Caught With Guilty Paws!

 You know how it is?  Nothing is going on. And you're hungry.

The girl who pays the bills around here, (what are bills? She is always on about bills.) has left the room.

She also left her breakfast unsupervised on the little table under her kittykat clock.  The little table has two chairs on either side, though she only uses one of them.

A cat could just climb up on either chair and access the pancakes by crawling up on the table! I am utterly silent!

A cat, me for instance, could just reach way over and grab a pancake and start in destroying the evidence quickly. In fact, I did!

Well. This is what always happens. A cat could starve around here and she would not even turn a hair. It is tragic!

Was It Ever Like Today?

 

How Could It Come To This?

   Maybe this is why He didn't want the people numbered.  I have considered that for many years. Maybe He knew what it would lead to. Maybe it has led to the idea that there are too many of us? It could have given sociopathic officials ideas about controlling populations. Maybe it has led to the devaluing of human lives? God knows that so many things devalue life.

   How many extinctions have we survived as a species? Were any as thoroughly malevolent? It's truly hard to say. God willing, this will not be an extinction.

   I suspect, though, that the level of instant communication has changed the equation somehow. We are all known in ways people were never known and "counted" in ways we never were before.

   He does say that the hairs of our heads are numbered, but He is doing that numbering! 

   Anyhow, I am just one who asks Him to have sovereign mercy on mankind, b'Shem Yeshuah, in Jesus' name, for His name's sake. Who else can we apply to? No one else.

"There is no one else!", which is part of some Jewish liturgy.

The Fisherman From Galilee Says

 In case that is not legible on your device I will copy it below here. I thought it looked nice on that photo of Galilee.

The section was suggested by my daughter who is staying with us for a few days.

2 Peter 1:5-9

5But also for this very reason, giving all diligence, add to your faith virtue, to virtue knowledge, 6to knowledge self-control, to self-control [d]perseverance, to perseverance godliness, 7to godliness brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness love. 8For if these things are yours and abound, you will be neither [e]barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. 9For he who lacks these things is shortsighted, even to blindness, and has forgotten that he was cleansed from his old sins.

One White, One Black

 

Once upon a time very recently, but in a remote country, a Raven was heard to have speech with a Magpie.

Now, your humble fable writer has a theory. Hang in there. I am reminded of the Pied Piper and various other pied fellows. What does it mean to be pied? Well, it refers to a patterned fabric or coloration having two or more colors in blotches. So, in this case, whatever a Mag is, it is pied. Magpies have white markings in addition to their black suiting.

*mag-

also *mak-, Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to knead, fashion, fit." It forms all or part of: amass; among; macerate; magma; make; mason; mass (n.1) "lump, quantity, size;" match (n.2) "one of a pair, an equal;" mingle; mongrel.

Another hint at how she got her generic name.

“So, Fiona,” quoth Maeve, “I see you dressed in parti-pied raiment!”

“Verily,” saith Fiona. “Hast thou not seen such as I am?”

“Oh! Of a surety, in truth, I have!” Maeve’s black eye glints in the sunlight. She shakes her wings and settles down again on her branch.

Snapping out of the pidgin lingo, she says, “look, I know you’re pied and all that jazz, but you have one white wing and one black wing. What does it mean? What gives, spotty girl?”

“No! I do not,” cries Fiona! In demonstration Fiona throws up her two wings for inspection. She is dumbfounded by the truth of Maeve’s observation. That means she can’t think of anything to say right then.

Fiona had been practicing her short saucy flights with tail and wings all flashing as she flew. She grounds herself and begins a distressed lament, marching in a little tight circle on the duffy forest floor.

“Oh, will I lose the power of divination? What shall I say then? When a girl brings her wee belly to me to seek knowledge, or she brings a young man’s shirt to me, will I see the future no more? Shall I be ashamed before all the women?” For you see, the Magpie’s prophecies are mainly sought by women and girls of a likely age.

“Settle down, Fiona, you’re starting up the antique patter again. I’m sure this all makes sense somehow,” suggests Maeve.

Fiona stops to take another look at her wings. She still can’t believe what has happened. Her chattering calls fill the dust mote speckled afternoon air in the summer forest of evergreens. It echoes from tree to tree.

But it’s worse now. Both wings are white! She starts up a hell of a racket! But it’s just bird noise. In fact, she is cooing! “No one comes to a dove for truth,” she sobs. For the awful truth is that she is entirely white, with a short tail and foolish little red eyes. Hubris is quite absent from these little eyes.

Far up in her Douglas Fir tree, near the very tip, Maeve chuckles, gurgles and snaps her beak. You could almost be forgiven for thinking she had something to do with this evolution. She didn’t though because Maeve is just an embedded reporter and soothsayer, in but not of, not unlike someone you know.

“Rejoice, Fiona, for you shall be a harbinger of hope and peace to all who see you. No more wicked lies and spotty prognostications. The Lord Maker so wills it to be!”

