This will be one of my rare slips into politics. I’ll warn you this is a long movie, but well worth the watch. Here you will learn that politics has nearly nothing to do with Democrats, Republicans, or even Independents, but our slavery started in 1913 with the 16th Amendment and the Federal Reserve Act… which were major steps taken by world bankers bent on world-wide dominion.
This movie is set to run on Fox News tomorrow… if they can get away with it.
You can watch it here on this blog, or click here for the full Google version.
Another eye opener movie is here.
We check out of the condo at Seaside an hour early and the plan was to go out for lunch about noon on our way home.
Just as I was putting the baggage on the cart to take out to the car, Evelyn’s walker collapsed and she hit the floor fully on the cast foot! Check back a few blogs and you’ll see what her toes are supposed to look like.
Landing on those toes bent the wires back inside, under the second knuckle. Judging by the screams and groans, and the wild angle of her toes,I knew something wasn’t right. So I loaded in record time and beat a quick trip to the Emergency Room. By the time she was on the gurney she was in shock for sure, and shaking so hard I thought she would hit the floor. The gals in ER did a good job with the IV drugs, and she was soon calmly suffering. After a call to her podiatrist it was decided that we’d drug her her up good and head for her Dr.’s office about 2 1/2 hours away.
When we got there he took a couple of x-ray’s and found no bones were broken, so he grabbed each toe in turn, and over-bent it in the opposite direction. Again the pain sent her into convulsive shaking.
When Percocet calmed her down again, we headed for home.
That is “venture” not “adventure.” There’s a bigg difference, you know.
Today the rain has let up, so we ventured outside the Condo room. Hanson’s went on an exploring ADventure. Evelyn and I just ventured outside.
First I took her from our room on second floor up to eigth floor, then around the perimeter halls to the other side of the building where we took another elevator down to first floor. Outside it was partly sunny (as opposed to partly cloudy), and a little windy.
Pushing her wheelchair at a brisk walk north of the condo, we faced the wind with jackets zipped and hoods hoisted. That lasted about two blocks. Turning around we fairly flew back to the condo, wanting to see what lay on the other side. Drawing near to the condo, however, Evelyn decided that the wires that was inserted into her toes were conducting too much cold into her bones. So, we abandoned that venture in favor of going to the computer room to check our email.
Tomorrow should be warmer, so we’ll try that again.
This week we are at Seaside, OR trying to use up some time-share points before they expire. The good news is, we sat through a one hour “informational” without buying anything! And we received a $100 American Express Card for our bravery.
Is it possible to get a plastic Medal of Honor?
These first two days are supposed to be rainy, but the rest of the week we’ll be able to go outside and enjoy a little sunshine… or so the weatherman promises.
Some of the “upsides” to this trip are; Evelyn gets to play Spite & Malice with an aficionado besides Vickie. It gets me off the hook for playing the card game. She also gets to see something besides the four walls of the motorhome.
On another note, someone sent me an email telling the story of three little boys who decided that they needed to be baptized, because none of their classmates would play with them after school. They figured it was because they were not Christians.
To solve the problem they wondered around looking for the closest church where they could get the job done. Finding one a few blocks away, they entered, but the only one around was the janitor. They explained their problem to him and asked if he could baptize them.
He assured them that he could. Leading them to the restroom he dunked the head of each boy in the toilette bowl.
Regrouping outside, the boys discussed the big event.
“I wonder what religion we are now,” wondered the first boy.
“I know that we aren’t Catholic, because they sprinkle you,” offered the second boy, “Or Baptist, because they put your whole body under water.”
“Did you smell that water?” asked the third, I”I think we’re Pisscapalian!”
After laughing too hard, I began doing some considering of my own. I’ve concluded that I must be Conjugationalist.
We were reading the other morning, the story of Rahab the Harlot. Recall, if you will, the story of the Israelites as they were poised in the desert waiting to go into the land that God had promised to give them. It had been a long, hard forty years of waiting. Now the time of their punishment for lack of faith was up.
The first thing on their minds must have been, “What’s this new country like now? Forty years ago it was a land of plenty and filled with giants!” To answer their questions, they organized a small group of brave men to spy out the country a second time.
The first city they approached was Jericho. Now, one would have to assume these brave men disguised themselves as they wondered the streets to asses its strength. When they were satisfied with the information and nightfall was approaching, they looked for a good place to rest and unwind from their work.
Did they look for the Best Western or Holiday Inn or something of that nature? Oh, no!
Maybe it was because they were traveling light, and probably had very little money on them, that they looked up a house of ill repute!
