When I was about fifteen events occurred that I remember to this day. Earth shattering events, heck no, but to me they were memorable. One of which happened whenever my aunt would come visit my mom. They would chat and catch up on family or local gossip.

Why do I mention this or why do I remember this? Well I was at the cusp of sixteen that age when a drivers license seemed the most important milesone I would ever reach. My aunt who drove a Studebaker for some reason I can't remember would allow me to take her car for a spin around the block while she drank her coffee and helped change my moms picture arrangements.

I don't know why she allowed me to do that, except she had two boys, my cousins, who were older than me so maybe she had been through the 'can I drive the car?' question so many times she never gave it a second thought when I asked her, 'can I drive the car?'.

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Studebakers since then, so when I saw this poem I had to include it as a post.

Studebaker

Gerald Stern

Try a small black radio from any year
and listen to the voices you get, they were
much faster then, they raced ahead of us
and rushed the music; love was in a rocking chair,
the floor was crooked, the moon was already in
the sky, though it was daylight still; or love
was in a Studebaker, we were driving east
and we had no idea how long the corporation
would last, or if there was a corporation, how could we?
And did it have its headquarters in Delaware
for taxes and connections, though the doors
were heavy and solid, what was the year? '55?
The Lark appeared in 1958 or
'59—it was their last attempt,
though I remember the Wagoneer, it was 19-
66 and something called the Cruiser, we had
Nat King Cole on the radio though static
was bad in Pennsylvania, given the mountains,
and there was a lever you pushed to make a bed—
I hope I'm getting it right—the leaves on the windshield
were large and wet, the song was Unforgettable,
the tree was either a swamp maple or a sycamore.

This is a sad picture in the story it depicts, and I have debated with myself whether to post it or not. Not lost the debate and here it is. I wish I could give the picture-maker credit but I don't know who did it. It's titled: Life

A clever collection of verbal comebacks has been published by Mardy Grothe and it's titled: Viva La Repartee. Very funny stuff. Here is one:

W. C. Fields



W. C. Fields died at age sixty-seven on December 25, 1946, his life cut short by his notorious alcohol consumption (by some accounts, he drank as much as two quarts of gin a day). Some wags thought it was a fitting irony that Fields died on Christmas, the one holiday he despised the most. As he lay in his hospital bed shortly before his death, Fields was visited by the actor Thomas Mitchell, a good friend. When Mitchell entered Fields' room, he was shocked to find the irreligious Fields paging through a Bible. Fields was a lifelong agnostic, and fervently anti-religious (he once said that he had skimmed the Bible while looking for movie plots, but found only "a pack of wild lies"). "What are you doing reading a Bible?" asked the astonished Mitchell. A wiseacre to the end, Fields replied:

"I'm looking for loopholes."

and speaking of clever repartees, here is a great one from the movie DINNER AT EIGHT. The two ladies in case you don't know are Marie Dressler and Jean Harlow.

BAD DREAMS


I don't usually have bad dreams, but last night I did.

If I do have a bad dream, and I'm sure everyone does, it dosen't carry over into consciousness. I only remember that I had one. But last night was an exception.

I don't believe that dreams are precursors of things to come, or precognitions, but they seem so real.

As I write this I am still hung over with the thoughts of my journey through dark thoughts.

I think I understand that dreams are dramatizations of our worst fears, ignited by I don't know what. If I did I would be sure not to consume whatever it is or not think such thoughts again just before bed.

My dreams have changed through the years as I have aged, as my life circumstances have changed, as my greatest fears have rearranged themselves. One of the prevailing themes of my night trips is that I am lost and spend the whole night, it seems, traveling to nowhere or in circles.

Another is that I am at work among someone I remember from my real working days, but just kind of hanging around because I did not know what to do or that I was a pretender that had not yet been caught in my ineptness.

Last nights dream sent a chill up my spine literally and woke me up at a too early to stay-up hour, but I got up, stayed up for a short time and then returned to my bed, and darn if the dream didn't start right back up again.

This time my dream has a little twist to it, but God it was scary to me. I was lost again, but this time I was driving and it was of course dark and dreary, and I turned up a road I did not know of course and it turned out to be railroad tracks that I was driving on. The roadbed got steeper and steeper and my wheels started slipping on the slippery tracks until I became more and more panicky. I finally in desperation turned the steering wheel and the car came off the tracks and started to plunge downward. I woke up remembering it all.

I wish I hadn't.

HEALTH WARNING

the cow has jumped over the equinox
or something
and spring is here.

like every spring the weather is
nicely put, unsettled.

today as I look out my window at
my expected location of sweat and toil
I see clouds swollen with rain preparing
a new unloading of same.

the same ground that yesterday was receptive
to my initial ministrations and promises
that I would preen it and feed it and bring
it back to an appearance it could be proud of

today is water laden, akin to dry skin
sucking up skin lotion it will emerge from the rain
a little greener, a little more prepared for the human
toilers excavations, and scratching of the earth,
planting this and that, rearranging and sowing

rituals from time immemorial repeated, only
differing in size and scope, and purpose.

oh yes, purpose. The land, a gift from God.
Land, the soil answers the call with
bounties to fill each persons needs, returning
in kind the diligence of the landowner.

so sit back while it rains and feeds the land
and dream of fields of flowers or vegetables
yet to be sowed, be content. You haven't come
across that huge bolder yet to be uncovered, or
those forgotten roots that eminate from China.

but that's for tomorrow, today smile, dream and
have another cup of coffee.


jim kittelberger
2008

HOOT!

WOOLGATHERING

Why do I want to write?

Do I have anything important to get off my chest? Do I have anything I think is of value to the world, good lord no, then why spend time punching keys, spending time putting words on paper that no one will read? During moments of fancy I visualize my hand dipping a pen into an inkwell and like magic flowing words appear in a beautiful hand onto wonderfully thick paper stock. The ink running smoothly over the paper, the pen feeling like a machine built for speed and agility, moving in glorious loops forming words that are beautiful to look at. Perhaps it's not words that I yearn for, but maybe the art and flow of a highly trained calligrapher.

Yet the words in magnificent formation like a schooled marching band seem somehow incomplete and unalive, a creation that is waiting for its life blood that will lift it up and make it soar. Color, the cornacopia of the rainbow, the wild not quite sane mind of Van Gogh creating colors that rival the sunlit fields of sunflowers and yellow wheat swaying in the breeze; color, taken from Gauguins wildly splattered pallet of hurriedly applied deep and bright hues to heighten his images of the Tahati in his mind, more than in fact. These colors added to the black and white flowing words create in my mind what I desire.