As a sort of assent and ascent at the same time Fiona tries her new white wings, flying straight up into the sky looking for all the world like a sort of emblem of Peace/Shalom!

Just so!

Not A Way, But The WAY

 

The Way

Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

John 14:6

I woke this afternoon with the phrase the way in mind.  Usually that means there is something I need to look into to see if there is something I need to concentrate on.

We know that the early believers in Jesus as the long-awaited Messiah were referred to as followers of The Way.

To me, the designation The Way sounds practical.  This is how you do it when you want to follow God.  The Way was easy to understand and freeing. I think though, that it surely took a leap of understanding!

Then I thought to focus on how The Way was different from the old structure of Judaism.  What we call the Old Testament is full of references to walking in the way, so it was not a new concept to the Jews of the first century.  They had been hearing about it all along.  In English letters the word is derek for a road or pathway.  What they had to do to be faithful was follow the laws and instructions.  It's not really true what we hear about them not needing faith.  Of course they had to have faith, or hope in the coming one.

This is a very big subject, and I am certainly not going to get very far into it.  The world is full of scholarship about the scriptures pertaining to The Way. I will include a link to a nice set of lessons.  

What it boils down to is the Person of Jesus, or Yeshuah in the language he spoke during his time as a man. 

The centuries of practicing the way of God as laws and philosophy IMO prepared the minds of faithful Jews for this flowering in the Person of Jesus.

In a sense he said to the people of his day you have heard all your lives about the way, now I AM the way.  He had all the prophecies backing him up too. The miracles marked him as the one we have been waiting for also.

So, I arrive at the same conclusion LoneStar advised, putting my hand in the hand of the Man from Galilee. The Way indeed.

I Really Won't Back Down

 

It's Friday night, August 25, 2023.  I'm thinking about the Serenity Prayer. I'm thinking about how to withstand the world today and how to maintain readiness and composure. 

Hm, I had forgotten a good half of it. But in fact, I believe that lower part is not usually quoted. It's pretty good, but does it hold up to the insane conditions of this day and the following days coming?

It seems to me that possibly a bit more might be needed besides serenity.  Maybe serenity of mind, but some action required?

Maybe this is the time for the stubbornly self-actuated to shine? Bottom line for me is no injections. No masks unless I have to have medical care and they insist. Don't see that coming up.  More to think about I am sure.

One of the concepts I like to hang onto is Jesus walking unnoticed through the crowds.  He did it.  He said we could do what he did.  I like the idea of being unperceived quite a bit!

I believe a cheerful spirit is the way to go.  How to stay cheerful?  What is the basis for cheerfulness? I suppose it must be confidence in the Almighty and in fact firm belief in our eternal nature.  

∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾∾

God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace;
taking, as Jesus did,
this sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it;
trusting that You will make all things right
if I surrender to Your will;
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.

Amen.

Reinhold Niebuhr

Entropy Of A Sort

 

Just for creepy thrills and chills, I have never forgotten this poem. I must have run into it in a collection of older modern poetry some time long ago.

I don't know if it has any relevance for today.  I am sure the the climate weirdos would think so, if they read old poems.

It was written in the 1930s. However, it reads pretty modern.

Metropolitan Nightmare

Stephen Vincent Benét

1898 –

1943

It rained a lot that spring. You woke in the morning
And saw the sky still clouded, the streets still wet,
But nobody noticed so much, except the taxis
And the people who parade. You don't, in a city.
The parks got very green. All the trees were green
Far into July and August, heavy with leaf,
Heavy with leaf and the long roots boring and spreading,
But nobody noticed that but the city gardeners
And they don't talk.
                           Oh, on Sundays, perhaps you'd notice:
Walking through certain blocks, by the shut, proud houses
With the windows boarded, the people gone away,
You'd suddenly see the queerest small shoots of green
Poking through cracks and crevices in the stone
And a bird-sown flower, red on a balcony,
But then you made jokes about grass growing in the streets
And gags and a musical show called "Hot and Wet."
It made a good box for the papers. When the flamingo
Flew into a meeting of the Board of Estimate,
The new mayor acted at once and called the photographers.
When the first green creeper crawled upon Brooklyn Bridge,
They thought it was ornamental. They let it stay.

That was the year the termites came to New York
And they don't do well in cold climates—but listen, Joe,
They're only ants, and ants are nothing but insects.
It was funny and yet rather wistful, in a way
(As Heywood Broun pointed out in the World-Telegram)
To think of them looking for wood in a steel city.
It made you feel about life. It was too divine.
There were funny pictures by all the smart, funny artists
And Macy's ran a terribly clever ad:
"The Widow's Termite" or something.
                                                      There was no
Disturbance. Even the Communists didn't protest
And say they were Morgan hirelings. It was too hot,
Too hot to protest, too hot to get excited,
An even African heat, lush, fertile and steamy,
That soaked into bone and mind and never once broke.
The warm rain fell in fierce showers and ceased and fell.
Pretty soon you got used to its always being that way.