That’s right , a whore house. But we thought these guys were really righteous. What were they doing patronizing a whore house? I guess they weren’t much different than a lot of modern Christian men who are out of town and on their own. A little sex to boost the ego before returning home.
“You’re just making some accusations that you can’t back up,” you protest. Maybe, but how many spies would enter enemy territory undisguised? None. How many smart spies would tell a whore their real ID? None.
So how did she know who they were? Was she just standing on the corner looking for her next trick when she spots this small cluster of guys coming down the street and she thinks, “Ah-hah! here comes a bunch of spies. I think I’ll try to corrupt them and get some counter intelligence.” Yeah, right!
Being a prostitute she has seen a lot of naked men, so when these circumcised guys show up at her bedside, how could she do any other than conclude that they were “one of them.” Rahab described “them” as the people God has blessed and “all of our men are shaking in their boots.”
I smile at the probable looks on their faces when they were “outed” by their penises! Shrivel city! No wonder they started witnessing… nothing better to do at this point. Rahab, at this point extorts a promise of protection in exchange for her help in getting them out of town safely.
That got me thinking about other Bible stories in which God used women in strange situations. There is the story of Deborah, the prophet who tried to get Barak to go after the enemy as God had directed. He wouldn’t go unless she agreed to with him. She did. They did. And when the enemy leader, Sisera, saw that he was losing the battle, took off on foot to look up his good friend Heber the Kenite. When he arrived he chose instead to go to the tent of Heber’s wife, Jael. She sweet-talked him into the tent, gave him milk when he asked for water, then hid him under the blankets. When Sisera was in dreamland, Jael pounded a tent stake through his head.
Then there’s the favorite story of Esther. She became a queen candidate through a nationwide beauty contest and a queen after the king determined that she was the best “lay” in the kingdom.
So here’s two examples of God’s people being delivered through sexual encounters, and one by a screwing with a tent stake.
I guess the moral is: God can use anybody!
One doesn’t have to actually eat the flesh of his fellows in order to be a cannibal, as these events will show.
Pinky 17 Cannibals One and All
The day Sandy started school began like most of the rest, gray and dreary. Not only was it not the first day of school, but it was not even the beginning of the day when she started.
Old lady Smart, Nadine’s mom, brought Sandy in the middle of the week, during the noon recess.
“Sandy is our new foster daughter,” we heard her explain to the teacher, “She is in the 5th grade. I want her to go to school here for a Christian education.”
We had no idea what a “foster daughter” was, so we just snickered as we checked her out. She was shorter than Freddy, with mouse-brown, straight hair. Her red and white checkered dress was clean, but a little faded and at least one size too big. She was wearing tan cotton stockings that were bagging around her knees, and brown penny loafers without the pennies.
“She has a sister named Judy who will be coming to stay with us also,” old lady Smart was telling our teacher, “She will be in the 7th grade.”
“Oh great!” I thought, “Another `foster daughter’ I suppose?”
What appeared to be a bashful quiet girl, we were soon to find out was quite the opposite. Sandy had little or no interest in boys, especially the likes of Pinky and me. Why she made friends so easily with Josette and Roberta it was plain to see. With last names as crazy as Thumbler, DeSpain, and Marfat they all had something in common!
We also discovered soon enough that she liked to tease boys that were smaller than herself, then beat them up when they got mad enough to retaliate.
For the most part though, the three of them played amongst themselves and more or less stayed out of our way. That is until some of us older guys got bored with recess activities and began casting around for some mischief. Translated, for us it meant fun.
Pinky was the first to notice that Sandy spent a lot of time in quietly scratching various parts of her anatomy. Although the back of her neck got the most attention, her fingers of relief wandered from time to time to her armpit, belly, and occasionally her crotch.
After pointing out these facts to me, we spent more time than was really necessary staring at her. It was as though her fingers were magnets with uncontrollable power over our eyes. Every time her hand would move, eyes would leap up from our studies to follow her absentminded movements.
It wasn’t long before Pinky and I had this little game going between us. When we saw her hand start to move we would try to touch the corresponding part of our bodies that we thought she would scratch next, before she had time to get her fingers in gear for her private relief.
I don’t remember that she ever caught on to our private game, but it certainly provided plenty of snickers and laughs between us guys.
Pinky’s home was also a home for homeless cats, so he was well aware of what that scratching must mean. Fleas! If cats scratched fleas then logically Sandy must be scratching fleas, too. Within minutes of this `logical’ conclusion she was the object of `flea-bag’ jibes and ridicule among a large portion of the classroom.