Yet and alas, God has regretfully left me to only image how great it must be to be able to merge the beauty imagined in your brain and the hands obedience giving it life on the canvas. Alas.


jim kittelberger
2008

HOMETOWN ABSTRACTS
Second Edition

The Run-Aways (shown above with Trixie the wonder dog)


The early years in Mansfield, circa 1943-44, were not without stress for two sisters who lived modestly on Cherry street, in a house of unpretentious size close to their fathers employment. At the early age of five and seven they had decided that they could take no more of ultimatums as they were newly emerging women of wartime America and should be allowed the independence they deserved. Of course the issue was of such a nature that the course was clear. The issue that caused the revolt was the demand made by their mother that they would be required to tidy up their rooms on a daily basis, which amounted to making their beds.

The remedy seemed clear, a clean break and a new start. The plan was implemented, but only essentials to life were to accompany them on their fresh start. To travel light was the method of choice of these world-wise new mid twentieth century women. Light traveling meant to take along only their newly acquired, last Christmas acquisitions, piggy banks and of course in their break-out for freedom a fellow traveler with a string around her neck, Trixie the fox terrier.

So off they went, the two sisters and Trixie on the road. The distance they traveled was actually quite impressive, three miles as the crow flies. Sisters and dog trudged with the sun bearing down on them, perhaps eroding their desire to be free and independent, but they continued on.

Their destination was in sight and perhaps not a moment too soon. Tired and sweaty they climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. No answer. They knocked again, still no answer. The travelers had just assumed that their Aunt, where they were planning on a safe haven, would of course, be home.

They sat down on the steps, the two sisters and dog Trixie and tried to come to grips with this flaw in the plan. Perhaps also to start thinking about the fear of the unknown, always a big issue with women of the world of age five and seven, when pulling up in front of the Aunts house was Mom and Dad in the wonderful old car. Mom opened the door and invited/a little more than invited, maybe ordered the wayfarers to enter the car.

I never have heard, the sisters have forgotten? the next chapter in the saga, but they grew up to be fine women doing well into the twenty-first century.

The difference with then and now in early Mansfield, as in most of the country I venture to say, the little travelers were more than fairly safe walking the sidewalks in those days, where I'm sorry to say, today they would not be.

TO MY SONS

A tribute to my two sons who stood up and served their time in the U.S. military. I thank them for doing what they saw as their duty to all of us by giving a portion of their lifes to the necessary work of defending our good country.

I am eternally grateful to God that I was able to see them come home again all in one piece and be able to tell them Thank you for going and more importantly, to a lot of concerned people, coming back. My first son served ten years in the U.S Air Force and my second son retired from the U.S Army, after two tours in Iraq. Both had done their duty and a whole lot more.

They both made up for their fathers less than illustrious career in the military. I was rated somewhere between Sad Sack, the lifetime private, and Beetle Baily, the sargents all the time nemesis. I sometimes enjoyed my lackluster military career, but no one stood in my way trying to get me to re-enlist, try to figure.

My sons though did themselves proud and their mother and I applaud them for it.

With Love,

Your parents


For your enjoyment we arranged a little musical concert in your honor....they're a little late, but I think I hear them coming...Enjoy.

Listening to the WRITERS ALMANAC with Garrison Keillor, I was treated with this poem by Kate Dicamillo. I really like it because it's touching number one, and secondly, and sorta secretly (from whom I don't know) I would like to have a dog like Aldo that could be a friend. Truth be known, I'm too old and getting too fussy to have to tend to a dog anymore I am sorry to say.


Snow, Aldo

Once, I was in New York,
in Central Park, and I saw
an old man in a black overcoat walking
a black dog. This was springtime
and the trees were still
bare and the sky was
gray and low and it began, suddenly,
to snow:
big fat flakes
that twirled and landed on the
black of the man's overcoat and
the black dog's fur. The dog
lifted his face and stared
up at the sky. The man looked
up, too. "Snow, Aldo," he said to the dog,
"snow." And he laughed.
The dog looked
at him and wagged his tail.

If I was in charge of making
snow globes, this is what I would put inside:
the old man in the black overcoat,
the black dog,
two friends with their faces turned up to the sky
as if they were receiving a blessing,
as if they were being blessed together
by something
as simple as snow
in March.

When you think you're having a bad day at the workplace, just look at how the other half, or hopefully a much smaller amount go about their daily business.

WII put out by Nintendo has found an unexpected market in senior citizens. Nursing homes and the like have found they are very popular taking the place of standard exercising and making it fun. Here is a small video showing it in action and you can see the amount of movement they use and how good it would be for the elderly. They include five sports: tennis, baseball, bowling, golf, and boxing.

HOMETOWN ABSTRACTS
First Edition

My hometown is a medium sized town of approximately 55,000 people, located in the north central section of Ohio. The name of the town is Mansfield, named after Jared Mansfield, the surveyor general in 1808. It is located geographically in the western foothills of the Allegheny Plateau in the county of Richland, named literally because of it rich fertile soil.

When I arrived on the scene in the thirties, Mansfield was a manufacturing center with many heavy industries thriving, the biggest being Westinghouse corporation and Tappan Stove company among many others. The town thrived until sometime in the seventies when the steel recession caused many of the industries to move to other countries or to the south because of cost incentives. They never returned and Mansfielders had to become somewhat innovative and change from a manufacturing base to a service based economy.

I too left my hometown in the fifties, but returned in the early seventies. We may leave our hometowns for economic gain, but that feeling for the place of our birth and the simple life instilled right or wrong in our brains seems somehow to draw us back. The moves back are highly personal in each case and sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't. In my case it was a right move.

Now that Spring is officially here even though it doesn't look like it just yet, the school kids are looking at having to pay back for all those snow days off school they accumulated during the past winter. They will have to go a little longer into the Spring so everything comes out even for school accountibility.

But as I remember it was all worth it. I wrote this a while ago while I was remembering those good old snow days.

SNOW DAYS

I was not then, nor am I now an avid fan of winter.

Except, ahh, except for the exhilaration of joy I often felt upon awakening after a crisp coldness had descended upon us overnight.

The morning sun breaking through the gray snow sky revealing an unscarred layer of whiteness covering earth’s imperfections was almost my first awareness of what beauty is. The crisp coldness caused the newly fallen snow to sparkle like diamonds, free for the picking. A stirring from deep inside made me spring out of my warm cozy bed onto the cold morning floor immune to the discomfort, and fully aware of what could lie ahead as a result of Mother Nature’s overnight gift to a boy of ten years. Young yes; a scholar, no; a snow day? Yes! Yes! Maybe.

The furnace’s morning stoking and poking and fueling with an ample supply of coal was returning the favor by filling my moms kitchen with its unforgettable and pleasant aroma and heat. The smell of perking coffee, and the sight of the newly buttered toast enhanced those aromatic pleasures. On mornings like these, my mother, a true believer in the medicinal values of food would also prepare oatmeal for me. A properly nourished body, she would always say, is the proper way to begin a day. Oh God, What a great day this is going to be, the word had just come over the radio, “SCHOOL WAS CANCELLED BECAUSE OF THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW”.