You got used to the changed rhythm, the altered beat,
To people walking slower, to the whole bright
Fierce pulse of the city slowing, to men in shorts,
To the new sun-helmets from Best's and the cop's white uniforms,
And the long noon-rest in the offices, everywhere.
It wasn't a plan or anything. It just happened.
The fingers tapped slower, the office-boys
Dozed on their benches, the bookkeeper yawned at his desk.
The A. T. & T. was the first to change the shifts
And establish an official siesta-room;
But they were always efficient. Mostly it just
Happened like sleep itself, like a tropic sleep,
Till even the Thirties were deserted at noon
Except for a few tourists and one damp cop.
They ran boats to see the big lilies on the North River
But it was only the tourists who really noticed
The flocks of rose-and-green parrots and parakeets
Nesting in the stone crannies of the Cathedral.
The rest of us had forgotten when they first came.

There wasn't any real change, it was just a heat spell,
A rain spell, a funny summer, a weather-man's joke,
In spite of the geraniums three feet high
In the tin-can gardens of Hester and Desbrosses.
New York was New York. It couldn't turn inside out.
When they got the news from Woods Hole about the Gulf Stream,
The Times ran a adequate story.
But nobody reads those stories but science-cranks.

Until, one day, a somnolent city-editor
Gave a new cub the termite yarn to break his teeth on.
The cub was just down from Vermont, so he took his time.
He was serious about it. He went around.
He read all about termites in the Public Library
And it made him sore when they fired him.
                                                             So, one evening,
Talking with an old watchman, beside the first
Raw girders of the new Planetopolis Building
(Ten thousand brine-cooled offices, each with shower)
He saw a dark line creeping across the rubble
And turned a flashlight on it.
                                        "Say, buddy," he said,
"You'd better look out for those ants. They eat wood, you know,
They'll have your shack down in no time."
                                                          The watchman spat.
"Oh, they've quit eating wood," he said, in a casual voice,
"I thought everybody knew that."
                                             —and, reaching down,
He pried from the insect jaws the bright crumb of steel.

How Can This Be!

 We human mods would also like to thank you for visiting the Meow these many days!  It has been lovely! So much wit and wisdom and fun. We would like to thank the guest posters also, and do welcome more guest posts.

💌

It is our desire to uplift each other in these days, to stand for truth as well as we can, and play a lot of music! Maybe some art too.

We don't try to cover the news waterfront because we are just the Meow!  GOD bless you all!

Does Beauty Have A Function

 How do we know it when we see it?

I think maybe that recognition is innate. 

But it's also cultural.  So how subjective is it?  

I reread some Bible verses on the subject of personal beauty, and as we all know they stress inward virtue and Godly behavior.

But I am thinking about the natural world. It is both terrible in places and full of beauty in others. 

My first thought when I wrote this little quiz was "is beauty holy in some way?"

I understand holy to mean set aside for God. 

Did God create beauty and our ability to sense it to please Himself and us?  Is it a point of communion?

Just some things I think about.

What do you think?

What He Said!

Those who are wise 

will shine 

like the brightness of the heavens, 

and those 

who lead many to righteousness, 

like the stars, 

will shine for ever and ever.

~Daniel 12:3

Would love to hear what you think!

Those Two Wolves Again

 We have all heard the story. It is usually told as if it were a traditional Native story. Alas, it probably is not. 

It states that we have two wolves inside, a good white wolf and a bad black wolf, and that which one wins is determined by which one you feed.

Simplistic, yes.  True, ok, yeah. But I think most of our wolves look more like this one.

He's a good wolf. But he requires training. He is wild, but mostly willing. He wants to know what you want of him. Like any doglike critter he will enact that which he perceives you desire him to be.

In a sense you are the emissary of God to him, or her.  Reward him when he is obedient and kind and cuddly and protective also.

Admonish him when he is furtive or whiny or rough or breaks house rules.  Don't let him act "black."

Every day, and many times every day, we make a decision which behavior is desirable and encourage that.  Then our wolf will learn to be "white", though born wolfishly grey!

I admonish myself here. I know my wolf pretty well.

See What You Are Looking At

 See is an imperative.

https://www.etymonline.com/word/imperative

See what you are looking at.

I was minding my own business a couple of nights ago and this thought came in over the internal transom.  

I thought now, I am a looking deeply sort of a ponderer, but I can do better.

I must not accept surface information. I must compare what I read to eternal verities. I must not be swayed or buffeted. I must stand.  I must see under the skin to perceive the bones. I must look until I begin to understand.

Just a thought.

Try This On For Shabbat Crazy Ideas Time

 

Like the lazy old meow that I am, I was musing upon my bed a while ago and I got an idea. (the room empties quickly, cups are knocked over in haste to escape!)

I was thinking about individuality and the creation of each person as a totally unique person.  How can this be?  There are so many of us! We are all made of the same stuff, just arranged interestingly differently.

