We're b a a a ck!

 Once again, my all-time favorite Halloween cartoon.

50th Mid-america Threshing and Antique Show

 

For Labor Day

 

Joe Hill wrote on his dying day

"My body? Oh, if I could choose
I would to ashes it reduce
And let the merry breezes blow
My dust to where some flowers grow"

and from this the story spins this way

 

Reduced to ashes as he wanted

but his acolytes by his words undaunted

spread the ashes far and wide

to city streets and countryside

to his native land and Detroit woods 

and burned again and re-collected

and eaten, washed down with ale

Is there never end to this tale

Joe Hill has grown and grown and multiplied

'til six men on a side could not heft the box

that would hold his body, hide and locks

If we believe all the tales in print

even Joe would wonder where he went.

It Isn't Practical

     Heide and I were visiting, two nonagenarians discussing some of the enigmas of life, the wonders, the puzzlements, and the age old "why are we here?" sort of things. In the course of the conversation, the subject memory, its miracles, its tricks, and the issue of the loss of it. I remarked that I had read that while the body regenerates many of its cells as they are lost to time or minor trauma, the brain loses vast numbers of cells daily, never to be replaced by new ones. Hence, I suggested, if I were to lose the cells that store my memories of you not only would those cells be lost, but you would be lost to me. Now understand that she and I are not scientists but rather lay persons pondering the wonders of life.

     Then, I said, why do the cells of the brain not regenerate? Heide's immediate response was, "Because it isn't practical!" 

     Thus, we found ourselves in a discussion of practicality, the necessity of one generation moving on to make room for the next, and so on. This portion of the conversation was concluded with her observation that "Nature is nothing if not practical." I told her that I was going to write a piece entitled "It isn't practical." And here we are.

     It is easy for me to imagine that "It isn't practical" entered the lexicon of mankind early on in his habitation of the Earth.  Say, for example, Cain, a gardener, or dirt farmer, if you will, brought a sacrifice of the bounty he had raised, because, as he might have reasoned, an animal sacrifice was impractical, as he would have had to barter his goods with, say, his brother Abel, a herdsman. And we all know the rest of the story.

     Skipping ahead to the dawn of The Enlightenment, we might picture Gutenberg, having "perfected" his press, attempting to sell the notion to his public and said public arguing that "It isn't practical," for there are not enough poor on earth to provide the necessary quantity of rags to feed the press even if we were to dispose of all the Earth's poor.

     I need not further the exercise, for any reader may imagine countless examples of progress stymied were the visionaries to cease dreaming and tinkering simply because they were told, "It isn't practical." Nature, we may conclude, is indeed practical. But man's imagination! Ah, the wheels of progress turn only when fueled by the imagination of the human mind.

Logged Another Year

 

As has become a custom, I guess, since I have been doing it since my 78th birthday, I am using a US Route sign to announce the completion of another trip around the sun during my lifetime. it is a blessing beyond measure that the Lord has granted me this many years here on Earth. I am further blessed in that my health is reasonably good, and I have been able to enjoy the vast majority of my days on this sojourn. Sorrows? Yes, of course, for no life well-lived does not encounter loss and heartbreak. It is the human condition. I once wrote, "Life consists of joys and disappointments. If at the end the ledger shows zero sum, count it as a pretty good life." This may be a bit of an oversimplification since much of life consists of the humdrum, but it is the joys and disappointments that fill our memory banks.

I am greatly blessed to be able still to access those files!

Living on the Level #T

   

      I like to think that in the metaphorical sense I live my life on the level in my dealings with other people. But today I sat down to write some thoughts about living on the level in a literal sense. I am abundantly blessed in that 1) I have lived a long time, and 2) I am still mobile. I can get around and go places. But I am pretty sure that when the youngsters see me going down the steps, say at our local post office, two feet on each step, hand on the rail, they probably remark to one another, "Look at the old dude. He's on his last legs." And they would be right. I am on the only legs with which my Creator endowed me. They just don't function so smoothly, so quickly, as they did in my youth. 

     Alternatively, the youngster should reflect that, "There, but for a few short years, go I." As the Preacher said, "Time and chance happen to them all."  (Ecclesiastes 9:11) Well, the young are immortal in their own sight, and more joy and happiness to them, I say. But they do need to treasure and care for the body they have been given, for there may be a limited number of replacement parts, but there is no replacement for the body itself.

     If you have observed me stepping off a curb, you will have noticed that I turn my body 90 degrees, facing parallel to the curb before I step off.  And why is that? There is no banister! So, you might think, our city has thoughtfully provided ramps at the intersections to accommodate those in wheeled vehicles, such as mobility scooters, wheelchairs, or even the baby buggy.  (Wait! Have you actually seen a parent wheeling a baby in a buggy in the last half-century? I am old.) And you think, "Why doesn't he use that ramp?"  Because. It is more treacherous than steps! Watch me lurching down one of those sometime. It's a nose-threatener. 

     Okay, so I am grateful to be living in Tipton where the streets and sidewalks are quite nearly perfectly level, though I am sure that a topographical map would show you that the elevation at, say, the corner of Conde and Walnut is a tad higher than it is at the corner of Main and Madison. But that is a quibble.  The town is essentially flat, and I appreciate that.

     As I get around town, I often meet people, a few contemporaries, a host of people of a certain age who were students of mine in the past, and I am often asked how I am doing, and sometimes hear an expression by the acquaintance to the effect that they are glad to see me getting out and about.  And I appreciate that. The other day, one of these people, seeing me negotiate a series of steps, courthouse, I think, and knowing that I live in a two-story house, asked me if I slept downstairs.  "No," I replied, "I still sleep upstairs, but I make only one trip up and one trip down each day, and when I can no longer do that, the master bedroom is on the first floor, and I can move down there."

     Mostly, I live life on the level.

Citizenship

 Went to our court house Thursday afternoon to pay the property taxes. I like to do this in person so I can personally thank the treasurer and the office staff for the services they provide to the community as I regard them as a sample of all the good workers in the public sector whom we support with our means. Fulfillment of a duty which I hope I do cheerfully.

Upon completion of the task I walked a few paces down the hall to the site of early voting. I usually take advantage of this service as one never knows what election day may hold either weather-wise or health-wise.  The room was occupied by two poll workers and two voters occupied in their civic duty.  I stopped at the doorway and noticed that the ballots were posted on the wall just to the left.  I read them carefully. And completely. Turned, smh, and walked to the stairway where I carefully lowered myself to the ground floor and exited the building.

Sorry; that was rude.