It was the next day, however, before someone got the nerve to call her a flea-bag to her face. I don’t think I will ever forget the look of desperation and fear written on her face as those first words fell on her ears. It was like she was no stranger to ridicule, but that she had never expected its conception here at a Christian school, and she dreaded its birth even more.
Perhaps she had been promised a new beginning, a new family, a new school, new friends. Now a monster from her past had raised its ugly head and was threatening to rip out her soul.
The shear terror in her eyes, and the body movements of a mouse cornered before the cat, I saw in an instant, but I never-the-less took up the chant with the others.
“Flea-bag, Flea-bag! Sandy has a Flea-bag seat,” the brave ones chanted.
“Stand back! Stand back! They’ll jump twenty feet!”
We all jumped back in mock terror a full twenty feet and the chanting continued.
When I say `all’ I refer to perhaps 2/3 of the classroom. The other 1/3 to their credit walked away and refused to participate. Josette and Roberta displayed their true friendship almost with one accord.
Wrapping their arms around Sandy, they shouted back at us, “If she has ’em, we have ’em, too! Run for your lives ’cause we’re going to give ’em to you!”
In an instant Sandy accepted their friendship, seized the moment as a game, and lit out after her tormentors intent on passing her `fleas’ on to us.
To any adults looking on, this might have appeared to be a game of tag with a twist as we fled in mock terror, then in turn chased them to return the `fleas’ to the `flea-bags.’
As the days and weeks passed the three of them became known at various times as The Three Musketeers, The Mouse-cat-ears, and The Rats-ears. They became the recipient of more and more jokes and teasing.
As Spring rolled around our attention was drawn away from devouring each other, to seeking adventure among the trees that were leafing out behind the school. The boys were fashioning crude tree forts among the boughs, and choosing sides for battles over the princesses in our realm. Into the realm there walked one day, an unexpected princes.
This princes looked vaguely familiar, and bore a resemblance to the brunt of most of our teasing. But could it really be her?
She wore a new dress that fit her so well that we couldn’t help noticing her developing titties. This girl’s hair was sparkling clean, and fell around her neck in pretty ringlets that rose and fell like tiny springs as she walked.
While I was considering whether or not we had a new girl in school, Pinky slipped up behind me. “Some fairy god-mother worked a miracle on Sandy, didn’t they?” he whispered.
“Count me out on the chase today. I’m going to get her for my princes at recess.”
Well, at recess Pinky had at least five competitors, including me. We were absolutely amazed at the personality change that had come over her. The defensive, tomboy attitude was gone. The chip on her shoulder was gone. She was dull of coy smiles, as one by one the kids in the classroom began to take an interest in her and the things she liked to do. By the end of the week she had talked Josette and Roberta into getting a perm also. Within the month nearly every girl in the room had her hair in curls, and were acting more lady-like.
Eddie Nye, though was different. He had three strikes against him coming into the game!
Strike one: He wore glasses with lenses as thick as the bottom of a Coke bottle, but what’s more, one eye was always covered with heavy gauze and tape. Maybe that’s how he got the nicknames “Patches”, Patcheye”, and “Eddiepatch”.
Strike two: He had a younger sister named
Strike three: He was skinnier than Pinky, (but smarter).
However, he was very stupid outside the classroom.
In fact it was hard for us to figure out how somebody could get his homework done so easily, get such good grades and yet be such a dud on the playground or in the woods.
Patches was the only guy we knew who could strike out at Kickball. I mean, how can you miss kicking a 16″ ball being rolled across the ground toward you! And when he swung the softball bat, he would begin his swing as the ball left the pitchers hand and strike out before the ball crossed the plate! He could throw the ball from right field to home-plate and have it roll up to the feet of the 2nd baseman.
Yes, Patchy was the brunt of many a joke. We joked about his coordination, his athletic ability, his brains, his eye, and his sister.
Yes, his sister. She was in the 5th grade, but was so tiny she was mistaken many times for a 2nd grader, and in some way which we could never quite figure out, he must have been responsible for her size.
There was one other important way in which he differed from the rest of the cannibal gang. His daddy had run off, leaving the family to itself. He had left them with a junky old car whose fenders rattled as it smoked down the road. Patchy’s Uncle Bill lived with them for awhile like a make-believe dad. He was old and wrinkle and a half-wit. Well, that’s what some of the guys in the Academy called him anyway.
On rainy days he would drive the smoking car down the 1/2 mile gravel road to school to pick up Patchy and Mina. I don’t think I ever saw him drive on pavement.
Patchy was the only boy in the whole school whose father had run away! Several had daddies who had died, but no one had a daddy that had run away. That was impressive. And in our minds somehow, that too, must have been Patchy’s fault.