Whatever emissary of the Holy Spirit it is that is assigned to keep me out of too much trouble said "OK, look at it like this..."

It's an infinite Venn Diagram.  More layers than we can possibly imagine. Of course lots and lots of overlap. GOD in my imagination here, only, for thought provoking purposes, sends a ray of intention through this tremendous stack of possibilities and that intervention is you! 

 

Maybe you are a little ray of light!  Do you feel it? You are the crown of creation, but you do have some place to go!

💓

That is all, lol!

Tell me what you think?

As I Recall 1968

School year 67-68 was my second year at the community college. As you know, I was an art major. Talk about a practical course of “study!” It was so easy. My own self and a few others were the stars in that tiny universe. We ruled.

I had done some student teaching. One of my old schoolteachers let me practice on her little kiddos. I perceived pretty quickly that I was not going to teach art, anywhere. Shudder.

No further practical goal was in my head at all. That’s the thing about 19. I was like a sea anemone, just letting life drift past my little tendrils, and tasting it. Most of what I was tasting was the painting and the music. I had guy friends, but nobody special. Now that I look back, that was mostly because I was oblivious, and they were hesitant! I met the Bird that year, but we were just friends.

It was a crazy year, like now, but not quite as deadly. The country was full of student uprisings. Students closed down the admin building at the UDub that year, but I missed that, being still in Everett.

Ah, Everett, Milltown as was. It had been a fishing and lumber town with a big local native contingent and was very left politically from way back. I paid zero attention to politics though. I was probably a squishy lefty if anything. I didn’t know any different. My parents were old school dems.

I think I hated the war in Viet Nam, as any rational kid did at the time. I had no opinion about tricky Dick Nixon. He was't even called tricky until later. After the old monster LBJ and his inept handling of Viet Nam, and his scar and his beagle, and his probable complicity in the JFK assassination, Nixon seemed relatively benign.

My school buddy who had worked for a year after high school was attending the college with me that year, so we roomed together in some old lady’s extra bedrooms. We had two rooms, but we kept all of our junk in her room, and we slept in mine. Now’days that would probably raise eyebrows, but I had slept with a sister all my younger life and it seemed normal, plus we could talk until we passed out.

She is the friend who hated Dylan and she listened to like the Fifth Dimension! Lol. She also liked Englebert Humperdink. No lie. This girl was the original square, but we were friends. She liked chick flicks too.

Sister in front, Carole in the middle, some kid peeking between.

My dad had given me a little car that year, the infamous Renault 4cv. It was a glorified lawnmower. It was so simple that I could keep it running. I often had to clear its gas jet. I would be stopped out on the freeway blowing the stoppage out of it and putting it back in and taking off.

Back then, gas station guys still picked on you for driving a piece of European junk. They offered to twist my rubber bands up for me, as if it was a toy.

I had painted mine orange with a brush!

Carole didn’t have a car, so our adventures were done with me driving. I remember a lot of car stuff. I liked to drive that little thing places where I was not supposed to, such as the walkways at the college. She would get down under the dashboard and hide. Sometimes we would drive out into the sticks and buy beer from some checker who didn’t give a rat’s how old I was. I used to costume to look older to fool em. Darker lipstick, wrong clothes.

Our landlady didn’t think we should go out at night. So, we would sneak out and roll the car out of the driveway and onto the street and then start it up. I’m sure she never noticed. Maybe.

My friend Carole had a record player. She let me play my awful records on it too. I liked the Doors, Dylan of course, was getting into Cream, was getting into some Wes Montgomery, Bill Evans, Chambers bros. I was aware of the Dead, not much of a fan, and Jimi, same deal. I liked a lot of the old Motown records, but I didn’t own them. The music was terribly important, but access was not like now of course. Part of the reason I like YT so much is the tremendous access. I was too poor to go to shows. Never even thought of it until later. Did I omit mentioning the Airplane?

Life as an art student is the life of a smartyarsed grubby urchin of sorts. Nothing matters but the excellence of the work, and the all-important raffish pose of it all.

I never claimed hippiedom. I am not sure anyone ever said they were one back then. From popular culture you might get the idea that people were out there costumed up like extras in a movie, but not so in 68, certainly not in the PNW.  Guys were letting their hair grow longer.  One thing I remember was the fad of wearing those green army jackets, among the guys. Other people might call you one, judging you by your appearance, but I think that whole deal came a few years later. The Summer of Love, lol, didn't affect us much up here. I was a good girl in funny clothes. People who did not know me probably did judge me. Such is life.

I should add that before the 70s the clothes just were not the point.  The ideas were the point. In fact, part of the reason for the long hair and all, was that it was not the point.  Hair grew while you were being whatever kind of new thinker you were.

I never forgot that there was a God. My father put that in me from toddlerhood. I think my Lord kept me alive through some pretty silly stuff like driving the twenty miles to my parents’ house drunk from a party. There was some other stuff too.



