country, where the rich corporations control the government and force us to do their will, or we will turn to Socialism again, where the government is run by the people, to benefit the people. Bernie was the only one who offered the latter, so I don’t have much hope right now.”

Another car pulled up behind him, waiting for the pump there. I said, “ That guy wants your pump, I think. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“I’ve enjoyed it myself, Guess I better move on, Bye!”

“Have a great day” I yelled as he left. I squeezed the pump handle again and topped off the tank.

After he left it occurred to me that he didn’t call me a Libtard, or an idiot, or a Commie. And I hadn’t called him any disparaging names, either. There should be millions of discussions all over this land like this, and maybe we could figure this thing out, without going to revolution or civil war.

Wouldn’t that be great? But I don’t have much hope. There are so few people who relish a real debate on the issues. Wish I had gotten his name.

I think I’ll go out on the porch and take a nap. 

Masks?

 I have to laugh when I listen to all the young people whining and complaining about wearing a simple mask over their face to protect those around them from the Covid-19 virus. 

Maybe we should reinstate the draft.

On April 7, 1965, I got a letter from Lyndon B. Johnson ordering me to report to the induction center in Fresno, California to be conscripted into the U.S.Army.

In just a couple of days I found myself in Ft. Ord, California, with about 250 other guys my age, with brand new serial numbers proving you now belonged to the Government. Government Issue - GI.

After getting all new uniforms, fatigues, and boots, we were issued gas masks. They were worn on the right side of your waist on the belt, inside a canvas bag with a snap cover. They were black rubber, and covered all of your face, including the eyes, and had strong rubber straps across the back of your head to prevent any leaks on the front side around your face.

In the cheeks were filters made of activated charcoal, which would remove lethal gasses, at least for enough time to get away from the area. They were quite heavy and awkward to use, but seemed worth it to save your life.

We lined up in rows to practice putting them on fast, when the instructor yelled “GAS!” You were expected to have the mask on, cleared, and ready in nine seconds. 

We got to watch films of goats somewhere on a test range being gassed. As the seconds counted up at the bottom of the screen, the poor goats would start shaking and then fall down, kicking for a few seconds before they died. 

The instructor noted that those of us wearing glasses would probably die anyway, because the extra couple of seconds to rip those glasses off before the mask went on might mean the difference between life and death.

In another exercise, we got to put on our masks, enter a small room single file.and stand around the wall while they set off tear gas canisters in the middle of the room. It wasn’t just a test to see if there was a leak in the mask. 

After a couple of minutes, we were ordered to remove the masks and stow them in their bags on our waist. Then we stood around for a minute or two until we were coughing, gasping, and choking on the CS tear gas. Some lost their lunch, but you were not allowed to leave until you marched up to the officer at the door, saluted, and gave your name, rank, and serial number. Then you could go outside and suck in some clear air for awhile.

When all had passed the tear gas test (there was no flunk - if you didn’t do it right the first time, you got to go back in and do it again) we donned our masks again and got to crawl on our bellies under a net of barbed wire for about fifty yards, carrying our rifles. The barbed wire was on short poles about 16” off the ground; just high enough to crawl under if you stayed low and were slow and careful. You had to get through that course without losing your mask or getting your rifle dirty.

Later we went through the Assault Course at night, carrying our rifle on our elbows again, crawling under the barbed wire with live tracer rounds from a couple of machine guns going overhead about 30” up. Halfway through the course there were sandbag bunkers with explosive charges that felt like they would blow you over. We were warned to not climb into the bunkers for refuge. 

When we got to the end of the course we had our rifle inspected, and if you had any dirt in the barrel, you got to clean your weapon and go do the course again.

None of this will be news to those of my age who were drafted into the armed forces during the Vietnam era. Thousands were trained this way, and this was all before we got orders for our duty overseas.

I can’t imagine any veteran who got the same training we did to whine about how uncomfortable a simple cloth mask is.

Maybe we shouldn’t tell them they are to protect the people around them. 

We should just point out that those cloth masks are to defeat the computerized facial recognition software the government is using to spy on them.

Lyrics to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."

I have loved the music, tapping my feet and humming the melody, and then somebody told me I should read the lyrics. Wow! What a revelation. What I thought was an upbeat, inspiring song turns out to be a despairing ode to love gone wrong. Since it is used in religious contexts, it shares certain characteristics with the biblical "Song of Solomon." It has been covered by many artists, many using different verses. One source said he wrote 80 verses, but only recorded four. Here are the ones I could find.

Hallelujah     by Leonard Cohen

Now, I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya

She tied you to a kitchen chair

She broke your throne, and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain

I don't even know the name

But if I did, well really, what's it to you?

There's a blaze of light in every word

It doesn't matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Baby I’ve been here before

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew ya.

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch

And love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Well there was a time when you let me know

what's really going on below

but now you never show that to me, do you?

But remember when I moved in you

and the holy dove was moving too

and every breath we drew was hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above

All I’ve ever learned from love

Is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.

It’s not a cry that you hear at night

It’s not somebody seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Leonard Cohen

Hallelujah lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Three verses from Jeff Buckley’s recording.

Lowes, Verizon and Synchrony

It’s been a big disappointment! I applied for a credit card to pay my Verizon bill, since i bought an iPhone for my daughter Darlene, and it seemed to me it might make it easier to pay if they were on one card.

I did not know that Verizon uses Synchrony Bank for its credit cards, or I might have not applied. I have had a Synchrony Bank card for my Lowes account since before Carolyn died. It has been a revelation of the mind set of capitalist corporations. Details will follow.

Just this week I received a two page letter explaining why they cannot give me the best percentage rate on my new Verizon Synchrony Bank card.

The credit score ranges from 300 to 620. I got a 580 score. Here’s why:

Sum of credit limits across all bank open end accounts is too low.

( Yeah, banks don’t want to open a new account because I paid the old accounts off when I sold the ranch in Nevada.)

Too few accounts currently paid as agreed.

(Yep, I didn’t pay them off monthly as agreed: I paid them off in full as soon as I had the cash.)

Number of mortgage accounts is too low.

(I only have one mortgage on this house. I do not plan on buying another house so I can have another mortgage.)

Too few open installment loans with loan amount of $10,000 or more.

(Yep, I ruined my credit rating by conscientiously paying off my loans and not borrowing any more.)

For years now, every month I have to go to my Lowes store and pay the balance in full. They have screwed up the ID and password and I have not been able get a new one for two years. Probably because my wife died, and it was her account. So I can’t get online to see the balance due.

Also, rather than make the due date on the first of the month, Synchrony Bank makes all payments due on the 25th of each month. With a $25 late fee if you miss it. If you pay on the first of the month with the rest of your bills, you will pay an extra $25 dollars every month on top of their high interest rates. 

Every month on the 20th I go to Lowes and pay off the balance with my debit card. From my Credit Union. I refuse to open an account at a bank until the usury limits come back down. 

That’s probably one more reason my score is so low.

It would be nice if Elizabeth Warren became Vice President. Her bona fides on fighting for the consumers against the banks is on record. But first we would have to move Joe out of the way. He’s been a friend of the banks for many years.