In fact he had so many faults that he resorted to buying friendship with Pinky by “helping” him with his homework. Soon he was a friend of convenience to almost everyone in the room.
We considered his scruples to be rather strange. He would buy his friendship with homework, but he wouldn’t smoke a free cigarette behind the woodshed with the friends he had thus bought. He wouldn’t play Cowboys and Indians with the guys, but he would play dolls with girls.
Patches, Mina, Sandy, Josette, and Roberta all had something uncommon in common. If they had been chickens in our hen house, they would have been plucked and eaten alive by the other chickens within the first week.
Sometimes, as I look back on those early days I shudder as I realize how like chickens we were in that classroom, how really heathen we were as we graced the halls of our Christian school.
Pinky 13 Living History
Pinky and I used to sit around dreaming about what it would be like to be grown up.
“Well, for one thing, I’m never going to have a job where I’d have to wear fancy clothes,” he’d moan. “I want to wear jeans with no underwear, shoes with no socks, and no shirt in the summer. Maybe there’d be some girls that would dress like me!”
I would start giggling at the way he would roll his eyes up under his eyelids at the thought of all those girls with no tee shirt on.
“When I get ten thousand dollars,” I would counter, “I want to go around the country giving it away, just to see the expressions on peoples faces when they get one-hundred dollar bills from a total stranger.”
“Well, when my ship comes in with my ten hundred-thousand dollar bills on board,” he would boast, “I’ll give away ten-thousand dollar bills.”
“Oh, you will not!” I protested.
“They don’t even make money that big,” said I.
“But I will, you just wait and see. I’m going to ride in a Cadillac with a pretty girl to drive me everywhere, too.”
At lunchtime one sunny day Pinky took a bunch of us guys across the street to the store. “I’m buying today, pick out anything you want.”
The four of us cruised around the isles picking out cookies, candy bars, and soda pop. My all-time favorite in those days was Sugar Daddy, an all-day caramel sucker. Under each wrapper was not only the most delicious candy (that lasted half an hour at most), but a small fold-out comic strip on waxed paper, and in small print at the bottom you could read your fortune.
We made our selections, and speculated as to how Pinky would be able to pay for all this stuff. Even if the Sugar Daddy’s were only a nickel, and the pop a dime, it would still be a lot of money for the pile of stuff we were amassing on the counter.
“Will that be everything?” asked Mr. Fleck.
“That’s it,” replied Pinky. “Charge it!” he said with an air of grandeur swelling his chest.
“Are you sure it’s O.K. with your folks?” he queried, peering over the top of his gold rimmed glasses.
“Sure is!” boasted Pinky. “Mom said I could charge lunch stuff anytime I wanted.”
Of course, I don’t think she meant for him to buy stuff for half the classroom either! But, it sure made him feel good, and rich. Maybe he really would give away ten-thousand dollar bills someday.
During the rainy season in our southwest corner of Washington State very often the ground could no longer hold all its allotment of water and it would be spewed back to the surface to run in increasingly larger rivulets to the nearest ditch only to run into increasingly larger ditches and from there to creeks and rivers. These intermediate stages of water dispersal proved to be both a challenge (to the adults) and a diversion to us kids. Places like the six-foot deep ditch in front of our house and the swale in the road to Georgie’s house were made especially for kids with creative minds.
I remember well the two weeks that it rained without stopping. Obviously these conditions had happened before, because instead of filling in the swale in the road for about one block, a wooden walkway had been constructed alongside the road. During these wet weeks the four or so families that lived at the end of the road just parked at the edge of the lake that was formed by the water collecting in the swale, and walked across the plank sidewalk. For some reason fifth and sixth grade boys had a hard time getting across without the customary games of tag, or jousting which usually ended in one or more of us getting wet.
This particular day, it was me that was wading waist deep in water. Reaching the safety of the opposite shore our gaming plans resumed in the relative dryness of Georgie’s tree house. Standing there looking out the window, Pinky and Georgie spotted his dad’s mortar box and deduced its potential about the same time. With a “Whoop!” of delight we swung down out of the tree and raced across the yard to begin its transformation into a pirate ship.
For those too young to remember what a mortar box looked like, I’ll say that the most common ones were made on the construction jobsite out of scrap materials. If the builder was in a hurry, it was just a simple rectangular box made of 2” x 12”s nailed together on edge to form a box that is 3’-4’ wide and 6’-8’ long, with a plywood bottom. If he was getting paid to make it and he wanted his work to be easier, he usually made the ends sloping. If there were sheets of metal available, he could make a really good one by rounding the ends and sheeting the bottom and wrapping it up the rounded ends. There were all-metal ones also available commercially.