1968. I turned 20 that September and went on to the University and everything was different.

It's Too Warm For Mushroom People To Do Anything

 This kitty won a contest in 1947 for having the most appealing expression.

This is essentially an open thread. But there is a kitty anyhow.

Maybe tomorrow there will be something to say?

Moving Day

 “Say, um, baby, this part of the forest is getting pretty crowded,” says Ramona. "I saw a picnic, Ralph! People! Six people, Ralph!"

Ralph is inspecting his toenails. He can’t hear her. Nope. He sighs.

“There are chiggers and black beetles in our nesting material,” says his wife.

He puts his foot down onto the forest floor. Ralph has seen this movie before. In fact, it triggers selective deafness if possible. 

“There is nothing to eat around here. That fat Thaga picked all of the berries in my patch Ralph! Can you hear me?

“Your recent hunting leaves a lot to be desired. I can’t do anything with mangled squirrels and trash fish! We don’t have a corndog tree around here!”

Ralph leaps whooping to beat the devil up onto his feet! He grabs the trunk of a ten-year-old Douglas fir and rips it right out of the ground. He shakes it! Dirt flies everywhere. It sprinkles Ramona’s golden curls. He beats his chest. His grimaces are terrible. Even Dave P. couldn’t face this display calmly with squinky eyes!

She looks at him appraisingly. She senses that she has the edge. As usual.

“So, Ralph, who’re you sleeping with tonight, baby?”

💓

Ralph realizes immediately that this IS moving day. He lowers his voice and his arms. He winks at Ramona and starts to get ready to move to a new location in the deep damp and shady woods. He works out in his head how to get a new nest made by nightfall. He’s thinking about a bit of hunting right at twilight when the deer are at their most twitchy.

There really isn’t much to move, to tell the truth. In fact, there are only a few trinkets left from raiding a few people’s camps. A flashlight, with dead batteries. His cell phone. Their one saucepan. A skillet, a knife, a couple spoons and a couple forks. Their Bic lighter. They are quite modern. They cook. No salt and pepper though.

Ralph puts all this stuff into a big blue Ikea bag and trots off down a subtle trail, deeper into the forest. He turns and gives a whistle to Ramona.

She turns and winks at the camera, and follows Ralph with a little smile on her face.

Cornball Interview Redux, Remarks by Ramona

 

                   

 The scene is Camano Island State Park

Camano island was the location of our earlier interview with Ralph, the bi-lingual gentleman Sasquatch. Today we have an opportunity to chat with his wife, Ramona.

My name, as you remember, is Millicent Price, of The Everett Clarion Times Revealator.

M: Greetings Ramona, I bet it was a long hike for you all the way from eastern Snohomish county! I'm imagining the map now, how did you do it, by starting out yesterday?

R: Hi Millicent!  Oh no, walking all that way would be much too slow! I have a better way of getting around.

M: Would you care to share that with our readers Ramona?

R: Look,I'm not supposed to talk about this but we go into a kind of opening in the forest, and come out where we want to go!  It's quite neat. Ralph is going to raise a lot of noise about me telling, but he'll get over it.  I popped out under the bridge leading into Stanwood. You couldn't see it, unless you knew where it was exactly.

M: Say,um, I wonder if you'd care for a corn dog?  They are still warm.  I hear that Ralph is fond of them, and the gummi bears, of course. Hey maybe you could explain how these "holes" work?

R: Oh, sure, thanks Millicent. We don't really know how they work.  They just do.  More stuff the Skymen made.  They use them too. They like to send lightballs out of them to mess with people.  Real jokers, those guys!

M:  Gosh, Ramona, there is so much I would like to know about you people.  Some woman named Molly wrote in to the paper, and said you guys have a way of staying under water as long as you like.  Is this true, or just a crazy crystal-crunching old rocker's story?

R: Well....it's like this. One of things you hairless wonders don't know about us is that we are equipped by the Skymen with a kind of gills that can pull oxygen and even food elements out of sea water and even fresh water, though fresh water is dirtier and less nutritious.  I may get an actual beating for this one! 

M: This would explain a lot of confusing sightings, such as appearances and disappearances.  So you can just float around out there as long as you like?  Wow.  I am going to have to just sit with this and let it sink in for a while Ramona.

R: Yeah, sometimes people think we are sea monsters,or giant squids, or all kinds of other silly stuff.  It's actually pretty fun to put a fright into gullible fishermen or other boaters. We do love a joke!

Say, this is a pretty good corn dog!

We just sat for a while, gazing out toward Whidbey Island and munched on our little picnic of dogs and bears in companionable relative silence. Then Ramona lifted her big blond furry head and seemed to listen for a bit, with a worried wrinkle forming between her eyes.

R: Hey Millicent, I really appreciate this chance to talk without Ralph domineering the conversation, but I think I better get out of here.

M: Wait a minute Ramona!  What's wrong? Something is obviously bothering you.  But what?