On mornings such as these, when the fates had smiled on us and piled drifts of snow in our driveways and against our backdoors, I could not wait to get out into it. Of course, my moms job would not be done until she made sure I was covered with seventeen layers of protective clothing, or at least it seemed that many. Then I was sprung loose into a world of boys and sleds and imagination.

Boys, little boys, young boys, evidently don’t have a built in device running from their bodies to their brains telling them they were getting mighty cold now. They just continued on and on and on, like the energizer bunny until, in the method of the day, their mothers would open the door and yell for them to come home for lunch. How I wonder, no matter how far away we were, we always seemed to hear them.

I would arrive at the back door which led into the kitchen, and after working to remove my frozen boots from my frozen feet with my frozen hands, I would stand on the floor register, and let the glorious coal heat cover my body with its thawing, life restoring warmth. How I and my boyhood chums did not lose fingers or toes from frostbite, I’ll never know, because after a short time standing on the register, my feet would begin to hurt and sting.

But soon a bowl of soup and maybe a sandwich would appear, the radio would be broadcasting a soap opera, and everything would be right. In my mind today, almost sixty years later, I can still feel the discomfort of the snow, but the comfort I feel from remembering those days and that kitchen and that time diminishes mere physical pain.


I will always have that kitchen, and those glorious snow days, and that caring mom with me as comfort and remembrance to call upon when age begins to lay heavily on me.

Re-watched a 1941 movie titled: THE DEVIL AND DANIEL WEBSTER starring Edward Arnold, Walter Huston, James Craig, Ann Harding and the actress who made a very good living playing mothers in some very good movies, Jane Darwell. One of her more memorible mother roles was as Ma Joad in GRAPES OF WRATH.

I really enjoy this movie. It is a morality tale set in New England about a farmer who in a moment of despair says he would sell his soul to the devil for two cents. The devil, Huston, takes him up on it, and the rest of the movie is him enjoying the fruits of his unthinking bargain with the devil until it comes time to pay up.

A good movie in black and white with other character actors you may recognize. Simone Simon plays a woman who also has sold her soul to the devil and has been brought back from the depths to tempt James Craig in his downfall, as if he needed any help.

If I have a choice of a good colored film or a black and white film, I will always take the non-colored film. The finished product always seems more intimate and it seems to take the viewer deeper into the action. (Now that sounds really convuluted and bogus, but I know what I mean, I just can't seem to be able to spit it out). If you're a film fan I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.

Recently I viewed a recording of AFI (American Film Institutes) top 100 films of all time. Now I agreed with most of the picks. Most were just great films, and some were controversial at the time, but all were darn good. I'm not belaboring any of the picks, but I would like to add a few more rather elderly films which I think are as good now many years after their premiers as they were new.

The oldest film is METROPOLIS 1926. A really great silent film that has moments that are memorable. The picture is a look at the future where the rich live above ground and enjoy life in the sun; and the workers live below ground in their own world. One of the scenes I remember vividly is the shift change when the workers line up not unlike robots in formation and enter and exit elevators that take them to their homes and/or workplace. It is dramatic and unforgettable.

ON BORROWED TIME 1939, a film with the great actor Lionel Barrymore and a kid actor with the great name Bobs Watson who lives with his grandparents because his parents were killed in an accident. Sir Cedrick Hardwick who plays Mr. Death comes to take grandpa Lionel to heaven which would devistate Bobs the grandchild so they devise a plan to trap Mr. Death in a tree so his beloved grandpa will not have to go without him. I won't tell you anymore, but I loved the film and now have it on disk for another viewing when I'm in the mood.

THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER 1940, another film that I think is absolutely great, stars James Stewart, Margaret Sullivan, Frank Morgan and an actor with an amusing voice William Tracy.
It takes place in a notions shop in Budapest and the main plot is about two people, Jimmy and Margaret who are lonely and are corresponding with people they have never seen. Of course they end up with each other, but it takes a while to get to that ending, and getting there is sheer joy, at least for me. The actors are great, the story is gentle, almost a fairy tale rendering. Of course Jimmy Stewart never did put on a bad performance that I can remember.

Some people are so clever. I found this site accidentally like I do a lot of sites. I couldn't resist sticking my ugly mug on one of those pages. The picture was taken at Malabar State park, a favorite place of my wife and I.

Computers are great company and can be a lot of fun.

Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com

Discount Magazine Subscriptions - Save big!

Spring arrived here in Ohio a couple days ago along with newly emerging daffodils. But Spring being Spring, especially in Ohio, we now have snow back on the ground. My wife assures me that even though it does not look like spring, the sun is higher in the sky and a little warmth eminates from it, so patience is the keyword for winter-weary Buckeyes. A little Cat Stevens music and a video of what we will see soon will have to suffice for now. Enjoy.

Do I love this story?

http://money.cnn.com/2008/03/07/pf/sivy_apr.moneymag/index.htm?section=money_topstories
You bet I do. It just seems too right though to be something that could actually come to pass.

But with Buffet buying up stock you have to know it might be a serious story. Read the article, it touches on all the reasons why it is the right thing to do. The number one thing that I immediately thought of was fuel efficiency. It's about time someone put their money where their mouth is.

The government for years has had a hand in our national transit system Amtrac and have done nothing more about it, while the oil cartels in the Mid-East gouge us more each week, and our pols (stated with a sneer) talk about us regaining our oil independence from OPEC with words that have not one lick of credibility.

Starting rail systems to handle some of our commuting would rid the street of a lot of traffic and conversely a lot of gas consumption. My state of Ohio governor Strickland has stated he would like to consider establishing a high-speed rail system throughout the state. Sounds fantastic to me on one hand, but being a political realist, I know this won't ever happen. What really ticks me is not so much that the weak link is money raising, but the sneaking suspicion that the pols don't mean a word of it.

It would help solve too many current problems to have any chance of succeeding.

These two moments from two of America's best, where it seemed that they were thinking and talking on the same subjects in the 1950's. It seems rather prophetic about events that took place here in my country in the first decade of the twenty first century.

Along with that, Senator Hagel this week is coming to the conclusion that perhaps it is the time for a third party, a party for men and women of more independent thinking to be thought of more seriously than ever before. Here is the piece from Google video:

Where have I heard that music before?

Weather-wise things are pretty much back to normal. The snow is still visible in patches in our yards. Here in my hometown the snow set a record at 19 inches. In my backyard and driveway the yardstick registered 21 inches. Way deep enough and way cold enough, to paraphrase our hippie friends, and way miserable enough to last me for a long time.