Into this box the laborer, called a “hod carrier” or “hoddy,” would put the ingredients; sand, cement, and lime to make his mortar, called “mud.” Using a tool that resembled an oversized garden hoe with two large holes in it, he would chop through the dry ingredients, pulling small portions to a pile at one end, then moving to the other end of the box he repeated the procedure, switching ends several times he would have a uniform mixture. Sometimes there would be two hoddys working together, one at each end of the “mudbox” taking turns. Then water was added and blended-in the same way thereby making the “mud” for the plasterers or bricklayers.
Since this particular mudbox was a commercially made one, there was no wood in it. But we saw it still, as a pirate ship that only needed a Jolly Roger Flag. In order to get a flagpole to stand up, we dropped a couple of cement blocks in center of the ship, aligned their holes, dropped in our flagpole and packed stones into the hole around the pole and, “wa-la!,” a pirate ship was born to conquer the high seas.
The lake that formed there at Georgie’s house every Spring provided many hours of entertainment, and there was no better boat from there to the banks of Salmon Creek.
Another boat that occupied many hours of diversion was at Freddy’s place on the banks of Salmon Creek. This old cracked and leaky rowboat kept us busy caulking with Okum and hammering and gluing. When finished, Pinky volunteered, We should become the Pirates of Pissants. We can float down to the Columbia River and raid a ship bound for the high seas.”
“Hooray! Let’s do it!” we all shouted. Fetching up the pirate ship, two on each side we lugged it down to the bridge and launched it at the swimming hole.
We grounded within 100 feet in the riffles. The pirate gods were smiling on us for this event, for the salmon were running upstream. The sight of all those fine fish struggling along half out of the water.
Leaping from the boat, we wrestled it ashore and began looking for willows big enough to make spears. After a number of attempts, Freddy thought of the pitchforks. Racing for the barn, we equipped ourselves with the finest harpoons available.
Racing back to our boat we set about harpooning fish… pitching them out onto the shore where most of them managed to flop their way back into the water. The unlucky ones made it up to Freddy’s kitchen to be gutted, cooked and eaten.
With bellies full, we resumed our boat trip to the Columbia. Several hours and perhaps a quarter-mile of struggling down stream, our boat began capsizing for the last time. As it swirled around in the currant, it made a nosedive under a logjam.
Meanwhile, four pirates were fighting for their lives. From the bank we watch as our treasure ship rolled and groaned under the weight of the water. Suddenly, it split apart, and came out the other side in a dozen pieces.
Another of the imaginative games that we engaged in frequently was Cowboys and Indians.
“Everybody has played that as a child,” you’re thinking.
“Yes, but did you use your bicycle for a horse and BB guns for rifles, and willow branches for spears and for constructing bows and arrows?”
On one particularly hot day we were shooting at a little silver disc fastened about twelve feet up a power pole. I don’t know if you have used a BB gun enough to notice that you can actually see the BB flying through the air while you are sighting down the barrel, but you can.
We were having a lot of fun hitting and missing the target. Then, as one of my shots headed for the disc. I began thinking, “Hit number ten!”
In far less time than it takes to tell about it, it did hit and immediately began its ricochet. With my sighting eye following its course through the air. Before there was time for it to register, it had returned to my face, to raise a welt in the middle of my forehead. Then, I was rolling on the ground in surprised pain.
It was time to divert our energies to a good game of C & I (Cowboys and Indians). The cowboys saddled up their mounts (bikes) and rode off down the road to plan their attack on us Indians.
We gathered in the ditch in front of our house to cut our spears from the ditch willows. Pinky had shown us that if you cut them about four feet long, stripped them of branches up to the last two or three small ones at the top, they made a spear that could be thrown with amazing accuracy.
Pinky led the charge of the cowboys, riding his bike full-speed and cocking his BB gun with both hands. His shooting began fifty or sixty feet away. Shooting from the hip and re-cocking as fast as he could, he managed to get a couple of near-fatal hits. By the time they had passed us, circled around for another pass, I was ready. Just as Pinky drew abreast of me I stood and launched my spear.
I would like to say that I drew careful aim at his front tire and let loose with a perfect hit. But I didn’t. It was just a wild throw. A perfect hit it was, though! When the spear found its way through the front tire spokes and rotated to the fork he couldn’t have been launched more gracefully from a bucking bronco.
The lacerations to the palms of his hands and forehead pretty much ended the game for the day with the Indians winning “hands down” literally.
It’s a wonder that we didn’t lose an eye, limb or life as a result of some of our “living history” play.