R: Oh Jeez, somehow he figured out where I am and that I am talking about stuff he thinks is a big secret. Like anyone would believe it anyhow!  Come on....traveling through holes in space and time and breathing underwater? Nah! But he is hopping in that hole right now and is going to be here shortly!  I gotta go! Gotta split, lady!

M: Um....well, thanks! It was a treat to meet you Ramona...........

R: Hey, there is another one of those holes up in the woods there and I'm getting in it.  See ya toots!

She leaps up, wild blond dreads and curls bouncing, and books it into the woods up across from the parking lot faster than any sprinter I have ever seen. She was here, and then she just plain was not!

 Well, this is Millicent Price signing off.  I gathered that this interview was terminated. But, I am open to more anytime I get the word from the woods or the water!

That's all until next time.

As an aside, a treat was left for Ralph.  We hope he found it. The presentation was less than elegant, but you have to figure in the surroundings.  

A Rather Bread And Butter Chapter

 

Standing on the porch were two guys. They didn’t look happy.

“Are you Doug Simpson,” asked one of them. We had seen them in town. But not together.

Doug stood back, asking them in and said, “yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

*********************************

His First Case

One by one the two young men stepped into the house. One was not very tall and a few years older. He had short dark blond hair and seemed to be the one who wanted to talk. He introduced himself as Neil Larson.

The other guy was tall and dark, tan with black hair and a little beard. He looked the angriest of the two. He stood with his hands jammed down into his jeans pockets. He said finally that he was called Carl Garcia.

“What’s up,” said Neil, “is this. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter, Linda, who survived, though my wife did not. I have raised her by myself since she was just a little bitty thing. Now she looks close to grown, but she is still a kid. The trouble is Carl here thinks she is old enough to go to him as his wife or whatever. He has just about got her convinced to run off with him. The trouble is that I doubt they could even survive on their own. I barely have control these days. I made her promise to sit tight for a few days while we try to sort this out.

“Now, Denise down at the store said to come and see you and that you could help us by being a kind of final decider, since we can’t agree among ourselves. We have decided, Carl and I, to go with what you decide since Denise said the Lights that we see sometimes said that you were going to be the guy to judge between people now’days. Carl isn’t happy but he said he would at least come and talk.”

Doug asked them to come in and sit down since it’s friendlier to talk sitting, he thought. Carl perched on the front of the recliner seat and Neil plopped down at one end of the sofa. Doug sat on the kitchen chair in front of the desk.

“So, Carl,” said Doug, “I figure you have a side in this story. What is it?”

He ran his fingers through his long black hair, his eyes snapped around the room and he said “well yeah. You see Linda and I have been planning on going to live together for most of a year. She says she’s ready, and shouldn’t she be the one to decide? Not her dad!”

I looked over at Doug from where I was sitting in the kitchen helping Lou sort beans or something. I don’t remember. Doug looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I had been listening to this conversation surreptitiously.

Even I could see that Carl was no more than about 18. Even I would worry about him taking charge of my teenaged daughter if I had one.

Doug crossed his arms and frowned down at his feet stretched out before him. He thought for a few minutes before speaking.

“I’ll tell you what Neil and Carl. I do have an opinion, but it’s just one man’s opinion until I have the agreement of our community that I may make decisions that have any sticking power. I know the Lights said that I was going to be the head guy, but I can’t just go with that. Everybody has to at least assent to the deal.

“I want to call a meeting of everyone who wants to have a say on this. I think the day after tomorrow in the parking lot down at the Novus store at noon would be a good place and time to gather the people. That gives us the rest of today and tomorrow to get the word out. Then if a majority of the people who show up agree that I can make official decisions, I will tell you what I think would be best in this case. How about that? Can you deal with that?

“I can ride down there today and post a big notice on the window so everybody who goes there will see it, and I will talk to Denise and have her spread the word. Also, we can just make sure we talk about it to anyone we happen to meet.”

Neither of them looked delighted. Neil said OK. Carl grunted in a sort of affirming manner. They agreed they would talk to Linda about it, and hopefully she would see the sense of it. They were escorted to the door, and they went on their way together.

Doug said “let’s write Roops. He can talk to whoever he talks to. I’m sure he sees a few people everyday downtown. Besides, he would hate like hell to be left out of this! He might even come down and vote.

If I am expected to do this gig, I want it to be official.”

We located a large sheet of paper in the desk and hand printed a sign to the effect that there would be a meeting to take a vote on whether Doug Simpson should be the local judge, in matters needing a judge, two days hence at noon in the Novus store parking lot. We rolled up the sign and hopped on our bikes and rode up into town and having taped up the sign went in and told Denise what we were up to. She was pleased to help if she could by mentioning the meeting to any customers that she spoke to.

When we came back out there were three people reading the sign. Doug did a little meeting and greeting and asked them to please attend. He patted the two guys on their shoulders and spoke nicely to the lady carrying a wooden basket, with a big smile. It almost looked like he was campaigning!