I was reminded of this little piece I wrote some years back:


ALMOST THERE




The door slams behind me, loud in the quiet night,

Winter moonlight bathes the tundra

Work boots crunch a frigid cadence

Diamonds in the snow sparkle its fools gold

Do not linger

Silent eternity awaits the foolish

The cold invades my clothing

Quicker the crunching sound

I must hurry; I must hurry

The wind arrives unexpected as death

Snow swirling, envelopes me in white sheets

I’ve lost my way, make a quick back track while I may

Tears spring unbidden from my eyes and turn to ice

I must hurry

My tracks are being covered, but I know it’s this way

Yes I know I’m right

Crunch; crunch

Quickly, the enemy panic arrives

Faster; faster

I can’t see, should I go ahead, or back or

Oh God, help me

I’m so tired

There, under that tree I’ll wait

I’ll wait and think

It has to stop soon

I’ll rest and wait

I hope my love will forgive me for being late

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment

When you retire you won't see this person looking back at you from the mirror. Everyday is Saturday and seventy degrees.

Click this and try to find W.

OOPS!

I tend to believe this snapshot of polled information. My reasoning for believing it is that kids today are born into the computer culture and don't have any thresholds to cross over before they become comfortable with the electronic wonder. They use it as soon as they can understand if you punch a button the following will happen in games. They use computers from kindergarten on.

We older folks at first had to understand that if we pushed the wrong button, the world would not explode, and then it's a slow transition to feeling comfortable with the whole concept. Not to say that older folks cannot become computer nerds, but for kids they're born into it and absorb it like sponges.

TAKE FIVE.

It's been a while since I've listened to this Dave Brubeck classic so todays the day. Here's a little history:

Dave Brubeck is one of the most well-known jazz pianists of all time. The classic Dave Brubeck Quartet featuring Paul Desmond's liquid saxophone lasted for 17 years, during which time they produced the first ever million-selling jazz tune (Take Five), toured the world many times, and introduced enormous numbers of people to the jazz sound. But Brubeck is not one to get stuck in a rut, and since the original quartet disbanded over thirty six years ago, he has continued to develop as a musician, exploring new avenues in composition and performance. He is still touring, and still releasing albums, at the age of 84.

"Life isn't about how to survive the storm,
but how to dance in the rain."

I received this from my friend Fred. What it proves to me is that we cannot take much credit for how we look to others, and more importantly snap judgements from strangers are usually wrong.







YOU JUST NEVER KNOW, DO YOU?



Captain Kangaroo passed away on January 23, 2004 at age 76 , which is odd, because he always looked to be 76. (DOB: 6/27/27 ) His death reminded me of the following story.

Some people have been a bit offended that the actor, Lee Marvin, is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery . His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service (USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time, why the heck does he rate burial with these guys? Well, following is the amazing answer:

I always liked Lee Marvin, but didn't know the extent of his Corps experiences.



In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces often in rear echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions, Lee Marvin was a genuine hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima There is only one higher Naval award... the Medal Of Honor


If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery.

Dialog from "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson": His guest was Lee Marvin Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima ..and that during the course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded."




"Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the bottom and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi.

Bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting' shot hauling you down. But,Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. That dumb guy actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. Bullets flying by, with mortar rounds landing everywhere and he stood there as the main target of gunfire so that he could get his men to safety. He did this on more than one occasion because his men's safety was more important than his own life.

That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant and he lit a smoke and passed it to me, lying on my belly on the litter and said, where'd they get you Lee?' Well Bob... if you make it home be fore me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse!"

Johnny, I'm not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew.

The Sergeant's name is Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."

On another note, there was this man (who just passed away) on PBS, a gentle and quiet man. Mr. Rogers is another of those you would least suspect of being anything but what he now portrays to our youth. But Mr. Rogers was a U.S. Navy Seal, combat-proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV, to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat

After the war Mr. Rogers became an ordained Presbyterian minister and therefore a pacifist. Vowing to never harm another human and also dedicating the rest of his life to trying to help lead children on the right path in life. He hid away the tattoos and his past life and won our hearts with his quiet wit and charm.

One of the many great things about being retired is you don't have to wait until lunch time to start snacking. One of the bad things about being retired is you don't have to wait until lunch time to start snacking.

Did I make my point?

That's me in the blue shirt. I cannot resist King Dons or Pinwheels, and when they still manufactured them, Mallomars.

What it's called is The Internet




Well that's pretty interesting, I'm thinking it would be a good way to pass along messages...maybe we could call it intermail, or maybe instamail...no I've got it..email, sure that's it.

"WHATEVER..."

Snow in the driveway update:

After spouting off about waiting until the snow was over and then doing one snowblowing action was the way to do it...wrong.

Holy Toledo I stuck the yardstick into the snow and it stopped at 21 inches deep. I confidently rammed the machine into the pile and whoa it went in about six inches, I pushed a little harder, another six. My pea brain went into action, this is going to be a big stinking job. I cleared out maybe one third, but probably that's wishful thinking and headed for the house, tired, in a foul mood and hungry. I am re-marshalling my confidence that I can do this job. As Obama says I can do it. Well realistically I will do it, but not after much time and many breaks. One note on my side, the sun is shining brightly. I don't know how much heat is coming out of it, but I'm sure it will help some.

Moral of the story. If a big snow is in progress, don't wait too long before you have a go at the job. A couple times, or three times is better than the job facing me. Well you live and learn even when you are a hundred years old like me.

This is so true. My wife and I are crossword players of long standing and I can't tell you how many times I have tried to erase an incorrect answer and instead of erasing, it creates a great black smudge. As the cartoon suggests the answer must be that it is more profitable for the pencil company to stick that unidentified piece of whatever on the end of their pencils. I wish I could remember that latin phrase for consumers beware.

A sort of PS to the previous post, author unknown but certainly an Ohio resident in good standing.

Ohio Poem


It's winter in Ohio
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At twenty-five below.
Oh, how I love Ohio
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.
Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Ohio
'Cause I'm frozen to the ground

Good morning from Ohio, the snow capital of the country this time around. It has been snowing non-stop since yesterday morning. It descends upon us in various styles, steady, or sometimes blowing, sometimes swirling, but always accumulating.
The weatherman says the real snow will come today with a blizzard as the topper.

The dictionary defines a blizzard as:

Quick definitions (blizzard)

noun: a storm with widespread snowfall accompanied by strong winds

noun: a series of unexpected and unpleasant occurrences

I have to smile at the last definition. Unexpected? not really, this is March and I live in Ohio. We always expect the worse kind of weather during this month. Unpleasant? Well certainly if I had to try and navigate somewhere, but we knew it was coming so we stocked up on things we would need such as desserts and other essentials.

The only essential thing I will have to do is when it finally decides to stop is: I and my immediate neighbors on either side of me will have to fire up the snow blowers and try to locate and clear our driveways. The seriousness of the snowfall is symbolized by the lack of the sound of snow blowers since it started. Usually we will blow the snow midway through a snow event and then again at the end, but this time the lack of snow blower engines struggling through the copious amounts piling up is kind of eerie. We are all of one mind I guess, wait it out and let it do it's worst and then we will fire them up and try our best to make a path to the street. Fortunately for my wife and I we don't have any place we have to be and as long as the power does not go off we are fine.

Actually as the wind which is still rather dormant, but every once in a while generates a good blow and whips the snow off the roofs and swirls it in great gusts and performs the magic of white outs, it begins to click in that this may be one of those snow events we will remember for years to come.

If the blizzard like winds do kick up and the snow starts blowing in four directions at once, I intend to make a short video (short because I'm not crazy yet and who wants to stay out in the middle of it for too long) which I will post here.

But until then, I will put on a fresh pot of coffee and watch my world turn completely white and know that soon, very soon although it seems crazy, all the snow will disappear to be replaced by new green growths and I can get to work laying more bricks down on my ever expanding patio. Later.....

I found this posted on Ivan Shreve's blog http://www.thrillingdaysofyesteryear.blogspot.com/

and could really relate to Aunt (I have forgotten her name) in the Nancy comic strip. One or two of you out there may have run into the 'I forget' action as we start aging. It isn't funny, but the strip is.

I saw a fill-in piece on my local news recently about illiterate adults. These illiterate adults though were soon to be, or already were now literate. The first step to becoming literate when you're an adult is of course admitting it to yourself and coming to the realization you live in an alien world. The feel good part of the piece was the teachers and the look on the faces of the former illiterate after reading from a book for the camera. I would think it would be the equivalent of fighting off alcoholism and seeing the world with clear eyes after being in a fog for a long time.

In my imagining I would think like anything new you would want to use it a lot, so they would avail themselves to a library. When they opened those doors for the first time a new world, millions of new worlds will be theirs to devour through their newfound abilities. I get excited thinking about all the worlds available, and the wonders they will experience. I have been using libraries for my whole life of seven decades now and haven't even touched the surface so to speak.

I remember some books I read sixty years ago, some very clearly. I was an only child, I'm not complaining, and I read all the books in a series about a teenager in high school named Chip Hilton. To me he was a big brother I could learn from. I remember him fondly.

I always have a couple books I am reading and always will I suppose. They are friends that live a much more active life than I do now, but that's what they're supposed to do. They spark our imaginations and transport us to land we will never visit, do things we will never do, make us think of good or terrible things. Books can put our minds into overdrive or act as a sedative and calm us down and mellow us out, to borrow a phrase from the sixties, which you can read about also.

Books are cool, they are great, they are a gift and a companion through all our lives.

Funny Videos

If you have ever owned? a cat, you'll recognize some of his antics.

Awaken your imagination, READ.

Thomas Hart Benton

I am not a ultra-conservative, I am not an admirer of ultra-conservatives just as I am not an admirer of the ultra lefties. Although I bet I believe a lot of what both lefties and righties believe in. Me, being rather shallow in the sense that I am a headline reader versus the in-depth discussion pieces that I probably should read indicates that I am at the mercy of commentators who, of course, have their own personal political axes they like to grind. The right has the best of the bunch. They are the ones we love to hate, but boy are they good at what they do. Which brings me to what I wanted to say in the first place.

William F. Buckley, as we all know by now died this week. He was the godfather of conservatism. He was its voice, a voice who spouted words that would send me scurrying to find a dictionary. I loved to watch his television show and watch him refer to his clipboard and with his nose in the air throw out some words that I was always surprised that the interviewed person seemed to understand, or did he?

I read today's George Will's, another conservative, very moving good-bye to someone he obviously liked and admired. In the piece Mr. Will quotes one of Mr. Buckley's favorite quotes from Harold Nicolson that I had never heard before but which I will repeat here:

"Only one person in a thousand is a bore, and he is interesting because he is one person in a thousand."

That he liked and repeated the quote tells me a lot about his character.

He wrote many books, some of which were a series of spy novels. I figure if he could write spy novels in between his more erudite writings he had to be a good guy. I think he was.

The picture above is Niagara Falls frozen solid in 1932, the only time that ever happened.

We visited the falls a while ago and were much impressed. It's one of those places storied for a honeymoon destination and also as a setting for a Marilyn Monroe movie called strangely enough, Niagara.

If you ever have the opportunity to visit the falls, do it. I would even like someday to revisit.

What is it called when housing prices, energy prices, and food prices keep rising? What does it mean when the Fed keeps lowering interest rates? Trouble ahead is what I see.

Folksingers were very popular in the early sixties and one of the most popular was the Kingston Trio. The original three were Dave Guard, Nick Reynolds and Bob Shane. Their trademark striped shirts are shown in this clip of the very popular song, the MTA, about a guy who for some reason could not leave the vehicle.

Sister Wendy the art critic nun thinks that Chicago is a work of art. Hmm well it depends on who you ask I guess.

Oh my, poor me. My wife is a gemini and if you know anything about what signs someone is born under you will know a gemini is a person of many talents, all of which they like to do all at the same time. They start a project, then before it is finished it is tabled for a while so they can tackle another project. My wife is a gemini in good standing.

Now why did I start out with oh my, poor me? Actually I am saying that tongue in cheek, unless I am bemoaning my expanding waistline. She is currently in a baking mood, one of the really good creative moods she visits from time to time. I have in recent days had to endure eating my share and some of hers also of chocolate brownies, and now yesterday and today, a pineapple upside down cake, and today and tomorrow I have just discovered chocolate chip cookies are destined for the oven as I write.

In between the baking she is trying out some new recipes, for instance last night we had a Chinese meal of spicy garlic chicken and jasmine rice. Oh my God was that good. So feel sorry for me having to endure yummy delights. Oh, you don't, well I don't feel sorry for me either. I am smiling as I finish this hearing the oven beeping out a signal that says come take the cookies out of me and start sampling. That's my cue.

Some quotes are just meant to be paired. I was scanning a few this morning from the site GOOD QUOTES FROM FAMOUS PEOPLE, and I came upon these two close upon each other. It would seem that Golda could have been referring to the man with the large ego Picasso. Well he was right in one respect, he probably could have filled it with his big head.

"Give me a museum and I'll fill it."
- Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)


"Don't be so humble - you are not that great."
- Golda Meir (1898-1978) to a visiting diplomat

SUNDAY MORNING DREAMS

A second cup of coffee
The Sunday newspaper
Tuning in Meet the Press
A leisurely read of the op-ed section of the paper
Time to lay my head back and close my eyes
Moments to leaf through waiting books
Quiet conversations (is that an oxy-moron?)
Late breakfast or early lunches
Contemplating spring
Remembering long walks under branches of green leaves
Daydreaming of warm days on a quiet bench watching people scurrying to appointments and remembering when I was among them

Sunday kind of dreams that come easy and slowly because what's the rush anyway.