We carried on at home. We made meals, we gardened, we all took care of Gabe. Lou cherished her chickens. Bubby oversaw it all and made commentary. OZ and Doug spent time with the computer. Doug was picking up typing pretty well. So was I. Jen and Lou hadn’t really gotten into it yet. We were searching for news of the rest of the country and even the world. The sources were few.

On the appointed day we dressed as nicely as we could, all four of us adults. Jen thought it would be ok if we all went and took Gabe with us, along with Bubby. We decided that OZ should stay home, and he had no opinion about that. He had things he wanted to do.

We had to hike, but that was ok. It was only the same old two miles into Milltown. We only had two bikes. We started out at about 9am. Gabe could walk some, but he mostly needed to be carried and we all took turns putting him up on our shoulders and he loved that. He had never been off the home place before and all this was exciting to him. It was a nice overcast dry day, so the walking was easy.

We arrived at the parking lot at about 11am. There were already about sixty people milling around and gossiping and popping into the store to buy drinks and cookies and stuff. Doug went around introducing himself and making sure people knew that he wanted their approval before he took on the job of local judge.

At noon he stepped up on the top stair of the entry into the store and called the meeting by basically yelling at the crowd that it was time to pipe down and vote. It seemed like there were nearly two hundred people out there then. He said we would do it by a show of hands. It was a very simple procedure. He asked the people who wanted him to provide some kind of authority over the community to lift up their hands and leave them up while I counted. Jen counted too, just to make sure we got the same total. I counted 168 for Doug. Everyone clapped and it was settled. There was a lot of cheerful banter and laughter. It was almost like a large party. More snacks were purchased, and everyone talked until the afternoon grew long. Roops voted for of course and could be seen schmoozing with group after group.

Bubby kept his trap shut and just observed and took a nap in the bus stop shelter.

When people started to wander off and the crowd thinned way out, Neil and Linda and Carl could be seen waiting together for a word. Neil had voted for, and I wasn’t sure about the young couple. They had blended into the crowd. We had not met Linda yet, so introductions were made all around again. Linda did look older than 15 and she looked tense to me. She was taller than her dad and a natural blond. Jen and Lou sort of gathered around her and tried to cheer her up with some chitchat, and showed her Gabe who was getting sleepy. Babies were still rare, but there were a few coming up.

“Shall I tell you now what I think,” asked Doug, since we were all in the same place at the same time. All three said OK, they were ready.

“Let’s go over here where it’s quieter and we’ll talk,” Doug said.

What he said was this, “I believe that Carl and Linda could marry in one year if they agree to live with Neil after the wedding, until they are a few years, like two years, older. Or, if they want to go off and live alone without his support they should wait until Linda is 18, and they should spend the time until then learning to do something practical that would make them of use, and they can have their own home away from Neil.

It's a practical choice I think.”

Neil and Linda with Carl left for home and a decision to make, since they had decided to abide by Doug’s ruling, which was really just good advice.

I wondered if we would ever end up having some sort of enforcement. It seemed like a very remote idea at that time. I hoped not.

Doug and Jen with Gabe, Lou and I, with Bubby, all gathered ourselves up and started the return hike. It had been an interesting and pivotal day. I could see that things were changing, for the better I hoped.

Soon, Lou and I would be dealing with similar issues, but without the animosity, and we would probably just stay with the household we were already part of!

All of it: In the tenth year of the pandemonium.docx

A Prayer For Wisdom

 

Dear Friends, 

We have of recent months been presented with vast swaths of information regarding the so-called vaccines and all the various parties involved in their manufacture. We have been warned, exhorted, and asked to just accept the situation, depending on who is doing the talking.

Saturday, we listened to Karen Kingston’s deeply troubling recording. It would take a heart of stone not to feel deeply for her obvious pain and fear.

Tonight, I read Dr. Malone’s reaction to her statements. There were yards of defensive statements made by him. It seemed very glib to me. He didn’t sound off his rocker, but very very slick. He made her sound like a crazy liar.

The problem is, at bottom, that it’s impossible to know where the truth lies, odd usage that, in our normal everyday minds. We just don’t know. How could we? All of these various voices have a bone to pick and someone to blame.

So, if you will allow me, I thought I would like to make a prayer for wisdom. We were instructed to ask for wisdom and that it would be granted. Therefore…

*** 

Father God, I come before you in Jesus’ Name as a mere petitioner.

We were instructed in James 1:5 that if we lack wisdom to ask for it. We do not in our flesh possess the wisdom to rightly judge the truth in complicated and conflicting matters Lord.

I am asking that you Lord cleanse our hearts and open our minds, and forgive us when we sin, which could hinder our prayers. Please increase our gratitude and thanksgiving.

In concert with those here who agree, I am asking for clarity of vision. Please reveal to us Father, the truth. Please remove the veils of lies being constantly presented to us. Please give us wisdom. We ask plainly, as children. Open our eyes and ears. Please show us where to stand.