Chris Matthews while interviewing Jim Doyle, governor of Wisconsin, made a remark which I believe he had thought about previously, but said seemingly off the cuff. The subject was Obama and they were discussing Obama's ability to turn a phrase and make people cry with hope as they showed video clips showing just that on the campaign trail. He said most great politicians were able to give great speeches and he cited John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan.

I believe he is right. The great speakers are great because they are expanding on their dreams for us and for our country. To be great you have to be somewhat of a dreamer, able to edify what you see, to be able to make the listener think you are talking to them personally, evoking word images of how great we can be. In Franklin Roosevelt's case, he had to relieve our fears and give us hope when we had too many of the prior and none of the latter.

Kennedy was able to inspire us to dedicate ourselves and work together to accomplish a goal. We thought we were included in the mission to the moon, we flew with those astronauts, we shared the fears of the endeavor, Kennedy made us a part of it.

Reagan made us proud to be Americans again. He gave us back our optimism and confidence.

But one of the best ever I believe was Winston Churchill when there was little hope that Hitler and his mob would be stopped from coming over the channel and conqueringing England. The United States politics of non-intervention made us just sit back and watch. The speech Churchill made at a time when there was little or no hope, inspired the island nation of England to stave off the nazis. He inspired the English people and the RAF. They rallied. If they hadn't, history would have been drastically different.

This was their finest hour.

http://www.fiftiesweb.com/usa/churchill-finest-hour.mp3

The biggest news in my world today is that C.C. Sabatha, the stud Cleveland Indians pitcher has decided that this will be his last year with the tribe. He can make more money elsewhere and so elsewhere is where he will go. My guess will be to the Los Angeles Dodgers since he is from California. My hope is that the Indians will entertain trade offers ala the Johann Santana deal and perhaps get a big bat in return. This is no surprise to anyone in this part of the country I am sure, just a fact of life. The athletes will follow the money.

On a far less real subject, I wanted to repost this first of a series of three stories I wrote a number of years ago. I enjoyed writing them because it contains elements of conjecture and whimsey. It is not very long, so take a read.

AUGUSTUS AND WINSTON
CONVERSATIONS:
THE INTRODUCTIONS


A Surreal conversation takes place between two unlikely participants.


The man, Augustus Robert Clary has grown old, and tired. The world outside this room no longer matters to him. His strength has been failing, so just turning on his side unassisted is an accomplishment of which he feels considerable pride. He peers through rheumy, nearsighted eyes at the stack of books sitting on his bedside table, and manages a smile as if again seeing old friends. They remind him of a time when he wasn’t riddled with sickness, one damn thing after another. Life is wonderful, he thought, and his had been, but the end sometimes can be hard when your strength has gone and turning from side to side becomes almost impossible. Your once vibrant body diminished to the degree that death is welcomed with open arms. He thought of death often now, in just that way. But like everything in life, death will happen when it happens, and who knows, he thinks, maybe he’ll cheat the collector of souls once again. He closes his eyes to rest a moment from the effort expended turning his worthless body in this direction. Oh how wonderful, and agile, and strong his body once was, he thought with a sad smile. But not being a bitter man and knowing he had gotten all a person could expect from a body designed to house a soul for seventy-four years, he felt fortunate that it had given him that, and ten more for good measure. And his brain, that wonderful organ that houses your ability to reason, and stores knowledge and memories, those wonderful memories, had continued to function well. That is until just recently, it seems, when a strange and wonderful thing occurred.

On a night several weeks ago, the house was silent and still, except for the occasional unidentifiable sounds that old houses make when the world outside is silent and a listening ear is alert enough to catch it. Unidentifiable it was, but not in a frightening way. The old man had heard these sounds for many years and they were always comforting to him, as they were now. Getting very old is much like being very young in sleep patterns. He dozed more now than he slept, and he tossed and turned, as he was doing this night. As he turned once again to his right side facing the omnipresent stack of books on the nightstand, he was aware of what seemed like two rays of light atop the stack. His eyesight, which had never been good uncorrected, and now with the aging process taking it’s toll, images were not always bright and clear to him. He blinked his eyes a time or two and looked again. The rays of light were still there and he was able to recognize them as eyes, glowing eyes. Now why he was not scared out of his wits, he never knew, but he suspected that since he was not always lucid now, and he knew it, that perhaps this was one of those times and he was imagining things or events that were not real. Whatever the case, he stared back at the two glowing eyes, and whispered “Hello there”, in the direction of the eyes. The bravado or stupidity of the act never occurred to him as he spoke the words, so he was not overly surprised when the glowing eyes answered back, “Hello to you too, my friend.” The old man gave a start, but then relaxed and stared until his eyesight seemed to clear and he was treated to the sight of two big ears, a pointed snout, long whiskers and a long tail. It was a mouse, he thought, not a regular mouse, but a mouse wearing horn-rimmed glasses. A sight to make an old man smile, and he did. There he sat, atop the stack of books as calm as could be. Not scared or skittish, but calm and collected, waiting politely, it seemed, for the old man to speak.

“I suppose I’m off on some drug induced trip, but it’s good to see you, Mr. Whatever your name is,” the old man said, as he looked askance at the mouse standing on the pile of books.

“Well, quite the contrary”, answered the mouse, “in fact your eyes are quite clear, and I believe all your mental faculties are functioning well for a man of your age”.

The old man was astounded by the mouse’s vocabulary and mentioned that to him. The mouse acknowledged that his vocabulary was superior to most mice, but he had spent many years acquiring his knowledge from well-known colleges in the mouse world and by constant reading.

“My name, by the way, is Winston James Cartier. You may call me Winston.”

The old man was impressed with the name, and it fitted him nicely. He seemed, to the old man, to be a mentally superior mouse indeed, to say the least.

“Thanks Winston, I shall. By the way my name is Augustus Robert Clary. You can call me Gus, if you prefer.” He said as a way of contrasting Winston’s option of correctness in his name preference. But if Winston took it as a reproach, the old man never knew as he smiled and nodded.

“Well Gus”, Winston said, “seems you’re a little depressed these days. Of course, I’m sure you feel that life has pitched you a hard inside fast ball, but you are of an advanced human age as you know.”

“No, to the contrary Winston, I don’t feel as if I’ve taken a cruel blow, I know I’m dying”, he paused for a brief second or two, “it’s just that dying is such a lonely road to go down.” Winston thought he was through speaking, but the old man started up again as if awakening from a deep thought. “We humans”, he began, “have many, many books available on the subject of dying, so we should be prepared, and we are, to a point, I believe, but it’s a road you must go down alone. It’s not fair to try and take loved ones too close to the path with you. They’ll have their time and once is enough.”

Winston mused that over for a while, then decided not to comment and asked instead, “Tell me about the women in your life Gus”.

Gus was surprised at such a request. “Wait a minute Winston, what the heck are you asking?”

‘No really,” Winston repeated, “I want to know more about you. Come on, you can clean up any parts you’d like,” he said with a smile.

Gus looked at Winston for a moment, “There was really only one woman in my life. I met her young, and kept her for sixty years. She gave me children, with a little help from me, of course, and we had fun in the creation process. I was never lonely when she was around, not for one minute. We talked and talked for sixty years. I wonder how any two people could have that much to say to each other. Oh, I really miss her,” he said and sighed, “but those were good years with a few being better than others”. He stopped and just gazed at Winston.

“I’ve never married,” Winston said, “but I would imagine that you gave each other purpose and direction in this life, is that not true?”

“Well, sure that’s true.” Gus answered.

“And now you feel that you have no purpose, no reason for carrying on, isn’t that right?” Winston responded.

“Good try my little mouse friend, but you don’t win a silver dollar for that one. Yes, I miss her terribly, every day, and I have no doubt I’ll see her again when I leave this life. But time is relative as you certainly know, and I’m certainly not trying to end this life any sooner than is necessary. I’ll wait. If it’s tomorrow, that’s good, if it’s a year from now, that’ll be okay too.” Gus relaxed, and paused a few seconds, then said in a questioning tone, “No, I’m anxious and ready for the gathering above, but what I’m not too sure of is how forgiving St. Peter at the gates will be. I have not lived a saintly life, and at times I have been too human, with all the foibles that entails. I’m not Catholic, so I don’t believe in purgatory, but even so, I don’t think I’m in for a free pass through the gates.”

Winston gazed at Gus with a condescending look over the tops of his glasses, “I have it on good authority that many theologians of different faiths believe that God is an all forgiving God, thus your admittance is assured.”

“I wish with all my heart that I could believe that in its entirety, but being human for all these many years, I know that we must take responsibility for our actions, and sooner or later we must pay the piper. Sorry for the metaphor. I suppose in the scheme of things, my sins might be a little less than some others, but who’s to know. Among our contemporaries the same sin today is probably less a sin than it was when I was young, but my brain cannot make that ninety or one hundred eighty degree turn on the judgment scale.”

Winston, in a consolatory tone of voice answered, “Agustus, my belief is that it is a matter of intent. When you sinned did you intend to sin?”

“Well no, it was not my intention to sin, but I knew the difference. I knew I was crossing over from right to wrong. I knew my sin would be hurtful to the other person, but I went right ahead anyway. But as in the old children’s story Pinocchio, I was blessed or cursed with a conscience as hard on me as Jiminy Cricket was on poor Pinocchio. I have felt contrition for my sins all my long life. But is that really enough to minimize the damage caused by me? I’m not sure of the extent of any damage I may have caused, or even if there was any, but regardless, whatever damage there was or is rests with me. Is there a statute of limitations on sin? I don’t think so.”

“Mister Augustus Robert Clary, I must say I am much impressed with you. I could regale you with a hundred platitudes and a hundred psychological theories, but I think you have it about figured out. Your theory of walking this earth and enjoying the fruits of your labors, but also bearing responsibility for your deeds and misdeeds are indeed commendable. I salute you and believe you are a good man. I could say what I believe will happen to you in the next world, but I think you know better than all of us. I have to go now Augustus, it’s getting toward dawn and if your caretaker were to see me, she would more than likely treat me rudely, so I will take my leave now and wish you well.”

Winston turned to go, then turned back again, “I believe, Mr. Clary, that the chances of you still being on this earth tonight are approximately seven to three according to all indicators I have studied in the medical books I have access to.”

He smiled then and turning away for the last time, looked over his shoulder. “If you are here tonight as I believe you will be, I would like to chat with you some more. Perhaps I can learn something I don’t know, however I doubt it.” Winston gave a quick smile, did a beautiful about face and walked jauntily away.


To be continued.

Looking out my window this morning I can tell it is cold, very cold. The sun is visiting for just a short while I'm sure, making the snow on the roof tops glisten brightly, and the snow on the ground is showing shadows of the black trees in elongated patterns. Tomorrows weather forecast says our low is going to be in single digits.

But today is the 14th day of February, Valentines Day actually, but also it is the day that pitchers and catchers report to all the major league training camps to start limbering up for a couple weeks before the rest of the team shows up and spring training gets under way in full force. It's the day baseball fans have been waiting for.

Yes, we've had football, college and professional, basketball, college and professional, and for those in more northern climes hockey also. But for dedicated fans there is no sport you can get your teeth into better than baseball. So for the next eight months we will dedicate some time each and every day to the health and well being of our chosen band of well paid brothers. We will rise with their successes and mutter over their failures hoping that when all the eliminating of lesser teams is accomplished that our chosen band will be standing tall and proud on that glorious day in October.

But for baseball fans of my age, who have watched many season, there was that wonderful time when we were part of the great game albeit in a little less grandness.

Millions of boys my age who spent a good deal of time growing up in post WWII America, in newly built housing projects, remember the empty spaces where houses had not yet been built, spaces just exactly the right size to accommodate sandlot baseball. Sandlot baseball, that wonderful game that fielded teams of little boys, big boys, in between sized boys, and the occasional girl who had the grit to get herself a little dirty and a little grass stained. Talent was not required, but a desire to play the game was. Equipment was ragtag, uniforms, of course not. It was going to be a great game if the game ball was still stitched up. Some of us never knew that baseballs were supposed to be white.

Games started whenever we could get together five or so for each team, games ended when one or more parents would open their front doors and yell for the pitcher, or first basemen to come home to supper.

Statistics or game notes were never kept, except in our hearts. They must have been written in the same ink that valentines are made from, because when this time of year, spring training, arrives the memories arrive with that picture in our hearts of those dusty days when our biggest fear was that the ball would unravel before the game was ended. I remember, I smile to myself knowing the ball has not completely unraveled yet.

I don't know about you, but I've been caught up in this cycles presidential race. I find that I am really enjoying the political shows, as the hosts and their guests get caught up in the excitement.

It's a little different this time around with the conservative radio hosts, Limbaugh, Beck and the newspaper conservatives ranting and raving but to no avail when it comes to the voters. It seems that they have come upon a disconnect with the thoughts of most of the voters, at least for this cycle, which of course, is the direct result of the Bush failed presidency and the desire for change with a big C.

I also am finding it exciting that the participants are finding a way to be civil and talk about the issues for a change, except of course for Hillary's husband there in S. Carolina. But she seems to have found a way to muzzle him, at least for a while. That too seems rather odd, him being the political animal that he is and the reaction from the voters to knock it off. I don't know how long the civility can last, but at least for now I really appreciate it.