We ask your direction and mercy in the coming days Father! Show us the way to walk. May our walking be a testament before the people of who our God is.

We beg your mercy for Karen Kingston. Please be with her in all ways. You know her heart. We cannot. Please heal her troubled heart and give her peace. We ask for her safety.

We ask that all involved public figures be given a new love of truth and a desire to reveal truthfully what they know. We ask that they come to a humility before you, as should we also. Please tear down the lies. Please reveal a structure of truth.

Let our love for each other be a testament to your love for us. May we always desire righteousness and truth.

B’Shem Yeshua, in Jesus’ Name we ask all, and mostly for wisdom from you, your wisdom, not this world’s so-called wisdom.

Shabbat Shalom Open Thread

 Greetings!

Fathering, A Love Letter To And From

 

His first meeting with his daughter.

It would be a strange woman indeed who did not acknowledge her own child. How could she avoid it? It is pretty much as it is. If she has given birth, then she is a mother. She may be a good, middling, or poor mother, but she is a mother.

I have been thinking of what the essence of fathering could be. Not the biological aspect, because I contend that it is not of the absolute essence. All of time is full of fathers who were not the biological father of the child. It doesn’t really matter in the end whether he knows it or not.

It seems to me that claiming the child as his own is the first step. In our story when Jen, having just given birth, asks Doug “what is your son's name,” and he gulps and names the child, the deal is sealed. He has claimed his child.

Now, most of the time this claiming or accepting of the child never rises to conscious consideration. But I believe it is essential for what follows.

What follows are many years of oversight, mentoring and protection and provision. Mothers do those things too, especially single mothers, but it is the father’s role in my opinion. To get more into it, his oversight also covers and protects the mother’s role with the child. I realize that sounds old fashioned as heck. Sorry, man haters. (None of you good people.)

To generalize, many men have fathered in other roles such as teacher, grandfather, uncle, coach sometimes, friend or even doctor or pastor, and sometimes an employer. I think that in these less direct roles men also claim a child and take some responsibility for him or her, maybe in a more symbolic way.

Men have even fathered projects or businesses, or some say, countries! 

This is just a note of appreciation for the mighty and essential work of men in the world. I mean in addition to all of their other works. To imagine a culture without this is to envisage chaos and downfall.

The state is no father.

The preceding is dedicated to my old man. I did not understand him or what motivated him until much later.

Really Part Of The Last Chapter

 

Looks like Roops' place!

Now that OZ was awake and talking and seemed fine, the first thing we wanted to know was could he still get us online. At that time, we didn’t know what had become of the rest of them. We only knew that he was changed somehow and seemed very willing to do whatever he could to be of assistance. He wasn’t buzzing or humming either. 

OZ took his chair over to the computer desk and sat beside it. He laughed when he saw what he had made. It was like he could remember but it was still all a surprise to him. He sat down and looked like he was waiting, hands clasped in his lap like a child.

So, Doug switched on the machine by just tapping it. It woke and waited also. I don’t understand how, but it went online when he punched in a request for a browser.

Doug said, “let’s see if we can get ahold of Roops.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Where is the power to connect us coming from OZ?”

“It’s just in the air Elvin. Something is helping me. I am not sure, but when I want to make that connection, I can,” OZ said. It was still weird to see him smile. He didn’t really have lips. Did I ever mention that his ears were kind of pointy? Well, they were, and he had dead white skin and those shiny black eyes. He still wore his trusty Carhartts. I never did find out what happened to the black suits.

“Ok, I guess. All we can do is see how it works,” I said.

Doug went ahead and typed in what they used to call an e-mail to Roops. Then we had to sit and wait to see if he picked it up. Pretty soon he answered. He had a bell that went off when he got a message, usually from one of his ET buddies.

He wrote, how the heck are you getting online?

Doug wrote, OZ is still able to hook us up. I don’t know why.

There followed a lot of back and forth on what the ET he called Pete had told Roops about the fate of all the other Thumbies. He had to explain about the artificial hive mind that they had made when they all got together to create their airborne server. He also explained that it was not allowed and they had been destroyed wherever they stood and that OZ was the only surviving Thumbie. This bit of news implied some serious repercussions. We would have no more technical assistance. We humans were back to doing things human style. Slowly and painfully, for the most part. There was only so much one Thumbie could do by himself.

Doug explained how OZ was transformed and that we were still getting to know him in his new form and personality.

About then there was a nice polite knock on the front door. It was still a shock to have anyone come to the house. We all sort of jumped. Last time someone came to the door it was Denise. But before that it was those two Thumbies butting in.

Doug got up from the desk and went over to the front door and opened it.

Standing on the porch were two guys. They didn’t look happy.

“Are you Doug Simpson,” asked one of them. We had seen them in town. But, not together.

Doug stood back, asking them in and said, “yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

The link to all, In the tenth year of the pandemonium.docx