Since we learn best from good examples, perhaps we can reacquaint ourselves with what civility means, or at least until it gets toward the end and the ends become more important than the means. But I hope not.

I have become an Ipod user and it helps me keep up with many of the political shows and columns. Some of the shows I load up with and watch at my leisure are Bill Moyers journal, Keith Olberman, Chris Matthews Hardball show, Slate magazines look at Todays newspapers, and a show that I have watched on television since it first started quite a while ago, and then lost track of it, but have rediscovered is The McLaughlin Group. It covers the events of the week with just enough nonsense and yelling to make it interesting. One of the original panelist and still hanging in there is Eleanor Clift. She gets my award for grit and she has plenty of it, but has to overcome a female voice with less volume when she is vying for attention from John the host while all the men talking at once try to out yell each other. It's a fun half hour.

Is the Iraq war over? Did we win? Can we go home now? You say we did win, good. What did we win? You say we can't go home, you say we will stay here another 100 years if necessary. Well if we won, could we at least divert some of the oil from there to our country? No we can't? You say we will have to stay and offer all the assistance we can to return the country to its normal state of affairs. What is that? You say our taxes will increase so we can afford the billions needed to fund our presence. You did say we won the war didn't you? Well anyway we must be thought of as heroes by the Iraqis, at least that's something. No, you said, they don't like us and they want us to go home. Well sometime in the next hundred years maybe they will like us, then everything will have been worth it. I am proud of the men and women who have fought this war. I really am proud of the new medals being awarded, the generational medal, for instance. It goes to all the families that have had the husband, the wife, and now their offspring serving in Iraq. I especially like the new commercial on television that shows the family that fights together stays together, it's touching. Well anyway again, at least war is quick and final, it is certainly a better option than talking and talking and talking and talking. I bet if we had just tried diplomacy, and you know what that is, just talk and talk, we would probably still be talking, and......wait a minute, maybe if....no that was just a errant thought I just had, let's get on with the war.

I don't know what to make of Joe Liebermann.

On one hand I applaud his independency, but on the other hand can a politician stand with one foot in each camp?

Is he a man of character or a man who is acting out of spite because the Democrats did not claim him as theirs in the last general election? He ran as an independent and won providing him with the proper props I would think to go his independent way, and I like that.

On the other hand how can he caucus with the Democrats and then turn around and endorse the Republican for president?

Evidently the Democrats have made up their minds and have stripped him of his super delegate status for the Democratic convention, which seems right to me.

So on the left side of my brain I say that the Democrats should read him out of the party. On the other hand I say Joe Liebermann is what most of us strive to be, an independent man, beholden to no one, but willing to take the consequences of that path.

Should Joe Liebermann be a chapter in Profiles in Courage, or be made to shorten his current title from Independent Democrat to plain Independent. That's not all bad is it?

Hello puzzle fans. This puzzle was sent to me by my 'cousin-in-law'. No such thing you say, yeah you're right so then I will say it was sent to me by Fred.

It asks the question: what 9 letter english word when you remove one letter at a time is another word until you have removed all the letters?

Thanks Fred. Take a look it only takes a couple minutes to watch the answer on a little film.

http://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=1&attid=0.1&disp=attd&view=att&th=117ef5d21639f7dc

It seems that the way skewed to the right-righties of the Republican party are ganging up on the possible candidacy of John McCain. But if I were to vote Republican in the fall, even if I was not too enamored with McCain, this notorious threesome would almost make me vote for him anyway.

Why? Well he must be doing something right if he has a group so animately against him that include Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, and Tom Delay. Can you think of a worse bunch of idealogues, non-objective, and in the latter example, a little crooked bunch of people.

Brains and Aging.

I read this article about my shrinking brain. It repeats the old saying, "use it or lose it". This time they're talking about us older folks.

I hope their recommendation on holding off this dire happening is true. They're saying we should with some diligence I presume start, if you're not already doing it, working crosswords and other brain teasing games. They help it says.

Also exercise of the more athletic kind is recommended. Our brains really do shrink and if I read it right, keeping it busy will hold off the onset of Alzheimer's by as much as five years, if it's in fact in the cards that we are going to be struck with it.

Crosswords I have been doing for years, but I've been doing it just for the fun of it. I wonder if it will lessen the fun now that I know I am doing it in part because it's a doctors recommendation? Nah, I'm not stupid, at least not yet.

Read the article: http://health.usnews.com/articles/health/brain-and-behavior/2008/01/31/keeping-your-brain-fit_print.htm

Kinda, sorta, good news for the Cleveland Indians came out of New York. The Mets just agreed to pay Johann Santana, a really good pitcher about 21 million dollars a year for seven years.

Why is this good news kinda, sorta for the Cleveland Indians?

Well they just happen to have the reigning Cy Young winner Charles Carsten Sabathia, CC for those outside of Cleveland, who is in exactly the same situation Santana is or was. He is going into his last year with Cleveland before going into free agency in 2009. The Indians are facing the dilemma of having a limited bankroll for salaries and losing him after this season to better financed ballclubs. So according to what I have read, the Indians have offered CC, or more correctly his agent, 20 million a year for five years, the most the Indians have ever offered to pay anyone in their history.

The good news? That's pretty close to the 21 million Santana is going to get, but two years shorter for the length of the contract. So should Cleveland be jubilent that it's even this close? and maybe they have a chance to sign him?

Cleveland fans do not have good memories of these contract talks and their stars going to free agency. The most recent star to walk for a few dimes more was Jim Thome, the one all of Ohio thought would certainly stay with the team who made him a star, but alas as with Manny Ramerez who also walked, so did the big Jimbo.

But hope springs eternal and since there's only one million dollars difference, what's one million between friends, mere chump change baseball style. But CC will probably want to have the seven years also and most teams do not want to sign pitchers to very long contracts. The Indians being one of many teams to get burned doing that, but today is another day and the Indians are on the upswing so maybe, just maybe they will open up the Jack Benny vault and taker another chance for the fans of Ohio, including me.

Well Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. The legend is if he sees his shadow then we will have six more weeks of winter. I ventured out yesterday myself and I can report that I did not see my shadow. As the matter of fact I think it may have been one of the ugliest days, weather wise, I've wallowed around in this winter. It was one of those days if a film maker were making a film about the travails of a rustbelt town he would have rejoiced because nature was providing all the necessary elements to provide the setting. The streets were wet with a little snow and the sun was invisible. I knew it was up there somewhere under all the dark clouds. The air we breathed was clear, but cold, cold, cold. When we emerged from Barnes and Nobel after about a half hour visit, we had to walk very carefully to our car because the lot had turned to ice. The streets likewise were turning to ice and the city trucks were out throwing salt again. All in all, I don't think I needed a report by the venerable Phil of Pennsylvania that winter is now yet over, I know, I know.